THAT chocolate cake

I have this thing for you.

It's that chocolate cake. You know what I mean. Rich, soft, and dense, with just the perfect amount of icing. Almost like you can taste it as you slice into it. It's the cake incapable of producing leftovers, and if for some unheard of reason it did, it's the cake you'd eat for breakfast because you can't wait until afternoon coffee to once more taste its luxuriously stacked chocolate.

There's something about cake... I like pie. Pie is tasty and flaky and sweet and tart. And sometimes I really crave pie. But cake... I like cake. Something about cake is celebratory and unique, giving me cause for joy and anticipation. On a warm summer birthday with melting ice cream. On a chilly afternoon with a steaming drink. As a late-night snack. First thing in the morning. With tons of friends. Alone. Second-day cake (usually the best). Third-day cake. Cake until it's gone. Cake's crumbs whose sole purpose is to stick to your finger when your tastebuds are trying to salvage the not-so-distant memory.

I really like cake.

And this cake is certainly that celebratory cake. Recently, I attended a cookout held for a campus ministry in which I'm involved. Prior, they had asked if anyone would bring dessert. "CHOCOLATE CAKE," I proclaimed. I'd been wanting to make this cake for a while and it seemed like the perfect time. True to chocolate-cake-versatility, it fit right in with everything. Though the purpose of the event was to prepare for school in the fall, it was accompanied by an air of summer. Warm weather was playfully teasing us, dinner was cookout fare that is so anticipated and every year is met with such unmentioned excitement that it seems we've never eaten it before. But there's just nothing like it.

Friends, summer is near.

the wild hair and homemade granola

Two weekends ago held an earthy day... It was Friday and I'd finished classes and resolved to stay on campus to do some things. However, five minutes into settling in at one my favorite quiet places, I realized I just couldn't do it. Resolution? Go home and nap. Reality? Not so much. The progression of actual events went as such: Enter the house and notice the unfortunate scent of damp towels. Swiftly waltz to the little building in my backyard that houses the laundry machine. On my way out, notice a broom. Snatch. Sweep. No more pollen on my porch. Or my steps. Ponder about a rake. Found. Commence removal of pine needle layers. Discoveries made: fresh, perfect dirt and once-treasured stepping stones. Also roots too robust for my hands, finally halting this wild hair of mine.

And then I proceeded to pick fresh rosemary from my parents' garden whilst chatting with my best friend about life, dreams, and the remarkably no-longer-surprising fact that we are always working through the same things, even though we haven't lived in the same town for five years.

And then this happened. It was an earth-day on Summerville Avenue for sure.

I had never made homemade granola until about a month ago, but had wanted to since I discovered how much sugar is in the store stuff. This batch was my second go-around... And way tastier than store bought!

Some of my best friends live in a house just a couple of blocks away. Since I moved into my own house, theirs has been my second home... The place I can walk, ride my bike, or drive (if I'm feeling lazy) to if I need some company or wisdom or just want to relish in friendships. These friends have been some of my dearest since I've come to college- sweet souls who love Jesus and life and joy.

Last week, my second home temporarily became my first. One of these sweet sisters was out of town and offered her bed and space while she was gone. I jumped at the offer, excited to spend the week elsewhere from my home, which easily is lonely. And my goodness, the Franklin girls couldn't have blessed me more than they did.

trisha and suzi's no-bake cookies

Funny how certain things just take you right back, wherever that destination actually is.

I can't recall a certain memory of eating these cookies, but everything about them sent me to the guilty pleasure I can always remember when eating them. I'm telling you, these cookies are not great for you. But they are so unbelievably delicious.

My mom has perfected these over the years, beginning in her youth as she grew up in the No-Bake Wonderland that is western Pennsylvania. She and Trisha, the best friend with whom I am so acquainted due to stories of childhood, would whip these up and then eat pizza (since there was no such delicacy in the Duryea household) and have themselves the best of times. Sometimes I'll ask my mom about these stories. Sometimes they just come up. Or sometimes we visit family and she points out all the places of her childhood. Whatever the situation, her eyes unfailingly brighten when she recounts her memories. She grins in genuine nostalgia, and it's as if she's reliving it all right then and there. The pizza. The laughter. The snow-dampened socks.  And the bonus spoonfuls of sugar tossed into the cookies because they were ten years old and nothing else mattered but the extra grit it gave.