There are some recipes I can’t make because I’d rather have her make them.
Our last task was to visit Germany before she was too sick to make the trip. We visited Nürnberg, her hometown, and the most famous German Christmas market, the Christkindlsmarkt. We ate small lard-packed and darkly browned bratwurst sausages nestled side by side on a hard white roll. We smothered them with spicy mustard and walked among the stalls, taking in the handcrafts and merriment, stopping for glühwein, a warm, sweet mulled wine, to warm up between bites, and then finishing up with a lebkuchen, the Nürnberger spice cake.
We visited our family in Bergen nestled in the Bavarian Alps and walked slowly up the neighbourhood peak, Hochfelln. At the top, we settled into worn wooden benches and had coffee and cake, Kaiserschmarrn and topfenstrudel, Alpine sugar bombs both. In Germany, cafés sit atop every treacherous mountain, making the most gruelling ascent worth every blister and curse because you sit with the most breathtaking view at three thousand feet in a cosy cottage with warm food and a cold beer. So often, I’ll make a painful physical journey to a beautiful place in America and lament the absence of these things that I find sacred.
Decades after her first marathon and five years after her diagnosis, when my mother lay dying of cancer, I took care of her. We’d spend time in the early morning, visiting while she made her way through a tower of pills. When she fell into a narcotic doze, I’d watch her with profound regret.
So I started running her route while she slept. I didn’t have her stunning road presence, just a ponytail and sloppy shorts, but I wanted to honour her by running in circles and to honour her life, and as I bounced along the pavement of my childhood I kept reminding myself to live without regret and with love.
Now that she’s gone, I still run and think of her. And every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas time, when my mother broke out her culinary genius and let go of all things healthy, Sandy and I will start trading calls if we aren’t spending the holidays together. The conversation is always the same.’ Okay, so I have the fingerling potatoes, the mayo, and the shallots. I know I also need oil. What am I forgetting?’ There are recipes that were never written down: for the potato salad we had on Christmas Eve along with marinated white asparagus and the Nürnberger bratwurst we smuggled in from Germany in little lard-packed cans in the summer; or the Thanksgiving gravy my mother and my aunt would conjure from the drippings of the bird; or the exact range of spices she used to dress the bird to make it so flavourful and crisp. We’ll never remember them without each other’s help. So we talk to each other at least five times in the day to consult about ingredients and to report back the results. While we always do a good job, we also know that it will never taste as good as Mom’s. And we agree that we’d never want it to be any other way. She gave us so much in the way of love and memories. And when she broke out the good stuff, eschewing the lean and the green fibre-packed roughage to bring out the fatty food of celebration, her love shone as bright as the star of Bethlehem.
I’m always mindful of my mother, remembering to enjoy the good stuff and share it with others. To run like a kid, not because it’s good for me but because it brings me joy. When I get back, sweaty and happy, we lock up and take stock of our day. Ray will open a bottle of wine and I’ll take the lid off the cookie jar. Ray pours everyone a small glass and we toast. I’ve trained everyone in the awkward ways of German drinking: you’ve got to make eye contact with each person as you clink glasses. To do otherwise, you not only disrespect your drinking partner, you’ll be cursed with seven years of bad sex. And while everyone giggles and still protests at having to lock eyes with each toast, they’ve acknowledged that they’ve brought the tradition into their lives outside of work.
As we scrub, organise, and gossip, we make dibs on any pastries that are left over and fight over the last drop in the wine bottle. When we’re done, I kick everyone out the side door, locking it tight, making sure they remember their pastries. I turn off the lights, turn on the alarm, and make a mad dash for the front door.
I wave to Gayle; she’s leaning over the railing that leads up to Terry’s and smoking a cigarette, enjoying a moment of peace when there’s no one in their store. I head toward home and the winding hills of Worcester, to our tiny house with a gravel driveway lined with maple, a barn tucked off to one side and miles of rolling hills we can call our very own.
