Hot Fudge Chocolate Pudding Cake

I am going to tell you what happened this week, and I am going to tell it straight, because that is the only way I know how to tell it.

On Tuesday afternoon, I went to my mammogram. I drove to the imaging center on my lunch break, changed into the gown, stood in the machine, got compressed, made small talk with the tech about the weather, got dressed, and went back to work. Routine. Twenty minutes. I'd already forgotten about it by the time I picked up the kids that evening.

On Wednesday morning, my phone rang at 8:15. I was at the clinic, prepping for the first appointment of the day. The caller ID said St. Luke's. My stomach dropped before my brain caught up, because your body knows before you do. Your body always knows.

The radiologist wanted me to come back for additional imaging. "We saw something on the mammogram that we'd like to take a closer look at." Those words — "we saw something" — are the hinge on which a life swings. Before those words, I was a thirty-two-year-old vet tech with two kids and a troubled marriage and a pot of chili in the refrigerator. After those words, I was a thirty-two-year-old vet tech with two kids and a troubled marriage and something growing inside me that shouldn't be there.

I went back Thursday for the additional imaging. Then a biopsy. The biopsy was Friday, and the doctor — a kind woman with steady hands and a voice like a public radio host — told me she'd have results early next week. I drove home and made dinner and put the kids to bed and sat on the couch and waited for the scream that was building in my chest to find its way out. It didn't. It stayed there, coiled and silent, pressing against my ribs.

The results came Tuesday — September 20. Stage II breast cancer. Invasive ductal carcinoma. The doctor said the words in a sterile office with a box of tissues on the desk, and she was kind, she was clinical, she was thorough in her explanation of treatment options and prognosis and next steps, and I sat there and nodded and took notes on my phone because Dawson women take notes, we do not collapse, we gather information and we make a plan.

I drove to the veterinary hospital. I finished my shift. I treated a Labrador with an ear infection and a cat with a urinary blockage and a puppy getting its first round of vaccines. I was professional and competent and no one knew. Then I drove home and picked up the kids from Rosa's and made dinner — I don't remember what, something, food, it went on plates — and put the kids to bed and read Mason a chapter from his mystery book and sang Lily her bedtime song and closed their doors and walked to the kitchen and sat on the floor and cried until I couldn't breathe.

I am thirty-two years old. My children are five and three. I have cancer. I am not ready to die. I am not ready for any of this. I sat on that kitchen floor for an hour, and Hank came and lay down next to me and put his head on my leg — his one front leg stretched out, his body warm against mine — and he didn't move until I did. He is a three-legged pit bull and he is the best creature on this earth, and he knew. Animals always know.

I haven't told Scott yet. I haven't told Mom. I haven't told anyone. I am sitting with this by myself for one more night, because tomorrow I will have to be brave and organized and decisive, and tonight I just need to be a thirty-two-year-old woman on a kitchen floor, terrified and alive and not ready. Not ready for any of it.

I am not going to write about food this week. There is no recipe for this.

I meant it when I said there’s no recipe for this week — no recipe for a Tuesday morning phone call, or a biopsy, or a kitchen floor. But my editor reminded me that this column exists because food is how I move through the world, and someday — maybe next week, maybe next month — I will stand at my stove again and need something that asks nothing of me except that I stir. This cake is that. It goes into the oven plain and comes out with its own warm fudge sauce pooled underneath, which is the kind of quiet miracle I need to believe in right now. I’m leaving it here for myself, and for anyone else who has ever sat on a kitchen floor and waited for morning.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 45 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, divided
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup whole milk
1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup additional unsweetened cocoa powder (for topping)
1 3/4 cups very hot water

Instructions

Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 350°F. Lightly grease an 8x8-inch baking dish and set it on a rimmed baking sheet to catch any drips.
Make the batter. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, 1/4 cup cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt. Add the milk, melted butter, and vanilla extract. Stir until a smooth, thick batter forms. Spread it evenly into the prepared baking dish.
Add the topping. In a small bowl, stir together the brown sugar and remaining 1/4 cup cocoa powder. Sprinkle this mixture evenly over the batter — do not stir it in.
Pour the hot water. Slowly pour the hot water over the entire surface of the brown sugar topping. Do not stir. It will look wrong. It isn’t. This is how the magic happens.
Bake. Bake for 33–36 minutes, until the top looks set and matte and a toothpick inserted in the cakey top layer comes out with moist crumbs (not wet batter). The fudge sauce will be pooled underneath — you’ll see it bubbling at the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the cake rest for 10 minutes before serving. Spoon directly from the dish, making sure to scoop down through to the fudge sauce at the bottom. Serve warm, with vanilla ice cream or a spoonful of whipped cream if you have it.

Nutrition (per serving)

Hot Fudge Chocolate Pudding Cake — For the Nights There Are No Words