by Dawn Lerman
Fat Dad’s “Closet” Brownies, The Fudge That Says “I Do”
I was not looking to fall in love or have a boyfriend. As a matter of fact, I did not even really like boys—especially boys my own age. I understood falling in love with someone on TV, having a crush on some of the brilliant art directors at my dad’s advertising agency, and every time Mr. Diner, our profound and life-changing English teacher, read selected passages from The Metamorphosis, a part of my soul was transformed. But to be enthralled with a boy my own age seemed unthinkable until Hank Thomas strolled into Miss Seawall’s ninth-grade algebra class on a rainy September morning.
He had long, messy brown hair, big green eyes, and wore a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. The first time he smiled at me with his amazing grin, I started to cry and had to run to the bathroom, as I was completely unprepared for the avalanche of emotions that invaded every fiber of my being. Something about the way he looked at me made me feel like everything was going to be okay, even though I could barely speak when he asked me if I knew the value of one thousand to the twenty-fifth power.
“One-e plus seventy-five,” I managed to blurt out, hoping he didn’t notice that I was sweating and shaking. I tried my hardest to appear mature, composed, and intelligent, but every time our eyes met and he smiled, I started stuttering and tripping over my words. No one except my grandmother had ever looked at me like that. He looked at me as if he loved me, as if he thought I was beautiful. With every slight exchange, there was the possibility that my life would be different. I had the dress, the shoes, the “I do” speech, and our prewar classic six-room apartment on Central Park West picked out before we even had our first real conversation. I imagined waking him up in the morning with fresh muffins that were made from blueberries that we picked together, and him sipping the piping-hot cup of coffee that I made from the freshly ground beans that I’d purchased the night before at Zabar’s.
“Did you warm the milk especially for me?” he would say, pulling me in for a kiss. My grandmother always said, “You can tell if a man loves you if he notices all the little extras you do for him.”
Feasting on the muffins—relishing the moistness from the chunks of berries and the sweetness from the brown sugar—he would hold me tight, asking, “How did I ever exist before you?” And I would just smile, hoping he would never let go of me, hoping we would stay enmeshed forever. As much as I knew my fantasy was premature, I also knew there was something real and not made up in my head about the connection we shared.
Hank could have had his pick of any girl in New York City: the disco girls liked him, the Parkie girls liked him, the jockey girls liked him—even the preppy and punk rock girls had his name written all over their notebooks—so the possibility of him picking me to be his girlfriend was next to zero, as Sarah pointed out.
“Every girl in the school wants to be his girlfriend. I heard he even dated Betsy, who is a senior, for three weeks. If you want him to like you, you need to at least pretend you’re cool and experienced,” Sarah said, showing me how to pucker my lips as she applied her third coat of Bonne Bell bubble-gum lip gloss, adding a little extra on the bottom to make her lips appear fuller.
But somehow I knew, as much as it seemed impossible, and even though I wasn’t the most experienced or confident girl, it was meant to be. And he would see in me what I saw in him, and that would override any malfunction in my wardrobe or my lack of a chic style for my hair, which I still wore in braids most days. Hank would realize the future we could share, and he would acknowledge that nobody could love him as deeply and completely as I could.
Hank was unlike other boys that were popular only for their looks or their athletic skills. He was smart, mature, and talented—playing piano, guitar, and composing the most beautiful classical and rock concertos that left both teachers and students in awe. He had the soul of someone older, someone wiser, and someone wounded. He had an intensity that I related to. But unlike Hank, “I was not my best self yet,” as Sarah constantly pointed out—trying to help me with style tips, demonstrating how to zip the latest selection of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans by lying on the ground and sucking in her stomach. But I preferred to be comfortable and have Hank love me for who I was, not who I was not.
But with every month that passed, and every equation we successfully solved, my love for Hank became more desperate. Sarah said that I talked about him nonstop and that if I would not take any of her beauty suggestions—which most girls would stand in line to hear—I should at least entertain the idea of following her new plan that was pretty much guaranteed to move my crush to the next level. I was curious but skeptical.
“You have to swear not to tell anyone, not even your sister or Beauty.”
“I swear,” I said, promising her that if her idea worked, she could be the maid of honor at my wedding. I would even let her pick out all the bridesmaids’ dresses.
She grabbed me close. “It involves Buddhism and baking.”
“Okay, I am listening, but what do you know about Buddhism, and how will that help me with Hank?”
“When I want something really bad, I chant for it,” Sarah nonchalantly stated, as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a little white card that had the words nam myoho renge kyo printed on it in calligraphy. “Some monk gave me this card when I was in the airport coming back from Israel with my dad. He said if I really want something, I should chant these words. I thought it was kind of creepy, but I decided to give it a try, and it has worked every time. My mother has even been coming home from work earlier, and yesterday, I was able to jump over the vaulting horse in gym. That had never happened before. Just as my turn was coming up, I said the chant under my breath, and like magic I flew over the horse, landing with perfect form.”
