Snippet 10
The noise of Lionel trains circling the table in the finished basement under a tiled dropped ceiling was ear-splitting, not to mention down right annoying. Don’t know how my brother evaded deafness. I avoided the basement in those days for several years until he turned sixteen. His new focus was my mom’s car which he washed, waxed, and polished weekly. Only a year away from getting his driver’s license, he practiced taking the car in and out of the garage every moment he could. The trains rolled into the background of his interests, and I commandeered the utility kitchen that was used whenever my family had a celebration: Holy Communion, Confirmation, and Graduation. We were four kids covering a range of years and one of us was being celebrated at every turn. When my older brother left for college, my sister entered kindergarten.
My culinary adventures started upstairs with chocolate pudding then advanced to chocolate cream pie with graham cracker crust. I could only eat a piece or two and the rest would languish in the refrigerator until my grandmother asked: “Are you going to finish this or can I throw it out.”
“Leave it alone. I’ll have some later,” I scowled to her huffing and puffing.
When the pie separated from the crust and cream was totally deflated, it was discarded. Dessert was never a part of our daily meals. We had Italian pastries whenever someone came to visit, generally on a weekend or when my uncle who lived in New York City stopped at Cushman’s bakery in the Port Authority Bus Terminal on his way to visit us. My taste always gravitated to chocolate in any form, cake, pudding or pie.
It was pretty obvious my tastes were dissimilar to the rest of the family. Yearning to please, I decided to tackle a cheesecake, but this time in the basement where I could listen to Bobby Darin on my portable record player. His music had me humming as I diligently followed the recipe, folding ingredients with great care. I used a hand mixer to whip up the eggs with sugar. To my great surprise the cake was a hit, but it too languished in the refrigerator after its initial tasting.
I returned to my chocolate taste buds and tackled a chocolate cake that included cocoa and Presto cake flour. My family gave a slanted nod to my success because I refrained from covering it with icing. The distasteful yuck expression my mom gave me carried weight, so I avoided any type of icing. My favorite chocolate cake had only powdered sugar, a limit I was willing to accept. Actually, the cake was so delicious, it didn’t need anything else. I even say my grandmother taking a second piece, but it too languished and turned hard as it sat on the kitchen counter not needing refrigeration. Simple yellow cake had greater success and I made them from a box with less enthusiasm than I had with the more intricate chocolate cake recipe.
At a high school bake sale I brought the chocolate cake with a fudge icing. It was a hit and two classmates asked me to make it for their birthdays. Their responses initiated the longing I had to share my taste with others. Isn’t that what growing up is all about: finding yourself and trying it out in public where familial rank matters less?