Cate's Chocolate Crumble Brownies

When Cate was finished shelling the pecans — which she had gathered earlier from under a tree that the chapter president of the Territory Daughters of Arizona claimed to have been planted in 1848, the year of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo — she pressed in a thumb tack at the top of her cutting board, to use as a guide for chopping the nuts to the proper size.

This extra precaution which she now felt compelled to take, she blamed on Mr. Zeimmer, the editor of the newspaper, who had the previous year managed to immortalize her brownies by mentioning them in his weekly ‘Goin’s on Around Town’ column:

“At last Monday’s 1954 Independence Day celebrations held at Arizona Park, this reporter’s certitude that there are no such things as man-made miracles was shaken to its core when he happened upon and subsequently indulged in, Mrs. T.A. ‘Cate’ Hodges’s Chocolate Crumble Brownies.’ It is, of course, a scientifically established fact that that great American invention, the chocolate brownie, is neither cake nor cookie, but instead something altogether different. This said, Mrs. Hodges’s concoction, so deliciously and simultaneously both chewy and crumbly, elevates that conundrum to a hitherto unknown height!”

Pushing the nuts atop the other dry ingredients in the mixing bowl, Cate thought, not for the first time, that there are probably no sillier men in the world than newspapermen. Of course, her husband, Thomas, was also prone to silliness (though not in the high-horsed manner of Mr. Zeimmer!). Just yesterday, he had begun construction of a backyard treehouse platform for the purpose of watching birds — of which he knew the names of all southwestern species. Turning seventy-five, he had contended, gave him license to do such things.

Cate cracked the last of the seven required eggs into a tea cup, and, after ensuring herself of its freshness, slid it into the mixing bowl to join the others. Then, seeing that it was nearly midnight (She had learned the hard way her first year as an Arizona newlywed — three days in bed with heatstroke — to do her summertime baking late at night), she switched on the portable radio, as she wanted to hear the rebroadcast of Saturday’s ‘Louisiana Hayride’ — thinking she might as well find out what all the stink around town was about some fellow named Elvis.

Because the batch was a last-minute request from the Territory Daughters (an organization in whose membership she thanked her lucky stars that she did not qualify), for their brunch the next day, she replaced one of the tablespoons of vegetable oil with one of shortening, so as to speed up the ‘crumble.’

As she blended the mixture, using the extra-long wooden spoon her husband had carved for her, Cate noticed Sugarfoot to be sitting in the adjoining hallway — which was unusual as the dog rarely left Thomas’s bedside after he had retired.

Sugarfoot, her husband had informed her, was his ‘last dog.’ His first, Curley, had died of old age while Thomas was off fighting Spaniards in Cuba with Teddy Roosevelt. Since then, one after the other, he had proceeded through life with a dog at his side.

Above Sugarfoot, on the hall’s wall, hung photographs of their three children, including Ben, now eleven years resting in the city cemetery — having jumped from an airplane to his death over France a week after D-day.

“I got nothing for you here, so get on back!” she scolded Sugarfoot. But the dog did not budge, keeping its mournful stare upon her. And so Cate returned her focus to her task, because knowing when to stop blending was very much key to a favorable outcome.

When she was finished, Cate used her rubber spatula to gently coax the glistening mass into a buttered and floured baking pan — which she then placed into the oven, preheated to three-hundred and sixty-five degrees.

The Louisiana Hayride was now on, and she took a seat at the table where she flipped through the latest Life Magazine. But when she happened upon a picture of President Eisenhower, playing golf, she laid it back down.

Suddenly, Cate felt a pang — of confusion maybe — and stood up. ‘Had she forgotten something?’ she wondered. ‘The extract of vanilla?’ Turning, she saw that Sugarfoot was no longer in the hallway.

Her heart now pounding, Cate moved for the hallway, and then down it for the bedroom — where, after turning on the light — she found Thomas to be lying on his side, on the edge of the bed, with one foot hanging down, touching the floor — as if he were trying to get up.

