French Press and Carrot Cake
Cafe Diving with my mother
I am certain I acquired my sweet tooth at a very young age, a gift from my mother.
Her’s was … how can I say this politely? … an all-embracing palate. By the age of five I experienced enough of her pastry shop pilgrimages and cafe diving to know the difference between creme fraiche and mascarpone and of course, the ecstasy of a fine ganache and a sweetly tart lemon raspberry fondant.
So, I was not entirely surprised when Mother called to let me know she wished to spend her birthday afternoon with me at a sidewalk cafe with wifi.
She said she was having dreams of a birthday candle on swirls of mocha chocolate cake with two sliced strawberries heaped on a cloud of whipped cream.
The date, time and place were set and Mother arrived first, sitting at a comfortable table, looking absolutely radiant and ravishing. We kissed three times on both cheeks, Italian style, more intimate since ‘la bise’ was reserved for days other than special occasions like birthdays.
The cafe was on the corner of a busy intersection in Bay Ridge. It felt exciting to see so many people out on a beautiful Spring day, enjoying their coffee and dolce.
Mother and I perused the menu, but she got impatient and decided to step into the cafe to inspect the desserts in the display case.
“Is this fresh?” she asked the young girl behind the counter, pointing to one of the cake slices. And smiled back when the girl nodded with a look of delight, for my Mother truly believed we eat with our eyes and taste with our tongue.
When she returned, I asked Mother about the large plaid box sitting on the tabletop.
“That is my manuscript. I should say memoir. I want you to read it,” said Mother.
I don’t know how to describe what I was feeling. My heart stopped. I slapped my chest twice.
“Of course. What a surprise.” I replied.
A server appeared, looking crisp in his white shirt, black slacks and ironed apron.
“Are you ready to order, ladies?”
I looked at Mother and waited. She still was looking at the menu.
“Umm. French press and carrot cake, please” she announced.
“Make that two,” I said, impressed with the selection.
I resisted signaling the waiter with a wink, a little while earlier, when Mom was away from the table, I had arranged for a chocolate cupcake with strawberries and cream- and a single lit candle on top. She could always take it home, as a souvenir.
“Ah, let’s look at my memoir, while we’re waiting,” said Mama’.
I started reading, careful not to let my tears stain the pages. There in black and white, were my mother’s recollections of her first date with my father, how she changed four times before finally deciding on what to wear, and how she spilled wine all over his khaki dockers and tan Lacoste knit shirt, wondering if he would ever see her again. I had no idea my Mother could be so introspective, funny, engaging and warm on paper.
I looked at her differently, with the eyes of a proud daughter. For some reason, this would be a day I would long remember. And not just for the French Press and carrot cake.
