emma's cake

Emma raised my dad. He had a mother, of course, but Emma did the work. She adored him. He grew up and had children of his own and she helped look after us, too. Now we are all grown, but I remember her every detail. And, as a grown up, I wish I could express my gratitude for all she did. I certainly took it for granted as a child.

I have pushed away from the book The Help every time it has been recommended to me. Which is frequently, because I grew up in the deep South and am an avid reader. My fear is that it will try, in some way, probably sweet and nostalgic, to offer up the relationship between the family and the 'help' as beneficial to both parties.

That's all I'm going to say on that. Maybe I should just read it.

Anyway, Emma baked each McCollum child a cake on our birthday. There were six of us, total, plus my dad and his brother. That's eight cakes a year. That's a lot. She baked them on her own time, not for pay.

Why do cakes make me cry?

They were perfect. The same every time. Devils food cake with an icing that was un-named and beyond description. White as snow. Fluffy and different from any other icing on any other cake.

A long time ago, I called my mom and asked her what she thought the icing was. This is what she said.

"I imagine it was a seven minute icing, because that would have been all that Emma could have afforded."

Let me tell you about seven minute icing.

It's sugar and water and two egg whites and a little corn syrup. Every recipe I've ever read, and that's a bunch because I'm a little obsessed, says that it requires a sturdy portable electric mixer to create the consistency needed to set up. You mix it in the top of a double boiler. It's a bitch.

I'm pretty sure Emma didn't have a mixer.

She also didn't have a bath tub or water in the house. No hot water. She heated water on the stove and put it in a big metal tub to bathe. She washed her clothes in the same tub. She always looked beautiful, by the way.  She was tall, well over six feet, with a strong jutting jaw and a deep forehead. My mom always said that she could picture her tribe, and now I know what she means.

These weren't the dark ages. I'm not that old.

I made the cake today, after putting it off for my entire adulthood. I haven't made it because I've always known that it would fall grossly short. I don't even want it to compare to Emma's. Hers is the one I want to remember. But I miss it. It's always been my favorite.

I have a fancy mixer. I tried not to use it, but the icing wouldn't form stiff peaks. Matt couldn't form stiff peaks and he's strong as an ox.

I used it.

I'm afraid that the book is going to try and tell me that it's all really OK.

I'm a little afraid to even taste the cake.

Thank you, Emma.

{icing recipe here and cake here}