The Chocolate Cake Doppelgängerin

I am making yogurt, seven-grain bread, and broccoli mushroom quiche, while trying to think of what else besides Fionn Regan, Jenny Owen Youngs, Tricky, and Nouvelle Vague to put on a mix for Katie and John.

It's been quite a lovely weekend, with Friday night dinner with Zac, Alice, and Victoria in Zac's new abode, a cabin in the arboretum, a drink at Bab's with Ms. Isolt, leisurely Saturday brunch at Angelo's with Jeremy and Erika, a visit to K & J's place and an excursion with them to the Detroit Auto Show, perfectly sumptuous mole enchiladas (like I hadn't had since Austin!) at El Barzon restaurant (with an ecstatic private celebration happening next door), then a drink at Baile Corcaigh (I think that was the one, right K&J?). They gave me the most incredibly perfect Irish coffee I've ever had, with thick, sweet Irish cream on top. Gorgeous.

I got back home to the cottage after all the fun and collapsed for a good twelve hours of sleep! Today I've been totally useless, playing around on the internet and considering reading for my course on Material Culture and the Built Environment, and for 101 this week, but not. I finally went grocery shopping at about 9:30, and that was the first I got out of the house at all.

There was something that happened on Saturday night that was so quintessentially of-my-life in that serendipitous way I can never quite fathom, but that always peeks out its head when I'm least expecting it. John asked me just as I was leaving Detroit, "Are you going to blog about that, or are we?" I said that I would. But I don't know that there is a way to capture it that really does it justice. Well, I will try. And John and Katie, you can do too, if you like. ;)

We were just arriving at the pub, settling our coats on the bench as we sat down at our small round tables nestled among the dark wood paneling and stained glass. And a man strode right toward me, saying: "Are you the chocolate cake girl?" I said, "No." He said, "Oh, my goodness, you have a double." And I said, "Can I be the chocolate cake girl?" He told me yes. Katie, John, and I sat, and after a minute or two of giggling about the oddness of this puzzling encounter, we had a lovely, intimate, far-reaching conversation with discussions and stories about life and relationships, work and Middlesex, friends and who knows what-all. We'd completely forgotten about the Chocolate Cake Fellow.

But then, just after we'd paid our bill and zipped and buttoned up our coats and jackets and were about to walk out the door, he came back, walking right toward us with a thick slice of luscious, rich chocolate cake on a plate with three forks. He said, "Wait! Don't you want your chocolate cake??" And we laughed with surprise, and still a good degree of puzzlement, and he said, "Let me wrap it up for you." I thanked him profusely, he disappeared and reappeared a moment later with the cake neatly hidden away in a to-go box, and I introduced myself, and he told me his name was Jeff. We left with the cake, never quite knowing what it was that I'd done to deserve the cake.

This morning, I had chocolate cake for breakfast with my coffee. It is so rich, I hardly made a tiny dent in it.