Death is Taxing

My dad was born on Pearl Harbor Day in 1934. Except in 1934, there was no Pearl Harbor Day. Not yet.

However, by the time I was born, Americans had been commemorating Pearl Harbor Day for nearly 30 years. And every year, that was the day we celebrated my dad’s birthday.

Dad died in the summertime. It was the same weekend Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died. I can never remember the date. I just know that every June since then, news outlets and radio stations memorialize Jackson with musical tributes and recognize Fawcett during “On this day…” mentions. Inevitably I think: I need to look up my dad’s obituary.

I should probably know the date my father died.

A writing professor once said that in Winter semesters students write about death, death, death; whereas in Spring semesters, they write about sex, sex, sex. At the time it made perfect sense: writing about death in the winter and sex in the spring. Yet I was still surprised to learn, after collecting the first set of drafts in a Winter semester class, it was true. Death, death, death.

Death is not the worse part though. Death, in its unapologetic finality, is but a prelude to the gone, the missing.

Death is a title we give to that hole of immeasurable depth. The hole we skip over nearly every day as we navigate the living world, trying – ourselves – to simply survive.

But then, on the first cold day of the year, not quite Winter, we fall into the hole. I fall into the hole. Deeper, it seems, every year.

I miss my dad the most in the winter. Not because that’s when his life ended, but rather it's when we celebrated his life beginning.

In 25 years, I will be the same age as my dad was when he died: seventy-four. It was June 27, 2009.

I have to look it up every time.

 

06 September 2008

 

SFBE

The other day my partner in crime sent me several links to various desserts such as lemon Bundt cake, red berry charlottes, chocolate hazelnut cake, petite molten lava cakes… you get the idea.

He, like me, is a fan of dessert. However, unlike me, he’s about a thousand times more judicious about things like sugar, fat, salt… you know, the All Stars. And not that I would ever say I’m a “fan” of sugar, fat, and salt because on most days, I can do without the salt. But sugar and butter? Oh yeah. All day. Every day. Groupie status.

Nonetheless, I do attempt to bake healthy: I often cut the sugar and when I can, I use whole wheat – or usually white whole wheat – flour. But I never compromise on butter.

While I don’t consider myself a baker, per se, I do enjoy baking and think the effort should be worth the reward; thus I’m not always watching every step I take with every cake I bake. Ironic because the one thing I have never baked from scratch is a cake. And when I say “from scratch” I’m not talking Duncan Hines cake mix from a box scratch. I’m talking 1970’s, apron-wearing, Betty Crocker cookbook scratch. That, my friends, is about to change. 

Back to the links: petite molten lava cake. Indeed high on the Yum-scale.

It occurred to me that while I like chocolate molten lava cake, I've never actually made one. Hence, a midnight recipe search ensued. 

Aside from the cake itself -- and because I knew I'd get the: how much this or can you make it with less that questions -- I wondered: is there such a thing as healthy molten lava cake? 

I know, I know, who thought this blog would be so suspenseful? After about thirty-minutes of searching it was clear: No. No matter what your Google search tells you, there is no such thing as a "healthy molten lava cake."

Sure, there are keto, gluten-free, sugar-free options. Coconut oil, almond flour, collagen peptides, soy milk. But look people: Next year I'll turn 50. I just want cake. Good cake. Sugar, flour, butter, eggs.

Not surprising, the SFBE recipes look relatively easy. Easier than the healthy recipes. And most recipes only make four cakes, six if you use muffin tins rather than ramekins. So even with the SFBE, I should be fine. Everything in moderation.