Chocolate-Almond Birthday Cake, by Judith Sharlin

“Fragile like a child is fragile.
Destined not to be forever.
…Here I am.
Sitting on a chair, thinking
About you.”—Mary Jo Bang, from the poem “You Were You Are Elegy.”

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Many years ago, my husband, son and I went on a family bike tour of the Loire Valley in France. I enjoyed it so much that, after my husband David died, I thought joining a group bike trip would be a good way to feel less alone as a widow.

During my summer break from college teaching in 2014, I decided to go to Tuscany—a place I’d always wanted to visit—on a bike trip for solo travelers. I imagined myself biking on rolling hills lined with chestnut trees and stopping at local cafes to eat pecorino cheese, homemade pasta, and gelato.  I was enticed by visions of pedaling through hilltop villages with breathtaking views and basking in the piazzas of Florence, surrounded by Renaissance art and architecture. 

At the time, my son Hillel was in a sober living apartment in Baton Rouge. During the periods that he was in and out of treatment centers, I’d been advised to “take care of myself” and “set boundaries” with my loved one.  He suffered from substance use disorder and, for me, it was difficult not to become enmeshed.  Even so, I was able to embrace admonishments I heard from recovery professionals and worked hard not to enable my son.  I focused on taking care of myself and continued to make plans for the bike trip to Italy that summer.

When I realized that the bike tour began on Hillel’s 22^nd birthday, I felt guilty that I could not be with him.  In his short twenty-two-year-old life, we had celebrated twenty-one birthdays together—I knew he expected and relished these joyful occasions. 

Before leaving, I spoke to Hillel and he said, wistfully, “You mean you’re not going to be here for my birthday?”  Although I’d been advised by his counselors not to visit him yet, my heart spoke differently.  I told him that I would send something special for his birthday. I made him a flourless chocolate-almond birthday cake in advance and sent it to him.

I followed suggestions from fellow bakers.

 “Pack it with dry ice,” one friend suggested, “and send it overnight express.”  And so, I did.

 Concerned about Hillel being without family on his birthday, I wanted to make sure he received his cake. “Please let me know if he gets it,” I told W., the director of the recovery center.  At least Hillel could enjoy a piece of cake with a friend, I thought.

My plane landed in Florence on the morning of June 9^th and I telephoned Hillel immediately to wish him a happy birthday.  Standing in the Florence airport, waiting at the baggage claim surrounded by people chatting, I was excited to hear his voice.  I asked him about the cake: “Did it arrive safely, sweetie?” I asked, adding, “I hope you’ll enjoy it with some of your friends.”

 I told him to get some fresh raspberries and ice cream or whipped cream. “Remember the sweet-tart raspberries complement the rich flavor of the chocolate,” I reminded him. As the call ended, a wave of concern washed over me, and I felt my insides shake—something didn’t feel right.

A little later, after meeting the tour at the train station in Florence, we boarded a shuttle bus to a hilltop village.  The members of the group got acquainted over a picnic spread of bruschetta toasts, pecorino and other Tuscan specialties.  Afterwards, we were fitted with our bikes and heard a brief talk on biking techniques and safety.

As we rode up and down twisty turns on the hills of Tuscany, I wondered how Hillel was celebrating his birthday.  I was worried and felt unhappy that I wasn’t with him on this day.  I hoped he’d be safe with his sober friends.

 We passed fields of orange poppies and descended into a green valley amid endless groves of cypress trees.  I started thinking about how, in my rush to send the cake to him, I hadn’t made Hillel a birthday card this year.  I’d saved every homemade birthday card—each one including photos of him and our family pets, line drawings and word balloons with funny messages.  I recalled his carefree face on the eight-year-old card, and his more concerned expressions as a teenager—yet the beauty and love remain.  It’s strange how I can smile and cry at the same time as I recall past happiness. 

“J’dith, Hillel will treasure these cards for the rest of his life,” David always exclaimed.

One of the last cards I made for Hillel was when he turned sixteen, a few months before his father died.  I cut out a photo of the sweet, innocent two-year-old Hillel smiling next to his Little Tikes toddler-sized car with the caption “Birthday car, age 2,” adjacent to the photo of him at sixteen, wearing a half-crooked smile, baseball cap backwards, sporting his new (used) Audi, and the caption “Birthday car, age sixteen.”  Soon after that sixteenth birthday, David’s death escalated the downward spiral of Hillel’s substance use disorder.

On the bus ride through Tuscany, I was filled with birthday memories of Hillel’s childhood.  When he was a young child, we’d snuggle in bed on his birthday mornings and read Dr. Seuss’s book, Happy Birthday to You, in which the Great Birthday Bird sounded a happy honk-honk to say, “It’s your Day of all Days!”  Hillel believed those words and expected every one of his birthdays to be extraordinary.

