I Know My Place. So I'm Making Brownies.

Parenting is a humbling gig. 

No matter how much prenatal prep you force on yourself, no matter how much you pore over What To Expect When You’re Expecting, no matter how much advice is offered by more experienced friends, nothing truly prepares you for that first night home from the hospital.

Is that a “tired” cry or a “hungry” cry? Or is it a “saturated Pampers” cry? Even if you’re blessed with a few hours of blissful silence, you think, “Something's wrong! The baby isn't crying!”

Right. All that studying was for naught. Get used to on-the-job-training, baby. You may flaunt advanced degrees and successfully manage more than 35 people at work, but you’re a parent now, which is an exercise in simple humility – if not downright humiliation.

Even after those baby and toddler years, kids continue to keep a parent’s ego in check. Just look at recent letters from my happy campers. When it comes to Darling Daughter and Snarky Son, humility “r” me.

DD’s letter, I’ll grant you, does pass the “well-written” test (as defined by me, click here). Among other things, she enthusiastically thanks me for a ring I sent, she praises my decision to send candy, and declares her intention to live life to the fullest while I’m spending my last days at camp. Huzzah!

But in the opening sentence, she keeps me in my place: I can’t wait to see you and kitty!

There it is. I send letters. I send e-mails. I send gifts. But I’m still on par with the cat, Lionel, who will likely draw blood from DD within minutes of her return home. (He didn’t mean to! He was just playing!)

SS, at 14, the more experienced of my two kids, isn’t nearly so subtle. In the past week or so, Mike the Mailman has now delivered three – count ‘em, three – notes from my son. (You can’t call a lone sentence of correspondence a “letter.” You can scarcely call it a “note.” And you certainly can’t say it passes the “well-written” test.)

Three, of course, wouldn’t be so bad, except that in each one he manages to incorporate the same phrase: Um, they’re forcing me to write home …

Smackdown. Back in my place.

And happily so.

Because the truth is, I’m thrilled their experience at camp this summer has been so “awesome” (a word used in nearly every letter or note). And I’ll be thrilled to have them back home at the end of this week.

To celebrate their return, I’ll serve – what else? – the beloved sausage pasta (click here for the recipe) and these sweet brownies for dessert.

I got the recipe from a friend in Charleston a few weeks back. The recipe is actually her mom’s, and she says people often tell her that they are the best brownies ever. I’d have to agree. And on their homecoming this Friday, I bet DD and SS will, as well.

Blanche’s Brownies

This recipe makes a very moist, thin, frosted brownie. My friend said to use a “big” pan, but since I didn’t have one large enough, I used a 9x12 and an 8x8.

For brownies

2 cups sugar

2 sticks butter

3 (1oz.) squares semi-sweet chocolate

4 eggs

1 1/2 cups plain flour

1/4 teaspoon baking powder

1 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350, and prepare both pans well with Pam. Melt butter and chocolate in saucepan (or in microwave). Pour over sugar in a mixing bowl and combine well. With a fork, combine flour and baking powder in a measuring cup. Add flour and eggs alternately to chocolate mixture. Beat well, stir in walnuts and divide into prepared pans. Now, here’s the best line I’ve ever seen in a recipe: Brownies are done when you smell them cooking. In my oven, it was less than 20 minutes.

For icing

1/2 box confectioners’ sugar

5 tablespoons butter

1 1/2 squares semi-sweet chocolate

1 tsp vanilla

milk

Melt butter and chocolate together. Stir in sugar and vanilla. Add enough milk to make spread evenly. Use to frost brownies once cooled.

A Girl Needs Girls. And Chocolate.

I am one lucky girl.

It’s Day Eleven of Kids-At-Camp-Mom-Not, and two more well-written letters from Darling Daughter have arrived at my door.

I absolutely adore when Mike the Mailman delivers “real” mail – even though the envelopes bear my own handwriting because I had pre-addressed and stamped them myself. I'm not even bothered to know that I owe DD one dollar for each of these letters. (Yep. That's the going price for a well-written letter. Don't judge me. It works.)

To me, DD is compulsively “readable.” I read and re-read each of her notes, scavenging for details I may have missed the first time through, seeking additional clues to her mood by trying to read between the lines and analyze her handwriting and choice of ink color. However, I am considering tucking a thesaurus in her next care package. The word “awesome” is beginning to show some wear.

Her most recent letter is from Day Seven, just before her first dance. She wrote, “I am so excited! Each Saturday, they bring dinner to you on the porch while you have a shaving party! After you shave, you take showers. Then comes the dance.”

