Who doesn't like licking the wooden spoon when a cake has been mixed? When we were children this activity signalled the beginning of Christmas. My mother was a wonderful baker of a very special Christmas cake. It was filled with fruit, red and green cherries, candied peel, raisins, currants, sultanas, apple, spices and a far from wise helping of sherry, brandy and whatever you're having yourself. She put at least two inches of homemade almond paste, duly seasoned on the waiting cake as Christmas drew closer. This glowing, sugary, yellow cape was covered with white icing and decorated with non edible reindeer and fir trees saved from year to year.
When mother made the family Christmas cake she made another for Granny Jane. Our paternal grandmother lived 'down the country' on a farm with two adult sons known as, the boys -- the two of her ten children who, like my father, were not in a far away land. Mother let us make marzipan decorations for Granny's cake. We worked seriously to create suspect looking cows, bow legged horses and jaundiced pigs. The cake was then transported courtesy of the Laundry Van driver along country roads and through sleepy towns to her farmhouse.
One year when Granny took the biscuit tin containing the cake from its hiding place it seemed lighter than usual. The boys sat quietly as Granny, who told the story to my father, cut a substantial slice.
There was a splintering sound, the icing cracked, the cake buckled as pellets of it scattered onto her embroidered tablecloth. She'd cut through a shell, there was nothing inside except a film of cake and an empty space. Granny chased the boys into the farmyard holding the knife aloft, shouting 'Happy Christmas indeed' before threatening to kill them. But they hadn't eaten it all -- they wouldn't dare. No, they'd had saved a generous portion for Granny.
When I lived in Dublin with my mother's friend Veronica, she made her Christmas cake in early October. Her motto was that, to be sure to be sure, the first edition must be sampled almost straight from the oven. She couldn't possibly wait for it to cool -- it would be a terrible waste of good whiskey! Even when I'd moved on and had a place of my own I'd wait for that phone call and her invitation to come over for the usual sampling of hot Christmas cake. We called this ritual 'drinking the cake'. I've had a longing for hot Christmas cake ever since but I'm afraid the consequent indigestion has become a deterrent.
The years passed and my mother continued to make her special cake. Each New Year she'd invite a few neighbours for a glass of sherry and a slice of cake. Gradually there were hints. 'Mrs.Lannigan's daughter Maisie had made a magnificent cake, the flavour was out of this world. Mrs. Byrne's Angela decorated their cake and you wouldn't believe it was done by human hand. Was it like the cake we used to decorate for Granny Jane, I asked pretending innocence? 'It was not!' I was told, with the addendum that it was about time I took responsibility for the family cake. 'Oh yes.' said Mrs. Madigan, 'sure you must be an expert, you've been watching your mammy for years.'
My husband and I discussed this cake making dilemma when another Christmas beckoned. I blame him entirely for what happened. We bought a weighty Christmas cake in a well known store. Having carefully studied the ingredients listed on the label I was happy that it more or less resembled those my mother used. But to be sure to be sure we inserted a metal skewer here and there on the surface of the bought cake and generously poured in some extra spirits. We made the almond paste and it was perfect. The white icing caused some difficulty though because overnight there was an avalanche and Santa was buried in snow.
We rescued the situation and set off for 'home' with our cake. My mother was delighted and said she'd reserve it for New Year. 'This will open their eyes,' she smiled. The phone rang on New Year's Day and it was my mother sounding slightly tipsy. 'That cake' she said 'was de del delicious. absolutely de del delicious, everybody agreed that they'd never tasted anything like it.' They want the recipe. You'll send it to me as soon as you can won't you? You see Mrs. Lannigan is making Maisies's wedding cake -- three tiers if you don't mind, and she thinks your recipe will be just perfect.'
Oh no, why hadn't we kept the label?
My ever resourceful husband had -- just to be sure to be sure
Good luck if you are icing a cake. I'll be back in a couple of days!
When mother made the family Christmas cake she made another for Granny Jane. Our paternal grandmother lived 'down the country' on a farm with two adult sons known as, the boys -- the two of her ten children who, like my father, were not in a far away land. Mother let us make marzipan decorations for Granny's cake. We worked seriously to create suspect looking cows, bow legged horses and jaundiced pigs. The cake was then transported courtesy of the Laundry Van driver along country roads and through sleepy towns to her farmhouse.
One year when Granny took the biscuit tin containing the cake from its hiding place it seemed lighter than usual. The boys sat quietly as Granny, who told the story to my father, cut a substantial slice.
There was a splintering sound, the icing cracked, the cake buckled as pellets of it scattered onto her embroidered tablecloth. She'd cut through a shell, there was nothing inside except a film of cake and an empty space. Granny chased the boys into the farmyard holding the knife aloft, shouting 'Happy Christmas indeed' before threatening to kill them. But they hadn't eaten it all -- they wouldn't dare. No, they'd had saved a generous portion for Granny.
When I lived in Dublin with my mother's friend Veronica, she made her Christmas cake in early October. Her motto was that, to be sure to be sure, the first edition must be sampled almost straight from the oven. She couldn't possibly wait for it to cool -- it would be a terrible waste of good whiskey! Even when I'd moved on and had a place of my own I'd wait for that phone call and her invitation to come over for the usual sampling of hot Christmas cake. We called this ritual 'drinking the cake'. I've had a longing for hot Christmas cake ever since but I'm afraid the consequent indigestion has become a deterrent.
The years passed and my mother continued to make her special cake. Each New Year she'd invite a few neighbours for a glass of sherry and a slice of cake. Gradually there were hints. 'Mrs.Lannigan's daughter Maisie had made a magnificent cake, the flavour was out of this world. Mrs. Byrne's Angela decorated their cake and you wouldn't believe it was done by human hand. Was it like the cake we used to decorate for Granny Jane, I asked pretending innocence? 'It was not!' I was told, with the addendum that it was about time I took responsibility for the family cake. 'Oh yes.' said Mrs. Madigan, 'sure you must be an expert, you've been watching your mammy for years.'
My husband and I discussed this cake making dilemma when another Christmas beckoned. I blame him entirely for what happened. We bought a weighty Christmas cake in a well known store. Having carefully studied the ingredients listed on the label I was happy that it more or less resembled those my mother used. But to be sure to be sure we inserted a metal skewer here and there on the surface of the bought cake and generously poured in some extra spirits. We made the almond paste and it was perfect. The white icing caused some difficulty though because overnight there was an avalanche and Santa was buried in snow.
We rescued the situation and set off for 'home' with our cake. My mother was delighted and said she'd reserve it for New Year. 'This will open their eyes,' she smiled. The phone rang on New Year's Day and it was my mother sounding slightly tipsy. 'That cake' she said 'was de del delicious. absolutely de del delicious, everybody agreed that they'd never tasted anything like it.' They want the recipe. You'll send it to me as soon as you can won't you? You see Mrs. Lannigan is making Maisies's wedding cake -- three tiers if you don't mind, and she thinks your recipe will be just perfect.'
Oh no, why hadn't we kept the label?
My ever resourceful husband had -- just to be sure to be sure
Good luck if you are icing a cake. I'll be back in a couple of days!
No comments:
Post a Comment