A Cake Worth Coming Back For

OUR COUNTRY KITCHEN

Seasonal Recipes and Kitchen Traditions with Myrtle Mae Meadowbloom

“A Cake Worth Coming Back For“

Myrtle Mae Meadowbloom knows that some of life’s happiest moments begin in the kitchen. Myrtle Mae believes good food brings people together.

From seasonal recipes and family favorites to baking, preserving, and holiday traditions, she invites readers to pull up a chair and enjoy the tastes and hospitality of Honey Hill Country.

Ennis Greenlea brought the cider himself.

Two jugs of it, freshly pressed at Hiram Tesereau’s Old Cider Mill, and delivered with the hopeful expression of a man who knew what we intended to do with it.

“How soon do you suppose there’ll be cake?” he asked.

Agnes Ovenburn looked at the jugs.

“Some time after we begin.”

I promised we would save him a slice.

Then I reminded him at the door, because Ennis has a good many stops to remember, and I did not want ours getting lost among empty barrels and somebody’s order of nails.

He touched his hat brim and smiled.

I believe he understood.

Joanelle Williamson had made room for us at a worktable in her bakery, where the afternoon light fell across the bowls.

There was flour ready for sifting, butter soft enough for creaming, and a small gathering of spices that made me want to begin immediately.

Agnes had other plans.

“Apron first.”

I straightened mine.

“And everything measured before we start.”

I looked at the cinnamon.

“It is measured.”

“The flour, Myrtle Mae.”

Agnes regards baking as work deserving your full attention. She has spent enough years beside hot ovens to know which small matters become large ones if neglected.

She set the recipe where we could both see it.

“This is an old sort of cake,” she said. “Butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and cider. A good foundation.”

“And cinnamon.”

“And nutmeg.”

She looked over her glasses.

“We have not forgotten the nutmeg.”

I felt better.

Agnes began with the butter, working in the sugar until the mixture grew pale and light.

I steadied the bowl with my mittened forehooves.

“Could we put the cider in now?”

“Eggs first.”

“Of course.”

Each egg was beaten in before the next went into the bowl. Then came the sifted flour and spices, alternating with the cider.

I watched the amber liquid disappear into the batter.

It seemed a remarkable arrangement. Apples had grown on trees, been gathered into baskets, passed through Hiram’s mill, and ridden behind Buck and Jenny. Now here they were in Joanelle’s kitchen, becoming cake.

Agnes scraped the bowl.

“Turn it a little, please.”

I did.

There was still useful work between thinking about cake and eating it.

The cinnamon smelled stronger as we stirred. Nutmeg followed, with just enough clove to make a person notice something pleasant without being entirely certain what it was.

“That is a very small amount of clove,” I observed.

“It has a strong voice.”

I leaned closer to the bowl.

“I can hear it.”

Agnes smiled.

“Then we have enough.”

She showed me how to finish mixing gently, reaching down through the batter and bringing it over without continuing longer than necessary.

We filled the prepared cake tin and smoothed the top.

I thought it looked promising.

Agnes thought it was ready for the oven.

Those were compatible opinions.

Once the cake was baking, we put the table in order.

I would like to report that I waited patiently.

I washed what needed washing, helped dry the bowls, and folded a cloth that had already been folded satisfactorily once.

Then I went nearer the stove.

“Looking will not hurry it,” Agnes said.

“I was only enjoying the smell.”

“That is allowed.”

Warm apple and spice had begun to fill the kitchen. Beyond the window, a few yellow leaves traveled along the street, stopping against the doorstep before another breeze carried them on.

Joanelle came to see how we were getting along.

“Oh, that smells lovely.”

“Does it smell nearly ready?” I asked.

Agnes reached for her testing skewer.

“We shall ask the cake.”

The cake answered satisfactorily.

Agnes took it from the oven and set it to rest. Its top was golden brown, with a small crack that seemed to me a convenient place for something sweet to settle.

“We could put a glaze on it,” I suggested.

“We could.”

“Or sugar.”

“We could.”

“Or—”

“Myrtle Mae.”

I waited.

“Let us give the cider a chance to be tasted.”

We chose a light brushing of melted butter and a scattering of cinnamon sugar.

Agnes mixed the sugar in a little bowl. I held it while she brushed the warm cake, then helped sprinkle the finish.

Some landed on the platter.

Very little escaped altogether.