On Drama and Chocolate

Suddenly, the tilt of the planet is discernible.

A pale crack in the night sky is visible by six o'clock. By the time one is perfunctorily refreshed and inspected and knocking on doors, the broad blue veil of dawn is bathing the sagebrush, coming in windows, cleanly, full of portents.

With this early light, summer is invented most surely in the mind again. It becomes real and we are heading toward it.

Windows are cast open in the afternoons, the porch is tidied and swept, the tools assembled, and the flowerbeds are apprised of their keepers' hopes and expectations.

At the edge of all gardening enterprises, sniffing the tips of dormant shrubs with great interest, are the cats.

With no work ethic to distract them, the feline beast uses its formidable will in order to draw to themselves the attention of woolgathering escapees who have chosen a patch of afternoon sun over bread labor.

Cats are aware that this sort of person is an easy mark. Chatting with no one, jotting down mysterious, cryptic notes, tossing clumps of crabgrass into a fluffy pile, clucking over thin worms, hauling appealing rocks in a red wagon, churning up little rows of soft soil. Just standing still in the sun periodically.

The serious cat sees opportunity. She sends her tail straight up toward heaven, curls the tip down, fetchingly, with the signal of cat friendship and approaches with confident anticipation. Sauntering, smiling, ready to purr and be petted.

Suddenly the mood is shattered. The air splits with a human shriek of horror and warning as the mean tom stray who has been hanging about is discovered stalking, with horrible seriousness, of a group of juncos joyfully leaping and splashing in a leftover puddle.

His predator body slung low to the ground, elbows already up for the pounce, reacts to the clang like an acrobat. His cartoon double is suddenly struck with the force of his own adrenalin, jolted up and out of his skin, to curl backward and hang for a surreal instant like a furred apostrophe, high over the startled birds before survival takes over and a knotted wig of crabgrass descends on the mighty tom.

He roars away in a panicked state, up a tree toward his found home in the eaves of the house.

Silence returns like a vacuum.

The prissy housecat, who has observed this display with utter, dispassion washes her paw. She would never incur such a scene.

Undeterred, she will wait now until all of the pertinent molecules have realigned themselves, and until peace and the fertile mood of contentment have returned, and then she will move in under the feet of the protector of all and have her pleasure.

She will wind around the busy legs and rub her head on the jeans; miss purkins will lift up on her haunches like a dancer if necessary, to impress upon this human that the hour of devotion has arrived.

She will bat at the shovel. She will sit firmly on the best looking stones and gaze at bugs. She will arch her tail in the sunlight, permitting herself to look beautiful; she will curl her tail around her feet and make eye contact, engaging in urgent bits of conversation.

Nothing is more annoying, of course, than being ignored. Particularly when one has been extravagantly patient.

To a cat such as this, with such sophistication and delicacy, the tete `a tete without petting is deliberate affront. This sort of cat can gather in the furies like an archetype until she abruptly sweeps off like a mad thing, recklessly climbing the porch tree where she frightens the burly tom out onto the very end of a rather slim and precarious branch where he certainly deserves to be, and then she hurls herself onto the roof where there is safety and dignity.

Up she storms, the veteran dramatist, well aware of the power of the exit mode, until she reaches the little bench by the stovepipe which is favored by cats needing comfort and where she will bathe and bathe until the stink of insult is removed from her magnificant coat and until she has calmed her nerves and can resign herself again to her piteous life among boorish strays and humans with unthinkable priorities.

Life is exhausting. Without benefit of a little feast now and then, we might become drained and weary from its intensity.

Chocolate cures this sort of thing. Fudge Cake, blackish and nasty, has a folk-medicinal effect on those burdened with circumstance and lack of emotional resolve.

In a heavy saucepan or double boiler, over very low heat, stirring constantly, melt:

4 squares unsweetened chocolate

When it is smooth, add:

1/2 C. sugar

1/2 C. buttermilk

Stir until well blended, and cool. Mix together:

2 C. sifted flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

Set aside. Cream:

3/4 C. soft butter (1 1/2 sticks)

Gradually beat in until light and fluffy:

1 1/2 C. sugar

Add, one at a time, beating thoroughly after each:

3 eggs

Blend the flour mixture in alternately with:

1 C. buttermilk

chocolate mixture

1 tsp. vanilla

Beat until smooth, scraping the bowl carefully.

Pour into prepared 9" layer pans and bake at 325 for about 30- 35 minutes, or until cake tester comes out clean. Cool in pans for 10 minutes, then remove from pans and finish cooling on racks.

Fill layers with raspberry jam and frost with a dark, rich frosting, or top with strawberries and whipped cream, and voila! sweet solace and the silky mood of long sunset doth again prevail.