Kickball and Parfaits

My grandparents’ long, grassy yard was shrouded on three sides by trees and the fourth by their old farmhouse. The yard sloped downwards, which would seem like a flaw to potential homebuyers and land assessors, but in our eyes, it was perfect for endless games of kickball and was esteemed for the additional challenge it brought to the game. Whenever the dozen or so cousins all got together for one single day during every summer that yard became our territory and woe to the unsuspecting adult who walked in the way of flying ball or speeding runner. My parents, brother, and I lived in Texas while the rest of the family lived in Ohio, so the week out of each year we would spend with them was an event, and the family barbeque with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, babies, and scattered boyfriends or girlfriends that would take place was the highlight of the year. It was one single day, one afternoon, one evening, but in that day lay the entirety of summer.

While the uncles, most of them wearing too-short shorts and too-loose tank tops, would trade off fussing over the grill and the aunts would run in and out of the kitchen refilling tea and lemonade jugs and refreshing plates of watermelon, the cousins, young and old, would man the makeshift bases on that sloping green lawn, pleasantly free of bugs and sharp objects, which was most appreciated by my southern-bred feet. For hours we would perfect the art of kicking barefoot the ball hard enough to ensure a homerun but not hard enough to break through the barrier of trees where it would be lost, for we had convinced ourselves those woods were haunted and not a one of us were willing to prove ourselves otherwise. For hours we would play, making allowances for the little ones, and enforcing extra rules for the older ones. Every so often an onlooker would unleash the water hose so fresh country water would mingle with the salty sweat running down our faces and into our mouths. Smells of meat cooking wafted through the air, whetting out appetites, though to a person we were loath to stop when the meal was finally ready, and only when a poorly controlled ball would nail one of the younger ones in the head, causing tears and drama, would a break be deemed necessary and the food would be consumed.

My grandmother was a world-class cook. She could turn out a mouthwatering dinner to feed several dozen hungry Mennonites in a single afternoon, but dessert was her specialty. “Eileen’s pies” were spoken of in a voice of reverence throughout the entire community as mouths watered and each pictured their favorite variety, for she was master of them all- rhubarb to apple to cherry to blueberry cheese. These pies were the stars of every church potluck, fundraiser, holiday event, or family celebration and their presence was sorely missed after the last crumb had been licked off forks. But there was one dessert, one special morsel of her own creation-for everything she made had a secret ingredient that was never written down, and even on her deathbed she swore her daughters to secrecy- that she would only make for family and only in the summer. It was this dessert she would carry out on these summer picnics, and it was this dessert that proved foolproof in pulling us off the kickball field

Layers of crushed chocolate cake that remained light and moist no matter how mutilated they became were stacked in between layers of heavy whipped cream that never seemed to melt. The faintest hint of coffee could be tasted, as it had been baked into the cake after having been freshly and richly brewed. Layer after layer filled a tall glass dish of infinite depth in a creation of parfait heaven that never tasted the same when other family members would try to recreate it. They, of course, did not know exactly what all Grandma Eileen had added. For the final layer, nearly spilling over the top of the glass, sweet crunchy chips of either butterscotch or toffee, depending on what was on sale at the grocery store, reigned supreme and added texture and crunch to the soft treat. It was the simplest of desserts, but when mixed with the sweaty salt from hours of activity and eaten outside as dusk came and the lightening bugs began their shimmering wakeup dance, surrounded by family that was seldom together, it was summer in a dish.