One look at our book of family recipes, with its grease stains and splatters of gravy, and you know it’s been used. It details everything, from how to make matzah ball soup to the proper way to set the Passover table.
But it’s more than just a cookbook. Opening the pages releases images of the women in our family gathered in various kitchens throughout the years.
My favorite aunt, as well as one of my favorite people in the world, lives on page five — “Aunt Evie’s Honey Cake.” She dialed direct, dishing out not only great food but no-nonsense advice.
On the first Rosh Hashanah after she had passed away, I decided to tackle her recipe.
As I lined up the ingredients, I saw her in my memory, standing in the kitchen doorway with her ever-present purse on her arm, that teacher-gleam in her eyes. She was watching and waiting. I vowed to make a sponge cake that would taste exactly like hers.
But as I learned, nothing ever can be replicated — exactly.
From the start, something seemed to be against me. The eggs were expired. I had checked to see if I had enough, but had forgotten to look at the expiration date. Well, no biggie.
From her corner perch, my aunt shook her head.
“What?” I said. They were going to be cooked for over an hour and well, I didn’t feel like making another trek to the market.
I reasoned it would be fine and began separating the whites from the yolk. Not an easy task for a non-baker.
Patience. I heard my aunt’s voice, as I groaned and picked out yet another eggshell.
That advice carried me back to a conversation we’d had years ago. It was the day after I met my husband. At the time he was separated (much like these stubborn eggs) and claimed he was heading for divorce. Yet, he was still seeing his wife.
“Give him time and be patient,” my aunt had said. “If it’s meant to be, it will be. You don’t want to be the other woman. You want to be the woman.”
Of course, my aunt had been right.
With that conversation in my head, I beat the sugar with the yolks until it turned a pale yellow. All very well and good. I added the lemon rind and some juice. The batter was progressing nicely.
But then when I added the cake meal, an odd smell wafted from the batter. I had purchased the cake meal the day before. It had an expiration date well after next Passover. I decided my sense of smell must have been off for some reason.
Besides, I’d come this far. I was anxious to get the darn cake in the oven.
Hmmm. My aunt adjusted her purse.
“What?” I said out loud.
What’s the rush?
Once again, I thought back to those early years with my husband. After he had finally left his wife, my aunt convinced me to give him a little time on his own. “You don’t want to be the rebound relationship.”
Once again, my aunt had been right.
The next step for the cake was to cut the parchment paper to fit the circular pan. A function which required an architectural degree. Or at least a sense of shapes and sizes. Skills I do not possess. Twenty minutes later, after several attempts and much frustration, the pan was ready for the batter.
The batter looked perfect as I poured it into the pan. My heart floated with joy. I picked up the baking dish from the bottom and walked toward the oven.
And disaster struck.
It was a pan with a removable bottom and it wasn’t secured in place. In that moment, I realized I had never paid any attention when my aunt made this cake. And I would never get that chance again.
I crumbled to the ground, my tears falling into the gob of batter on my lap. Missing my aunt squeezed my heart, making it difficult to breathe.
I stayed on the floor for what seemed like forever. I couldn’t even look up. I was sure my aunt had left me.
And then I heard her voice. Take your time. Do it right. Those eggs were spoiled. I couldn’t let you give everyone food poisoning.
My aunt gave me her signature smile, a bit sideways with closed lips. By the time I found my keys and headed out the door for the market, she was gone.
After our Rosh Hashanah dinner, I waited anxiously for the verdict on my cake. No one said anything for what felt like forever.
“This is delicious,” my husband spoke first. “It’s almost like Aunt Evie is here.”
“She is,” I said.
Later that night, I pulled the cookbook from the shelf, opened it to page five, now smeared with batter. And for the future bakers in our family, I slowly added the word Patience to the list of ingredients.