Atop the bed, Sugarfoot lay tightly against her husband’s back — as if he were trying to help.

“Thomas, wake up!” Cate demanded. But the man did not move.

Leaning down, she shook the foot that was still on the bed — and her husband’s body slipped to the floor.

On his way back to Arizona after his discharge from the army, and an overdone month in New York City, Thomas Archelus Hodges had come marching through Nashville, Tennessee — where he chanced upon the Junior Daughters of the American Revolution Saturday morning bake sale. Upon sampling the wares of one Miss Cate Carson, he had declared to her: “You know, these soda biscuits of yours, they’re pretty damn … pardon my french … good! I probably ought to marry you!”

Which he did, after hiring on at the stockyards and wooing her for six months. But the clincher for seventeen-year-old Cate, the last of nine children, had been the overheard conversation between her father and mother, discussing how “grand” it would be if “Cate could just stay on and take care of us in our old age.”

When she heard her baking timer ring, Cate rose from where she had taken a seat, in her dressing chair, to lay the comforter over Thomas, before returning to the kitchen.

After the brownies had been covered and set on a cooling rack, she headed for Ben’s room, to turn down the blankets.

At six, as was her routine, Cate rose and baked soda biscuits for breakfast — unthinkingly making three too many, which she tossed out back for ‘Thomas’s birds.’ At seven, she dressed; her shopping frock would have to do. At eight, she exited the house that Thomas had built for her — and that they had shared for over fifty years — carrying the brownies in a cardboard box. She would deliver them in time for the ten-thirty brunch — after taking care of matters-at-hand at the courthouse.

Along the way, a young woman, whose name Cate did not know, harvesting summer squash in her garden, cheerfully called out: “Good morning, Mrs. Hodges! Don’t guess you’d happen to have a brownie in there for me, would ya?”

To her eternal confusion, and even some consternation, from the day of her arrival in the still strange place called Arizona, Cate had been well liked. Cleveland, Thomas’s older brother, had reflected on this phenomenon, offering: “You know Cate, I think people around here take to you because, even though you’re a bit standoffish, and you speak in that strange accent … well … you have a dry, self-effacing, humorous way about you.”

Cleveland, dead now, had been an esteemed attorney, as well as, for a time, mayor. Thomas, on the other hand, not one for great aspirations, had had a forty-year career working for Claud Milner — first as a ranch hand, then as a clerk at Milner’s Hardware store, in town. But whereas Cate may have been ‘liked,’ Thomas was probably the most beloved individual in the county. He seemed to have an irresistible personality, and she reckoned three hundred or more might turn out for his funeral.

After entering the courthouse, Cate stood for a time in the large hall — wondering to which official she would need to report Thomas’s death. Finally, she questioned an old Navajo woman — engaged with emptying ashtray stands — who, upon learning that ‘Mr. Tom’ had passed, immediately burst into tears.

Ten minutes later, Cate found herself sitting in an empty jury room awaiting the county judge, himself, and musing upon the ridiculousness of the portrait on the wall of Andrew Jackson, with long wavy hair, heroically sitting atop a large, rearing white steed.

At nine-thirty, box of brownies in hand, Cate emerged from the courthouse — having been repeatedly assured by the judge that he would personally attend to all necessities, and adding: “Just don’t you return home until after lunch, ya’hear, Mrs. Hodges.”

On Main Street, the word apparently now out, she was confronted by Mrs. Zeimmer, the newspaper editor’s wife, offering hugs and her profuse condolences. There would be more of this to come, Cate knew.

As she approached the Community Hall, the venue for the brunch, a large car pulled up beside her, from which the chapter president of the Territory Daughters jumped out — and, after embracing Cate and exclaiming, “Oh, hon, I was so sorry to hear the tragic news!” she inquired: “Say, are those our brownies!?”