Cates Chocolate Crumble Brownies

A Story by A.E. Darrowby

On a hot summer's night in 1950's small town Arizona, Cate bakes a batch of her 'Chocolate Crumble Brownies,' which have become a local sensation. But the evening holds more in store. [1525 words]

�"When Cate was finished shelling the pecans she had gathered earlier �" from under a tree which the chapter president of the Territory Daughters claimed to have been planted in 1848, the year of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo �" she pressed in a thumb tack at the top of her cutting board, to use as a guide for chopping the nuts to the proper size.

This extra precaution which she now felt compelled to take she blamed on Mr. Zeimmer, the editor of the newspaper �" who had the previous year managed to immortalize her brownies by mentioning them in his weekly ‘Goin’s on Around Town’ column:

“At this year’s Independence Day celebrations held at Arizona Park, this reporter’s certitude that there are no such things as man-made miracles was shaken to its core, when he happened upon, and subsequently indulged in, Mrs. T.Q. ‘Cate’ Wilson’s Chocolate Crumble Brownies.’ It is, of course, a scientifically established fact that that great American invention, the chocolate brownie, is neither cake nor cookie �" but instead something altogether different. This said, Mrs. Wilson’s concoction, so deliciously and simultaneously both chewy and crumbly, elevates that conundrum to a hitherto unknown height!”

Pushing the nuts atop the other dry ingredients in the mixing bowl, Cate thought, not for the first time, that there are probably no sillier men on the planet than newspapermen. Of course, her husband, Thomas, was also prone to silliness (though not in the high-horsed manner of Mr. Zeimmer!). Just yesterday he had begun construction of a backyard tree house platform for the purpose of watching birds (of which he knew the names of all southwestern species). Turning seventy five, he contended, had given him license to do such things.

Cate cracked the last of the three called for eggs into a tea cup, and, after ensuring herself of its freshness, slid it into the mixing bowl to join the others. Then, seeing that it was nearly midnight (She had learned the hard way her first year as an Arizona newlywed �"three days in bed with heatstroke �" to do her summertime baking late at night), Cate switched on the portable radio, as she wanted to hear the rebroadcast of Saturday’s ‘Louisiana Hayride’ �"thinking she might as well find out what all the stink around town was about some fellow named Elvis.

Because the batch was a last minute request from the Territory Daughters (an organization in whose membership she thanked her lucky stars she did not qualify), for their brunch the next day, she replaced one of the tablespoons of vegetable oil with one of shortening, so as to speed up the ‘crumble.’

As she blended the mixture using the extra long wooden spoon Thomas had carved for her, Cate noticed that Sugarfoot was sitting in the adjoining hallway �" upon whose wall hung photographs of their three children, including Quincy, now ten years resting at the city cemetery �" having jumped from an airplane to his death over France three days after D-day.

The dog’s presence was unusual as it rarely left the bedside after Thomas had retired. “I got nothing for you here, so get on back!” she scolded it �" but the dog did not budge, keeping its mournful stare upon her �"and so Cate returned her focus to her task, because knowing when to stop blending was very much key to a favorable outcome.

(Sugarfoot was, her husband had informed her, his ‘last dog.’ His first, Curley, had died while Thomas was off fighting Spaniards in Cuba with Teddy Roosevelt. Since then, one after the other, he had proceeded through life with a dog at his side.)

Finished blending, Cate used her rubber spatula to gently coax the glistening mass into a buttered and floured baking pan �" before then placing the pan into the oven, preheated to three hundred and sixty five degrees.

The Louisiana Hayride was now on, and he sat at the table to flip through Life Magazine �" although when she happened up a picture of President Eisenhower playing golf, she laid it back down.

Suddenly, Cate felt a pang �" of confusion maybe �"and stood up. Had she forgotten, she wondered, the extract of vanilla? Turning, she saw that Sugarfoot was no longer in the hallway.

