Alyse's Special Recipe

The first thing Alyse did was turn on the lamp over the sink instead of the overhead light.

It was early enough that the kitchen could still pretend it wasn’t awake—early enough that the house held its breath in that soft space between night and morning. Outside, the backyard sat still and black, winter-muted, while the window above the counter held Alyse’s reflection like a quiet witness: hair twisted up, sweater sleeves pushed to her wrists, eyes that had learned how to look steady even when her chest wanted to splinter.

She set her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door—keys, then phone, then the folded note she’d slid out of her tote like it might bite.

“Donovan.”

Her nephew had handed it to her the way boys did when pride and need were wrestling inside the same ribcage—shoulders squared, jaw set, like he didn’t care one way or the other. But he’d hovered too long near the fellowship hall doorway after Wednesday night Bible study, the new acting pastor of Hope Street trying to look like a man who didn’t still need his Auntie.

Alyse had opened it later on the couch, feet tucked under her, Baldwin piano silent in the next room like it was eavesdropping.

The note wasn’t long.

Auntie Lyse,

If you make those brownies again, can you put the good chocolate in them?

And cut mine into the big squares.

Also… can you write my name on the foil like you did last time?

—Donovan

P.S. Don’t forget I’m acting pastor. So… make them church-appropriate.

Alyse had laughed out loud at that last line—one sharp burst that surprised her. Then, just as quickly, the laugh had settled into something quieter. The kind of quiet that lived with her lately.

Now she smoothed the note on the counter with the heel of her hand, aligning it like it was official paperwork. The paper had a faint smudge at the bottom, like he’d pressed too hard, erased, pressed again.

Like he’d been nervous to ask.

She opened the pantry. The hinge squeaked, tired and familiar. Alyse scanned shelves the way she scanned students’ faces—automatically counting what was there, what was missing, what might be substituted and what absolutely could not.

Cocoa powder: half a canister.

Chocolate chips: the bargain bag, wrinkled like it had been through something.

Flour: enough.

Sugar: enough.

Eggs: she’d need more.

Butter: she’d need more.

The “good chocolate”: not here.

She shut the pantry with her hip and leaned back against the counter, exhaling through her nose.

In another season of life, she might have turned this into a whole production—music in the background, apron tied just right, a slow stroll through the fancy grocery store like she had nowhere else to be. But lately, her days didn’t ask for sparkle. They asked for structure. They asked for her to keep showing up.

She grabbed a pen and a sticky note.

GROCERY LIST

Unsalted butter (2 sticks)

Eggs (1 dozen)

Dark chocolate bar (70% or higher)

Dutch-process cocoa powder

Semi-sweet chocolate chips (good brand)

Vanilla extract

Espresso powder (optional, but do it)

Powdered sugar (for dusting)

Heavy-duty aluminum foil

She paused, tapped the pen, then added:

Pecans (optional—do not warn Donovan)

Alyse stuck the note on the fridge beside church drafts and calendars and reminders that looked like they belonged to three different lives.

Then she moved.

Coat. Keys. Boots. The quiet click of the front door.

The morning air met her like cold honesty.

The grocery store was nearly empty—early shift workers, retirees, and folks who looked like they were avoiding their own houses. Alyse moved aisle to aisle with purpose, basket on her arm, reading labels like she was reading motives.

She paused in front of the chocolate longer than she meant to.

Too many bars. Too many promises wrapped in shiny paper.

She reached for a 70%, hesitated, switched to 72%, then back again. Her mouth pressed into a line.

“You over there taking that chocolate serious,” a voice said behind her.

Alyse turned.

Alicia stood there bundled in a puffer coat, eyes bright, holding a basket with oranges, bread, and—because the Lord had jokes—two boxes of brownie mix.

Alyse stared. “So, you cheatin’-cheatin’.”

Alicia’s mouth twitched. “I’m being efficient.”

“Efficient don’t taste like love,” Alyse said, sliding the dark chocolate into her basket.