I was hopeful and excited that what Sarah had said could actually work. Both my mom and Beauty believed in controlling fate through unusual rituals. My grandmother Beauty would say “Kena hora, kena hora, poo poo, poo!” several times a day as she threw salt and spat over her shoulder. If someone paid my sister or me a compliment or said something in a tone that my grandmother found envious, an extra round of kena hora, throwing salt, and spitting over her shoulder was required. My grandmother used very little salt on her food, but she kept several little restaurant packets in her pocketbook to keep us safe from the evil eye.
If my family were going to take a plane or a long trip, my mom had to sit in the dark for a couple of minutes with a deck of tarot cards. One time, when we were going to Florida on a family vacation, she stopped my dad as he was bringing down the suitcases. “We’re not going,” she declared. My dad explained that the tickets were not refundable, and she told him to trust what she was saying. My dad thought she was crazy but finally relented. That evening we saw on the news that the very plane we were supposed to be on had crashed and there were several fatalities.
So ritual and magic weren’t foreign to me. To chant some words to bring lasting love seemed totally logical. I copied the words onto a piece of notebook paper that I was to keep with me all the time, and Sarah showed me the proper way to chant. I repeated the words over and over, turning in three clockwise circles and then in three counterclockwise circles.
“Don’t forget to spin each way,” she reminded me.
The second part of her plan was that I should infuse a recipe with desire to attract true and everlasting love. Sarah helped guide me on picking the perfect recipe. We both knew it had to be something spectacular, and memorable, and not something carob.
“I think you should make classic chocolate brownies with regular white flour, butter, and sugar. Now wouldn’t be the time to mess with his taste buds or try to convert him to your healthy ways. Do not, and I repeat, do not mention that you are trying to be a lacto-vegetarian.”
Back in my kitchen, I was overwhelmed with promise. With every ingredient I added into the bowl, I stated my intention, hoping that the brownies would be not just tasty b
ut magical. If the prayer didn’t work, surely the brownies could stand on their own merit. Beauty always told me that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and I knew my dad would not disagree. He even nicknamed my grandmother’s recipe “Closet” Brownies, as every time I would make them, he would dash into the closet with them and devour the whole batch before they were even cooled and sliced.
I debated for hours if I should fill the centers of the brownies with peanut butter, or caramel, or just keep them simple and plain. I had made brownies hundreds of times before, but this time felt different. I could feel my heart pounding hard, like it might suddenly break out of my chest, as I chanted and circled, mixing and stirring, melting and tasting. I felt like I was going to explode or have a heart attack. I was not just making Hank brownies. I was creating my future. I said one more last round of the Buddhist chant before I sealed and wrapped the warm, soft brownies that would secure my fate. To make double sure they had the right combination of moist and crispy, I made an extra batch for my dad to sample when he got home from work. I wanted to see his expression when he tasted them. I was hoping for a thumbs-up review.
“Indeed these are a ten,” he would announce in his Bob Barker The Price Is Right voice when I made something really outstanding.
I was careful to leave out only two pieces and hide the rest in the freezer so as not to thoroughly sabotage his diet. But he was a guy, and I needed a male opinion on both love and my brownies.
“You know I shouldn’t have these,” he said, smelling the brownies and looking even more delighted than usual since he had been on the Pritikin Diet for the past six days and hadn’t been eating the “stop” ingredients, like butter, sugar, salt, and fat.
“I would never make you break your diet if it was not a desperate emergency. Please just tell me how these brownies make you feel,” I said, then blurted out, “I’m in love, I’m in love and I need help!”
“Well, since it is an emergency, I can take a little nibble.” My dad took a bite and then another and said, “Any man who would not love you after these would be crazy.”
“What about you? Do you love me, Daddy? Do you?” I asked as he finished every last crumb.
“How can you even ask that? You are my little health coach even though you had me break my diet.” He grinned and grabbed one more brownie before rushing out to a dinner meeting.
I spent the rest of the evening alone.
The next day I placed the wrapped brownies with the purple bow in Hank’s locker, with a note saying, “Call me.” I couldn’t wait to get the phone call. Would he say he loved the brownies? Would he say he loved me? Or would he just ask me to be his steady girlfriend—realizing that the way the other girls felt about him was like saccharin—fake—but the way I felt about him was real—like honey.
But the day passed, as well as the next seven, and Hank did not say a word. Sarah said he was a jerk, and if I didn’t say something to him, she would. I decided to wait for him to come out after band practice. I had hoped Sarah would hang out with me so when he exited the basement, our bumping into each other would look coincidental instead of planned. But she said she had better things to do than wait around for Hank. She had already put far too much effort into my relationship. She now had to pursue her own desires—mainly David Edwards, head of the Young Republicans, debate club, and star of Pippin.
“There are much cuter guys at Collegiate. Forget about Hank and come to rehearsal with me. Why wait for one boy when we can hang out at an all-boys school with tons of guys?”
But as far as I was concerned, there were no other boys. Not now, not ever. Hank was the one. I would wait for him as long as it would take. I waited outside the school, watching for the door to swing open and Hank to emerge. I watched and waited, daydreaming about how, after I’d confronted him, the rest of the evening, the rest of our lives, would pan out. I must have fallen asleep on the stairs, because the next thing I knew, Hank was shaking me awake.
