Grandma's Recipe

One cup of cocoa powder. One cup of all-purpose flour. One cup of melted butter—

The voices in my head are quiet when I’m baking. And with each ingredient that I throw into the bowl, I become less alone. With each ingredient, Grandma takes a step towards me.

One teaspoon of vanilla extract. One cup of oat milk. Half a teaspoon of salt—

I mix all the ingredients together until I have the right consistency and then pour it into the gray Baker’s Secret cake pan Grandma always used. The pan is so scratched up and stained that it should’ve been thrown away a long time ago, but it was Grandma’s favorite pan. She refused to part with it even after Grandpa and I bought her a beautiful new cake pan and insisted that she use the new one instead. She always said that her battered old pan had a certain charm and quality that was irreplaceable. And now, using it, I understand what she meant. I’m almost happy again remembering those days. Almost.

I plop the chocolate cake batter into the oven at 325F for 35 minutes and immediately the dark clouds return. The voices creep back in and the world is painted in gray anew.

Nobody cares about you, they say.

You could die right now and no one would even notice.

They’re right. I don’t have anyone left. Grandma left me 5 months ago after taking me in 17 years ago.

My mom had me when she was 19 years old. It was no secret that I was a mistake. I never met my dad; I don’t know who he is, where he is, what he does, nothing. I don’t even know if he knows that I exist. I lived in California for the first 3 years of my life with my mom, who was sharing an apartment with a fellow student. However, she had stopped going to school after I was born so her roommate wasn’t exactly a ‘fellow’ student. A week after my third birthday, my mom paid my grandparents a visit. I was as much of a surprise to them as the visit was. My grandparents hadn’t spoken to my mom since she decided that she wanted to move across the country and make a name for herself, without any involvement from them, at the age of 18. Eventually my grandparents had given up trying to contact her. 3 days after arriving at my grandparents’ doorstep in New York, my mom disappeared, leaving only a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

“I know she’ll be safe with you, mom and dad. A baby was not a part of my plan. I can’t keep her with me.”

If I mourned my mom, I don’t remember any of it. But I did mourn Grandpa, who lost his battle with colon cancer when I was 12 years old. After that, I worried for Grandma, but she didn’t give me much to worry about. She took exceptional care of her health. Sometimes I thought she might be healthier than I was. She always said “I take care of myself once for myself and twice for you.” That didn’t matter in the end though. She died in a car accident on her way to the grocery store. What a sick joke life played on me. I had just completed working on my group presentation when I got the call from the hospital asking me to come in. I knew right then that my world would never be whole again.

Beep beep. Beep beep.

The alarm pulls me back to reality and gives me something to do again.

Let’s be honest. I don’t know what I’m doing. This is the eighth chocolate cake recipe that I’ve experimented with this month. But none of them have tasted like Grandma’s chocolate cake. None of them have come even close to providing the same level of soulful goodness that Grandma’s chocolate cake did. She baked her delicious 2 layered chocolate cake for the very first time for me on my 4th birthday and I loved it so much that from then on, on every birthday and every special occasion, her chocolate cake was present. I guess I took her presence for granted and assumed she would always be around for me. I believed her when she told me she would never leave me.

I had never bothered to learn the recipe; I wish I had. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like I was sinking deeper into a black hole every time I took a breath. I never realized how much a silly cake recipe would mean to me. If I could just get it right… I would feel like I still had a piece of her here with me. It would fill my barren life with a glimmer of hope.

I place the cake tray on the table to cool down and impatiently cut out a triangular slice while the cake is still hot. I wait for it to cool before taking a bite, praying that it’s right as I sink my teeth in, but it’s not. It’s not Grandma’s cake. It’s nowhere close. I wish I had paid more attention when she was baking. My shoulders slump immediately, but I give the cake another try. Maybe my taste was off for the first bite… I take another bite. I drop the cake back onto the plate and sink to the floor.

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

Of course, it’s wrong. You made it. You can’t do anything right. The voices torture me.

It’s no surprise everyone has left you behind. You’re the problem.

“The letter.” I don’t know why I speak out loud when there is no one around to hear me. I stand and run up the stairs to my room. I fling open the drawers and scurry through my closet trying to locate the letter. I didn’t exactly place it with care since I had no intention of ever coming back to it. The only reason why I kept it was because grandma insisted. And I’m so glad I listened. I finally locate it beneath a stack of clothes in my closet. The envelope’s seal is already torn open so I take out the single piece of paper folded inside it and re-read it.

Hi Mom, Dad, and Amber,

I live in Florida. You all are welcome to come say hello if you’re ever in the area. 61 Willow Road, Orlando, Florida.

Love always,

Christa

It was a letter from my mom. Yes, in the age of cell phones and social media, she sent a letter. A letter. And it contained no apology or explanation. She wasn’t seeking any forgiveness either. Why had she even bothered to send anything at all? The curtness of the letter told me everything I had needed to know about her and I never gave her a second thought. As far as I was concerned, Grandma was my mom.

Christa sent us that letter 3 years ago. Grandpa had passed away long before she sent that letter, but of course, she didn’t know that. On the day that we got that letter Grandma told me the real reason why, in spite of being a terrific baker, she had been baking that same chocolate cake on all of our special occasions. It wasn’t because I had loved it so much, which certainly encouraged her, it was because it was a connection to Christa.

Growing up, Christa had loved watching Grandma bake, especially when Grandma was baking cakes. Christa’s dream was to open a cute corner café shop and serve all the baked goods that she used to devour when she was growing up. Her absolute favorite was Grandma’s 2 layered chocolate cake covered in delicious chocolate frosting. She loved recreating that recipe and it was the only recipe that she didn’t play around with because of how perfect she thought it already was.

Grandma baked the chocolate cake for me with the hope that when the day came that I longed to know what my mother was like, Grandma would start by saying “well you’ve been eating her favorite dessert since you were 4 years old”. But that day had never come. And instead of serving as a connection to Christa, the cake served as a reminder of the warmth and love that Grandma brought into my life. My heart ached just thinking about her.

I snap back to reality. The recipe isn't lost yet. Christa knows the recipe. All I have to do is hop on a plane and go retrieve it.

What if she doesn’t live there anymore? What if she doesn’t want to share it with you? What if she doesn’t even remember the recipe? What if ...

No. I won’t let the voices weaken me.

I reach for my laptop and throw it open only to discover it’s dead. When was the last time I had even looked at it? I put it on charge and as soon as it turns on, I book the first flight to Orlando. Money isn’t an issue. Grandma left me everything they owned, which was a lot.

The flight is scheduled to leave tomorrow morning at 7 AM. It is 5 PM right now. 7 AM seems so far away.

As I start throwing random pieces of clothing into my duffel bag, I find myself growing hopeful. I’m suddenly filled with a renewed sense of purpose. I can feel myself getting closer to Grandma as the minutes tick by. I’m determined to get the recipe back and I will. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I get it even if it means dealing with ghosts of my past.

The voices are oddly quiet as I pack and plan for the future. In less than 24 hours I’ll be reunited with Grandma’s recipe. After 5 months of separation, there is less than a day between me and my reunion with Grandma. I can already feel myself inching out of the hole I buried myself in. Maybe sometimes all it takes is a step in the right direction to start seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I can see that light now and in the midst of it lies Grandma’s chocolate cake.