My own heart did a little two-step as I read those words: shaving party. (Yes. I did briefly consider the potential health and safety issues. But only for an instant.)

We don’t get to choose our memories. We don't get to decide which details of an event will be tattooed on our brain for a lifetime. For example, from DD’s four weeks at camp, I’m not positive that, 20 years from now, she’ll remember: Did she sail or ride horseback? Did she play tennis or golf? Did she water-ski or learn to fly just by running at a fast clip and flapping her arms? (OK, that last she might remember.) I feel certain, though, that she’ll recall, in precise detail, “shaving parties.” I wasn’t there, of course, but even I have an indelible picture in my mind – all those slender pony-tailed girls on a long wooden porch, with their colt-like legs angled this way and that, stars in their eyes, doing far more chatting and giggling than shaving.

A girl needs girls – whether she’s 12 or, like me, 46. And while DD was sharing Schicks with her girls this past weekend, I was sharing stories in Boston with mine, including Super Sis (blog editor par excellence) and three of the funniest, funnest, smartest, dearest women I know. Our friendship goes back over 20 years, from when I lived and worked in Boston in the 80s. As I said, I am one lucky girl.

Boy did we laugh.

We drank, we laughed. We ate, we laughed. We shopped, we laughed. We used profanity, we laughed. We snapped pictures of inappropriate signs, we laughed. Sometimes we giggled and squealed and snorted. And then, we laughed.

A couple of times, we couldn't even talk for laughing. We promised each other that what happened in Boston would stay in Boston. Even so, some of what happened kind of leaked out around the edges and found its way home. (Dang Facebook. And cell phones. And me.) But we just laughed some more. SS and I laughed all the way to the airport and all the way home to Charleston (SS) and Charlotte (me). We're still laughing now.

Not all of the stories we shared were funny, of course. We’re older now and have seen far more than our share of difficulties. Of the five of us, three are messily divorced. One of us had attended two funerals the week before -- including a shocking one for a teenage boy. There were stories of infidelity and money woes and difficult teenagers and assorted family tragedies. But in the end, we found humor in sharing. We laughed.

Girl power at its best.

Naturally, today’s recipe has to include every girl’s favorite ingredient – chocolate. So here's a little something that SS shared with me, but I haven’t yet tried. It's a little unusual, but just by looking at it, I think it’ll work. (Besides, the idea of baking cake in a coffee mug makes me laugh!)

Because truly, I am one lucky girl.

The Five-Minute Chocolate Cake For One Person
4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 egg (lightly beaten)
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips
Small splash of vanilla extract

Mix dry ingredients in a large, microwavable coffee mug (no kidding). Stir in the beaten egg. Pour in milk and oil. Mix well. Stir in chocolate chips and oil. Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts. The cake will puff up, but don’t be alarmed. Allow to cool a little and tip out onto a plate if desired. Sounds like it would be good with whipped cream, too, don’t you think?

The Things -- And People -- We Count On

The dill I planted eight weeks ago is gone.  Dammit.  Why does this bother me so much?  After all, I didn't expect it to survive.  I even predicted its hasty demise.  I regarded it as $3.48 tossed in the wind.  Instead, when it ended up taking root and flourishing, I came to count on it, stepping outside every few days to snip a handful for baked potatoes or salad or grilled fish or dip.

Then, this morning, when I needed a few fronds for lentil salad, only a few short, stubby stalks remained.  I could've cried.  WTF?

It wasn't a matter of too much water, or a lack thereof.  It wasn't too much sun, or a lack thereof.  It wasn't even the frosty temperatures of a few weeks back.  Nope.  The dill surrendered its greenery to a most ignoble creature:  The slug.  Those fragrant, feathery fronds had been slimed out of existence.  Out of sheer vindictiveness, I rushed inside to grab a salt shaker.  It was too late for the dill, but I was going to make sure those slugs died a horrible, cartoonish death.

I'd come to depend on that dill.  If it had to go, the slugs did, too.

Three years ago, when my son was headed to middle school, the forward-thinking mom of one of his friends suggested that the key to middle school success wasn't necessarily studying, or participating in sports, or polishing up those social skills.  Her theory was far more succinct:  A kid needs to know who has his back.  

Middle school marks the beginning of a lot of changes -- large and then, larger.  They get lockers, they dress out for PE, they go to dances, they change classes.  They face new peer pressures.  And then, embarrassingly, puberty hits them full-force upside the head.  Or more embarrassingly, it doesn't.

