Unjust Desserts

My friend thought she might bake the other day.  That, or nap, or visit her son at the cemetery. It will be two years, tomorrow, since he died. Since that day, there has been much that has made little sense, but still, nothing beats that horrific call. Nap, bake, visit your child who should be 29 years old now at the cemetery. Not your garden variety daily decision, like white or red wine, say, but her options didn't really strike me as odd.

Napping is always a good choice, but I wanted to encourage a more active form of distraction. Without even thinking, I shot back a text: BAKE. A visit to the cemetery would hardly take her mind off things. As if her mind is ever really off "the thing." I reconsidered.

It was a crisp sunny day. I have gone with my friend only a couple of times to visit Adam's grave, and only on sunny days. The setting is beautiful, ridiculously serene. Emphasis on the ridiculous, obviously. Nobody should ever have to bury a child. We drink coffee by his grave -- as Adam was wont to do -- and I glare at the bouquet of flowers and granite marking his spot, silently asking him how he could have let his heart fail him, fail my friend, fail all of us who knew him. A flower petal moves in the breeze, and I know he's rolling his eyes.

By the time I texted with my revised opinion -- CEMETERY -- my friend had already decided to split the baby in threes. She would nap first, then visit Adam, then bake later. Dessert last. I was worried the nap might last too long, one of those "pull your covers over your head until the pain goes away even though it never does" naps, but I knew she would not keep Adam waiting. And, for Adam's sake, and for her own sake, and for the sake of all who know her and love her, she would bake.

I told my friend to give Adam a hug for me. He was a hugger extraordinaire; his arms would rise in an automatic semi-circle whenever he'd run into someone important in his life, which was pretty much everyone he met. Even my mother remembers watching him greet my daughter, his lifelong friend, once, when they ran into each other while we were all on vacation, as if they had not seen each other in years. It had been two days, at most.

I also told my friend to give Adam a kick in the butt for me, just because I'm still a little angry. His death was beyond his control, beyond anybody's control, unless you want to spend a lot of time Monday morning quarterbacking and still end up with him gone. I suppose I shouldn't really be angry with him, but to take it out on God would be to forget about all the good stuff that same God has bestowed upon me and the people I love. This was, for all of us, a really bad call, but I try not to be greedy. I try really hard.

My friend sent me a copy of the recipe she had chosen for the day, an odd marriage of babka and brioche. I couldn't even begin to imagine how many sticks of sweet butter she'd have to toss into her KitchenAid mixer to make that concoction work. But that's what she does. She works hard, each day, to find some sweetness in the most bitter pill.