Chocolate Dessert

~1000 Words

Chocolate Dessert

by Rain Burrows

I’m eight, laying on the folded-down seats of my parent’s Volvo station wagon. My two younger brothers are next to me, head-toe-head like Lincoln in a log cabin. The Missouri River passes under us as we pass over the bridge and cross, mercifully, into Nebraska. I’m supposed to be asleep, I’m wide awake. Battered by duffle bags and loose books, it’s impossible to doze off. My “bunk” is hidden from the front row by a small CRT-TV/VHS player wedged between the driver’s and passenger’s seat on the front console. I lie with my eyes open watching streetlights pool through the car like spoonfuls of honey. After one dreary fifteen-hour stint through rain, sleet, and snow, we pull into my grandparent’s driveway. 

Eleven at night, my grandmother is in her nightgown fussing over a broiling pot of beef. My grandfather sits in a bathrobe at the kitchen table and reads a book of Psalms. Hard rolls, weak gravy, and roast beef more tender than any Michelin star could describe. That’s not why I was awake in the car, why I purposefully chose the most cramped corner, my impossible sleeping position. 

You see, I’m eight, a full-grown, capital “A” adult. Aside from my grandma asking me the easy clues on her Omaha Herald crossword, the best part of arriving here without crust in my eyes, is Grandma Robin’s Chocolate Dessert. 

That’s the name, we’re Midwest Protestants, not big city creatives. It’s not exactly a brownie, not a cake (really), and not particularly a bread, (certainly not a cookie). It is, served hot, gooey, and with vanilla BEAN ice cream, (when homemade is unavailable). It, one hundred percent, will never go stale. I don’t know how, but it’s important because it’s even better in the morning, cold, and left on the counter. A quick aside, the staleness factor of the dessert has never been tested past thirty-six hours as there have never been any leftovers to survive that long. 

“That’s all I can tell you.”

My girlfriend looks at me like I’m coming back from a seance with cheap glitter in my hair, all suspicion, the ‘talk-to-your-therapist’ look.

“That’s not a recipe, it’s a pointlessly long story. What do you want for dessert tonight?”

“I told you. ‘Grandma Robin’s Chocolate Dessert’” 

She looks at me like I need to start listing exact weights and measurements of flour and sugar before she just orders cookies with my debit card. I snap my fingers like Sherlock. 

“My mom has this little box—.”

“Is this another damn story?”

“No, No it’s a recipe box. If ‘Grandma Robin’s Chocolate Dessert’ is written down anywhere it’s in there.” 

She rolls her eyes and smiles, I’m being ridiculous, but I can tell she almost slightly thinks it’s a little cute how badly I want an indescribable dessert from fifteen years ago. I call my mom, she has the box, right on the kitchen counter. Says she won’t look through it though, I’ll have to come over myself. Okay, that’s expected, off we go, eleven at night. 

I’m four, living in Chicago on the heinously purple second floor of a two-flat. My father works all day at an engineering firm and then takes night classes at Northwestern, hence the purple. It’s five pm, my mother is taking dessert out of the oven. Yup, it’s not exactly a brownie, not a cake, and not particularly a bread, (certainly not a cookie). She serves it after letting it cool for what my four-year-old brain feels like is a wholly unnecessary amount of time. I don’t get any ice cream, that’s for after dinner, just a teensy sliver of chocolate dessert to tide me over in my restlessness. 

“Our little secret” she slips an equally small sliver into her mouth and smiles as I giggle in bliss.

“Our little secret,” she says as she opens the box and slides it over to me and my girlfriend across the kitchen table. 

“Yes, it’s a family secret, but is it written down?”

“Dunno,” she sips her coffee, “I remember it from when I was a girl.” 

We paw through the index cards, mixed with tattered scraps of ancient product packaging. Daintily flicking our fingers over the paper edges like librarians with a broken computer system. 

“Here, it is. Here it is!” I thrust the card into the air like Charlie’s golden ticket, forgetting for a brief moment it’s the most valuable thing in my world right now. Horrified, I gingerly inspect it for creases or tears, none—thank God. We take a picture of the card, flip it over and grab a recipe for ‘Blonde’ butterscotch brownies, then survey the remaining recipes, grabbing a precious few. Like Pandora’s box, we dare not peer too deep or we might never be able to put back in what we find. 

I’m twenty-three, standing in my kitchen with my girlfriend, deciphering the recipe on the phone on the card before us. It’s five pm the next afternoon.

“This doesn’t look right, does it?” She shows me a mixture that looks almost perfect, too light. 

“More coca?” I suggest.

“I thought I put in extra.”

We try retranslating the recipe code. We amend the batter, looks good. Into the oven, and let it bake for what my twenty—three—year—old brain feels like is a wholly unnecessary amount of time. 

I’m in my kitchen, but not really, not anymore. Now I’m in the backseat of my parents' station wagon, the honey-pools of street-lamps pass over the kitchen island and shine onto my girlfriend as she turns on the oven light. I wait, as before, as always, for ‘Grandma Robin’s Chocolate Dessert’ not fifteen hours but only thirty minutes. I’m in my purple flat in Chicago, but not really, not anymore. That place was (mercifully) painted and sold when we moved to Rochester. Now I sit on a barstool as my girlfriend opens the oven.

“Huh” She sets it on the counter. “Well, it’s not exactly a brownie, not really a cake, nor particularly a bread, and certainly not a cookie.” 

“Right,” I say, “It is, however, served hot, gooey, and with vanilla BEAN ice cream,” I open the freezer. “Of course only when homemade is unavailable.”

“Chocolate Dessert” by Rain Burrows, Dec 2020

burrowsrain@gmail.com