A Promise of Cake

Matt shoves aside the front door to his apartment with his boot and swings the three heavy grocery bags over the threshold. Flopping them down on his tiny couch, he turns to push the door closed and spins the lock.

He kicks off his wet boots and shrugs out of his thick jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. There’s no reason for so much damn rain, he thinks to himself, not in October. Matt shakes off his sour face, grabs the bags and takes them to his little kitchen.

The bags land on the counter with a resounding thud, followed by a thin ‘tink’ as the groceries settle. He starts to take them out and order them neatly on the bar above his oven and pulls his phone out to check the recipe.

“Preheat the oven to 350 degrees,” he spins the dial and the oven begins to glow. “Check,” he mutters. He pulls the new measuring cups and cake pans from the bag and turns to give them a good washing before use.

The recipe calls for the ingredients to be put in a large bowl for mixing. Matt looks around the kitchen with a pained expression and squats down to the lower cabinets to search for a bowl. The first one he grabs is a colander, but he quickly returns it. He stands with his hands on his hips and scans the kitchen for a bowl large enough.

There, on his coffee table, sits his candy bowl, filled to the brim with his favorites. He grabs it, dumps the contents into a grocery sack, blows into the bowl and then wipes it lightly with a towel. Good enough, he smiles.

Matt begins to gently measure out the ingredients and then reads the next step out loud. “Sift flour, sugar, cocoa powder….” Matt pauses. “What the hell does ‘sift’ mean?” He pulls out his phone and taps on it for a bit, swipes up and pinches the screen. He props up the phone on the large bottle of vegetable oil and crosses his arms over his chest. The dainty young lady starts her video with a long, drawn out story about how her grandmother taught her to bake when she was just a young girl…

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re talented in the kitchen. Now show me how to sift lady,” Matt says to the video, skipping ahead until her heartfelt story starts to actually show him something. He watches her hands and mimics them over the empty bowl.

“Got it, too easy,” he says and turns to open the items to bake this amazing chocolate cake. The recipe calls for 2 cups of flour and he tears open the bag, sending white powder particles flying all over his kitchen. He scoops twice and sifts it into the candy bowl and then turns back to the 5 pound bag.

“Well, now what am I going to do with all this extra? Why can’t they make a tiny bag of flour for guys that never bake?!” He pulls out his ziploc bags and realizes he’s going to use at least three for the remaining flour. Lifting up the cumbersome bag, he starts to pour, spilling flour over the top, across his counters, and onto his floor. Matt ignores the spillage for now and finishes the salvaging task. Once done, he steps away from the counter to throw the empty bag away and his socked feet slide across the floor.

Grabbing the refrigerator handle for stability, Matt chuckles to himself. How on earth is flour so damn slippery? He uses his feet to sweep the errant flour towards the underside of his oven and vows to ‘get that later’. He turns back to the candy bowl and begins to mix the ingredients together.

The recipe calls for two eggs to be cracked and mixed in. Matt taps his first egg against the side of the candy bowl but the shell doesn’t budge. He tries it again, only more forcefully this time and it tips the bowl on its side, threatening to send his other perfectly sifted ingredients flying. Instead, he tries to tap the egg on the counter top and finally a crack emerges.

Holding the egg over the bowl, he thrusts his thumbs into the crack and sends the egg splashing into the bowl...along with several pieces of the shell. “Dammit!” Matt hisses at the egg as he reaches in to try and pull the eggshell pieces out. Every time he gets close to a piece, it darts away, mocking him with its speed and agility.

“Okay, calm down, it’s just a tiny piece, how hard can this be?” he tells himself. “Focus, and let's get this damn cake made.” After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally fishes out the last piece and turns to get the other egg. He holds it up to his face and says, “Listen here, egg. I’ve gotta get this cake done and be somewhere with it by 1800, okay. Just work with me please.” The egg complies and the batter is complete.

Matt greases and flours the pans and pours the delicious smelling chocolate batter into them. Setting aside the candy bowl, he opens the oven, sets the pans inside, and uses his foot to close the oven door. He lifts his watch, sets a timer for 35 minutes and then crosses his arms over his chest.

“So, what am I gonna do for the next half hour?” He looks at the terrible state of his kitchen, considers cleaning up the mess, and decides against it. Instead he turns to his record player and smiles. “Yeah, that’ll be perfect.”

