I promised pictures, and I shall deliver. However, the recipe will thus far remain mostly secret, to protect a selfish sense of pound cake imperialism in my family. I will tell you that it is a massive recipe in and of itself, requiring at least a 4-quart mixing bowl (preferably a 6-quart), a bundt and a classic loaf pan. It is quite literally a pound cake, being heavy and reasonably dense, but still light enough to eat without feeling like you’ve consumed concrete paste, as well as ridiculously moist and flavorful. I generally prefer my pound cake unflavored, unlike most of these heathens I’m surrounded by in Georgia who cling to their iced lemon-flavored cakes – bah. Blasphemy. Great-great-great-poppa had right idea with this unadorned creation.
Ignore that open space in the cake. A cook has to sample her work – or have someone else sample it for her, in this case.
As I’ve said, this was my great-great-great-grandfather’s recipe on my mother’s side. He owned and operated a bakery in Augusta, GA way back in the day (whenever that was) and this recipe has gone through the years to finally rest with me. I got the recipe (finally) from my mother about a year and a half ago, when I was looking for a pound cake recipe to make and couldn’t find one that I liked in my limited number of cookbooks. I adore this recipe, and I’ve only made it twice. The first time I made it, I actually managed to screw it up, probably by following the recipe according to very specific directions. Somehow, it never rose to its proper height in the pans, leaving an abominably tasty but ridiculously dense cake. (It made for wonderful grilled breakfast toast, by the way.) This time around, I did things my way and got a cake that overflowed it’s bundt boundaries just enough.
I took half the cake to the picnic concert last night, which was fun. Jessica made chicken salad (I want the recipe) and pimento cheese (I REALLY want the recipe) and brought hometown salsa, roasted tomato and olive oil Triscuits (tasty!), pop, a bottle of reasonably local wine that was very sweet in a good way, pitas, and macerated strawberries for the pound cake. The music wasn’t really bluegrass – I’d call it folk, but it was good. It was definitely an awakening experience. I had never known that so many hippies lived in the town I’m moving to. Or that none of them knew how to teach their kids proper manners.
At least they didn’t try to steal my cake. Them or their rude little young’uns.