One Day They Will Put Love & Chocolate into a Pill and Cure Everything

I was the first born, a precocious, inquisitive, and curious child who tortured everybody around with interminable questions. Mother was, unfortunately for her, the one that stayed at home and who tried to come up with answers amidst grueling house chores, taking care of our Grandparents, and back to back visits from relatives, friends, and Father’s patients. When I was seven or eight, she dragged out of the library an old, heavy book bound in brown leather, and presented it to me with a sigh. It was Vujalklija’s The Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases, and it was to become my invaluable companion. She went back to the complex chocolate torte she was making, no doubt hoping that this gigantic volume would grant her enough reprieve from my inquisitions to finish the cake. But I did not stop asking questions.

Drawn to books and surrounded by adults until my sister arrived and grew enough to become my inseparable playing buddy, I was a socially awkward child. I loved company, but never knew how to approach a new group of kids. I wanted to be included, but always feared rejection. Even though Mother stopped working once I was born and stayed at home with us, they decided to put us all in preschool to learn how to make friends.

I hated every day spent there. At four, I stopped taking naps choosing to read instead. But in preschool I had no choice and for an hour I closed my eyes and daydreamed. I was a slow eater, always lost in the clouds, my mind travelling to unknown distances, unfocused on the food in front of me. Many times I had the entree poured on top of the soup still in my plate, having to eat the abominable mixture under the scrutiny of hawk-eyed lunch ladies.

One April, Djordje jumped off the see-saw while I was aloft, and I fell and broke my nose. On another occasion several girls were playing a beauty parlor game, and I was chosen as a customer. They hacked at my hair with dull school scissors until half my head was covered in bald splotches. When my parents deposited me on the couch, Njanja cursed them for bringing me home looking like that. Who could have blamed her? On the overcrowded night-long trip to the seaside camp, the teachers put me to sleep on the floor of the bus, and during the night someone vomited all over me. They did not wash my clothes upon arrival, but put them in my suitcase, which made all my clean stuff stink like puke. On the same trip, someone stole my sandals, and I walked on the hot sand barefoot, wincing in pain and hiding my tears. I didn’t know how to raise hell and I was pushed to the sides and ignored. I trusted the adults, but they had their favorites. I was not one of them.

The first day of school was an exciting moment in my life. I started the first grade one year ahead of my preschool peers and I was looking forward to meeting new kids and starting over. As my parents were standing to the side, their proud smiles making their cheeks hurt, we were entering our new classroom two by two. As the line progressed, the girls were pairing off in this seemingly orchestrated dance, holding hands and giggling. Boys were punching each other and laughing with each faked fart or burp noise. I remained alone, framed by couples in front and behind. To my horror, I had to walk in with a boy who was also left without a partner. We both stared ahead, ignoring each other, our cheeks flushed and hearts bursting out of our little chests.

I filled in my friends’ math tests before finishing mine. I whispered the right answers  left and right, only to have the same people I helped run away from me while walking home. Unable to gain acceptance in the popular crowd I befriended the social outcasts, Gypsies, and kids everybody avoided for being too slow and different. I spent hours every week trying to correct Fs, desperately wanting everybody to move forward and live a better life.

In high school I decided to change my ways. I was still painfully shy, but I realized that the world was not going to wait for me to get out of my shell. The first day, I plopped myself in the first row, a few seats on the left from the teacher’s desk, trying to ignore everybody behind me, concentrating only on one person. During recess, I talked to anybody willing to offer a smile. I helped a student with his math homework several times, and I got a bodyguard for life. I did not select my friends by their standing, or rating, or stature in the community. I was oblivious to the social strata, and followed my parents’ example in befriending anyone who seemed sincere, nice, and shared the same values as me.

I was never manipulative and calculating. I searched for kindred spirits with a zeal, opening my soul to many, and offering my ear to any willing to talk. I debated with the intellectual crowd, smoked cigarettes on the sly with the trouble-makers, watched the games with the jocks, blinked in total bewilderment when my techie friends endeavoured to explain that two parallel lines would meet in eternity. All these different people empowered me and gave me bits of energy necessary to face the world every morning.

I have several high school reunions behind me. People approach me and tell me that they wanted to be my friends, but they thought I was too aloof, too arrogant, too snobbish. Once in a while a good-looking guy would confess that he had had a crush on me way back when, and we would laugh, enjoying the moment that never happened. I take all this home and I analyze, and ponder, and dissect. I ask all of them silently where were they when I felt alone, and ignored, and neglected. I ask the good-looking guy why he never asked me out.  In the end I ask myself if I was nice enough back then to make them like me…

I did not have a good day yesterday. The end of a friendship is always very traumatic and the pain takes time to ebb. I am at the beginning of the grieving process and tears are never far away from my eyes. I decide one moment that I am just too old to have my heart broken, and in another I know that I cannot be anything else but a trusting, giving, naive, and gullible romantic who sees only the good in people, accepting the harsh reality of many more heartbreaks.

My twelve-year-old, Anya, asked me if she could make me a cake for Mother’s Day. I could not have imagined a better gift. While I worked, delivering Eggs Benedict with instant Hollandaise and Belgian Waffles born out of a box, my girls measured, weighed, baked, and licked the bowls. They do not carry around The Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases, but tiny iphones that fetch whatever information they require or desire… to include a fantastic recipe for chocolate cake. When I arrived, the only thing left to do was to put whipped cream and berries on top.

The cake was creamy, fudgy, rich without being too sweet, the touch of espresso bringing out the deep, seductive taste of dark chocolate. When my tears finally dried out around midnight, I buried my fork in a piece of firm, but yielding cake, and closing my eyes really tasted the love and affection my daughters managed to weave into it.

FLOURLESS CHOCOLATE CAKE

(I helped them with the recipe combing through dozens; I finally mixed everything together to make it as easy and uncomplicated for the inexperienced, but willing to learn pre-teens)

Cake Batter:

• 1 cup (150gr) chopped semisweet chocolate
• 1/2 cup (1 stick, 115gr) unsalted butter
• 3/4 cup (150gr) sugar
• pinch of salt
• 2 teaspoons espresso or instant coffee powder
• 3 large eggs
• 1/2 cup (50gr) unsweetened cocoa powderGanache:
• 1 cup (150gr) chopped semisweet chocolate
• 1/2 cup (120ml) heavy whipping cream

Directions:

Put the chocolate and butter in a microwave-safe bowl, and heat until the butter is melted and the chocolate is soft. Stir until the chocolate melts. You can also do this on a stove set at very low heat, in a double boiler. Transfer the melted chocolate and butter to a mixing bowl.

Add the sugar, salt, and espresso powder. Add the eggs, beating briefly until incorporated. Add the cocoa powder and mix just to combine.

Spoon the batter into the prepared pan. Bake the cake for 25 minutes; the top will have formed a thin crust. Remove it from the oven, and cool it in the pan for 5 minutes. Loosen the edges of the pan with a table knife or nylon spreader, and turn it out onto a serving plate. The top will now be on the bottom; that’s fine. Also, the edges will crumble a bit, which is also fine. Allow the cake to cool completely before glazing.

Glaze: Combine the chocolate and cream in a microwave-safe bowl, and heat till the cream is very hot, but not simmering. Remove from the microwave, and stir till the chocolate melts and the mixture is completely smooth.

Spoon the glaze over the cake, spreading it to drip over the sides a bit. Allow the glaze to set for several hours before serving the cake.