By Late July. Our birthday approaches — the annual collision. She will be ten. I will be forty-one. Ten is a milestone for Miya: double digits, the threshold between childhood and the looming, distant adolescence that I am not ready for and that she is accelerating toward with the speed of a child who has always been ahead of her age. Ten is: she has been cooking for four years. She has been reading Japanese for five years. She has been writing stories for three years. She has been my daughter for ten years. The ten years are a decade. The decade is the thing I am most proud of. More than the books, more than the newsletter, more than the cooking classes: the decade of raising Miya is the achievement.
I made birthday gyoza — the annual batch, the tradition, the Fumiko recipe that is now the Miya recipe. This year Miya made all of them. All one hundred and twenty. I did not fold a single one. I sat at the table and watched and the watching was the birthday present: the present of seeing your child do the thing you taught her, do it well, do it better than you taught her, the crimps tighter, the filling more precisely distributed, the cooking more confident. The teaching has exceeded the teacher. The teacher is sitting at the table watching the exceeding happen and the sitting is the gratitude.
The Dashi newsletter has seven thousand subscribers. The seventh issue was about the birthday gyoza — about the annual ritual, about the way each year's gyoza reveals the year's changes, about the way a daughter's crimps tell the story of a daughter's growth, the way the dough yields to the daughter's hands the way it yielded to the grandmother's hands, the same yield, the same dough, the same practice, different hands, different decade, different woman. Same love. Always the same love.
After Miya finished the last gyoza and we had eaten until we couldn’t, I wanted something that was just mine — a small, warm thing made only for the teacher sitting at the table. A decade deserves a little sweetness that requires almost nothing of you, because the decade already required everything, and you gave it gladly. This mug cake is what I made: five minutes, one mug, one candle stuck in the top because ten years and forty-one years both deserved the flame.
The Ultimate Mug Cake
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 2 minutes | Total Time: 7 minutes | Servings: 1
Ingredients
- 4 tablespoons all-purpose flour
- 4 tablespoons granulated sugar
- 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
- 1/4 teaspoon baking powder
- 1 pinch of salt
- 1 large egg
- 3 tablespoons whole milk
- 3 tablespoons vegetable oil
- 1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 3 tablespoons semi-sweet chocolate chips
Instructions
- Combine dry ingredients. In a large microwave-safe mug (at least 12 oz), whisk together the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt until no lumps remain.
- Add wet ingredients. Crack the egg directly into the mug and stir it into the dry mixture. Pour in the milk, oil, and vanilla extract. Stir thoroughly until the batter is smooth and fully combined, scraping the bottom of the mug.
- Fold in chocolate chips. Stir in the chocolate chips, reserving a pinch to scatter across the top of the batter if you like a little drama.
- Microwave. Cook on high power for 60 to 90 seconds, checking at 60 seconds. The cake is done when it has risen, the edges are set, and the center looks just barely moist — it will continue to cook slightly from residual heat. Do not overcook or it will turn rubbery.
- Rest and serve. Allow the mug to cool for 1 to 2 minutes before eating. Serve directly from the mug with a spoon, optionally topped with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream or a dusting of powdered sugar. Stick a candle in it if the decade calls for one.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 610 | Protein: 11g | Fat: 31g | Carbs: 74g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 165mg