My mom friend reasoned that, to make his way through it all, a kid, first and foremost, has to be confident in his peeps.  When he knows he has real friends behind him, he can be confident being himself, regardless of the confusion and conflicts swirling around him.  

We moms would have to help them, of course.  We couldn't rely on their Y-chromosome wiring not to go haywire.  So we regularly made plans for our boys to be together, carpooling to dances, pool parties and football games.   Subtly, we hoped, we helped them remember that they always had each other -- not only each other, but at least each other.  Not coincidentally, we moms got together, too -- just to keep our fingers on the pulse.

Here's the unexpected part of the story.  We moms came to count on each other, too.  We'd talk about our kids, school and sixth grade sports.  Eventually, we counted on each other for advice on weightier concerns -- social dilemmas, sex and substance abuse.  Then, I think we just counted on each other -- whether it had to do with the boys or not.  Or at least, I certainly counted on them.  We comforted each other, we found relief and strength in each other, we learned from each other.  We laughed, we cried, we drank sangria.  

And the boys, each in his own absolutely unique way, successfully made it through middle school.  They picked up new skills and strengths and talents and friends.  We moms did, too.  Next year, the boys will head to high school together.  We moms will still count on each other. 

We got together today for lunch -- kind of an end-of-middle-school wrap-up.  My contributions were quinoa salad and that dill-less lentil salad.  Turns out I can endure the loss of an herb -- as long as I've got these remarkable, insightful, funny, informed women in my life.

Next time we get together, though, instead of "good-for-us" salads, though, I think I'll make a "good-for-us" dessert.  Something like this luscious creme anglaise, that we can pour over fresh berries in some of my favorite stemmed glasses.  And then, a toast to us -- and all the other moms and friends we know we can count on.

Creme Anglaise

Creme anglaise is simply a rich, but thin, custard sauce.  Just be sure to cook it gently, so it doesn't curdle.

1 cup cream

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

4 egg yolks

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon minced candied ginger (optional)

In a small, heavy saucepan, heat cream and vanilla until bubbles form at edges.

In a separate bowl, while cream is heating, whisk together egg yolks and sugar until smooth.  When cream is hot, gradually stir about 1/2 cup of hot cream into egg mixture, whisking constantly.  Gradually stir egg mixture into remaining hot cream, whisking constantly over a low heat.  Continue to cook, gently, until mixture coats back of a spoon.  Stir in ginger, if using, and allow to cool to room temperature.  Refrigerate until needed.  To serve, spoon (generously) over fresh berries in a gorgeous, stemmed glasses.

The Price Of Putting Your Kids Out The Car? Solitude.

OK. Someone has to say it.  A mom put her bickering kids out of the car and told them to walk the rest of the way home?  (Complete news story.)  

Big deal.

(Notice I didn't say, "BFD."  Not because I don't feel that way, but because my kids may read this.)

Err --- what I meant to say was:  Scandalous!  Ghastly!  Appalling!

Puh-leeze.  Cheese and rice, people!  Every mom can relate to how she was feeling, and if you haven't done what she did, I bet you know someone who has.  (Don't ask.  I'm not giving up my peeps.  They inspire these blogs!)

There are only two reasons I haven't shoved my own kids out the Honda Pilot backhatch.

One, my kids don't usually bicker in the car.  They save it for the dinner table, church, or (my personal favorite) when we have guests.  Their best performances are reserved for family members we see only a few times a year.

Two, I never thought of it.  Dang.

Here's my real question, though.  As she spent the night in jail (you betcha she was incarcerated!), how did the mom feel?  Badly?  Duh.  Guilty?  Sure.  Humiliated?  You bet.

Yeah, she was wrong.  She lost it.  She over-reacted.  Her kids were hurt.

Plus, joining the penal system meant making a a few sacrifices, including that reprehensible mugshot, a glow-in-the-dark jumpsuit, and those matching, intertwined plastic bracelets.  On the upside, though, her lucky family's now got a go-to story every Thanksgiving for their rest of their lives.

Still, for her night in the big house, I hope that mom reveled.  What a brilliant plan!  She needed time away from her kids.  She needed peace and quiet.  She needed to be able to go to the bathroom on her own.  Ick.  That last one may have come off the table in this deal, but overall, she got most of what she wanted, right?  Great success!

