Schokoladenkuchen

Both of my grandparents were German immigrants who fled Europe just before WW1. Although they’d come from the same large town in Germany, they met in Louisville’s “German Town.”  My Grandpa and his brother made shoes until the economy and a rising tide of anti-German sentiment led them to close their shop.

After that, my grandpa got a factory job. Not just any factory job, he got a job at a chocolate factory. No really, it’s true!   His job was making “Schokoladensterne” chocolate stars.

By the time I was born, my mother hardly ate any chocolate. She said that she’d grown sick of it because her father brought home bags and bags of it from work every day. He got all the misshapen bits and pieces he wanted. He loved chocolate!

Even though he’d long since retired, when we visited he’d take me to the factory and they’d give us a big bag of the day’s “leftovers.”  

It was a long drive from Chicago to Louisville so we only went to see them when there were more than a couple of days to spend with them.

One year, by some strange fluke, my birthday fell close to our spring break from school. 

My Great Aunt, my Grandpa, and one of my mother’s sisters – Marta- all had birthdays near mine. So, it seemed the perfect opportunity for a big birthday party at Grandma’s house.

Plans were made.

One night when my mother was talking to Grandma on the phone, she called me over to the phone and handed me the receiver.

“What kind of cake do you want for the party?” Grandma asked.

In a tone that said the answer should have been obvious I replied,

“Chocolate, of course!”

“Well yes,” said Grandma, “But what kind of chocolate? Do you want the Zartbitter, or the Rote, or the Karmel, or mit butter…?” rattling off their German names.

I was stumped. I knew some of the kinds she made, but not their names.

“What’s the one with the coconut and pecans on top?” I asked, shyly.

“Ah, that’s the KarmelSchokoladen!” she said. “Are you sure? That one doesn’t really have frosting…”

“Yes, I mean, no, I mean, I’m sure… that one’s my favorite.” I replied.

“Then KarmelSchokoladenKuchen it is! Hand me back to your mother, honey” she replied with a smooching noise at the end.

After I got off the phone I began to have second thoughts.  No frosting…. Hmm. Her frosting was sooooo good! Maybe I should change my request before they hung up.

Naaaaah, the “karmelschokosomething” was really my favorite.

I began counting days until our trip. Some nights when I woke up from dreaming I would have sworn I could already taste my birthday cake!

At last, we went to Grandma’s house.

When we got there, Aunt Marta was already there. The week flew by with visiting, “helping” Grandma in the kitchen, swinging on the porch swing with my Great Aunt and more.

Every night when dinner time came I wondered if this would be the night for the party.

Friday night came and went and still no party! We were leaving after church on Sunday.

Surely Grandma hadn’t forgotten, had she?

I couldn’t very well ask without feeling rude.

Saturday morning at breakfast Grandpa announced that he was going to get the car.

The street where they lived was old and had no room for garages, so they rented one a few blocks away. 

“Can I go, please?” I asked. I loved walking with Grandpa.

“No, you stay here and get ready. We’re going for a drive.” He replied.

“O-Kay!” I said and quickly finished my breakfast. A drive was even better than a walk!

When Grandpa came back with the car, Aunt Marta, my Great Aunt, my mother and I piled in.

We spent the rest of the morning driving through the city streets, with Grandpa reciting history and stories he’d told a hundred times, but that were still as good as ever.

We stopped for lunch at a little ‘fish’ place near the river.

After lunch, he took us to Churchill Downs. We’d driven by on other visits but this time we got out and toured around. It was bustling with activity because Derby Day was only a few weeks away.

By late afternoon the grown-ups were getting tired and their feet achey so it was time to head back to Grandma’s.  Grandpa pulled up in front of the house and we started getting out.

Before I could get out he said, “Liebling, why don’t you stay. Maybe your tired Grandpa will need your arm to walk back.” 

I nodded, beaming.

He tapped the seat next to him “Come, sit by me.”

I must have been glowing. I hardly ever got to be with Grandpa without everybody else around.

He drove to the garage and pulled the car in. I helped him pull the big wooden door shut.

We ambled slowly back to the house. At times he did take my arm, from need or affection I’ll never know. 

Walking in the door, we could see the places set at the dining room table and smell the wonderful aroma of Grandma’s food that filled the house.

Grandpa kissed the top of my head and said, “Now go wash…”

On the way, I passed through the kitchen. My mother’s other sister Elsa and her mother-in-law, Mrs. Altbaum – another German immigrant - were busy helping Grandma fill bowls and platters with the food they’d spent the day preparing. In the dining room, I was directed to a place right next to my Great Aunt. She gave my shoulders a squeeze and clapped as if applauding. “This is grand!” she declared “Just grand!” 

When the table was full of steaming dishes and we were all seated my Grandpa said

“Bitte” followed by a prayer in German. We all said “Amen” before digging into the food.

Partway through our feasting Grandma stood up and said

“Don’t forget to save room for cake” before she left the room.

My Grandpa took another forkful of food and got up as well. They both went to the kitchen.

We soon heard an exchange in German that, even to a non-fluent listener, sounded like

“What do you think you’re doing? Will you stop that, just this once?”

Soon Grandpa was back at the table with a stubborn look on his face.

When we were through with dinner, Aunt Elsa and Mrs. Altbaum cleared the table and Mrs. Altbaum handed out little plates, spoons, and forks.

Then she, Grandma and Aunt Elsa entered the dining room with not one but 4 chocolate cakes!

There was a KarmelSchokoladen for me, a Schwartzwaldenkirsch for Aunt Marta, a Roteschokoladen for my Great Aunt and a Zartbitterschokoladen for Grandpa.

But wait, there was a big piece missing from Grandpa’s cake!

We all looked back and forth between him and the cake.

He got up and went to the kitchen.

He returned to the table with a big bowl and large spoon in one hand, and a can of chocolate syrup in the other.  Floating in a pool of what had once been chocolate ice cream was the missing piece of Zartbitter cake. He set the items on the table and plopped contentedly into his chair. We all watched as he poured chocolate syrup all over the contents of the bowl and then dug in with the spoon.

Just as the spoon neared his open mouth, the telephone rang. He pushed his chair away from the table with a disgusted “Phhhhh” and said

“Iss nicht meine Schokoladenkuchensuppe.”   

Wagging his finger, he translated

“Don’t you eat my chocolate cake soup!”