Just before Hillel’s sixteenth birthday, David was too sick from his cancer treatments to go with me to a parent-teacher conference at school. Hillel never wanted us to go to these conferences because he was self-conscious of his learning disability.  He pleaded with me in a note that read, “Hi Mama, I hope you had a great class today.  Please don’t go to the conference tonight.  If you don’t go, I’ll read the Happy Birthday bird book with you.  Love xo Hillel”

As we passed another Tuscan hilltop village my phone rang.  An agonizing sense of dread overtook me.  It was W. I was primed for bad news.

“Hillel almost died from an overdose,” W. blurted when I answered. “We’re taking him to a detox center that specializes in relapsing.” 

For a moment, I stopped breathing.  Then I took a deep inhale and responded, “Should I take a plane back to be with him?”  At that moment, I wanted to leave Italy, hop on the next flight to Baton Rouge and hold my son tightly.

W. answered, “No—there’s nothing for you to do now—he needs to detox and then we have to think about a different treatment center.”

“Please stay in touch with me and let me know how he is doing, W.,” were the only words I managed to say.  Then, I got out of the bus and immediately called my friend Darlene who was part of a support group of people who had loved ones, like me, suffering from substance use disorders.  I broke down in tears when I told her what happened to Hillel.

“Remember, you need to take care of yourself,” she reminded me.

The bike group convened for a picnic lunch before starting our first ride down a very steep Tuscan hillside with sharp hairpin curves.  I spoke to one of the bike tour leaders and told him what had happened.  “Whatever you need, Judith.  We are here, just let me know,” he said kindly. “If you want to begin the ride at the bottom of the hill, that’s fine—or if you want to ride in the van—whatever you want.”  A few minutes later my phone rang. It was W. again.

“Judith, Hillel wants to speak with you,” he said, “We are on the way to the detox center.”  Hillel got on the phone—I could barely make out his words between the sobs,

“I’m so sorry, Mama—I didn’t mean to—I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Hillel—it’s alright, you’re going to get help.”

Three months later, Hillel was found dead from an accidental drug overdose.

Eight years have passed, and I want to hear Hillel’s voice, grab his warm hands, hug him tightly and wish him a “Happy Birthday.”  That longing does not disappear in a day, a week, a month, a year—or eight.  So, I measure the time by continuance—you were, my sweet boy.  As Mary Jo Bang writes: “I love you like I love /All beautiful things. / True beauty is truly seldom. /You were.”

On June 9^th of 2022, I realize that Hillel would have turned thirty years old had he lived—so I will make his favorite chocolate-almond birthday cake. I chop up a block of Callebaut chocolate into small chunks, thinking of that birthday when I sent him the cake. I preheat the oven, line the cake pan with parchment, and melt the chopped chocolate with the butter.

As I grind the almonds into a fine powder, I recall how, when Hillel was young, he would sit with me in the kitchen while I baked and the loud noise of the food processor caused a torrent of baby tears,

“Can I lick the chocolate?” he’d plead with me, as it coalesced with the butter. 

“It’s too hot,” I’d tell him.  “Hot” was one of Hillel’s first words—I hear him enunciate the final succinct “t” sound at the end—h-o-t-t-t. 

In advance of baking, I take the eggs out of the refrigerator.  Then I separate them and cream the butter, sugar, vanilla, and egg yolks.  In another bowl, I whip the egg whites until they “peak,” right before the “stiff” stage.  When whipped, raw egg whites trap air pulled in by the eggbeaters forming bubbles surrounded by a film of protein molecules.  If egg whites are beaten at room temperature, they will incorporate more air, so it’s always best to remove eggs from the refrigerator before baking.

Missing Hillel’s presence, the words of Mary Jo Bang’s poem resonate: “The thinking / Of you where you are a blank / To be filled / In by missing. I loved you.”I wipe away a tear with my chocolate-stained hand and continue to bake the cake, adding the melted chocolate, ground almonds and grated nutmeg to the batter with some of the beaten egg whites.  I fold in the rest of the eggs and put the batter in the cake pan. Time to bake.

As the cake bakes, I’m aware of the need to store my grief on this day somewhere other than in my heart.  I will swim, write, speak to friends and family, donate to Hillel’s memorial fund, and have dinner with a dear friend.  I will read Happy Birthday To You and, for a moment,allow sweetness to outweigh sorrow.

The almondy-buttery-chocolatey aromas inundate my kitchen and I know the cake is just about done.  It is June 9^th, dear Hillel.  Here is your birthday cake, my sweet son.  You were. I feel your love today. You are.

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Judith Sharlin received her MFA in 2023 from the Newport MFA in creative writing at Salve Regina University. She holds a PhD in nutrition from Tufts University and is a registered dietitian. Currently, she works as a full-time nutrition professor at Palm Beach State College in Boca Raton, Florida.  Her cookbook and nutrition guide, The Romantic Vegetarian, won an American Health Book Award. She wrote and co-edited a textbook, Lifecycle Nutrition. When not writing or teaching, she spends her time cooking and baking, swimming with a U.S. Masters swim team, beach walking, biking, reading and traveling. 

© 2023, Judith Sharlin