Her heart pounding now, Cate moved for the hallway then down it for the bedroom, where, after flipping the light switch �" she found Thomas, lying on his side on the edge of the bed, with one foot hanging down, touching the floor, as if he were trying to get up.

Atop the bed Sugarfoot lay tightly against her husband’s back; as if it were trying to help.

“Thomas, wake up!” Cate demanded, but Thomas did not move.

Leaning down, she shook the foot still on the bed �"and her husband’s body slipped to the floor.

On his way back to Arizona, after his discharge from the army, and an overdone month in New York City, Thomas Quincy Wilson had come marching through Nashville, Tennessee, where he had chanced upon the Junior Daughters of the American Revolution Saturday morning bake sale. And upon sampling the wares of one Miss Cate Chambers, he had declared to her: “You know, these soda biscuits of yours, they’re pretty damn … pardon my french … good! I probably ought to marry you!”

Which he did, after hiring on at the stockyards and wooing her for six months. But the clincher for seventeen year old Cate, the last of nine children, had been the overheard conversation between her father and mother �" discussing how “grand” it would be if “Cate could just stay on and take care of us in our old age.”

The kitchen timer dinged. Cate rose from the seat she had taken in her dressing chair, and moved to draw the comforter over her Thomas.

Back in the kitchen, after setting the brownies on a cooling rack and covering them with a cloth, Cate headed for the spare room to turn down the bed covers.

At six, as was her routine, she rose and baked soda biscuits for breakfast �" unthinkingly making three too many, which she tossed out back for ‘Thomas’s birds.’ At seven, she dressed; her shopping frock would have to do. At eight, she exited the house Thomas had built for her �" and that they had shared for over fifty years �" carrying the brownies in a cardboard box. She would deliver them in time for the ten-thirty brunch after taking care of her business at the courthouse.

Along the way a young woman, whose name Cate did not know, harvesting summer squash in her garden, cheerfully called out, “Good morning, Mrs. Wilson! “Don’t guess you’d happen to have a brownie in there for me there, would ya?”

To her eternal confusion, and even some consternation, from the day of her arrival in this still strange place called Arizona, Cate had been well liked. Cleveland, John’s older brother, had reflected on this phenomenon, offering: “You know Cate, I think people around here take to you because, even though you’re a bit standoffish, and you speak in that strange accent … well … you got a dry, self effacing, humorous way about you.”

Cleveland, dead now, had been an esteemed attorney, as well as for a time, mayor. Thomas, on the other hand, not one for great aspirations, had had a thirty year career as a deliveryman, distributing snack cakes and candies and such to shops and stores far and wide. But whereas Cate may have been ‘liked,’ Thomas was probably the most beloved individual in the county. He seemed to have an irresistible personality �" and she reckoned three hundred or more might turn out for his funeral.

After entering the courthouse Cate stood for a time in the large hall �" wondering to which official she needed to report Thomas’s death. Finally, she questioned an older Navajo woman engaged with emptying ashtray stands; who, upon learning that it was ‘Mr. Tom’ who had passed, immediately burst into tears.

Ten minutes later, Cate found herself sitting in an empty jury room, awaiting the county judge himself �"the box of brownies lying upon the extra large table �"and musing upon the ridiculousness of the portrait on the wall of Andrew Jackson, with long wavy hair, heroically sitting atop a large, rearing white steed.

At nine-thirty, brownies in hand, Cate emerged from the courthouse, having been repeatedly assured by the judge that he would personally attend to all matters at hand �" and adding: “Just don’t you return home until after lunch, ya’hear, Mrs. Wilson.”

On Main Street she was confronted by numerous townspeople, all offering hugs and/or condolences. There would be more of this to come she knew.

As Cate neared Community Hall, venue for the brunch, a large car pulled up beside her, from which the chapter president of the Territory Daughters jumped out �" and after embracing Cate and exclaiming, “Oh, hon, I was so sorry to hear the tragic news!” �" she inquired: “Say, are those our brownies!?”