Cinnamon Coffee Cake

Cake

·
3/4 cup butter

·
1/4 teaspoon salt

·
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

·
1/3 cup brown sugar

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2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

·
2 teaspoons vanilla

·
3 large eggs

·
3/4 cup sour cream

·
1 1/4 cups milk

Topping

·
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar

·
¼ teaspoon salt

·
1 1/2 cups flour

·
1 tablespoon cinnamon

·
6 tablespoons melted butter

·
3 3/4 cups flour



First, cream the butter and sugars together. You should be able to leave a trace of a thumbprint in the butter. The eggs, sour cream, milk and vanilla are added; be careful not to shatter the eggshells.

In the beginning, I believed that we were whole, unscathed porcelain. Like taut marionettes, we performed well at family parties, each filling their roles like we had been crafted for them. A mold for a dysfunctional family was formed from fired brass; each withering arm, leg, and head was slowly poured in until a shining figure emerged.




The room steamed as each tin soldier marched into our living room on Thanksgiving Day. First my grandparents, Babci and Pop, shuffled in, always the first to arrive. She was a tornado of smothering nervousness; she always hovered in the kitchen, attempting to help but really getting in the way. He was a self-made man, proud of the fact that he never went to college but still cultivated a multi-million dollar business. In the past year, he had had a stroke that visibly diminished him; he was mentally and physically beaten down by an illness that was out of his control. With a small, unremarkable greeting, he alighted to the bar, where bottles of bourbon and whiskey and vodka and tequila glinted maliciously. He would obstinately stand there for the preparation, duration, and aftermath of the meal.




It was 2004; I was eight. We had a rock sale in the backyard, a clever invention of my grandmother’s. To occupy five children for an afternoon in a Wilbraham summer, we collected smooth landscaping rocks from beneath her deck and painted them with drugstore watercolors. The paint ran and mixed and melted from the rocks, but that seemed to have no effect on our profits. We made ten dollars in quarters and nickels and were driven to the dollar store to buy boxes of sparklers and Cow Tails. Later that week, we celebrated Fourth of July. Red and blue flags were gripped with white knuckles; we spun in tight circles in the soft green grass, tie-dying our paths. Inside, my grandfather threw a tumbler against the wall. The glass shattered and my mother screamed and my Dad broke the table.




Fold in the flour, baking powder, salt. Sometimes the batter doesn’t want to combine, but if you fold it and press it with enough force, the ingredients will blend.




It was 2008; I was 13. I was at my mother’s cousin’s wedding shower in Brick, New Jersey. The house was the size of our kitchen, the siding was dirty and the roof was caving in. We met second and third and fourth cousins amid the bustling barbeque held outside. My sister and I sat quietly in our immaculate white dresses, watching the casualness with which our relatives interacted with envy. Suddenly, the groom-to-be staggered up to us. “You think you have a right to judge me?” he slurred, his voice rising. “I work hard; I work with my God-given hands!” I could see my mother staring at us out of the corner of my eye. “You think you’re so high and mighty. You have no right to judge me!”

“Did it taste just as good the second time?” she asked me, slamming the bathroom door shut.

We were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey was carved; the mashed potatoes were appropriately gummy. Someone passed me the broccoli dish, swimming in fat. “Where’s Uncle Mark?” I asked, looking at my parents. They concentrated on their plates. “He’s not coming.” My grandfather said. “He moved to Spain with his boyfriend,” he sneered at me.




Knead the streusel topping with your hands. Press the mixture on the cake and put it in the oven. Watch it crisp and crackle and brown.




The first time we served the coffee cake, my mother used ¼ cup of salt instead of ¼ teaspoon. She glided to the table; the secret saline cake balanced in her golden hands, and slid it beneath our small, outstretched hands. At the first bite, our tongues shrunk and our faces puckered. The cake was the sea; its waves tumbled over my mother and her red cheeks, her downturned eyes, our laughs. It pulled us under and we drowned.




It was 2006; I was 11. We were in Beverly, Massachusetts in the middle of a winter storm. The blizzard-victim streets were awash with white, and we lost our hands in the snow on the side of the road. We ran to the doors of the old, Italian theater. Huge caricatures of clowns and magicians loomed on the posters over the entrance. To my young eyes, the images were both attractive and alarming. Inside, the velvet stairs spiraled into darkness and the lights flickered as we were called to our seats. As I stepped into the theater and caught a glimpse of the stage, I saw that my uncle was on stage. My father’s 47 year old brother, the Brown graduate, the world traveler, was onstage performing rope tricks. His painted white face was stretched in a gruesome smile. On my father’s face was a similarly terrifying grimace. His hands gripped the seats; his knuckles were white.




The last time we ate the coffee cake, we were fanged smiles and soft mouths. Blood dripped from our mouths. Drifting in and out of the conversation, I heard it.

“Want to go shopping with me today, Kyle?” my mother asked.

“That’s so gay!” he rolled his eyes at her.

They all laughed and glowed with solid iron hearts. I excused myself and ran across the cold tile floor, slamming the bathroom door behind me as I flung myself on the floor and threw up.




My grandmother’s paper hands fluttered over my own rough, scarred knuckles. “Your great-aunt was with her friend’s granddaughter the other day,” she began lightly, picking through her salad. “She’s a teenager, and for some reason, she has been dressing in all black!” she whispered fiercely. I crushed my blackberry tea between my hands; the frigid glass kept me immobile. My grandmother leaned across the table with warmth in her eyes. She said, definitively, “I’m so glad you’re a normal teenager."