Chocolate Cake

“Mabel’s in the contest, again? And she’s using the same old pie!” My grandma whispered loudly at me. “Grasshopper pie,” she spat, “there’s gotta be a different recipe in her book.” I grinned, quickly turning serious when she looked at me.

“C’mon granny, you know the reason she makes it every year is because she wins each year.”

I paused, pondering if I should poke at her again and say the same thing I say every year.

“You know you could enter your chocolate cake of yours and win by a landslide,” I said, giving in to the ritual.

My mouth watered just thinking about it. Soft, moist, just the right amount of sweet and bitter dark chocolate flavor – absolutely decadent. She made it every year for my birthday. Every Christmas she adjusted it into a peppermint Swiss roll, with real peppermint candies baked in. Delicious.

“Baby, I love you, but you’re biased. The cake is just a simple old recipe my granny taught me. I just added a secret ingredient over the years.”

“Exactly, granny! You have a secret ingredient to make it your recipe. You really should enter the contest.” I smiled again and nudged her with my arm as we walked by the rows of cookies, cakes, pies, and bars. “Maybe Ed will ask you to marry him. You know the best way to win a man’s heart is through his stomach!” I winked when her startled face turned to my smug one.

“How did you know about me and Ed?”

“Baby, I love you, but you’re not as secretive as you think,” I teased.

She pointed to the lemonade booth next to the baked goods exhibit and I nodded.

Heading towards the refreshment from the one-hundred-plus degree weather in late July in the northwest, I said, “He makes sure he sits next to you in church, holds your hand under your purse, brings you coffee after church, and walks you to his car. And I’ve seen him sneak a kiss on your cheek more than once!”

She blushed.

“Granny! I’ve never seen you pink like that!”

My granny, 79, giggled like a teenager. “He is so handsome and kind. He makes me have butterflies like your grandpa before…” she drifted off and paid for the tall lemonade. We sipped our drinks and meandered through the exhibits, arm in arm, quiet. Quilting, arts, crafts, the kids’ exhibits, until we had rounded the whole three buildings of arts exhibits and were back to the lemonade booth. She broke from my arm, paid for another two tall lemonades, and pulled me behind a quilt.

“Hold these,” she instructed, giving me the two fresh drinks, and dig into her purse. Every year, without fail, I thought, smirking wickedly. I drank a bit of each lemonade.

She pulled out her ancient flask. “Drink a little more,” she said. I choked down a laugh and took two long sips.

We giggled together as toured the rest of the fair, sipping our spiked lemonade, petting baby cows, whispering about cowboys, and simply having a wonderful time.

When we got home, she declared she was going to open a bottle of wine. She sat me down at her kitchen island and poured a large glass for me.

“Let’s talk about boys!” She laughed. She’d been generous with the vodka in her lemonade that afternoon.

“Ed, you mean?” I raised my eyebrows.

“He’s so dreamy,” she sighed, sipping from the vintage teacup she preferred over wine glasses.

My grandma has been a widow for six years. She’d been with her husband for fifty-three years before he died of a stroke. He was a kind grandfather, but my granny’s personality flourished when he passed. They’d gotten married early enough that she didn’t know who she was. Now, she’s able to be herself and do what she wants. Like get tipsy at the fair every summer with her granddaughter.

We sipped and talked for hours.

“Granny,” I declared loudly, drunk after two bottles shared and a few hours, “I’m craving chocolate cake.”

Granny, in her fashion, clapped her hands and cried, “What a marvelous idea!” She loved to bake while she was tipsy.

I watched as she pulled measuring cups, spoons, and bowls from her cupboards. She tied an apron around her waist and ordered me to play some “blue eyes”. I turned Frank Sinatra on from my phone and she hummed along.

My granny, she knows this recipe by heart.

She could bake this chocolate cake with her eyes closed.

She boiled a pot of water while she measured and poured steaming water into a french press with ground dark roast. “My secret ingredient,” she whispered, laughing, a finger to her lips, “is coffee.”

I laughed with her. “Your secret is safe with me!”

French press coffee instead of milk made this cake everything.

The cake was in the oven soon, but my granny was tiring.

“Baby girl, can you take the cake out so I can go to bed? I’m an old lady and it’s too late for me. Especially too late for sugar.”

The sun had gone down as she was humming and dancing her way through the cake.

“Of course, granny! Go to bed.” An idea was developing in my mind. I just hoped it wasn’t too late.

She pecked my temple, saying, “Eat as much of you want!” And went upstairs.

I waited.

In the morning, my granny turned over in her bed and looked at the note leaning on her lamp.

“Granny,

I love you, but I’m not just biased.

It’s time I proved that.

Meet me at the fair this afternoon.

If you win that ribbon,

you owe me a lemonade!

Love,

Delilah”

Granny hustled and bustled about the house for the rest of the morning, cleaning up her baking dishes, finishing laundry, and pulling weeds in her flower garden until she couldn’t wait any longer

She drove to the fairgrounds, her heart jumping. She’d never won anything in her whole life. She’d always held back, not entering contests, not saying what she thought, not jumping in the lake when others did. She couldn’t imagine her cake was that good.

She pulled into the gravel parking lot, locked her car, and took one step after another to the arts exhibits buildings.

She saw her granddaughter and Ed at the entrance.

They were both grinning widely.

The next day, the local paper snapshotted the three of them, with a headlining reading, “ LOCAL GRANDMOTHER WINS AGAINST LONGTIME BLUE RIBBON CHAMPION IN BAKING CONTEST”.