Cakes We Have Known

After weeks of school deadlines, work deadlines, and time out for strep throat, the Crankies found themselves on a Friday afternoon with time on their hands. The day cried out for recreational baking, and the Crankies answered the call. Gardener Friend had turned them on to the recipe on the back of the German Chocolate box; the Crankies consider her a reliable source, and not just because of that thing she does with her blender and the margarita mix. Faced with the empirical data, however, Meta Cranky quailed. She cannot serve a cake involving eight eggs and 3.5 cups of butter unless someone significant is certifiably dead or recently born. The Crankies found a slightly less caloric alternative, and no one has asked for three cups of butter on the side.

MC has told small Crankies that their lives would be different if she could make piecrust; she sincerely believes that piecrust is a quality of life issue. A house with an efficiently working rolling pin operates on a rareified plane, like a household where people casually lapse into Latin. MC can produce a pie, but the crust is an awkward exercise rather than a joyous, confident celebration of sugar and fat. The undertaking is not unlike P.G. Wodehouse's description of the "furtive shame, the shifty hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to speak French." It can be done, certainly, but at what cost.

Still, cakes require no apology. MC's menu rotates around a half dozen or so that are forgiving and have ingredients generally found in the pantry. Back in the day, she thought highly of Mrs. Melton's Pear Cake, which always arrived from Denton in a paper sack. Not until she read the instructions did MC glean that the paper sack was part of the recipe. Take Mrs. Melton's cake out of the oven and put it in a paper sack for some completely arbitrary amount of time. Let's say 2.25 minutes. And then you're done. MC has absolutely no excuse for not asking Mrs. Melton, Hey, what's the deal with that paper bag? when she had a chance. Now it's lapsed into the fog of mystery like Piltdown Man, or what John Edwards ever saw in Rielle Hunter.

Mrs. Melton's Pear Cake requires pears, and that means planning and organization. Yet even a person on deadline who has been eating Ramen noodles for a week can make Chocolate Oatmeal Cake out of available materials. Jacki and Hadacol gave MC this nicely typed recipe card back in Age of Metternich. Jacki said, essentially, Take this, you won't be sorry. When MC pulled out a pencil to copy it down, Jackie graciously offered the very same card, saying she'd long since memorized it. With this baby, you get your yin (the thrill of chocolate and coffee) along with your yang (good-for-you oatmeal). It's like putting Metamucil (or Colon Blow, as Hazzir calls it) in your milkshake. Two great tastes that, when combined, will stave off intestinal cancer.

Perhaps someday MC will wield a pastry bag with enough flair to wildly misspell in icing something worthy of Cakewrecks (Thanks for being our "Dad" remains a fav). Or finally become proficient in parchment paper and produce those multi-layered beauties that get served up on Aunt Minnie's Fostoria cake plate. Until then, we'll rely on an enthusiastic audience to move our product.
--MC