(135) Cheesecake
The lovely Meg has, in response to her epically crafted pink macaroni tale, asked that I share with all of you my ‘Cheesecake Treat’ tale. It will be of notably less craft and barely any epic.
Once upon a time, my mother used to join a lot of committees. I just thought she was escaping the goal-killing prison that was raising me and my brother, but, as it turns out, she cared about causes and had interests and stuff. One of them was a sort of book club that somehow managed to be comprised entirely of very fancy foodie chefs. Obviously, my mom fit right in.
Every Wednesday night, the women would gather in someone’s house, and everyone would bring a home-baked yummy. For weeks, people there murmured about one of the chefs in the group, and how she had yet to bring her ‘special treat’. My mother suffered through endless Wednesdays of boring chiffon pies and stuffed mushrooms and wine glazed pork skewers. Someone thought elegantly (aka mind-numbingly) decorated gingerbread cookies would be fun on the Wednesday before Christmas, but Mom told us later that apparently the fun ends if you shove five into your mouth without appropriately ogling over each one.
Finally, finally, the much murmured about chef told everyone she would bring her treat the next Wednesday, to honor finishing the last chapter in Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Dreams. Mom came home and refused dessert for the entire week in preparation for the grand finale. I, at an eager ten years old, wanted to know if I should read this amazing book, too.
“What book?” Mom called, as she trotted out the door Wednesday night, book in hand.
She arrived at the scene and found everyone standing around the table in hushed awe. She approached the crowd, and people parted so she could see (because, despite the gingerbread debacle, my mother’s skills were noted. Also, it was my mother. She was noted. Anyway/side note). There, in the middle of the shiny mahogany dining room table, was a giant ceramic platter with a huge, pristine, pearl white cheesecake filling it to a mere two inches of its edges. Mom would boldly declare, for years following, that she had never before spotted so thick a cheesecake with nary a bubble or crack. Across the cake’s seamless top were artsy dark brown drizzles that trickled richly down its sides and in delicate, miniscule puddles along its bottom border. Candied almonds and large, perfectly circular discs of chocolate tiptoed coyly between the lush swirls and drizzles.
My mother cut herself a huge slice and sat in the furthest corner so she could enjoy the luxury in peace. As she brought that overloaded fork to her lips, she looked up to see the entire room gazing at her expectantly. Mom smiled broadly and placed that cheesecaked fork in her mouth with a triumphant clank.
The cake was made of tofu. Unsweetened tofu. The drizzles were prune juice. Raw, unsweetened prune juice. The almonds were also raw, and coated in date sugar. The chocolate discs were unsweetened carob. The much celebrated chef was a very well know raw food artist at a local bakery.
Mom never made cheesecake for us after that. I can’t even remember if she used to make it for us before that, but I know it wasn’t on the menu after that Wednesday Book Club. My teenage years were rife with the ever jovial ‘fruit for dessert!’ mantra.