Alicia stepped closer, squinting at the label like she was evaluating a suspect. “Who you baking for?”

Alyse didn’t bother to dodge it. “Donovan asked.”

Alicia’s face softened immediately. “Awe. Acting Pastor Donovan? Did he?”

Alyse’s lips tried not to smile. “He did. Acting Pastor Donovan who still calls me ‘Nan-Nan’ when he’s trying to get something special.”

Alicia laughed. “That’s real.”

Alyse tipped her basket slightly, guarding the goods. “And before you start—yes, I’m cutting them into big squares.”

Alicia smiled—small, genuine. “He does love those big squares.”

“He wrote it like an executive order,” Alyse said, and her voice stayed light, but the warmth underneath it was steady.

Alyse turned her basket a little, guarding the contents like a secret. “You up in here buying brownie mix when you could just come to my house and learn how to do it right.”

Alicia tilted her head. “Ms. Alyse, you know I got work. I don’t have time to be measuring and sifting and—”

Alyse stepped closer, just enough to make the point. “You got time to stand here and argue, though.”

Alicia laughed, caught. “Touché.”

Alyse’s eyes drifted back to the shelves. She took down a small jar of espresso powder, held it up. “This is the part where folks act brand new.”

Alicia’s nose wrinkled. “You putting coffee in brownies?”

Alyse lowered her voice like she was telling church gossip. “Not enough to taste coffee. Just enough to make the chocolate taste like it paid its tithes.”

Alicia made a sound—half laugh, half gasp. “Ms. Alyse, you so silly.”

“Am I wrong?” Alyse asked.

Alicia’s grin widened. “You not.”

Alicia nodded toward the brownie mix in her basket. “So… you making extra? For the people?”

Alyse stared at her, deadpan. “Alicia.”

“What?” Alicia lifted her shoulders. “I’m just asking.”

“You want the big squares too?”

Alicia’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “I mean… if you offering.”

Alyse leaned in slightly. “You know what you are?”

“A child of God,” Alicia said quickly.

Alyse laughed despite herself. “A shameless one.”

Alicia grinned. “Thank you.”

Alicia’s smile stayed, but her eyes flickered—just a little. Alyse caught it.

“Baby, you alright?” Alyse asked, quieter now.

Alicia looked away, adjusting her grip on her basket. “Yes ma’am, I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Alyse didn’t push. She didn’t interrogate. She just nodded. She’d learned that sometimes the kindest thing was to leave a door open without dragging someone through it.

Hope Street was in a tender place. Donovan was holding the pulpit with young hands and old pressure. Matthew was back from rehab, present but not ready—showing up in the pews, sitting quiet, letting Donovan lead without reaching for what used to be his. Some people respected it. Some people didn’t know what to do with it. And everyone had an opinion they felt entitled to.

Alyse turned her cart. “Come on,” she said, practical. “If you’re gonna be in my business, you might as well help me pick butter.”

Alicia fell into step beside her, relief slipping back into her shoulders like a coat.

Back at Alyse’s house, the kitchen warmed into life.

She set groceries on the counter. Butter thumped softly. Eggs clicked in their carton. Chocolate bars landed like a promise.

Alicia sat at the table, elbows propped, watching like she was at a cooking show. “So, what’s the plan, Nan— I mean, Ms. Alyse.”

Alyse arched a brow. “Don’t start calling me that.”

Alicia smiled sweetly. “My bad.”

Alyse pulled out a metal 9x13 pan and a roll of heavy-duty foil.

“Not just brownies,” she said. “Brownies with a little backbone.”

Alicia’s eyes danced. “Oh Lord.”

Alyse lined the pan with foil, pressing it into the corners. “This is how you lift them out clean,” she said. “No stuck edges. No tragedy.”

Alicia leaned forward. “So you can lift the whole thing out?”

“Exactly.” Alyse tapped the foil. “And cut them… big squares,” Alyse said dryly.

Alicia sat back, impressed. “Okay, Martha Stewart.”

Alyse shot her a look. “Hush guh.”

