(Author's Note: Written for  The_Weekend_Write-In prompt 'Step,' Sept 2020.

Exactly 500 words, not counting this note.) 

I took my favourite cookbook down from the shelf. Passed down to me by my grandmother, it was chock full of recipes snipped from magazines and newspapers. However, cooking trends had changed over the years and many of those were of more historical interest than culinary. No-one I knew wanted to put lard in their pastry these days.

Of far more interest to me, were those recipes laboriously written out by hand, begged or quite possibly in my grandmother's case, stolen, from another cook. Delicious puddings and cakes, all tried and true. I flipped over the pages until I reached Ben's favourite, Nutmeg Spice cake.

Step 1. Heat the oven to 370F. One of these days I swore I'd write the Celsius equivalent beside it, but today I turned to my conversion chart. 180C fan-forced was pretty close.

Step 2. Line the tin with greaseproof paper.

Done.

Step 3. Weigh out the ingredients.

Step 4. Beat butter and sugar until pale and creamy. Then add eggs one at a time and mix well.

Check.

Step 5. Alternate the sifted flour and nutmeg with the milk, stirring in thoroughly between each addition. (I frowned, muttering. Why the heck hadn't they put that bit about sifting at the top?) Hastily I sifted the two ingredients, and added a little more nutmeg.

Step 6. Pour mixture into tin and bake for 50 minutes.

Easy peasy.

The cake would be done in plenty of time before Ben came home from work. I smiled to myself as I imagined the look of surprise on his face. I normally only cooked this cake for special occasions. His mind would be frantically hunting around to check whether it was our anniversary or someone's birthday. It wasn't.

I hummed happily as I washed up and tidied away. Soon the cake was done and cooling on a wire rack. I sniffed. It smelt delicious.

At six o'clock on the dot, Ben came in the front door. His face was a picture of confusion as he smelled the nutmeg. I cut him a large slice.

"Dinner's going to be a while so you can have this in the meantime. It's always nicest fresh out of the oven."

Ben tucked in, scarcely waiting to take off his jacket and hang it on the doorknob.

He took a large bite then frowned.

"It tastes a bit different from usual."

"It's the nutmeg," I said. "I put in a bit extra."

"Maybe too much," he grumbled, but I noticed he still managed to finish the slice in a couple of bites.

"What's the occasion?"

"It's to celebrate our divorce," I said, grinning evilly. "I found those letters from Tiffany on your computer."

"Wha-?" his face went pale. "I can explain..."

The next minute he lunged for the bathroom.

I called an ambulance, it was the least I could do.

But he died on the way. Nutmeg is a poison in large doses but apparently he was extra sensitive.

Maybe one step too far.