My Mother’s Cake

America was hard. It was kind and crazy and lovely and mean and full of possibilities and people whose eyes you met and quickly looked away from because you didn't want to see how far down that feeling went. It was everything and full of nothing. You were already torn in half and America did not help with that.

But chocolate helped. You learned that early on. Not the Hershey bars of your youth, but deep, dark chocolate so full of bitterness that you could set yours aside. This bitterness could be tamed and smoothed with sugar and eggs and cream, and made into something that transcended earthly troubles. It fixed everything for a little while and that was enough.

I lived to lick the beaters and bask in the crinkles at the corners of your eyes when you looked at me. You did not grow up with chocolate cake so I devoured it like I was two people, even though you never iced your cakes.

"Too sweet," you always said when I always asked why.

Then you patted my head and I skipped away before the spell of chocolate was broken. I learned young how to live in the moment.

…

You sent me off to college with a poker face. I don’t think you went to college. I didn’t even know if you graduated high school. You worked at the post office, so you must have, I suppose. How would anyone know? I didn’t know anything about your life before me.

“There was nothing before here,” is all you would say.

…

Your grandchildren broke some of the cords that held your heart tightly in place. Your shoulders loosened and the crinkles at your eyes grew wider and deeper. You laughed and played games with them. You told them stories of frogs and rice paddies.

“Why didn’t you tell me these stories?” I asked, a little envious of my own children.

“I couldn’t,” you softly replied.

I was older then, with big and little pains of my own, some newly sharpened and some smoothed by time. I understood.

…

America is hard. It is beautiful and unkind and generous and full of people who help and people who don’t. It is everything and full of nothing. It is all I have ever known and loved and it makes me want more. I am torn in half with the decision I need to make and I think that nothing can help. I’m wrong.

I find a recipe for flourless chocolate cake. The kind you always made, although I have no memories of a recipe card or cookbook. I imagine you held these things close in your mind, as with so many other things. I wonder if learning the recipe for chocolate cake was as hard as learning English.

I melt dark chocolate and butter, and stir in sugar, cocoa powder, a bit of vanilla, a dash of salt, and some espresso powder. Then a little more espresso powder. I beat eggs in by hand with a whisk, one by one, until the soreness in my arm overcomes the ache in my heart. No stand mixer could do that.

This cake is rich and I smile at the memory of wanting icing. Life was never sweet enough to my child self but my adult self has learned to appreciate the balance of bittersweet.

…

You look up from your magazine as I walk into the small room that tries hard to be cheerful.

“Who are you?” you ask.

“Your daughter,” I reply, as I always do.

You look confused, and I dig in my bag to pull out a plastic container cradling a piece of chocolate cake to cover the jolt in my heart. I hold it out to you like an offering.

“I brought you some cake.”

You brighten and take the container. As I turn away to find a fork you grab my hand.

“I used to make chocolate cake!” you tell me.

“Yes, I know,” I reply with a smile.