Alicia held up her hands. “My bad.”

Alyse moved with a kind of quiet rhythm—preheating the oven to 350°F, setting bowls out, measuring cups clinking softly. The kitchen smelled like possibility, like the start of something good.

She slid a recipe card onto the table in front of Alicia.

Alicia picked it up. “You wrote this?”

Alyse reached for the cocoa powder. “Yes, ma’am. This is the real deal. Put this in your little cookbook app if you want.”

Alicia read aloud, slow, like she was tasting the words.

Alyse’s “Good Chocolate” Fudgy Brownies (Donovan-Approved)

Pan: 9x13-inch (lined with foil and greased)

Oven: 350°F

Ingredients

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter

8 oz dark chocolate (70%+), chopped

1 ½ cups granulated sugar

½ cup light brown sugar

4 large eggs (room temp if you can)

2 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp espresso powder (optional but recommended)

¾ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder

1 cup all-purpose flour

½ tsp salt

1 ½ cups semi-sweet chocolate chips

Optional: ½ cup chopped pecans

Optional topping: powdered sugar for dusting

Directions

Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 9x13 pan with foil, leaving overhang; grease foil.

Melt butter and chopped dark chocolate together (stovetop or microwave) until smooth. Cool 5 minutes.

Whisk in sugars. Add eggs one at a time, whisking well after each.

Stir in vanilla and espresso powder.

Sift in cocoa powder, flour, and salt. Fold gently until just combined.

Fold in chocolate chips (and pecans if using).

Pour into pan. Bake 25–32 minutes, until edges are set and center is just slightly soft.

Cool completely. Lift out using foil overhang. Cut into big squares—especially the Donovan pieces.

Alicia looked up slowly. “You said ‘Donovan pieces.’”

Alyse didn’t blink. “He requested it.”

Alicia nodded like she understood the seriousness of the assignment. “This is ministry.”

“That part,” Alyse murmured.

She placed a pot on the stove and dropped in the butter. It began to soften and slide, turning glossy as it melted. Alyse added the chopped dark chocolate, stirring with a wooden spoon. The chocolate resisted at first, then surrendered, melting into the butter until it became one smooth, dark river.

The smell rose up and filled the kitchen, the kind that made you feel safe even if you didn’t know why.

Alicia closed her eyes briefly. “That smells like… somebody loves you.”

Alyse kept stirring. “That’s the goal.”

Alicia leaned forward. “Okay, so this part is where people mess up, right?”

Alyse cracked the first egg with one hand, clean and quick. “This is where people rush,” she corrected, dropping the egg in. “Don’t rush.”

She whisked, slow and steady. When she whisked in the sugar, the batter thickened. The mixture turned satiny, obedient. Vanilla bloomed immediately—sweet, familiar, the kind of smell that made a house feel like it had history.

Alicia glanced at Alyse’s face—studying her the way you study someone when you’re trying to figure out what they’re not saying.

She then watched Alyse’s hands the way people watched steady things. Like they needed proof that steadiness still existed.

“You good?” Alicia softly asked.

Alyse’s whisk paused for a half-second.

The kitchen was warm. The oven hummed. Outside, the day had fully arrived. Inside, Alyse’s hands were still.

She picked the whisk back up. “I’m… managing,” she said, and it wasn’t dramatic. It was just honest.

Alicia nodded like she accepted that answer the way adults accept weather. “You always do.”

Then she tapped in espresso powder, barely a teaspoon. It vanished into the batter like a secret.

Alicia’s eyebrows lifted. “So, it really don’t taste like coffee?”

Alyse slid the whisk toward her. “Here. Smell.”

Alicia leaned in, cautious, then her eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Exactly.” Alyse took the whisk back. “Now, imagine that baked.”

Alicia sat back in her chair, hands clasped. “I might actually throw these brownie mixes away.”

“Don’t be wasteful,” Alyse said, but she couldn’t hide the smile.

