The other day at Mahjong one of the other women mentioned that her cousin had sent her their grandmother’s recipes. They’d been written on index cards and stored in an appropriately-sized filing box; and seeing that old-fashioned set-up again caused her to fondly remember her grandmother and her grandmother’s cooking.
October is the month of my mother’s birth, so I’ve been a bit nostalgic myself lately, recalling my mother and how she could be goofy and wise at the same time. She, too, had a recipe box with index cards. She put one recipe in it—her fruit cocktail cake—then it got pushed to the back of the cabinet, not to be seen again until she moved from the house years later. She did the same thing with my older sister’s baby book—got as far as the first tooth, then dropped it. And where was the record of my first tooth? Who cares? Obviously, the teeth came in—no need to mark every occasion. Starting a project and stopping was my mother’s habit, which I’ve been known to do also. No need to let life pass you by because you’re chronicling something that’s not terribly significant.
However, my Mahjong friend’s talk of recipes called to mind the only recipe of my mother’s that I have—her fruit cocktail cake. She was kind enough to write it out for me when I left home. Though we always called it “her” cake, I believe she found it in Good Housekeeping or Redbook in the early sixties. I make it occasionally and everybody gives oohs and aahs. It truly is a delicious cake.
Years ago—I believe we were living in The Hague—I took the cake to a potluck and, as expected, everybody raved. When one of the women asked for the recipe, I gave her a decisive “no.” I didn’t think I’d said anything wrong—I mean, she asked, and it was my right to refuse—but the look on her face told me otherwise. Oh dear, I’d been harsh. I softened it with this explanation:
“I’m a lackluster cook and this cake is the only halfway decent thing I have in my repertoire to bring to these group luncheons. How about I give you the recipe when we leave for our next posting?”
The part about being a lackluster cook is true. The part where I would give her the recipe before we moved away was not. After all, who’s to say we wouldn’t travel in the same circle again? Expats tend to flock to the same locations. Many times I said good-bye to a friend, only to run into her in the grocery store in another town, in another country a few months later.
As far as the recipe goes, the copy I have was scripted from memory in my mother’s hand forty years ago. The bit of paper it’s written on is now yellow and dirty from use, and the ink is faded, but I take comfort in seeing her writing. Also, like her, it’s a happy mess—out of order and incomplete. The first instruction in any baking recipe is to give the temperature and to preheat the oven, right? But if you follow the timeline in her instructions, she doesn’t mention preheating until after the ingredients have been blended and are ready to go in the oven. It’s like, “Oh, by the way, you should’ve preheated the oven.”
Also, an omission in the list of ingredients is half a cup of nuts and half a cup of brown sugar, to be sprinkled on top before baking. So when you get to that step, it’s a surprise. “Hm. I see I should’ve bought pecans and brown sugar at the store.”
And her “beat good” makes me laugh every time. Grammar, Mother! For the sauce she’s written “canned milk” without specifying evaporated or condensed (it’s evaporated); and it’s been years since I’ve heard the word “oleo,” which is now called margarine. I use butter.
Back then there was no need to identify what sort of fruit cocktail because there was 0nly one kind. But these days the grocery shelves boast a choice of sugar free, light, and organic. If you’re making this cake, go straight for the original heavy syrup which, to my dismay, is difficult to find because it’s hidden on the bottom shelf in the furthest section, as though the store is ashamed to stock such an unwholesome product. Processed fruit in overly sweet treacle may not be the healthiest choice, but in this instance it’s what’s called for.
Another rather important requirement not given in the recipe is that the cake should sit in the refrigerator, soaking in its rich sauce of sugar, butter, and evaporated milk for at least a day before consumption. Two days is better.
Then go ahead. Have a piece. But only the one. It’s best to make it for a large group so it’ll all be eaten, because you don’t want it sitting around your house calling your name.
Here it is, a little piece of my history.
This is one of The Waterfront Grill’s specialty Halloween drinks. I hate it when I spend fifteen dollars for a cocktail and it turns out to be too yucky to drink.
