During the early years of farming on the prairies, home cooks couldn’t pop into the grocery store at a moment’s notice. They didn’t own bread makers, mixers or high-tech ovens. Nor did they have the Internet, nor watch television programs dedicated to the culinary arts. They worked with limited ingredients, resources and equipment, and made do with what they had.
My grandmother relied on an old Blue Ribbon Cookbook. The pages became splattered and worn from years of use and eventually were held together with the rubber ring off an old sealer jar. One recipe, for a spice cake, stands out in my memory.
It featured boiled raisins (bleah) and spices all stirred briskly into a stiff batter. Then it was skidded into the old wood stove to be baked. When it was sliced hot and placed steaming on the table before us, the aroma was heavenly.
Sadly, I hated it. I can recall this miserable dessert only because I was forced to gum it down regardless of a deep loathing for the revolting fruit it contained. Kids ate whatever was put before them back then and felt, at least according to my father, “Bloody lucky to have it!”
Another interesting volume I have on the shelf arrived on a ship from England with my grandparents. Among such award-winning recipes as Soused Mackerel (had they spent all night swilling beer in a pub?) Fish Faggots, Jugged Hare and Stewed Neck of Lamb, we also find a section on sweets.
A few ingredients, for Dough Cake, includes six ounces of good drippings, tepid milk and one teacup of golden syrup. Tepid milk and syrup are understandable, but this teacup business is a bit strange. And what the heck are good drippings? Are they easily distinguishable from bad drippings or is that just the chance we take? Furthermore, from where exactly did they drip? Inquiring minds want to know.
Time has passed and while I still hate raisins, I do like dessert. Long ago, when I was first married, I busily baked up a moist and delicious carrot cake for my husband. I cut a large wedge of the delectable treat and popped it into his lunch pail. After he left, I busied myself with chores, keeping an eye on aforementioned cake. Finally, I allowed myself just one piece.
One thing led to another and throughout the day I hovered over that dish until all that remained were crumbs in the dish and icing on my nose. I devoured the whole flaming thing! In my defense it was an 8 x 8 pan; not a triple layer monstrosity, but still.
Ashamed of this dreadful deed I paced the floor. My spouse would soon return after slaving in the elements all day, how could I possibly answer when he asked for cake?
“Oh that? The dog ate it,” I heard myself answering offhandedly, to test its believability, but we didn’t have a dog.
Then I tried, “Good grief! We’ve been robbed!”
It was no use. Hurriedly I baked and iced another cake. With minutes to spare I hacked off the identical wedge, bolted it down and smiled a smile of pure criminal greed as he walked through the door.
This last tale may have had more to do with purging a guilty conscience than a discussion of early cake baking, but it shall remain as a warning for all who hope to keep baked goods safe in my presence. The secret lies in raisins.
Helen lives on the family farm near Marshall, Sask., where she works as an author, columnist, and in education. Find her online at helentoews.com. There, you can learn more about her humorous Prairie Wool Books, or newly released fantasy series, Runestaff Chronicles.
