This Mother’s Day, Mark and I squabbled over his contribution to dinner with his family. Each male took on an assignment. Mark insisted on bringing the sweets, and asked me, “What should I make?”

“Don’t put this on me.” I said, unable to recall one day when my mother would have given up control over what was set on her table. I was learning otherwise.

“What would Nana make,” he pleaded. “Read me some of her recipes.”

Other than my father, Mark had been Mom’s favorite dance partner. His Irish-blue eyes glittered over her, and her hazel eyes hidden beneath drooping lids gleamed in return. Whenever they sang along to Frank Sinatra, her singing matched Sinatra’s note for note. In another world, I hope Mark and Mom share in long, luxurious meals she’s prepared for him; like her Gnocchi from her mother, or Pasta Primavera e Mare, or from her repertoire of desserts, including Classic Tiramisu.

Grabbing the recipe binders, I relented, and read through her pages of desserts aloud. Mark chose Italian Love Cake. Later, while grocery shopping, he asked, “What exactly is Italian about this dish?” I had a few ideas, including its relation to the more popular limoncello cake found on menus of Italian American restaurants. But if Italian was in front of it, we knew it to be true.

My camera taped his every move. Mark mixed and stirred while also reacting to Mom’s simple instructions. He had not only been my mother’s perfect dancing partner but would have also been her perfect foil. “Our oven at 325°. What does she mean by that? What should this bake at?” Her words read like many cookbooks of old. Cook until done.

Or figure it out. The same as the rest of us.