Following Matt's Recipe

I had to be home on Saturday evenings. No matter what I planned for myself, no matter where I was invited. On Saturday evenings, I had to be in the house. I never understood why, though. Neither one of my adoptive parents paid me any mind. I was an afterthought at best, and it had been that way since they realized I was a girl. The adoption papers were mixed up, and the Millers believed they were getting a boy. Darien and Joshua Miller lost their son two years ago in a "wire accident," they always said. I never pushed for the full story because I knew I'd never get it.

I'm Ryan, by the way. I don't know my last name because my birth mother never gave me one. I've been with the Millers for a year now and could always feel the tension in the house. It wasn't directed at me but always at one another. The marriage between the two was hanging on by a thread. There wasn't a chance I could change that. It felt hopeless living here. So on this Saturday evening, I decided to do something that brought me joy.

"Mrs. Miller?" I asked.

Mrs. Miller stopped her forceful walk out of the 80s era kitchen and whipped around. She looked at me as if it were her first time seeing me.

"Yes, Ryan?"

"Would you happen to have any cocoa powder here?"

Darien looked puzzled. "I-I think I do. What for?"

"Something I learned at the orphanage. You'll see."

Mrs. Miller looked around the kitchen and saw the preheated oven, the flour, sugar, butter, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Then she realized what was happening, and she went to grab the cocoa powder.

Mrs. Miller handed me the cocoa powder. "Try not to make a mess, dear."

And then she whipped around to exit the kitchen, but as she did so, I saw a tear well up in her left eye. I didn't intend to make her cry and didn't know cocoa powder would make her that emotional. I didn't spend much time with her because she was always "busy," but I could hear her stifled cries at night. I felt terrible for her, and I could only imagine the pain she felt.

When she disappeared from view, I returned to my joy project. When I was in the orphanage, a boy named Matt taught me this recipe. He never measured anything.

"Now what you gonna do is butter your pans and dump a Lil cocoa powder in there," he used to say.

I hummed while I lathered each pan butter and sprinkled each pan with cocoa powder.

"Ryan, what are you doing? I said dump it, not season it!"

I chuckled as his voice went off in my head. Matt taught me plenty of things, but this was my favorite. First, I got out a big bowl and added all my dry ingredients plus eggs, buttermilk, hot water, and some vegetable oil. Then, I stirred it all together.

"Don't stir it too much, girl!"

Matt was always hovering around, but he smiled as it all came together. He enjoyed teaching someone willing to listen, but he more so enjoyed having someone to talk to.

Matt would wag his scared finger. "Gone and put some of that mix in those three pans there."

After that was done, I walked over to the preheated oven to put all three pans in. I could already taste the finished product as I closed the oven doors.

"Now they say 35 minutes, but I just take it out when I feel like it's done!" Matt used to say, smiling at me.

Just then, the doorknob began to turn, keys were rustling, and the front door swung open. Mr. Miller had returned from his run. He stood at the door for a moment breathing deeply, while trying to slow his heart rate. The more he breathed in, the more he picked up on the scent wafting out of his kitchen.

"Oh, Hey Ryan. Uh, where's Darien? Is she here?" he asked, peeking over at the oven.

"I think she's in the back."

He took another glance into the kitchen, then headed to their bedroom. Mr. Miller did a lot of running these days and a lot less talking around the house. He seemed to be in a bit of a fog, as if life was just happening around him, and he didn't care to see any of it clearly. His shoulders slouched, and his face had become gaunt, but Mr. Miller kept running. I kept wondering what he was running from, but it was painfully obvious. He blamed himself for a failing marriage and the death of his son.

About 20 minutes had passed, and I decided to make the icing. I took out cream cheese, softened butter, more cocoa powder, milk, and powdered sugar. I mixed everything together using Matt's patented "Eyeball measures only" technique and finished just as the cakes were done. I walked to the oven with some pep in my step and set the cakes aside to cool. Suddenly I heard a howl from the backroom. It was Mrs. Miller.

"Oh my God, Joshua! He was our boy! How could we lose him? How could you…."

For a moment, everything went quiet. Neither one of the grief-stricken pair uttered a word or moved a muscle until Mr. Miller spoke.

"You know what today is?"

"Yes. How could I forget?"

"He would have been 17 today."

Then they both fell silent.

By then, the cakes had cooled, and I began putting the icing on each cake layer, stacking them as I went along. Then I spread icing on the entire triple-layer cake. I stood back and marveled at my creation. I had really done it. I could see Matt's smiling face, and I knew he'd be proud of me. The intoxicating smell of this decadent triple-layer chocolate cake spread throughout the house like a siren song. There was no way the Millers wouldn't come investigate, so before they did, I added one final touch. I remembered how infatuated Matt was with baby blue, and the Millers just happened to have that color icing.

Not long after, the Millers came from the back into the kitchen.

"Ryan, did you make chocolate cake?" Mrs. Miller asked.

I smiled. "Yep!"

"You know our boy used to make a real good one." Mr. Miller said.

I smiled again.

A few weeks ago, the Millers were doing some spring cleaning. Getting rid of a lot of old shoes, clothes, trinkets, and even some pictures. Neither was speaking, and the way they trashed items felt callous and unattached. There was some dark place they both had come to, and getting rid of some of their keepsakes, somehow the despair they shared would go away too. I asked if I could help, but Mr. Miller waved me off, so I walked into the living room.

On the couch was a single photo. One that I hadn't seen before. I could tell it was a family photo from the poses and broad smiles. Seeing the Millers that happy was a foreign concept to me. As I walked over to get a closer look, I saw a third person in the picture. I knew right away it was their son. He was of average height, black hair, with a smile that could light up a room. I wasn't curious to learn more about him or ask how he passed because I already knew him.

When the Millers walked into the kitchen that night, I saw the sadness settling into their eyelids. They were ready to give up.

"A real good one," repeated Mrs. Miller softly.

"Would you both like to have some? I asked.

There was apprehension in their movements. Do sad people eat chocolate cake? Do sad people even eat at all? Finally, Mr. Miller spoke up.

"Can't hurt."

"Yea can't hurt." Mrs. Miller agreed.

They both approached the cake.

"Darien, this smells just like-"

When they looked down at the cake, and their jaws dropped. They didn't utter any words. Mr. Miller took a step back, and tears streamed down Mrs. Miller's face. Mr. Miller looked at me and back at the cake. I could tell he was warding off tears. Reading the words on that cake was exactly the release they needed. On the cake in baby blue letters, it read:

"Happy 17th Birthday Matthew!"

"Matt taught me how to make chocolate cake. He always did things his own special way, and he loved you both very much." I said plainly.

"You knew my son? Oh my goodness, of course, you did, look at this cake!" said Mr. Miller.

"He went to volunteer at that orphanage-" started Mrs. Miller.

I finished. "Every Saturday evening."

Mrs. Miller embraced me with a warmth I hadn't felt before, and the tears on Mr. Miller's face were flowing freely. That night we sat at the dinner table eating slice after slice of the triple-layer chocolate cake, discussing how funny Matt was. I will always love Matt and the memories we shared, but it was his chocolate cake that made this house a home again. Try it sometime, you'll see. :)