In the end, I am confident that they all -- every one of them -- will be OK.  Truly.  I once heard of a dad who put his rambunctious kids out of the car on the INTERSTATE, telling them to run to the next exit, where he would be waiting.  They were fine.  And are still laughing.

Of course, mom probably should make a little special something upon her return home -- just to fast-track everyone's road to recovery (and minimize the number of future therapist appointments).  I'd recommend these crazy good chocolate toffee treats.  Just as with their mom, you're not exactly sure what's going on inside.  But it's all comes together in a surprising way.

Chocolate Toffee Cookies

1 sleeve saltine crackers

2 sticks butter (not margarine)

1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed

1 12-ounce bag of good chocolate chips

1 cup chopped toasted pecans

Preheat oven to 350.  Line a rimmed cookie sheet (11 x 15) with foil, and spray with nonstick spray.  Place saltines, in a single layer, in the pan, covering the entire pan.  You may need a few extra to fill in all the spaces.  Now, heat butter and brown sugar in a small saucepan.  Bring to a boil and continue boiling three minutes, stirring occasionally.  Pour mixture (carefully) over crackers and spread to edges.  Bake for 20 minutes.

Remove pan from oven and immediately sprinkle with chocolate chips.  When chips soften from heat, spread to edges with spatula and sprinkle with pecans.  Chill for at least 30 minutes, then break into bite-size pieces.  No one will ever guess that crackers are the base of this treat!

What I Want For My Daughter

My darling, delightful daughter turned 12 yesterday.  I am only one year away from having two de facto teenagers in the house.  I'm only 52 weeks away from the much-dreaded/highly anticipated (depending upon your family station) teen years and all the hormones and acne and antics thereof.  I am only 18 score and five days away from realizing no one will ever again take my word as final, my opinions as golden, or my perspective as valid.

Shall we pray?

In truth, my girl is a joy.  She's got worries (oh boy), but she works it out -- admirably.  She's navigating the cliques and classes of middle school with aplomb.  She's smart and able and funny and athletic and giving and loyal.  And while she doesn't hesitate to lay the world's woes at my feet, she's just as quick to spin around and ask, sincerely, about my day.

Because I've been "there" (and wouldn't -- not for love, money, or even perfect hair and lush eyelashes -- ever go "back there"), I ache for her.  I want her to be resilient -- while being open and kind and confident.  I pray that she'll have an abundance of common sense while indulging an unending willingness to take risks.  I want to know that she'll always think of others -- and always see herself as blessed.

Plainly, my "List," which I think all parents have, goes on and on.

But on this, her twelfth birthday, perhaps I can skip my usual verbosity (or is it "verboseness," or perhaps "loquacity"? ) and narrow my birthday wishes for her down to four.

1)  I hope she'll always have a friend.  A friend makes good times better -- more memorable, more funny and more fabulous.  A good friend listens and shares and instructs.  In bad times, a friend helps you know what to do and and how to feel -- whether it's sorrow or anger or good, old-fashioned revenge.  Because she's not mired down in it, a friend can help you steer out of the darkest dilemma.  I'd also remind my daughter that, in a pinch, a good book can be a good friend, indeed.  But even more important, I'd take comfort in knowing that, if she has a friend, she is a friend.  What greater aspiration than that?

2)  I hope she'll always have laughter.  Laughing is fun.  Laughing lightens the heaviest loads.  Laughing makes you feel good.  (This is factual.  Research indicates that a good giggle session increases serotonin and the release of endorphins.)  Even when she least feels like it -- when she's certain she's the object of ridicule or the subject of gossip -- I hope she'll laugh.  I don't even mind if it's that asylum-worthy, eardrum-bursting hyena squawk.  (Since she reads this, she knows what I'm talking about.)

3)  I hope she'll always have a cat.  Cats are role models.  They are soft and finicky and independent.   They are graceful and fierce and demanding.  They command respect.  They are what we want our daughters to be.  I love dogs.   I love that our rescue dog, Josie, loves us to a fault, will do pretty much whatever we ask, and can lick her own, ahem, tail, but is that what we want in a young woman?  I think not.

4)  I hope she'll always have hope.  Believing -- no, knowing -- you can handle a situation means you're halfway done.  Having faith that an answer can be found means you're well on the road to finding that solution.  Holding out for what's good and what's right -- because you know that something good and right exists -- gives you faith in yourself and mankind and your Creator.

There are, of course, other things I think she needs to do.  She needs to learn to drive a stickshift.  She needs to fill up a passport before it expires.  She needs to -- just once -- propose a toast and shatter her drained champagne glass in the fireplace.  And because she's got not one, but two X chromosomes, she'll need one more thing.

