Country Boys Baking

Mitch and Twinkle Toes, the Little Prince

Yesterday, on the gorgeous, 75 degree day, my southern belle cohort, Mitch, came over to bake a cake. He arrived bearing pot roast and mac-n-cheese. One thing I absolutely love about hanging out with Mitch is that there is always a home-cooked meal in enormous proportions. We eat, usually at least two large helpings, and watch TV mysteries solved by tough, sometimes charming lady detectives. We talk okra, cast iron, and Miss Marple.

Measuring out ingredients while quoting Steel Magnolias, we make a mess at the table. The recipe I picked for today, a self-frosting German chocolate cake, is easy, and we laugh at my lack of supplies. This week, I purposefully picked a recipe that didn't call for high-speed beating.

Our cats enter conversation, about as often as Noreen tries to get on the table. She's as imperturbable as Miss Marple, as difficult to say "no" to.

Mitch wants to write, but struggles to put his words on paper. He has such stories about growing up poor in the south. "Poor or dirt-poor?" I asked him. "Depends on what part of the house you were in," he replied. His memories are peppered with the most wonderful details, for example, how his mother held her newest pet (a baby possum) in a red Solo cup.

Belle Brezing as a child

 Mitch recently returned from my hometown, Lexington, Kentucky, which he visited after the Derby. He brought me back two elegant cake platters and the name for my next cat: Madam Belle Brezing. Belle was a colorful local character from Lexington, a shrewd business woman, generous community member, and she ran the best brothel in the state, out of what is now better known as the Mary Todd Lincoln house. My mom, sister, and I visited the historical landmark on a homeschooling trip, and the tour guide told us it was once a brothel. "What's a brothel?" my younger sister asked. Without a pause, I answered: "A whorehouse." Belle Brezing made a success out of a tough situation, and didn't wait for anyone to tell her what to do.

beetles

We poured melted butter and brown sugar into the cake tin, and then Mitch sprinkled the pecan halves, shells like beetles, into the sweet brown mixture. Then, taking coconut flakes between his fingers, he sprinkled them atop the pecans. We halved the amount of coconut, since I'm not usually a fan. I'm glad we did. It's a great taste, but can be a bit much. With a fork, we beat together the rest of the ingredients, first the dry, and then the wet. I poured it into the pan and baked at just 350 degrees for forty-five minutes. When it came out, we cooled for five minutes, then turned it onto the cake platter. It's top is candied and delicious, the interior soft and moist. 

I fussed about the y-shaped crevice down the center, but Mitch waved it off. "Baking for your own consumption is not about perfection, it's about fun. Celebrate the successes! We made the damn thing with just a fork and a spatula!"