Army Boots and Chocolate Cake

Saturdays were my favourite day of the week. There were morning cartoons to enjoy as well as a big breakfast, bacon, eggs, pancakes and all the trimmings. My mouth would start watering the second my father pulled out the electric griddle from the little pantry in our PMQ. It was really more of a closet in the kitchen, but it served the purpose.

After breakfast, my father and I often went shopping. I loved that. I'd always get a new toy. But even better were the times we baked. It was usually during the fall and winter, once the weather had cooled sufficiently to allow baking (1970's military housing didn't have air conditioning, and could never be accused of remaining cool in summer).

My favourite thing to make was Rudy's World Famous Chocolate Cake with Peanut Butter Icing. We always made 2 cakes.

My father laid out the ingredients on the counter, and it was my job to do the measuring.

"Gimmie some of that doohickie over there," he'd say to me, pointing, his brown eyes twinkling.

"What doohickie, Daddy?" Everything was a "doohickie".

He'd specifiy, "try 5 cups of that flour." He never measured, so it was always, try this or that, and we'd adjust as we went. And, as official helper, I not only did the measuring, I got to lick the beaters and the bowl.

The second the cakes were in the oven, I'd grab a beater, run into the livingroom where my mother was watching T.V., and gleefully devour the batter in an exaggerated sort of way in front of her. She'd stand up from her blue easy chair and holler, as if there were some sort of actual emergency, "Rudy, don't give her the batter, she'll get worms!" She was always concerned about worms.

For some reason that was hilarious to me, and to my father. We'd laugh uproariously, much to Mom's dismay and she'd always end up walking off in a huff, muttering about our foolishness while my father doubled over, laughing so hard the sound stopped coming from his mouth.

Then came the icing. I can't remember the recipe, like I said, there was no real recipe, just this and that. Butter, peanut butter, icing sugar, a little milk, and voila, magic! Magic I've never been able to replicate. And believe me, I've tried!

As soon as the cakes were completed, my real job started. My father placed one cake in a Tupperware carrier, and off we went.

He explained that we were going to make people happy with our cake. He made it sound like a very important job. We'd drive about 5 minutes to a non-descript large brick building, very utilitarian in nature with dozens of tiny windows. It was called D-27, and my father, Cpl. Reuben Johnson was in charge of the entire place.

Whenever we went there, everyone greeted him with respect. And they were especially nice to me. Often I'd be given treats. Lena, the janitor, a stout, upright lady of German or Dutch extraction, always brought me these little coconut covered chocolate cakes called Snowballs. I hated them. They weren't nearly as good as the cake we had with us. And I didn't like Lena. She was always VERY nice to me, but even then, it wasn't the kind of nice that felt "right" even to a child. She was too nice, and she never looked at me, she always looked at my father, as if she were making a big point of her being kind to his child. Looking back, she WAS making a big point of it, and I'm pretty sure I know why.

Some of the soldiers would bring me candy and colouring books. Others would take me to the row of vending machines on the ground floor and allow me to pick whatever I wanted. A few others taught me to speak French. They'd come to my father's tiny office, I'd sit on his desk and I'd say a word and they would tell me the French version, I'd repeat it and move on to the next. I relished in the attention. What child wouldn't?

D-27 was one of the barracks, a place where young soldiers lived. My father explained that many of them were very young, 18 or 19 and had never been away from home before. They were sad and scared being in a strange place with strange people. I couldn't imagine a life away from my family, so I felt bad for them.

Word got around the building very quickly when we showed up and soon, the young soldiers, my father and I would be in the common area, munching on cake and watching hockey. The young recruits laughed and joked and for a brief while, forgot they were homesick. Our cake made D-27 and the Army feel a little bit more like home, and I was sort of like their little sister.

At my father's funeral, countless men approached me, them now middle aged, some still serving, others retired, and thanked me, and my father for that simple kindness. That cake, some of them said, was the only thing that kept them from leaving the strange new world of military life. Not bad for a humble slice of homemade cake.