Chocolate.

Is it coincidence that chocolate can elicit the return of friends and laughter and hope, and, when the wrapper is crumpled just right, bring a cat scampering into the room?

Maybe that's why my beloved 12-year-old daughter requested this favorite cake for her twelfth birthday -- chocolate cake with chocolate chips with chocolate frosting.

Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Cake

Cake

3 cups flour

1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 cups sugar

1 cup corn oil

2 cups cold water

1 tablespoon vanilla

1 1/2 cups chocolate chips

Frosting

1 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature

5 cups powdered sugar

8 tablespoons whole milk

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 scant cup unsweetened cocoa powder

Make the cake.  Preheat oven to 350.  Butter and flour three 9-inch cake pans.  (This is a delicate cake, so be sure to prepare pans well.)  Sift first five ingredients into a large bowl.  Mix water, oil and vanilla in a separate, small bowl.  Make a "well" in dry ingredients, pour in wet ingredients and whisk well.  Scrape batter into prepared pans, dividing evening.  Sprinkle 1/2 cup chocolate chips over batter in each pan.

Bake 25 minutes, or until layers test done.  Cool in pans on racks for 15 minutes, then turn cakes out and allow to cool completely.  

Make frosting.  Beat butter in large bowl (an electric mixer is best) until fluffy.  Gradually beat in three cups of powdered sugar.  beat in six tablespoons milk and vanilla.  Add cocoa and remaining sugar, gradually.  Beat until blended and fluffy, using remaining two tablespoons of milk, if necessary.

Assemble cake, with layers chocolate-chip-side up and about 2/3 cup frosting spread between each layer.  Spread remaining frosting over sides and top of cake.  Tastes even better the next day -- for breakfast!

(Very) Misty, Watercolored Memories

I've long maintained that my decreasing ability to remember things is due to the fact that I have an ever-increasing number of things to remember.

Think about it. At age 46, I have 33 more years of classmates, co-workers and neighbors, dinners, vacations and parties, phone numbers, e-mails and gift ideas to remember than my kids have. I may not remember what we had for dinner last night (or whether we had dinner last night), but I do remember what I ate the night of the Fort Johnson High School Junior-Senior Prom, 1980. We splurged at the Cork and Cleaver, and I had a whole artichoke with lemon butter, mushrooms sauteed in wine, medium-rare filet mignon, and cheesecake. The cheesecake wasn't very good.

I could be wrong about that, though.

Last week, 60 Minutes aired a story about the fallibility of our memories. Apparently, when it comes to recall, "crystal clear" can be Cooper River murky. In the report, we meet a woman who, based on her unwavering, eyewitness identification of the rapist in a lineup, helped convict a man to life in prison. Even when she saw the actual rapist, she didn't recognize him. Twenty years later, DNA evidence proved that the convicted man wasn't guilty, and he was released from prison.

My own memory lapses don't have such life-altering implications, but after only a month or so on Facebook, I'm finding more and more examples of how we remember things differently.

Our recollections can be small, single events or larger, longer-lasting ones. According to the posts I've read, some of the musings of Fort Johnson High School alums include: Remember when you had your wisdom teeth out? Remember that night at Big John's? Remember the (very painful) last Fort Johnson-James Island football game? Remember that week at Folly Beach our senior year? (OK. I admit that there could have been some contributing factors to our collective memory loss that week.)

On the Facebook discussion board, "You Know You Went To Fort Johnson If ..." several alums fondly remember our French teacher as the hottest teacher at school.

Really? I've got to admit, I had to do a double-take there. Then again, I was pretty naive in high school. OK, now that I look back, I can see where kids may have thought that, but back then, it never, ever occurred to me. Ick. (This, despite the fact that she was, in the vernacular of the day, built like a brickhouse. By the way, you know you went to Fort Johnson if you're now singing, "she's mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out" under your breath.)

Particularly shocking in my Facebook communications to this point is how people claim to remember me: "always smiling," "energetic," and "witty."

Here's how I remember me: awkward, uncomfortable, inappropriate.

Sadly, no one remembers me as having "great hair," "glowing skin" and "fabulous clothes." Rightly so. Nobody's memory is that inaccurate.

Is it always this way? Is there always a vast divide between one person's perception and another person's reality?

Seems like this was once the discussion of a philosophy class I took in college -- but to be honest, I can't remember.

