I got my start in writing with Parents magazine. I submitted a lot of essays to them that were published, and I got some pretty nice letters from readers who enjoyed them. Occasionally, I’m going to offer an essay that I wrote for that magazine, and I hope that you will enjoy them. For this time, I am also going to include a recipe I got from Parents magazine for the best chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted, hands-down. And you can make it in just one bowl too! Here’s the essay:
I have this problem with green beans. If I serve fresh ones, my older daughter complains. If I serve canned ones, my younger daughter complains. They can’t wait to grow up so they won’t have to tolerate each other’s preferences.
I remember wanting to grow up, too, believing that all my daily annoyances would then finally disappear. Besides, there were so many things I wanted to do that being a kid prevented. Say you wanted a candy bar for dinner. If you were an adult, you could have one. Or two. Say you wanted to stay up until midnight three nights in a row: Fine. Nobody told you to go to bed, ever. Adult hood meant no homework, no itchy, petticoats, and no tight shoes on Sunday. Adult hood was your time to be and do exactly what you wanted. That’s what I thought. Of course, I was quite wrong. And as it happens, now that I am finally an adult, I find there are things I really miss about being a kid.
I miss finding change behind sofa cushions, and feeling like an instant millionaire. I miss the smell of metal on my hands after I played on the monkey bars, and how terrific canned spaghetti used to taste. I miss how natural a bicycle seat felt beneath me, and tightening skates with a key I wore on a gray white string around my neck. I fondly remember my hobby horse, who seemed awfully alive and responsive to me, and who tolerated with stoic grace his weekly name changes. I miss my expertise in hopscotch. I wish I could once again go over to peoples houses with the naked and simple request that they come out to play.
It was wonderful stepping out of a warm bath tub into a huge towel that someone held for me, and being rubbed dry by loving and competent hands. It was even better being tucked in at night, having a big head come down to kiss me and assure me that I would be safe in the darkness. I miss putting my nightgown in the hamper and forgetting about it until it showed up in my drawer again. I particularly miss the pleasures of sucking my thumb.
I regret no longer being lavishly praised for making my bed, for being brave at the dentist, for getting a good report card. I miss playing dolls, washing rubber bodies, kissing plastic, foreheads, endlessly styling fake hair. The best game in the world, which I no longer play, was hide and seek. I miss that throat-tightening excitement you felt when the kid who was “it” stood RIGHT beside you, and STILL didn’t see you.
I miss going swimming without a thought in the world as to how my body looked in my bathing suit. I would like once again to make elaborate dirt farms under the bushes in the front yard, to till miniature fields with crops of translucent, red berries. I wish I could still be oblivious to phones ringing and the bills coming. I miss not carrying a purse, flying out the door to certain adventure without so much as a key.
I adored being read to, listening to the story and simultaneously studying the jerky motion of the Adam’s apple, the largish knuckles, the real jewelry, and the breath of each of the various readers. I miss believing that Bambi was the best movie in the history of entertainment. I miss my mother being the age I am now.
It is only in retrospect that I appreciate my former sense of optimism: I knew that everything in the world would turn out exactly fine, and that I would eventually get every single thing I wanted, from world peace to a fine bosom. I miss thinking, despite the uncomfortable contradictory evidence all around me, that I would live forever.
I liked believing in Santa Claus, in the notion of a very busy, kind man, whose goal in life was to supply me with everything on my Christmas list. I also liked very much the thought of the Easter bunny, this impressively evolved rabbit, hopping around the world, all dressed up and delivering colorful baskets of goodies whose rich scent clued me right into their hiding places. I thoroughly enjoyed collecting shoeboxes full of valentines, even though some were from boys, with their distressingly sloppy handwriting indicating a certain insincerity, and I loved collecting bags full of Halloween candy, because I could eat it ALL. I miss guiltless gluttony.
I also miss finding things: baby animals. Gorgeous rocks. Metal parts. Strange bugs. A random ribbon. Multicolored fall leaves that summarized the history of the year. I even regret no longer being ticklish, dissolving into helpless laughter every time someone stuck a finger anywhere near my armpit. I miss getting new school clothes, smelling the inside of my brand new shoes before I broke them in, and meeting my teacher on the first day. — seeing what kind of high heels and earrings she wore, and doing an instant personality evaluation based on the timber of her voice.
I miss going to my grandma’s house on holidays. For one thing, her husband made gravy so good it was clearly a miracle. For another, she had the junkiest bathroom in town, and I wanted to move in there. She had a pink cover on the toilet and on the tank, fuzzy rugs, and enough dusting powder to perfume the citizenry of the nation. She had complicated shower curtains that would most kindly be called Baroque, and, perhaps inexplicably, porcelain figurines arranged on curlicue white metal shelves. There were poodles sporting jeweled collars, who were connected to their offspring by fine gold chains. There were ladies wearing flowered dresses and about 100 slips, carrying open parasols. The heat was always up really high at my grandma’s house. I liked that too.
I suppose what I miss most was answered best by my husband when I asked him what he missed about being a kid. “Having your father tell you the answer,” he said. “Oh, I know,” I said wistfully. But then when we went out to dinner and I ordered Caesar salad and a lobster stuffed with crab meat, I thought, Well, this is as much fun as roller skating. Maybe being an adult is all right, too. Then I thought about going home and kissing the kids as they slept, and I was sure of it.
Here’s the recipe for that cake, in narrative form:
WICKEDLY DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE CAKE
Combine one and 3/4 cups of flour, 2 cups of sugar, 1/4 cup of unsweetened cocoa powder (I use Hershey’s), 2 teaspoons baking soda, 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1 teaspoon salt, two eggs, one cup strong, black coffee, one cup buttermilk, 1/2 cup salad oil, 1 teaspoon vanilla. Beat two minutes at medium speed. Batter will be quite thin. Divide batter between two well greased and floured 9 inch layer cake pans. Because this cake is so moist, it’s not always easy to remove from the pan. Be sure to grease and flour the pans thoroughly, or bake in a 9 x 13“ pan. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in the center comes out clean, and cake is just beginning to pull away from the sides of the pan. Cool for 10 minutes on a wire rack.
I frost this with cream cheese frosting, but you could use chocolate or whatever you want. When I use cream cheese frosting, I dot the cake with fresh raspberries so that everybody gets raspberries in every bite. This cake is really, really wonderful. I hope you’ll try it.
I enjoyed this - it has a directness that feels like the child is still part of you.
This. All of it. One of my earliest memories is lying awake in my bed while it was still light outside on a summer's eve after a bath. We played hard back then. I started reading you in Parent's Magazine when raising my own kiddos. Then and now, you hit the nail on the head. Thank you. (I was also an army brat growing up and a nurse before embarking on an art career.)