Chocolate Cake, Coke, and Candy

I had two super awesome delightful grandmothers when I was growing up. One of them is gone and one of them thankfully is still here. And she'd best be here for a while yet because she has some things to teach me yet. Anyway, my grandmothers, Granny and Mamoo, were notorious child spoilers of the worst sort. Until I was about ten years old, they lived a few miles apart so when we would visit, we split our time between their houses. I think their radars went off about the same time and they began to bustle around their respective houses, cooking, prepping, setting out candy dishes, clean pillowcases, interesting books, and vintage toys or clothes that had belonged to my parents.

Granny would make a trip to the Piggly Wiggly and buy out their stock of Rolos and Werther's because those were my favorite candies. She would load up every candy dish she had and place them strategically around her tiny apartment; beside the couch, on top of the TV, by my bed, by her bed, in the kitchen--it was candy land in there and I could not have been happier. Oh, wait, the only thing that could have made me happier was unlimited access to coca cola, which Granny also provided. She was the RD at a dorm at Ole Miss and one of the perks, at least for me, was the four vending machines in the lobby. For a child who did not consume refined sugar until the age of two, vending machines were sent from heaven. My mother had a different opinion, but luckily for me, Granny was her mother and my mother reluctantly "let" me eat candy and scoop quarters out of the jar in Granny's kitchen and run down to the lobby at least three times a day. I don't recall sleeping much when I was at Granny's house.

Mamoo was more of a baker than a purchaser of pre-packaged delights. She had a teeny kitchen when I was growing up but she managed to churn out enormous meals for all of us that would make the White House staff hang their heads in shame. Mamoo was not a one trick pony; she could cook a turkey and a sweet potato casserole and a pot full of lima beans with fat back, all the while hand whipping some meringues for baked alaska. I don't think she cooks much anymore. Can you blame her? She lived in a two story house when I was growing up and I can remember coming down the stairs, taking a left, and walking into her tiny kitchen and sitting down at her tiny breakfast table. She would turn and smile and say, "Good morning, Kaki! Would you like some breakfast?"

I, being a weenie and afraid of my parents' judgment of my food choices, would say, "Yes ma'am. May I have an apple and a glass of milk?"

Mamoo would reply, "How about a piece of chocolate cake and a coke?"

We would smile slyly at one another; she would cut me a slab of cake the size of my face and pour me a glass of coke over ice that cackled with sin and delight. I was in heaven.
My father was not as strict as my mother about my dietary restrictions, but even he drew the line at chocolate cake and coke for breakfast. Fortunately, he slept late when we were at his mama's house, so I usually got away with my morning sin and was outside running in circles in the backyard being chased by my dog, trying to lower my blood sugar level by a few hundred points before lunch by the time he woke up. The few times I was caught in the act of cramming chocolate cake into my gaping mouth, my father would begin his lecture about nutrition and my body is a well-oiled machine designed to do a specific type of job (I was seven at the time) and yadda yadda yadda and Mamoo would step up beside him and do this pinch thing on his neck. He would literally drop to his knees, yelping and screeching, uttering a few choice words. Mamoo is maybe 5'4"; my father is all of 6' and I won't put his weight on this blog, nor the few choice words he used. But Mamoo could drop him like a tasered criminal. It was an awesome trick and one I begged her to teach me. She refused, saying that a lady only used force when absolutely necessary.

Last week I made a chocolate sheet cake for a party; I think it was very similar to the one Mamoo used to make because when I bit into it, in the most Proustian sense of experience, I was a little girl again, my feet swinging happily as I sat at Mamoo's breakfast table, my father's reassuring snores reverberating throughout the house, letting me know I had at least a few more minutes of freedom to enjoy the forbidden delight of a 7 AM chocolate cake and coke. And every once in a while I'll buy a pack of Rolos and eat a few of them, crushing their thin gold wrappers in my fingers as I savor the chocolate and caramel. All I need is a trip to the lobby with a handful of quarters and I'll be happy forever.