Matt pulls out his favorite record, gently places it on the platter and clicks it on. Early 70’s rock fills the small apartment and he starts to sing along. He walks to his bedroom and begins to change clothes, peeling off his floured socks and tossing them with a jump shot at the hamper. Neither one makes it into the hamper and he laughs. Basketball was never his strong suit.

He slips on clean jeans and then tucks in a nice button up shirt. He picks out some of his favorite socks and rolls them on. Just as the record ends, he hears the beep from his watch. Matt glides down the hallway and back into the kitchen to pull the pans out.

He read somewhere that you’re supposed to put a toothpick into the center of the cake to make sure it’s done, but he looks around and can't find a single toothpick. He pulls open a drawer and instead pulls out a wooden chopstick. With a shrug, he pushes it into the center of the cake and it comes out clean, with a whoosh of steam that smells heavenly.

“Well, I’m glad I bought the ready-made frosting. I doubt I would’ve been able to make this stuff too,” he laughs to himself. Matt pulls out a knife and starts spreading the frosting on the hot cake. Crap! It’s melting! Realizing the cakes are too hot for frosting, Matt shoves both pans into the freezer and then dumps all the dirty dishes into the sink to wash them.

Matt repeatedly checks the pans and finally realizes they’re cool enough, so he pulls them out and puts them on a plate to frost them. He spreads the chocolate frosting with precision and ends it with a perfect swirl on the very top. Highly satisfied, he checks his watch to see what time it is and realizes he’s going to be late.

He quickly puts on his jacket and checks the pocket for his wallet and the birthday candles. Picking up the superb looking chocolate cake, he marches out the door with paper plates, a knife, and forks.

He loads the precious cargo into his car and starts driving, checking his watch more than once. He arrives at the destination and is greeted at the gate by a young man. “You do know the gates close an hour after sunset?” he tells Matt.

“Yes, I do, I won’t be long. Just here for a birthday. I’ll be out on time,” Matt responds.

The young man smiles slightly and says, “Very good sir, do you know how to get to your spot?” Matt nods and is waved in.

It’s quiet, and the rain has thankfully stopped as Matt parks his car next to a tree and gets out with his bounty in hand. He walks to the small bench next to the rounded headstone and sits down.

“Hey Paul, did you think I’d forget? I baked you a cake, your favorite.” Matt pulls out a plate and cuts a slice of chocolate cake. He looks at the headstone that reads:

Paul Michael Rosin

SSG US Army

October 15, 1986 - January 13, 2014

Purple Heart

Operation Enduring Freedom

“You’ll never know how much I miss you Paul. You saved my life, man. All you wanted to do was come home for your birthday and eat cake. I promised you I’d do that for you...and then you were gone.” Matt doesn’t stop the tears that flow down his face, doesn’t care that his voice cracks and wavers as he talks. “I still hear the explosion, still remember how you shoved me aside and took the shrapnel. I feel so guilty man, I wish I could’ve saved you.”

Matt can no longer speak as the pain of remembering the day overwhelms him . He puts down his plate, weeps loudly into his hands and says over and over “Paul, I’m so sorry…”

Matt cries until his body is weak. Each breath he takes is heavy and causes his chest to ache, his heart struggles to beat. He clutches his jacket close to him and the sobs rock him back and forth on the stone bench. He can hear the clinking of his dog tags under his shirt every time he sways. He doesn’t care if anyone sees him like this; his pain is too deep and raw, even after all these months.

Wiping the tears from his face and taking a long, stoic breath, he looks towards the horizon to see the profound beauty of the setting sun, its fiery brilliance imbued with the deepest embers, and realizes the gates will be closing soon. He stands up, places his hand on the headstone and says, “I’ll see you again next year buddy. Remind me to tell you how bad I did making this damn cake. You would’ve laughed so hard seeing me in the kitchen.” The corner of his mouth turns up in a wry smile. “Next year, I’m buying a cake. I’ve got flour all over my floor and I suck at cracking eggs.”

He turns to the cake, slices off a tiny piece, plucks a birthday candle out of his pocket for the top, and lays it on the grave. “But it does taste pretty good. I made it just for you.”