When I turn into the drive, the dogs race out to greet me, playing chicken with my mud-encrusted Subaru as I make my way into the barn. Ray’s beaten me home and started the grill. We stand outside with our pups running circles around us, and we marvel at our luck. Dumpling Hill to our back, Worcester Range to our front, and pines all around. And in the background, a distant owl calls to us and welcomes us home.
Helga’s Cake
WHEN WE FIRST OPENED, even though I wasn’t a big fan of the Orgasm Cake as a kid, I emailed my aunt Erika for my mom’s recipe. She sent it along with a little note: ‘Dear Gesine, I understand if you won’t be able to call the pecan chocolate torte ‘the Orgasm Cake’ if you are selling it at the store – you might end up with another line out the front door like at the opening!’
I looked it over a few times. I did some calculations to increase the recipe from a single cake to wholesale quantities without screwing up the texture, then set about whipping eggs and grinding nuts, enjoying the dark aromas coming off the pecans as they got ground in the processor. I’d made a lot of German tortes in my pastry shop, mostly nut-based affairs from recipes I’d collected as an adult. I’d never bothered to look at my mother’s recipe until that moment. It was deeply rooted in German baking but used an all-American nut. When it came out of the oven, it was light and springy, like a boring sponge cake, but it gave off a beautiful and complex scent of roasted nuts and caramel. Before I made the icing, I tried a piece of the cake naked and warm. Damn. It was a complicated piece of goodness. It was almost savoury; the pecans gave it a depth and texture that defied the underlying sweetness. And when you add the chocolate buttercream, that’s a sensual piece of cake. Because I sell it at the store, I had to agree with Tante Erika, it couldn’t keep its original name. So now it’s called Helga’s Cake. I like that a lot better.
MAKES ONE 8-INCH THREE LAYERED CAKE
For the cake
Nonstick cooking spray
12 ounces pecans
1 cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
8 large eggs, separated, plus 2 whole eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 teaspoons baking powder
For the buttercream
12 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
8 large egg yolks
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
½ cup hot coffee or boiling water
½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
FOR THE CAKE
Preheat the oven to 325°F/170°C. Lightly grease three 8-inch round cake pans with 1½-inch sides. Line the bottoms of the pans with wax paper and lightly grease the paper.
In a food processor, grind the pecans with ½ cup of the sugar and the salt until they turn into a fine meal. Add the egg yolks, 2 whole eggs, vanilla, and baking powder and blend until you get a smooth paste.
Whip the 8 egg whites on high in the bowl of an electric mixer using the whisk attachment. Just as the egg whites start to gain volume and look white and fluffy (but not chunky), add the remaining ½ cup sugar in a slow, steady stream. Whisk on high until the whites are very shiny and hold a stiff peak.
Transfer the pecan paste to a large metal mixing bowl and stir in a heaping spoonful of the egg whites to lighten the batter. Gently fold the remaining egg whites into the pecan mixture until well incorporated, being careful to keep the integrity of the aerated eggs. Divide the batter among the three cake pans and bake for 30 to 45 minutes, until the cake springs back when you touch it. Allow to cool completely on wire racks before you release from the pan.
FOR THE BUTTERCREAM
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Place the chocolate, egg yolks, and vanilla in a blender or food processor. With the motor running, add the coffee in a slow, steady stream. Add the butter in small bits and process until the frosting is smooth. If it’s too soft to spread, refrigerate.
This is a strange method of making buttercream. I’ve tried it in a more traditional manner, using a water bath and a mixer, but it really doesn’t come out the same.
TO ASSEMBLE THE CAKE
You know how to do it by now. First layer, then buttercream. Add the second layer, more buttercream. You’ve got it.
Chapter Nineteen
Career Day
IT’S CAREER DAY at Main Street School. Amelia asked me to come. She’s twelve but has a delivery so low and seasoned you’d think you were in the presence of a chain-smoking forties-era movie siren and not a reed of a girl. She comes in with her girlfriends after tennis practice for an Italian soda and to flirt with Ray.
