Mom's chocolate cake

I sighed as I put the final rose on the wedding cake order. Thinking of what my mom would say if she could see me now. I closed the lid gently, so as not to smear the whipped frosting, put the tag on it, and put it away for safekeeping until the customer comes by to pick it up. I grabbed the old, torn, and ratted rag from my apron pocket and wiped my frosting stained hands. Sometimes, I still can’t believe how far I’ve come. Creating custom cakes was my dream, and now it was a reality. Thanks to my mom.

I reach over and grab the picture of her and me. Her green eyes glowing, from either happiness or the sun. I wasn’t sure which, but I like to assume it is both. And standing next to her was me, my blonde bangs covering half my face. Our smiles were so identical. Sometimes I smile in the mirror just so I can think of her. My way of remembering her. Her laugh was strong and loud, it filled the room. Her hair was so soft and long. Almost like magic, it flowed so perfectly with the wind. And she was so sweet, just like a rich slice of Chocolate cake. One that never disappoints. Next to it, was her old recipe book that she left for me specifically in her will.

I started to daydream, thinking back to the first cake I ever made. It was my birthday and my mom said she had a special cake for me. So, I woke up early that morning to find grocery bags full of sugar, and flour, and cacao powder. I was confused at first. My mom came out not too long after me in her long blue robe that I loved so much. She chuckled at the sight of me sitting on the stool staring at the ingredients so intensely like it would make them mix and bake themself. She walked up and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see her gently chuckling.

Soon I realized that this was the cake. But it wasn’t made yet. Mama said it tastes better when we make it than when a store does. She grabbed her apron and handed me a small gift bag. Excited to already be getting a present I ripped through the tissue paper. I pulled out a smaller version of her apron. It looked nicer because it wasn’t worn at the edged, the tie wasn’t frayed, and there were no stains. I smiled up at her with bright, curious eyes. I wondered if this meant I was making the cake with her. I was correct.

She grabbed a stool and helped me up. The bowels and measuring cups were all lined up behind the grocery bags. I grabbed the big bowl and a whisk. I was ready to start. My mom led the way, telling me how much of what to put in, and when. There were a lot of steps. I did my best to measure it out correctly. In the end, we were pouring globs of dark brown …. Into cake pans. I watched my mom put them in the oven and set a timer. I listened as it ticked and ticked.

The time seemed to have been moving a bit too slow. I thought the ding would never come. I twirled my hair between my fingers. I looked at the cookbook. And I talked to my mom, and still nothing. After what seemed like another hour of waiting, although it was probably only two, I was a dramatic child. I finally heard the loud ding of the timer. I ran to the kitchen behind my mom. She handed me a butter knife and told me to check it. I had no idea what that meant but she showed me how to put it in the cake. I took it out and my mom confirmed that it was done.

I eagerly sat there waiting to taste the cake but my mom took it and put it on a wire rack on the counter. I was confused until she explained that the cake had to cool down before we put the frosting on it. More waiting. She distracted me by putting in my favorite movie. I can’t remember what it was. I snuggled up close to her as we watched it together. Until she had to go make dinner at least. I stayed on the couch napping after having lunch, which was probably Macaroni and broccoli. After dinner she placed it in front of me, a shiny, dark chocolate frosting covered it. No decoration, no writing, just frosting. Her gentle voice sweetly singing Happy Birthday. Once she was done, we dug in. it was so sweet and perfect, just like my mom. I finished every bite, proud of myself for what I had created. What we had created together.

The bell on the door rang as a customer walked in, and I snapped out of the wonderful flashback. I wiped the tears running down my cheek as I turned to a man.

“Welcome to Brunner’s bakery, how can I help you?” The man looked around for a moment. It looked as if he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

“Hello, I have a strange request. My grandmother died and I want to bring a cake for the lunch after the funeral. I would have used one of her recipes but no one can find her book. Do you happen to have a recipe for a simple, homemade chocolate cake?”

I looked down at the old, yellowed, and worn cookbook I was still holding. I smiled at the man.

“I think I have the perfect recipe for you!” “Thanks, mom,” I thought to myself as I opened the marked page for our chocolate cake.