Mom's favorite cake was a hit with the “girls” who came to knit, sew and later, play Pokeno for nickels. Her angel cake would rise up the side of the funnel pan, the surface cracked and crusted to perfection, tinted a Barbie kind of pink. It was light and soft and sweet. She would set it to cool upside down on the neck of an empty ketchup bottle. Its fresh-from-the-oven aroma made me yearn for a taste. But there was a price to be paid for this cake, exactingly made from scratch. (Box mixes were too expensive; “you’re paying for the convenience” Mom sneered, as if the Devil himself had deliberately put temptation in her path to test her fortitude.) In order to make an angel food cake, thirteen whites were needed. That meant thirteen yolks and shells had to be accounted for. The shells were quickly crushed, added to that day’s coffee grounds and vegetable peelings and buried in the compost heap. The yolks however came calling like eager suitors every day for thirteen days. Each morning Mom blended the yolk for me into a milkshake-type concoction (less than thoroughly, picture the slimy strands of jellyfish). She tried her best to camouflage this breakfast “beverage” by serving it in an opaque tumbler while making encouraging remarks about its health benefits. Both of us knew it looked unappealing and tasted worse, but what choice was there? Finally, on the fourteenth day, the madness ended. Mom and I would sit together and share a slice of pink angel food cake. Was it worth it? You bet!
May 9, 2010 at 11:11am