The meal finished, the old woman rose, walked to the counter, retrieved the cake, and proudly presented it to the family. Seven layers high was that dessert, and each person cut a huge slab for himself.
My grandmothers cooked wonderful meals. They had lived through The Great Depression, and as a result both knew how to make do with what the good Lord had given them for materials. Meals offered vegetables from the garden and side-meat. It might be nothing more than fried pieces of streaked bacon, but a meal without some kind of meat was a disappointment. I remember the pots of white beans that Mamaw Balch made. They had cooked all day, and the juices thickened the longer the beans simmered on the stove. Soup potatoes made appearances at dinnertime and suppertime. Cubes of potatoes floated in water that was colored off-white from the potato pieces, and yellow swirls on top of the liquid assured us that globs of butter had been added for taste. With every meal cornbread, biscuits, or white bread graced the table.
Mamaw Rector’s menus were different, but still delicious. She served plenty of mashed potatoes with lumps. Pork was her favorite meat, and she served everything from pork chops to pork roasts. Green beans, cooked cabbage, and field peas appeared as other side dishes. Mamaw Rector served biscuits more often than other breads. She made them from scratch, the method that turns lard and flour into heavenly tasting, fluffy bread servings. Cutting them in the middle and loading them with butter made something which humans are not worthy. Cold whole milk or iced sweetened tea helped to wash the mouthfuls down.
Both women specialized in making cakes. Mamaw Balch’s talents created yellow layer cakes. She made the special by adding different frostings. Chocolate frosting is what she most often used. Thick chocolate covering yellow cake that had just a tad of flatness to it was cut into large slabs for serving. For special occasions Mamaw whipped up caramel frosting. That stuff was a treat by itself, and I gladly would have eaten that sweet stuff without any cake under it.
Mamaw Rector’s desserts were the things from which legends arose. Stack cake was one of her prizewinners. She made multiple layers of cake. Those thin brown flat cakes she piled one upon the other. Between each of them she spread applesauce. When she finished the job, a cake could have as many as twelve stories. That cake soaked for days so that the juices from the fruit moistened the cake. We waited for the pronouncement that this mountain of delight was ripe for the eating. We looked at the gigantic work of art, and its most noticeable characteristic was the dip of one side. The cake listed as if it were a tire whose air leaked. The thing was cockeyed. Its deficient construction in no way affected the taste. We took pieces from the tall side or the deflated one; we just one wanted to taste this wonderful food.
Mamaw Rector also made a Christmas cake for many years. She used white layers of cake, and between them and covering the entire outside was coconut icing. This cake, too, she set back and allowed to soak in its own juices for a couple of days. The final touches for her coconut miracle was the placement of tiny pieces of cinnamon candy on the top and sides. The candy added a touch a zing to the sweetness, and its red coloring bled onto the white purity of the icing. A piece of this cake topping off a Christmas meal gave meaning to the phrase total contentment.
Both my grandmothers died years ago, one when I was nine and one when I was in college. Thirty-plus years have passed since I last enjoyed a piece of their cakes. I miss those desserts, and I miss the women who made them. Like their cakes, they had their eccentricities, but they loved family a provided for them. I wish that their secret recipes had survived so that my children could taste those desserts. Yet, I know that the goodness of the women can’t be baked into any recipe that they might have left behind. Maybe it’s better that their best things passed with them. That way, both women and desserts remain sweeter in my memory.
Joe Rector is the father of two grown children, 24 and 20. He has
spent the greater part of his career years teaching high school English in
Knoxville, Tennessee. He writes a weekly column for a community
newspaper with a circulation of approximately 20,000. He has published
several columns in church newsletters, and has published columns as a
guest columnist with The Knoxville News Sentinel.
