By Clay's nineteenth birthday is Thursday, June 13th. He'll turn nineteen in Afghanistan. I can't send him a cake. I can't make him fried chicken. I can't sit across from him at the kitchen table and watch him blow out candles. What I can do is make his birthday meal here — in the kitchen, at the table, with his chair empty — and eat it for him, as him, in the space where he should be.
That sounds crazy. I know it sounds crazy. But this is what I did: on June 13th, I made ribs. Clay's favorite. My ribs, the ones I developed, the recipe that's mine. I rubbed them, smoked them for five hours, brushed them with sauce, and served them at the kitchen table on a plate at Clay's place. Connie sat across from me. We ate ribs. The plate at Clay's place sat full and untouched and there for the duration of the meal, and the ribs cooled and the sauce set and it was the saddest and most necessary thing I've ever done in this kitchen.
After dinner, I ate Clay's ribs. Cold ribs, standing at the counter, at ten o'clock at night. They were still good. Ribs are always good. I ate them and thought: happy birthday, son. You're nineteen. You're in Afghanistan. You're eating whatever the mess hall calls food and missing your mother's cake and your father's ribs and the kitchen that smells like hickory and home. Happy birthday. The ribs were here. The chair was here. The plate was full. Come home and I'll fill it again.
Connie baked a cake — chocolate, from scratch, the same recipe she's made for Clay's birthday since he was two. She put nineteen candles on it. We lit them. We sang happy birthday to an empty chair. Connie blew out the candles because someone had to and I couldn't because my lungs were occupied with not crying. She made a wish. I don't know what she wished for. I know what I wished for. It's the same thing I've wished for since February: Come home. Come home. Come home.
Connie’s chocolate cake is hers — she’s made it since Clay was two and I wouldn’t touch that recipe even if she let me. But when you’ve just eaten cold ribs standing at the counter at ten o’clock at night and sung happy birthday to an empty chair, you want something sweet that doesn’t ask too much of you. This cherry crumb dessert is exactly that: the kind of thing you can put together without a lot of ceremony, that fills the kitchen with warmth, and that tastes like someone still thought tonight was worth celebrating. We’ve made it a few times since June. It’s not Clay’s birthday cake. But it’s ours.
Cherry Crumb Dessert
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 45 minutes | Servings: 12
Ingredients
- 1 package (18-1/4 oz) yellow cake mix
- 1/2 cup butter, softened
- 1 egg
- 2 cans (21 oz each) cherry pie filling
- 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
- 1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans
- 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
- 2 tablespoons cold butter, cubed
- 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
Instructions
- Preheat. Heat oven to 350°F. Grease a 13x9-inch baking dish.
- Make the base. In a large bowl, combine the cake mix, softened butter, and egg. Mix until crumbly. Press mixture evenly into the bottom of the prepared baking dish to form a crust.
- Add the filling. Spread both cans of cherry pie filling evenly over the crust layer.
- Make the crumb topping. In a small bowl, combine brown sugar, nuts, flour, and cinnamon. Cut in the cold cubed butter with a pastry cutter or two forks until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.
- Top and bake. Sprinkle the crumb topping evenly over the cherry filling. Bake uncovered for 30–35 minutes, or until the topping is lightly golden and the filling is bubbling around the edges.
- Cool and serve. Let the dessert cool for at least 15 minutes before cutting. Serve warm or at room temperature. Pairs well with vanilla ice cream or a dollop of whipped cream.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 420 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 16g | Carbs: 68g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 380mg