She sifted cocoa powder into the bowl, dark as velvet. Flour followed—pale, quiet. Salt—just enough to remind sweetness who’s in charge.

Alyse folded everything in gently, the batter thickening until it looked like something you could build a life on. She poured in chocolate chips at the end, and they disappeared with a soft rustle, like they were sinking into comfort.

There was a pause between them.

“Donovan been carrying a lot,” Alicia said quietly.

Alyse folded in cocoa and flour, slow. “He has.”

“He tries to act like he grown,” Alicia added.

Alyse’s mouth lifted—small. “He is grown enough to be acting pastor. He’s still my nephew.”

Alicia nodded. “And he still calls you ‘Girlfriend’ when he wants something special?”

Alyse glanced at her. “Last week he said, ‘Girlfriend… don’t say no.’ Like I’m his little friend from down the street.”

Alicia laughed. “He is funny. And now that I know you’re girlfriend, I’m okay. I was almost gone when he said it the third time.”

Alyse folded in the chocolate chips. “He’s surviving the best way he knows how. And he’s the only one who can refer to me as ‘girlfriend’.”

She poured the batter into the pan, smoothed it flat, slid the pan into the oven and set the timer. The small beep felt like a tiny promise.

The timer beeped after a while, and the brownies came out with that perfect crackle on top—edges set, center still tender. Alyse let them cool, because she hadn’t reared any heathens.

When they were ready, she lifted the slab out with the foil, set it on the cutting board, and cut.

And yes—she cut the squares bigger.

Alyse wrapped the pan carefully, pressed her palm across the top, then took a marker and wrote in bold letters:

DONOVAN — BIG SQUARES

FROM AUNTIE LYSE

Alicia stood beside her, quiet. “He’s gonna act like he don’t care.”

Alyse tucked the pan under her arm. “He’s gonna care.”

Alicia followed her to the door. The cold air slipped in as Alyse stepped onto the porch.

Alicia asked softly, “You want me to bring it to Hope Street?”

Alyse shook her head. “No dear, I’m taking it. These brownies aren’t for church.”

Alicia straightened. “Oh.”

Alyse slipped her coat on, balancing the pan easily. “He didn’t ask for them for church. He asked for them for him.”

Alicia’s mouth curved slowly. “That sounds like Donovan.”

Alyse chuckled under her breath. “That boy didn’t mention a single soul at Hope Street. Not one deacon, not one usher, not even the choir. Just big squares. His name on the foil. The good chocolate.”

Alicia laughed. “So, he not sharing?”

Alyse shook her head as she opened the door. “Maybe one or two—if he’s feelin’ generous.”

“For whom?” Alicia asked.

Alyse stepped onto the porch, the cold air brushing her cheeks.

“Could be you,” she said winking over her shoulder. “Could be a professor he’s trying to soften up. Could be no one at all.”

Alicia grinned. “Brownies for brownie points.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Alyse replied. “He didn’t even pretend otherwise.”

She adjusted the foil once more, smoothing it like she always did, then added, almost fondly, “Acting pastor or not, he’s still strategic.”

Alicia laughed outright now. “So, the pulpit don’t get these?”

“No, ma’am,” Alyse said. “The pulpit gets sermons. These are for survival.”

Alicia nodded, understanding settling in. “That actually makes sense.”

Alyse hesitated at the bottom step, the house warm behind her, the pan steady in her arms.

“Everyone keeps expecting him to be noble all the time,” she said quietly. “To share everything. To lead and give and smile and carry grown folks’ expectations like he asked for them.”

Alicia’s smile softened.

Alyse walked to the car, holding the pan like it mattered—like it was more than dessert, like it was one small, steady way of saying:

I see you. I heard you. I’m still here.

She closed the door gently.

Whatever he did with them—hid them, hoarded them, shared them selectively like currency—was his business. This wasn’t about feeding a crowd or making a point.

This was about a boy who carried a pulpit on his shoulders all week wanting something just for himself.

And Alyse, practical as ever, had no problem honoring that.

In the quiet morning air, that was enough.