“Hey! Are you waiting for someone?”
“You. I was waiting for you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I just wanted to know if you got the brownies and if you liked them.”
“The brownies were from you? They were rad! Why didn’t you write your name? My family ate them in like three seconds. My mom even wanted the recipe, but I couldn’t figure out who they were from.”
He couldn’t figure out who they were from? Who else would they be from? It seemed so obvious. Why was he not able to figure it out? I was a little hurt—well, actually a lot hurt. Just as I was about to forget about Hank forever and bury a little piece of my heart, he asked, “Do you like parties?”
I told him about all the crazy black-tie Annie cast parties that I’d attended, in all the different cities, and he said that with my busy social calendar I probably wouldn’t have time for just a high school party at his house. Thrilled inside, I tried to maintain my cool, assuring him that I could rearrange my schedule since he was my math partner, and that was something I took very seriously.
He looked confused, but handed me his address on the back of a crumpled old matchbook.
“See you Saturday. This is no Annie party. No party dress required, but it is BYOB, so you can bring brownies if you want.”
“I will, I will!” I shouted. “I can bring fudge and cookies too.”
I ran to the closest pay phone to call Sarah. It seemed like the phone must have rung a hundred times before she finally answered. “Guess where we are going on Saturday, just guess?” I shouted.
“I don’t know where you are going, but I am going to Serendipity for frozen hot chocolate with my cast.”
“Wrong answer. You are coming with me to Hank’s party. Please, oh please,” I begged, knowing I would need her to get through the night. She agreed to accompany me to the party if I agreed to let her do a complete makeover on me. She would need the whole day, as there was a lot to make over.
On the morning of the party, before heading to Sarah’s, I made my grandmother Beauty’s homemade fudge—the chocolate fudge she’d made for Papa the night before he proposed to her, the fudge I’d promised Hank I would bring to the party. Stirring the melted chocolate, evaporated milk, and butter together eased my nerves. I had never been to a high school party before, and I didn’t know what to expect or what to wear.
Sarah was in charge of my transformation, spending hours washing, conditioning, and blow-drying my hair, and putting cucumbers on my eyes, and turmeric powder on my face to make my skin look naturally radiant, before she went to town on my eye makeup—using both the blue and the fuchsia sparkles on my lids. She even selected an outfit that would show my curves instead of hiding them.
“Your baggy clothes look sloppy. Try this V-neck velour sweater with my new Fiorucci jeans, and you definitely need boots.” The jeans were tight, and the boots were high-heeled, making me look taller, leaner, and older. I barely recognized myself.
“You look exactly like Brooke Shields, minus, like, eight inches,” Sarah declared, adding the final touches to my brows, applying little brushstrokes to make them look really full. “See how they frame your eyes? I always knew you were pretty; now Hank will know too.”
I could not stop admiring myself. I had no idea who that girl in the mirror was, but I liked her in a way that I had not liked my reflection for the past couple of years. Sarah had me practice my kissing pose with my eyes shut and one leg in the air, as we dusted the final touches of Clinique blush on the apples of our cheeks and sprayed Lauren perfume in the air before running through the mist and heading to the party.
When we arrived, the room was dark and smoky, and Hank was nowhere to be found. The tune “Brown Sugar” was blasting in the background as everyone was bopping up and down and screaming. I felt totally out of place drinking water while everyone else was drinking beer, even though we were all underage. Just when I started thinking I
had made a mistake in coming, and was getting ready to go home to watch The Love Boat, I felt a hand on my back. It was Hank’s. He hugged me and told me how different I looked.
“If it weren’t for your green eyes and smile, I would have never recognized you. Where is my study partner? What did you do to her? Bring her back!”
“I guess you think I look silly.”
“That is definitely not what I am thinking.” He grabbed my hand, leading me onto the dance floor, where we spent the remainder of the night dancing to the Rolling Stones and the Grateful Dead. He even invited me to the after party, which was supposed to be for only his closest friends. His father, who was a music and film producer, had a copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and it was a tradition to let a small group stay a little later after Hank had a big gathering to view a movie.
We watched the film in his father’s den, which doubled as a screening room with a row of real movie seats. One by one, as Jack Nicholson spit pills, Henry, Kenny, Sarah, Cathy, and Malcolm left. I stayed sitting next to Hank, our hands tightly clasped. With each person that left, Hank held me closer, till finally he turned his face to mine. “One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest,” and while McMurphy argued with Nurse Ratched, Hank kissed me. In that moment nothing else existed.
After that night, we were inseparable. I even showed Hank’s mom how to make my “Closet” Brownies, and she showed me how to make Hank’s favorite dinner—rotisserie chicken smothered in a can of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. I’d finally landed my big break. I was madly, deeply, and truly in love.
Fat Dad’s “Closet” Brownies
Yield: 16 brownies
8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped, or semisweet chocolate chips
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing the pan
3⁄4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs at room temperature, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract