December 21: My Gluten-Free Pound Cake

It continues to be a week of baking here!  We visited Columbia friends and relations over the weekend, so I just got around to baking my Saturday Cake on Monday.  I chose my GF pound cake loaves to give one as a gift and to have a treat for myself.  I deserve a treat or two this time of year because Christmas means cookies, hundreds of cookies, boxes of cookies...

Our family gives boxes of homemade cookies to our neighbors, teachers, friends and coworkers every year.  This tradition evolved out of longstanding practices and fond remembrances of our childhood.  For me, Christmas has always meant time in the kitchen.  Mom and I always made a cake for Christmas Dinner.  On Christmas Eve, my parents and I would have a picnic on the floor under the Christmas tree and we were allowed to open one present at the picnic before heading to midnight mass.  The picnic was usually sandwiches or cold dishes like fruit, cheese and pâté.  Starting in middle school, I was the chef for Christmas Eve supper.  At first, I just selected and prepared the picnic fare.  But then I decided to go "gourmet" and pick a dish that I had never tried before.  I would make a list of ingredients and a game plan for the timing of the dinner, Mom would help me shop and then I did the rest.

Cookies for Teachers, 1981

Before Christmas Eve though, Mom and I baked gingerbread cookies.  We made dozens of gingerbread cookies to give as gifts and we kept some to serve at our picnic.  When I was a freshman in high school, I made ginger-caricatures of my teachers.  Each character cookie was about nine inches tall and was presented in a box on the last day before holiday break.

While in the Secret Service, I made gingerbread and other cookies to share on Christmas day for all of us working at the command post or duty desk.  After my shift on Christmas, I hosted an open house for friends, colleagues and neighbors who couldn't travel.  The open house tradition of sparkling wine, egg nog and finger foods on Christmas afternoon continued until I retired from the USSS.

When we were dating in 2005, I made gingerbread cookies for Keith and the kids.  He loved the cookies and said that the flavor reminded him of some cookies called "fruit bars" from the Eclair Bakery in the Five Points neighborhood of Columbia.  Keith used to make a special trip to that bakery for a box of fruit bars to bring home to Georgia every time he visited Columbia.  He shared the fruit bars with friends and coworkers and eventually he started buying a couple of extra boxes in order to keep some for himself.  The Eclair closed during the 1990s and ever since then, he has been wishing for more of his favorite cookies.

He described the fruit bars to me in comparison to our gingerbread; the spice is the same, but the bars tasted fruitier, and the bars weren't crisp like the gingerbread, they were cookie-like on the outside, but chewy in the center.  There was a color difference between the golden-brown outside (top and bottom) of the bar and the soft, dark inside layer.

I fell in love with Keith and his nostalgia for fruit bars.  So, I was determined to figure out how to make the fruit bars he remembered.  I started with Mom's gingerbread recipe and then added, subtracted, took notes, asked for critiques and practiced through seven iterations until I got it right.

Now, South Carolina Fruit Bars are the foundation of our holiday cookie assortment.  We usually make three or four different types of cookies or small cakes for the boxes.  Fruit bars start the list and get the most compliments from recipients.  We even have a few people every year who beg for the recipe, but Keith says he will never allow me to share it!

We made 55 boxes of cookies this year plus a few dozen extra of each type for ourselves.  Each box is loaded with cookies, tied with a bow and delivered by the family dressed in hats like Santa's elves during Christmas week.  For a friend with a gluten-intolerant spouse, I made the gluten-free pound cake and packed it in a box marked "gluten-free."  Then I put the usual assortment of cookies in a box for her and tagged it, "full-of-gluten."

Yes, there are 40 pounds of flour and 28 pounds of butter in that cart!

This year the boxes contained Shortbread Hearts from The Silver Palate Cookbook (1982),  Christmas Cookies (rich butter cookies with cherries on top from Southern Living), and Bourbon Pecan Balls from The White House Chef Cookbook (1968) by René Verdon.

Verdon was the French chef chosen for the White House by Jacqueline Kennedy, a decision which garnered her much criticism at the time.  Cousin Pat gave me the cookbook as a gift when I was hired by the USSS and the Bourbon Pecan Balls were always a favorite at my open houses.  Some years we make gingerbread boys and girls and Apple Spice Bread.  When Keith worked for Georgia Shakespeare, we made Gingerbards (a silhouette likeness of William, himself, crafted out of gingerbread and royal icing).

But, the most important occupants in every box are the fruit bars that won Keith's heart.

The last cake of the year:  Japanese Fruit Cake

September 26: Hummingbird Cake

I am not sure why I've never made a Hummingbird Cake before.  It's a very popular cake in recipe books from the southern U.S.  There is much speculation about how the cake got its name and how it became popular in the South since bananas, cinnamon and pineapple are not native.  Much of the lore regarding the name comes from the sweetness and fruitiness of the cake being sweet enough to attract a hummingbird.  It seems like the cake's origin was from Jamaica (hence the tropical fruits) but the recipe proliferated after being featured in Southern Living magazine in the 1970's.

This recipe is from The Best of Georgia Farms cookbook, a collection of recipes from the Market Bulletin published by the Georgia Department of Agriculture.  It is an oil based cake, like a carrot cake, so it is moist and tender.  This Hummingbird Cake is far superior to a carrot cake (even mine, see March 28) because of the depth of flavor from the bananas.  Plus, there's never anything wrong with a cake containing both pecans and cream cheese frosting.  Perhaps it's called a Hummingbird Cake because it goes SO FAST.

My lack of experience with a Hummingbird Cake is even more baffling when I consider that it is my namesake cake.  Not a Samantha cake, Hummingbird Cake.  In Cherokee tradition, your mother's father names you, and in most respects the name is symbolic and not used on official documents like a birth certificate.  My mother's father, Blaine, named me Walelu (wah-leh-lu), hummingbird, at my birth.  I loved that I was named for a bird so quick and beautiful.  But the best attribute of hummingbirds, I think, is their bravery.  A hummingbird will fearlessly attack a much bigger bird, even an eagle, if its nest or family is in peril.  I know that bravery, like my name, comes from Blaine.

My full-blooded Cherokee grandfather was born on the reservation in 1915.  He was educated in a school on the reservation, run by the US government that kept children separated from their families not just by the content of the curriculum, but also by a tall fence.  His mother, Luzene Sequoyah Hill, had herself been removed from her family and shipped off to the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania for her childhood education.  The government removed her from her family, changed her hair, her language and her clothes to train her to be a domestic for a white family.  Remembering the pain of her own loss and homesickness made her walk down the mountain every day to stand outside the fence of the reservation school to watch over her own children.

Blaine 

There is a long and proud tradition in Native America of volunteering for the U.S. armed forces.  Blaine followed this tradition and a family legacy; he enlisted for the U.S. Army in 1938 and joined the 82nd Airborne paratroopers.  He fought in World War II and returned home.  He also fought in the Korean Conflict with the 101st Airborne and logged over 100 jumps in his career.  Back home, he and another Cherokee veteran, in full uniform,  would be pictured in newspapers nationwide as they were turned away from voting in the state of their birth, North Carolina.  Even though indians received US citizenship and the right to vote in 1924, many states refused to allow them to vote.

Maggie and Blaine

Blaine met my grandmother, Maggie, in Cherokee, NC when her family was there on vacation in 1945.  During their courtship, my grandmother and her best friend, who was also dating a soldier, branded their beaux's initials on their thighs (at stocking-top level) using the blazing red tips of matches.  At the time, in Fulton County, GA, interracial marriages were against the law.  So, after being refused in Atlanta, Blaine and Maggie drove to Lawrenceville, the county seat of Gwinnett County, to be married by an agreeable judge after hours.  My mother, their only child, was born the following year.  As a part of Blaine's military career, their little family lived in Mainz, Germany for a time while my mother was in elementary school.  Blaine and Maggie stayed together for as long as their clash of cultures and family pressures would allow.  After returning from Germany, the marriage ended and Blaine moved away from Atlanta.

Blaine, Mom and Maggie

Split oak baskets dyed with butternut or black walnut foraged by Blaine

My mother saw Blaine only sporadically as she grew up.  He would come to town to visit her and bring her gifts.  He never stayed in Atlanta long.

After I was born, he would continue to make visits to town at least once a year.  He lived for a time in Chicago, IL, Nashville, TN, and on the Cherokee reservation.  Whenever he visited, he brought us fantastic gifts; occasionally, fancy, store-bought items, along with items he created using traditional Cherokee methods.  When I was about seven years old, he brought me an umbrella; navy blue with a gold-tone, plastic handle studded with plastic cabochon "jewels."  I had never seen such a fancy umbrella in all of my life and I was afraid to use it in case I ruined or lost it.  It made me feel like a Victorian lady, as did the pairs of gloves he brought me on several occasions.

Blaine was an artist, a terrific wood carver.  He made carvings of animals that he sold at craft stores in Cherokee.  He made an indian-head-carved violin for my mother who played violin in high school.  When I was in fourth grade, he made me a dulcimer, and I learned to play it from a Foxfire artist in the mountains of North Georgia.  When I was in the fifth grade, he visited and brought me a Cherokee blowgun he had made himself.  The gun was made from straight, hollow, river cane and he had made darts complete with rabbit fur fletching.  He showed me how to use the blow gun using a target painted on a cardboard box in our back yard.  Blaine gave us split-white-oak baskets using oak and natural dyes (blood root, yellow root, butternut & black walnut) which he hiked into the mountains to gather.  Also, he would bring us sacks of black walnuts that he had gathered in the woods, or trout he had just caught that morning in the mountains.

Some of Blaine's animals:  swan, crane, wolf, buffalo and an incongruous giraffe.

Dulcimer and violin

Almost every time Blaine came to visit me and Mom, Maggie seemed to know somehow that he had been there to see us.  For years, she would ask on the day of his visit or in the days that followed, "have you heard from Blaine?"  Maggie never remarried, and I believe she always carried a torch for her ex-husband.  Blaine died in 1992.  Maggie hadn't asked about him in a long time by then, but shortly after he passed, she asked my mom if he had died.

I am surrounded by Blaine's tangible gifts of art and the best thing he made, my mom, the artist.  Lately, I have been thinking about news stories on marriage equality,voting rights, racism, patriotism, and true bravery.  I have trying to rely more on the power of instinct. And I have been thinking about my grandfather who named me after a brave and beautiful bird.

Next Saturday:  Lemon Cake

June 6: Spice Islands (?) Cake

Last week, while shopping for vintage books at a thrift store, our son, Colin, found a treat for me.  He found a set of activity books from the American Girls Collection for their character named Samantha who lived at the turn of the twentieth century.  Apparently, American Girls' Samantha also enjoys cooking, making crafts, trying-on new outfits and producing plays.  Sadly, there was only one cake recipe in the cook book from the set.  The recipe is for gingerbread, which reminded me of my Spice Islands Cake.

The Spice Islands Cake is one of my signature cakes.  I developed the recipe in order to replicate the delicious taste of the Allgood Pineapple Upside-Down Cake with whipped cream on top.  It was one of the recipes I created and tested when I was living in Washington, DC.  Whenever I had a difficult day (or week) at work, I would cook to relax.  I would take the resulting cookies, cakes, etc. to my office the next day.  I made many versions of this cake trying to get the spices, texture and appearance right.  I was a regular reader of Southern Living magazine and in 2004, I decided I was ready to submit this recipe to their annual recipe contest.

At that time, I called this "Pineapple Spice Layer Cake."  I obsessed over getting the written instructions simple and foolproof.  I even gave the recipe to a tester or two to see if they could follow the instructions I had written and arrive at an appropriate result.

The recipe uses three different types of sugar (brown, light brown and confectioners) and that year the contest was sponsored by Domino Sugar.  I figured that by specifying "Domino" sugars in my recipe, I would be a shoe-in for a brand-sponsored prize, if not a grand prize.

I did not win.

After I moved back home to Atlanta, I submitted this recipe again to the Southern Living contest.  But this was after my trip to Indonesia, my diagnosis of gluten intolerance, and a couple of years of sour grapes reading the "winning" recipes in issues of the magazine.  I decided that "Pineapple Spice Layer Cake"  was a boring name and that the name had cost me dearly in the judges' assessment.  For my second submission, in an attempt to take back some power from Indonesia, I named the cake Spice Islands.  I thought that it was clever.

Layers showing filling

I still did not win.

Everyone loves the cake, so the name must be my impediment to recipe contest glory.  Keith believes that my mistake in renaming the cake was two-fold; I named it after a place where I suffered terribly, and it could be confused with the Spice Island brand of herbs and spices.  I am now thinking of calling it Equator Cake since pineapples, cinnamon, ginger and cloves originated and a principally grown there.

Close-up of frosting

This (insert name here) cake consists of three layers of cake, with pineapple filling that is like a pineapple curd.  It is covered with a thick layer of stabilized whipped cream that contains even more pineapple.

Whether I submit this recipe to a contest again, or not, it is absolutely a winner.  The cake is moist and tender.  The filling is tangy with loads of pineapple flavor.  The whipped cream frosting has the creaminess to balance the spice and fruity tang of the cake and filling.  I wish all of my "pastimes" worked out this well.

Next Saturday:  Basil Pound Cake