This cake has a formal and former name of Chocolate Chip Cake. The recipe was passed down from my father's mother. She died when I was four, but I do remember the soft yellow mittens she knit me and this cake. Its name was changed when its preparation was rushed. You never rush Chocolate Chip Cake and if you do ... the result is an ishgy-gishgy mess. Hence, the name.
I'd share the recipe with you but I've been sworn to secrecy by Samantha, daughter number two. She'd disown me if I disclosed the secrets of this delicious masterpiece and she needs no fuel for that cause these days.
I got up early to make the cake for daughter number one. We are all spread out this Thanksgiving. I am in Vancouver with Aimee and loving being in her space. Aimee and I laugh and sometimes for no other reason than to laugh. We just can't help ourselves. We are that funny (by our own admission). I started assembling the cake parts this morning. I left the butter out overnight to soften and miraculously, the butter was still on the cupboard waiting for me this morning. No one had put it back in the refrigerator when I wasn't looking. I had to smile (and almost laugh) remembering those occasions when some misguided samaritan put my softened butter BACK in the fridge. I remember a particular tirade, probably pre-christmas, the season of perpetual hope and joy.
I got up to make cookies in an effort to chisel away at my "to do" list, only to find my pound of butter back in the refrigerator, hard as nails. I began to rant.
"I live with a family who've never hung up a jacket in their life!" I may have yelled, modestly I hope, with a hint of tolerance I pray. "You've never made a bed without prompting, never emptied a dishwasher without coaxing, but the butter you put away!" I may have ben shrieking by this point. They all ran for cover not feeling particularly thankful or hopeful.
Ahh, but not today. My butter is soft and malleable, ready to create Ishgy-Gishgy Cake and I realize I may have mellowed in my old age or those around me have figured out, "Don't mess with mom's butter."
But really, in all fairness. There should be a law about such things. Wouldn't you agree?
I know what you mean...the boys leave towel on the floor, the milk on the counter and the cereal boxes open. They leave their jeans on the sofa and their socks God-knows-where. But they like to keep the remote control in the same exact spot and woe betide the mother who dares move it!
ReplyDeleteWe'd all disown you if you shared the recipe. You mentioned being in Vancouver but.. did not mention missing your favourite daughter (thea i think her name is). haha
ReplyDeleteOh right. I forgot to mention that. What was I thinking? Bad mother.
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