I never had the privilege of meeting my grandmother on my mother’s side. So how is it possible that a memory of her lingers(继续存留) in my mind? Maybe it’s the constant mention of her name or the pictures I’ve seen. Or maybe it’s the sweet dessert, Annie Belle’s Famous Pound Cake, that created a bridge connecting me to my grandmother.

I remember waking up to my mother baking her mother’s famous pound cake. The pleasant smell of buttery would fill the house. I would pop up as if my alarm had gone off and make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen where all the magic was happening. My mother would pop the beaters out of the mixer and hand one to me coated with the perfect amount of the batter(面糊). Immediately my heart was full as I licked the beater clean with no trace of batter remaining.

This pound cake had an extraordinary reputation and orders began rushing in. My mother would make hundreds of cakes and I was always there, waiting for my favorite and most important job. Each time I felt a closeness, like the arms of a grandmother bringing you in close and holding you until you lost track of time.

My mother didn’t keep this recipe a secret and although others tried to imitate this work of art, they always found that something was missing. Nobody could make it exactly how my mother and grandmother could. Every step and each ingredient was listed in a church cookbook, but the outcome was perfect only when my mother was in the kitchen. I wondered if this had anything to do with the special pan my grandmother used and passed down to my mother—or was it deeper than that?

I knew one day I would have to attempt to bake this famous pound cake. But what if I failed? What if, like all the others who tried, I didn’t have what it takes to successfully make this family recipe? If you fail, who cares? Just keep trying. If it doesn’t come out perfect, it’s still a cake!

On a misty morning in July, Clay and Acaimie arrived at the base of Mount Liamuiga, ready for their first honeymoon climb. They had married just five days earlier back home in Indiana, the United States.

They had their apparent differences. Acaimie had always been the worrier. Clay, on the other hand, was an optimist—always certain that things would turn out just fine. So it was Clay who wanted to take a day of their honeymoon and climb Mount Liamuiga, which is also a dead volcano—a popular destination for vacationers looking for adventure.

The couple, dressed in white T-shirts and sneakers, arrived for their journey in a rental car expecting to explore. When arriving, they found an empty dirt parking lot with just a small sign marking the beginning of the track. They made their way up anyway.

It took them nearly three hours to reach the peak, but the view made it all worthwhile. Though worn-out, they couldn't have been happier as they took a few selfies（自拍）with their cellphones, and walked around the edge of the volcano.

That's when Clay saw it: a small track, half-hidden beneath plant life, that led into the volcano's crater（火山口）. A series of holes had been drilled into the rocks, with ropes that led down. For Clay, the sight was incredibly inviting. It felt like a secret entrance to a mysterious paradise（天堂，乐园）. Acaimie was less enthusiastic. The track was steep, and she was afraid of heights, but she bravely followed Clay's lead. After just a few minutes of going downwards, though, she'd had enough. She told her husband she'd wait on the rocks just off the track while he went exploring. “Just be quick,” she said as she watched him set off on the rough path, zigzagging（曲折前进）while grasping the rope.

A few minutes later, she heard a noise of something rolling downhill and a cry for help from deep within the crater.

There was nobody when they reached the top, but fortunately she found a signal on her cellphone.

Once in a village lived a young sculptor (雕刻师), who used to make very beautiful statues and by this he earned a good income.

He had a son who started making statues from his childhood, and his son could make good statues. Father would be happy with his son's work but every time he would point out one or other mistakes in his son's work,

Still his son never complained and continued to improve his work, following the advice of his father. Because of Son's continuous improvement, his work started becoming better than his father's. Then came a time when people started to pay more money for his statues than his father's.

Son got young and was earning better but his father continued to point out mistakes in his son's work. Now Son didn't like it. He couldn't accept his shortcoming and didn't work wholeheartedly.

Then one day, Son lost his patience and said, “You are pointing out my mistakes as if you were a big sculptor. But if that's the case then your statues would have sold at higher price than mine. I don't think I need your advice anymore. My statues are perfect.”

After that day, Father stopped giving any advice or pointing out any mistakes in his statues.

For some months Son was happy but then he realized that people didn't praise his work as they used to. The price of his statues also started to fall.

Son couldn't understand the reason and he had to turn to his father._

Son listened to his father,kept silent for a while and then asked, “What should I do now?”