Mental Break & Cadillac Mug

The eerie hum of my laptop screen and the creek of my computer chair echo into my half assembled bedroom.

Notebooks spread open revealing scribbled dialogue from my day in the lecture halls. 

The clock on the screen says 10:05pm.  It’s still early. 

I see at the edge of my large black dresser the plate from dinner.

Breaded chicken with broccoli and wild rice, mom’s quick go-to staple meal.

Never disappoints.

An opened bag of microwave popcorn, empty,

With the hint of salty butter still hanging on to the insides of the white paper bag, I look in to see if there's one kernel to spare.

In my hand is a chipped coffee mug with a red Cadillac on the front. Underneath it said “Dennis.”

Empty. I need something much more interesting than coffee.

I had hit the ceiling about an hour ago.  There was only so much Cognitive Psychology one could take.

The mid-term exam was set in 4 days and I had gotten up to my armpits with Procedural and Semantic Memory.

Wernicke’s Language Theory, and so on and so forth.  My head wants to stop.

How much of this cramming am I going to do?

I bookmark my textbook and stack my notes semi-neatly in a pile.

I open my bedroom door and its pure darkness. The rustle of Oreo, my cat, as she tip-toes out of her kitty house.

I feel around in the dark and my hand catches the banister of the oak staircase taking me to our living room.

In the dead of night, the pop and crack of the wood under my Winnie the Pooh bedroom slippers makes me edgy.

Like I’m doing something wrong. My ears strain to hear if anyone is stirring in their rooms.

I make it down the stairs, the glow of a full moon peeps through the window as Oreo slips passed my feet and purrs so gently.

I flick the switch on in the kitchen and look at the digital clock on the stove, 11:02pm, still early.

As if my brain and body were taken over by another person or another life, I begin. 

Oven switched on...350°F.

Flinging cupboard doors open, I swiftly place a pot on the stove.

Pearly white milk glugs slowly out of the carton and sizzles slightly as it lands on the bottom of the pot.

Another lot was set with simmering with water. The tidy little kitchen quickly becomes over thrown.

I reach to me right, to the upper shelf and pull down the chocolate chips, throwing a fistful into the milk.

Droplets float up and back into the milky bath as I stir.

A big plastic mixing bowl is next, added to it a cup of flour and baking powder that sits in a fluffy peak.

The rest of the chocolate sits in a stainless steel bowl propped up on the boiling pot of water. 

A silky knob of butter melds with the glistening melted chocolate as I run my wooden spoon through combining it all. 

My chocolatey milk simmers slightly on the burner. I decided to put a spoonful of cocoa powder in and whisk away the clumpy formations.  Cocoa meteors spinning dangerously in a galaxy of milk.

A hit of vanilla in my melted chocolate and sunshiny egg yolks plummet from their cracked shells to join. I haphazardly dump the floury contents of my other mixing bowl into the chocolate. Together they twirl.  Bright white streaks the mahogany brown. I stop short of completely combining, any further it will be a sin.

The oven radiates waves of heat as I open it and quickly stick my hand and arm in to check. Playing culinary 'chicken', I notice the hairs on the top of my forearm slightly move with the gush of hot air.  The oven is ready and brownies are in.

I peer into my frothy foamy beverage and decide it's time.  With a grin I look up at the clock again, 11:28pm.  Good to go.

In the other room, our dining table and hutch loom in the dark.  I know that if I want to crack open that hutch, I dare not turn on the chandelier.  Being conspicuous is crucial.

Florescent glow of Oreo's eyes gleam back at me.  She crouches down and prepares to leap from one arm of the couch to the dining table.  She keeps watch as I slowly place my palm on the brass handle of the cherry wood beast.

I pull and hear the click of the latch.  The fine china plates rattle as I move the small wooden door. 

I feel around in the dark cupboard, as my hand lands on the first cold bottle.  I shimmy my finger tips to the top and feel the lid.  I can tell it's whiskey...or scotch. The curve of the neck and ripples on the cap tells me this would not pair well.  

My hand skips and feels a shorter bottle, the cover tells me this one is a keeper. I pull it out and place it on the floor beside me.  I stick my hand in again, no - that's wine. My fingers jump once more and it lands on a tall slender throat of a bottle, heavy, I feel a wax label - yes. 

The process continues, swiftly feeling around in the black of night gently moving vessels around, touching labels, holding lids, turning them off and lightly sniffing out the yes's and no's.  In a matter of minutes, I have a roster of qualified candidates.

I run back to the oven, my chocolate brownie companion needs time.  It's now or never.

As fast and as accurate as I can - 2 count each of my liquor line-up gets poured in. Ameretto, Irish cream, dark rum, creme de cacao, and grand marnier.  I let it simmer again.  The orange essence wafts up to my nose and flows into my skull. A special hot chocolate indeed.

Before the timer dings I shut off the oven and pull my fudgey dessert out and let it sit on the counter. 

A matte crust, slowly buckles as it cools, cracking and flaking away as I gently press the top, checking for doneness.

The edges are slightly tough, but in a good way. I can tell it will offer a good chewing experience.

Don't cut into it yet, I tell myself, it needs to chill out a bit. Patience. Time 11:51pm. It's okay, I have a little more time.

I rapidly replace the bottles without making them clink together, quietly do the dishes and wipe down the counter.

At last my moment. A gooey square and a steamy cup. No books, no pens, no lecture notes and no exam. My eyes grow heavy, my grin much more 'relaxed.'

Time: 12:02am

A mental break well-earned and a Cadillac mug well brewed.

xoxo,

A Girl who Likes to Cook