Here's what I can remember: to pick the kids up on time, to make sure the dog is fed and to take care of teachers' gifts. I can remember that my son likes extra cheese on his nachos but no cheese on this tacos. I can remember that my daughter likes potstickers, but only if they're panfried, not steamed. I remember what it felt like to become a mom. And I remember that being a mom is the most important job I could ever have.

And about that prom night cheesecake -- it may have been great. Maybe my memory was tarnished, though, by this recipe, which I acquired a few years later and is truly the best cheesecake ever -- dense, creamy, sweet and slightly tart. (And I'm pretty certain about that, as I've "refreshed" my memory many times in the 20 years I've been making it.)

David's Mom's Cheesecake
Crust

1 cup graham cracker crumbs

1/4 cup melted butter

1/4 cup sugar

Filling

2, 8-ounce packages of cream cheese, at room temperature

3 eggs

1/2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Topping

2 cups sour cream

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 375. Mix crust ingredients together (will be crumbly) and press into a 9" springform pan.

For filling, beat cream cheese until fluffy. Gradually add sugar. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Finally, stir in vanilla. Pour filling into crust. Back 20 minutes (no longer) and remove from oven. Cool 15 minutes.

While cheesecake is cooling, increase oven temperature to 475. Mix topping ingredients together and carefully spread on cheesecake. Return to oven and bake and additional 10 minutes.

Cool completely, and then, refrigerate before serving. If you must top with something, sliced fresh kiwi is ideal.

A Manly Man's Birthday

Are you sitting down? The Associated Press reported today that Charlotte (yes, N.C.) is the second manliest city in the United States. (See complete article.)

True, Nashville, with all its country singers and cowboy hats took top honors, but given the amount of tomato sauce in their BBQ, I think we can claim the crown in 2010. Or is it a belt? On the other hand, we did just land an IKEA store, which although thrilling, certainly diminishes the Queen City's masculinity. (Lucky for us they didn't consider city nicknames, huh?)

I'm doing my part though. My own son turned 14 today. In Medieval times, it's the age at which he could have become a squire. For him, it's just another day in eighth grade. For me, it's a milestone.

In the "manliest" survey, researchers looked at our city's cars, snacks, professional sports teams and power tools, but a parent's perspective is different.

And while I harrass my own 14-year-old a good bit, I can see that he's well on his way to manhood. He's a good guy. A good friend. A good student. And a good son. He's not a follower, but has the judgment to know when to go with the flow. He can pitch a tent, make a friend laugh, write an essay, cheer a teammate, do his own laundry, ask a girl to dance, work for a good cause, and explain homework to his younger sister when I (despite being repetitive and using my loudest voice) have failed.

He can admit when he's wrong -- usually with good humor. He can stand up for what he believes in. He's a fan of The Dark Knight and Spamalot, but for the right girl, can also watch Marley and Me -- with no snarky asides. And he's the kind of babysitter little kids love and parents too, because he does the dishes and puts away the toys.

Today's his day.

To my unceasing surprise, though, he's not a cake-eater. In years past, we've celebrated with cookie cakes, ice cream cakes and even tiramisu. This year, I've insisted on a "real" cake. I promised to replicate the Starbucks marble loaf he routinely orders, by tweaking one of my own favorite recipes.

A good man deserves a good cake. But only after today's English test and baseball game. He is, after all, still a kid.

Marbled Pound Cake

2 sticks butter, room temperature

3 cups sugar

6 eggs, room temperature

3 cups flour

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup sour cream

3 tablespoons cocoa powder

1 oz. semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate, melted

Preheat oven to 325. Grease and flour 10-inch tube pan or bundt pan. Sift together flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

In mixer, cream butter and slowly add sugar, beating constantly to cream well. One at a time, add eggs, beating well after each addition. Stir in flour mixture, 1/2 cup at a time. Stir in vanilla and sour cream. Put about 1/3 of batter in a separate bowl, stirring in cocoa powder and chocolate.

Spoon half of "plain" batter into prepared pan. Spoon (randomly) chocolate batter into pan, trying not to make a "layer." The result should be blotchy. Spoon remaining "plain" batter on top. Draw a butter knife through the batter -- one time around the pan. (Don't swirl.)

Bake 1 1/2 hours or until cake tests done. Place on a rack to cool for about 5 minutes, before turning out to cool completely. Serve with confectioners' sugar, whipped cream and fresh berries. (Alternately, bake in three 4" x 8" loaf pans, for about an hour. Freezes well.)