Flour on the Floor: Triple-Chocolate Espresso Brownies

Women’s milestone birthdays start nice and slow and well-spaced. Then they begin coming every decade like a train on a track—on time and inescapable (if you are tied to said track). The big ones seem to be: 1, 16, 30, 40, 50, 60. For men, the timing is more erratic and less frequent, tethered to practical matters like drinking, midlife crises, and retiring: 1, 21, 40, 65. 

When we’re young, we eagerly anticipate birthdays and getting older. When I asked my daughter to tell me her four favorite things, she listed her best friend in three different ways then her wiggly tooth. Why the tooth? She responded by asserting its meaning, “I’m bigger.” Bigger than what? “Yesterday.” For her, aging is still exciting because she has so many things to look forward to and she’s in a hurry to get there.

At 41, I’m already there. My husband’s grandmother used to say, “the days are long but the years fly by.” There are things I still have to look forward to though: menopause, predicting the weather with my joints, and oldies stations featuring “Baby Got Back” and “Hammer Time.” But as an adult, I simultaneously don’t want hub-bub about my “big” day and don’t want it overlooked. With Birthday Alarm, Twitter, and Facebook, that last bit isn’t a problem. However celebrating my birthdays with a party ended when I was seventeen.

That was before I moved to Glencoe. Women’s birthdays are a big deal here. In the past two and a half years, I’ve been to countless female birthday events—surprise parties, margarita-fueled dinners, long lunches, big bashes, and intimate wine and dessert gatherings. Within my friendship circle of thirty or so Glencoe girls, there are seven birthdays this month. That’s a lot of chardonnay and cupcakes.

For one of this week’s get-togethers, I offer to bake. But the Baking Illustrated chapter on Quick Breads simply won’t do. This goody needs to be sweet, party-friendly, and offer universal female appeal (sorry date-nut bread). Brownies sound just right—especially with their main flavor ingredient of chocolate. Triple Chocolate Espresso Brownies? Even better.

Much has been made of women’s chocolate obsession. The comic page staple “Cathy” would have you believe that women are helpless when confronted with large quantities of it; I’m convinced that she was subsidized by Hershey’s. I’m still working on my conspiracy theory for the underwriter that kept “Family Circus” in the funny pages for so long.

While researching the female-chocolate link on my computer at my local coffee shop, an elderly man approaches and asks if I’m doing some “creative writing.” I tell him yes and he wants to know the name of my teacher at New Trier, the local high school.  I have all sorts of computer windows open with headings like “Sex, Chocolate and Your Pelvic Floor: A Girl’s Night Out!” and am glad that those bifocals of his can’t discern the content on my screen. Though he can't see my clearly, I’ll still take it as a compliment that he thinks I look younger than I am.

Chocolate itself has been connected to youthful appearance. Actually, it’s been linked to everything from increased longevity to increased libido. One headline blares that “Half of women surveyed prefer chocolate to sex!” It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good candy bar, but the cynic in me must question the construct of the survey. For example, were these women married? Were they asked after a long day with sick or crying children? If that’s the case, well then agreed, there are lots of things I’d prefer over sex: a locked door, earplugs, darkness, waiting in line at the DMV, brussel sprouts. There is even a “Chocolate is better than sex” Facebook fan page. The competing “Sex is better than chocolate” fan page has only one-fifth the members.

I am not a “chocoholic” but my husband is away and I do believe in research so now seems like a good time to whip up a chocolate-heavy dessert like brownies. My daughter and I begin by assembling the chocolate itself. Two kinds are called for—unsweetened and semi-sweet (or bittersweet). She keeps gobbling the semi-sweet chips and asks to try the unsweetened chocolate too. I predict a reaction akin to her shock when she taste-tested sugar vs. salt (“but they look the same!”). I underestimate. She spits the chalky chocolate into her hand; she retches and gives me a dirty look like I tricked her; she hops off her little stool and runs around crowing about needing water and some “real” chocolate to get rid of “that yucky stuff.”

Once I settle her down, my daughter’s best pal (aforementioned numbers 1-3 on her list of favorite things) shows up for a playdate. When her friend sees the chocolate chips, she asks to taste the cookie batter. I explain that we are using the chips to make brownies, not cookies. She is exasperated as only a four-year-old girl can be, innocent but pissed, “Yes, but where’s the cookie dough?” There is some foot stomping from both girls at the idea that there will be no cookies produced from the mound of chocolate chips.

We work together to melt the chocolate and butter. I only add about half of the espresso powder called for since I know these girls will be trying it and frankly they already stay up too late. The batter is dark and rich and the kitchen smells fab when the brownies emerge all shiny and crinkly.

With my knife poised above the perfect sheen of the cooked brownies, I consider the size I should cut them for the upcoming party. Too large and they won’t get eaten (these girls don’t want that kind of commitment). Women will eat three small brownies but leave a large one untouched. Also, small brownies require no fork, fingers only, which leaves one hand open for a glass of wine. Upon realizing that I’ve actually spent time considering the proper brownie size, I think of what I’ve overheard my husband telling our son conspiratorially and only half-jokingly, “All chicks are a little crazy.” Indeed.

Two days earlier, while I was getting my gray hair dyed back to my “natural” girlish brown, the stylist asked what I was writing about in my notebook. I told him I was trying to understand the resurgence of birthday celebrations as women get older. Why do we want to draw attention to ourselves and our increasing age? Why not suffer silently and gracefully, I wondered. He considered for a moment, drawing upon the full nineteen years of his life experience, and said, sagely, “They just want to feel special.”

He’s onto something here but I think that’s only part of it. At this stage in our life, we women spend so much time caring for children and husbands and parents that sometimes it’s nice to turn that attention on each other. It’s good to be out after dark on a weeknight, having adult conversation and connecting with other women nearing the very same milestones. Everyone needs an excuse to take a break.

I don’t think men are an exception to this rule. Perhaps they don’t gather to toast the same events that women do, but they still gather. In Glencoe, there are organized sports (watching and playing) and poker. My husband’s group of friends meets at least once a month to shuffle and deal. When I ask him what they talk about, he admits “not much.” And yet the men clamor, the games filling within fifteen minutes of each email announcement. One of our friend’s has said that when he starts down our basement stairs towards the game, it’s one of the best feelings he has all month.

When I pack the brownies into my car for my friend’s birthday party, I understand his sentiment. There is nothing expected of me for the next few hours; I can be as chatty or quiet as I’d like and either way be entertained. I’ll emerge closer to some old friends and having made some new ones. I joke when I arrive that I circled the block like a shark for an hour waiting for the 7:30 call time. There is laughing then hugs—isn’t that what aging gracefully is all about?