Mom's Secret Chocolate Cake

All I wanted was a piece of mom's secret recipe chocolate cake. I was due to return to the states in two weeks. Whenever I had the chance to call from Afghanistan, I always ended the call with an I love you, and what I wanted to eat upon my return. It changed from time to time, but the one thing that always stayed the same was my request for Mom's chocolate cake. I couldn't wait to get home. The days seemed to blend into each other. It was the same thing day in and day out. I was scared. I would be a liar if I said I wasn't, but we had to look past it to get the job done. We laughed at horrible jokes, we cursed the days we were there and most of all, we longed for piece of home.

I often described how the cake tasted like to my friends. We would sit around after our shifts and talk about the things we are going to do and the food we are going to eat once we return home. Chucky was from Texas. San Antonio to be exact. All he would talk about were tacos and tamales. He said his grandmother would make the best ones. Danny was from Raleigh, North Carolina. He would go on and on about Carolina pulled pork and beers from a specific brewery. He said once he returned home for some well-deserved time off, that he would pack some in an ice cooler for us. For weeks, we would talk about the things we wanted to do, the food we wanted to eat, to sit around in an air-conditioned home and be away from any type of desert.

It was finally approaching my time to leave the sandbox. I was about three weeks out from leaving and one month away from leaving the military all together. To say I was excited was an understatement. My family though, was battling a much larger issue. I remember the day I got the news about my mom. I had the chance to call home and my brothers informed me that mom was sick. They didn’t know what it was. It was a week of horrible spontaneous symptoms. The doctors were taking exceptionally good care of her, but didn’t want to take any chances, so they pricked, and tested, and pricked again, and tested again; until they found what the problem was. Cancer. They said it was nothing to get worked up about. They said that it was treatable. They said it was common. Furthermore, they said that they caught it early, which gave my mother time. All I heard was cancer and my mind raced a million miles per hour. I needed to get home.

I saw my mom, weak, frail, and not herself. Everyone kept telling me that this is normal. The treatments were going to take their toll on her aging body. They kept telling me to consider it a blessing that they did catch it as soon as they did. I stayed at my parent’s house while I was on leave. I couldn’t stay as long as I wanted, I needed to return and get things ready for me to permanently leave the military life. It was a long eight years, but it was time for me to go. I don’t think my body could handle another deployment.

We tried to make the best of it while I was home. We ate as a family; we drank as a family. Mom would retire early on most nights. My brothers and I would stay up and play games while our dad made fun of us. Something was missing though. Something that I wanted; I haven’t had yet. Mom’s chocolate cake. I obviously wasn’t going to ask her to make one for me, even if she was feeling up for it. I made the decision to make it myself. I had two days left at home and this was my new mission. I asked mom for the recipe. I asked her what I needed. She simply told me to look in a drawer, next to the silverware, and dig out an old folder stuffed away in the back. Inside a severely stained vanilla folder were small stacks of cut out recipes from various magazines, cookbooks, and handwritten ones from friends old and new. She told me the chocolate cake recipe is the one from the back of an old bag of flour circa 1980s. It felt like a cosmic link between my hand and this stack of papers, because it took me no more than a few seconds to find it. I looked it over. The paper was slightly faded, but still very legible. The ingredients were simple. Too simple. There had to be specific brands that she purchased to make this. So, I asked.

“Oh, whatever is on sale.” Was her reply.

I had to approach this like I approach a military mission. I needed to know all the details. I needed specific brands, I needed to know if she added anything to it.

“Nope, just get whatever is on sale, trust me.” She replied again.

She assured me of this. So, I did just that. I got the cheapest brands of flour, eggs, buttermilk, sugar, extract, cocoa powder; whatever I needed. My plan was simple. I was to focus on this and make the perfect chocolate cake, just like mom did every single time.

I perfectly measured out ingredients. I expertly timed mixing one item with another. I followed the instructions word for word. In the oven it went. I made the frosting, just like the recipe called for. Again, I didn’t stray from the measurements, not one grain. The cake smelled like a cake; the frosting looked like frosting. I glazed the cake, allowed it to cool. The slice was perfect. It looked delicious. I placed a small bite sized portion onto my fork and the moment it landed on my tastebuds; I was saddened and disappointed. This was not, at all, like my mom’s chocolate cake. My brothers had some choice colorful words to describe the now shunned cake.

“What did I do wrong?” I asked myself. Evidently loud enough for my mother to hear. She perked up from the chair and said something to me that I would never forget.

“It’s not the measurements, it’s not the timing, it’s how you do it all. Where’s the music? Where is the dancing?” She repositioned herself and smiled. A moment of clarity hit my head. Memories started to flood my mind. I placed the cake on the dining room table. I was going to do this.

The open layout of the home allowed for my mom to sit comfortably and watch the kitchen as well as the entire house. Music. I needed music. I tried to remember what type of music played as my mom baked. 50s. Oldies. Sock-hopping, poodle skirt, slick hair, doo-wop, malt-shop classics. Frankie Lemon came through the surround sound speakers. My feet were moving, my body was swinging. One cup of flour now became a scoop. Tablespoons of butter became an unprecise cut of a stick. Frankie Lemon and the Teenagers turned to Fats Domino, Fats Domino turned into The Drifters, The Drifters turned into The Chi-Lites. The childhood memories swam through my brain as I effortlessly tossed ingredient after ingredient into bowls, not caring about being precise anymore. I was in the moment. I saw the smile on my mother’s face as I danced around the kitchen singing along to the songs that helped raise me. The frosting felt different as I continued to move and sway with the nostalgic rhythms. Into the oven the cake went. Song after song, I knew every word. I almost forgotten how long the cake was in the oven for. I placed the aromatic baked good on the counter and frosted it with an almost sloppy layer of liquid sugar, but I watched as it smoothed itself out. Finally, it was done. I cut a, not so perfect, slice onto a plate. I placed a bite sized portion onto a new fork. A smirk formed on my face as I nodded in approval. This was it. I had the one thing I craved for. I looked at the now empty chair.

"Mom?" I asked.

I didn't notice her approach. With a pinch, she grabbed a perfect precise piece of chocolate cake and placed it in her mouth. She closed her eyes as she chewed slowly. She smiled and softly placed a hand on my shoulder.

"See, told ya."