Sacher torte! Sacher torte!
The audience’s demands were clear. Sacher torte it would be for dessert. Of course: it was Anna’s specialty.
Why have I never heard about this famous dessert of yours?
Matthias asked, lover of chocolate himself.
Anna turned deep red.
I forgot.
She honestly had.
The recipe for Sacher torte and memory of her making it had been misplaced, along with many other things, somewhere in her anorexic mind sometime over the hazy past few years. Like names, addresses, faces she used to know. Entire hours, days, months of her life. Like mornings that began without an alarm clock, uninterrupted nights. A closet once full of summer dresses that she could actually wear. Winters that were not so painfully cold, summer days that were truly warm. Like the taste of dark chocolate, rich espresso, and brandy infused in the Sacher torte.
It was all for the best, she would think whenever she noticed she was forgetting. What she could not remember, she would not miss.
But now she needed the recipe. It had to be here somewhere. She found it on the back of a black-and-white postcard in one of Maman’s cookbooks.
Had it really contained so many eggs? She cut the number in half. The butter and dark chocolate too … Actually, she would skip the butter and swap the sugar with sweetener.
She used to make whipped cream to top the Sacher torte, but it was so uselessly unhealthy.…
And Anna! Don’t forget the whipped cream!
Fine, she would make whipped cream. On the side.
While she bustled about the little cubicle that was a Parisian version of a kitchen, her father, husband, and sister were whispering in the other room:
We cannot go to the Christmas market! She’ll freeze! Have you seen how many layers she already has on in here?
But we always go, and to midnight mass.
Well, this year we will not,
Sophie snapped.
I also think we should limit our outings in general in the evenings. Forget the restaurants, we can eat at home. She will be more comfortable here.
That reminds me, I need to slip out before the last superette closes to buy more apples, otherwise there will be nothing she can eat.
What about a baguette?
Have you seen her eat bread yet?
Matthias, has she been eating bread?
Matthias had no idea. He had not seen her eating anything lately.
Someone’s stomach grumbled. All their stomachs grumbled.
I am hungry. Aren’t you?
I am starving,
said Sophie,
but it is so hard to eat around her! She makes me feel like a pig! She had broth and lettuce for lunch—
I thought she had some of your lentil stew,
Matthias countered, a little defensively,
and the fruit salad with coulis for dessert.
Pay attention, Matthias. She only took some soup too, because she was trying to please me. She dumped it in the sink while we were talking, and when she saw the coulis, she said she didn’t feel like fruit salad and had an apple instead.
Sophie was still whispering, but pointedly.
Papa, you should get the apples before the superette closes.
She looked at Matthias hopefully:
And maybe a few pears and bananas?
He shook his head.
Just apples then. Oh, and Papa, make sure you get coffee too.
How can we have run out already?
No one answered. Anna’s voice called out from the kitchen:
Could someone come and take a look at this please? Something went wrong with the recipe.