My son’s first birthday cake was a banana cake with fudge frosting and it was shaped like a monkey with a mini-monkey smash cake. Because he loved them so much, his second birthday cake had to involve graham crackers, but in my carried-away hands it turned into a s’more layer cake (in the book) with a milk chocolate filling and a marshmallow frosting that was toasted because really, how could I not? His third birthday cake was a celebration of fall and trains — apples, applesauce, pie spices and a subway map on top because he was then and still is subway-obsessed. And I had already started plotting his fourth birthday cake — something involving massive pillows brown sugar-broiled peaches and sour cream, with the faintest trace of nutmeg, all late summery and perfect — when I had the strangest idea, something that hadn’t once occurred to me before: I asked him what kind of cake he wanted, and do you know what he said?
“Tchocolate. Chocolate with chocolate.”
My husband and I have this joke when he talks because he’s sometimes so frighteningly articulate* that it’s impossible to pretend that we can’t understand what he said, even if we’d prefer to (such as when he requests spaghetti for dinner again or only wants to go to the playground furthest from our apartment). So, we say, “gosh, Jacob. You really have to stop mumbling.” and then he said,
“CHOCOLATE. BROWN TCHOCOLATE. NOT WHITE TCHOCOLATE.”**
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