Chocolate cake

Before we were married, I asked my husband how he ate his. And though he didn't know why, he felt this was some sort of a test. And he was right. For how could I marry a man who didn't share my love for such edible happiness? Thankfully he answered "with milk poured on top" and passed the test.

While it is true I have an incurable sweet tooth, my love for this desert goes deeper than the rich chocolatey flavor, moist crumb, and creamy fudge-like frosting. As I bake it I feel connected to my great-grandma, whose measuring cups and spoons I use to measure the ingredients. As my dad told us, she always had a pie or cake or some decadent baked good waiting in the kitchen for visitors to enjoy. As I whip the frosting, alternating between adding the milk and powdered sugar, I wish my dad were still here. I always took a spoon to him for testing--he would suggest "more sugar" or "a bit creamier" or " too stiff--needs more milk." Now that testing falls to me. I taste. Not enough sugar. I taste again, turning the smooth darkness over with my tongue. Just right.

As I dip the off-set spatula into warm water to begin spreading the frosting, I think of my husband who made the spinning cake stand I am using to help get that smooth surface. And I remember all the traditional "birthday bites" that happily mar the flawless frosting at each family birthday gathering. I wish Dad could have been here for my son's first birthday... He would have been proud at the gloriously messy way his grandson dispatched his " birthday bite"!

By the time my fork slides into the dense yet tender desert (yes, with milk poured on it!), I am awash with memory and emotion. I eat from the bottom first, and work my way, savoring each moist bite, from the center of the slice out. Saving the outside frosting for last. Just like Dad did.

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