Nothing was happening on Thursday. No birthday, no dinner party, no apology owed to anyone. I had two hours, a block of unsweetened chocolate, and the specific kind of restless that wants to do something with both hands.
So I made a cake. Two layers, the crumb deep and cocoa-brown, the kind that looks almost black in the light from the window over the sink. I frosted it warm enough that the frosting still moved under the spatula, and I made peaks with the back of a spoon the way my grandmother used to, not because it’s the right way but because it’s the way I do it.
My husband walked in while I was taking pictures of it from every angle like a lunatic and asked, very seriously, if the cake was for anyone. I said it was for us. He said that was his favorite kind.
We had a slice that night after dinner and a smaller one the next morning with coffee, standing at the counter, barely talking. I think that’s what a cake for no reason is actually for.