I sit alongside an attorney who moonlights as a legislative lobbyist, a surgeon, our city manager, a cellist, and a paramedic who had the foresight to bring along Chuck, a cuddly search and rescue dog. We’re facing a group of fifty hormonal tweeners. Our job is to get them all kinds of excited about working. We’re screwed.
The paramedic and the surgeon are up first. Both have high-stress, life-altering jobs. Blood! Entrails! It’s juicy stuff. We’re getting some signs of life from the audience. The paramedic gestures to fluffy Chuck like he’s a showroom Mercedes: ‘And I get to work with puppies!’ The attorney and city manager both straighten their ties and come out like duelling banjos, detailing their sound educational backgrounds and vast civic contributions. Taxes! Legislation! The kids slip back into unconsciousness. The cellist, a rangy, awkward-looking man in a tea-stained T-shirt and rust-coloured jeans, takes a deep, shuddering breath and readies himself to give what appears to be a prepared speech. He reveals in reverential tones that while he’s a professional cellist, he will never stop taking lessons. Ever. He has calculated the hours a week he spends practicing his instrument and gravely details the ratio of money spent for continued lessons versus revenue generated from paying gigs to illustrate the low profit margins facing a working musician. So a kid asks him, ‘But this is what you always wanted to do, right? Being a musician was your dream job?’
Our sad cellist shakes his head morosely. ‘Nope. Wanted to be a BMX racer.’
Not one of these men can say he is working in his dream job. Everyone but the cellist dreamed of rock-and-roll stardom. Now I’m depressed, and we’re getting no pulse from our audience.
Amelia shoots me a beseeching look. Talking about sugar will gets us a heartbeat. The young ones can understand the alchemy in birthday cakes and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. I’ve come to know each of these kids through the shop. Brent, a kid so tall and muscular he’s bursting out as a football hero at every seam, is partial to strawberries and cream. His mother insists on the inscription, ‘Happy Birthday Sweet Boy!’ Tracy has a passion for chocolate so sincere that her cakes are dark as coal, black fudgy cake and solid chocolate ganache. The only colours coming through are the purple flowers I pipe along the perimeter of the cake. Zeke favoured pink on all his birthday cakes up until last year. His allergies are legion and I mark my calendar a month before the day so I have time to find gluten-free, nut-free, and dairy-free recipes that won’t send him to the hospital in the middle of his party, no matter what his favourite colour might be.
I’m left breathless knowing that I’ve baked for every one of these kids and that I actually care about them; me, a woman who never wanted little human creatures of her own, now considering an entire community’s children under her watch.
But even though I’ve reluctantly begun to harbour affection for my Vermont neighbours and their offspring, I don’t know if I’m living up to the expectations of that paralysing disembodied voice that held me captive all those years ago. I have a feeling that I’m a lifetime away from living an existence composed of nothing but goodness and kindness. I’m still cranky now and again. While I’m infinitely happier and far better adjusted as a human, I still harbour a bit of the misanthrope in me. But I’m hopeful for my continuing evolution.
I don’t know where Ray and I will be when these kids are grown, getting married and celebrating their own children’s birthdays. We’re thinking of moving on. We’re getting older ourselves, old enough to appreciate the value of sleep and of having time to see our families. Our little shop takes every waking moment of our lives, and we’re looking to the years when we can enjoy Vermont outside the confines of our store, maybe take our show on the road and explore beyond the Green Mountains with my slightly better attitude toward the world and my unflinching need to bake treats for strangers.
Come to think of it, maybe Saint Nikolaus is looking for an assistant; hell, he’s probably eyeing retirement so he can pursue his boyhood dream of being a rock star. I’d happily put on the mantle of my favourite chocolate-pushing saint if he needs a break or even a full-time replacement. Because, looking back at him now, I think I found a kindred spirit on those stairs: slightly bad attitude verging on scary, slovenly attire, and a soft spot for kids and sweets. I think I’d make a half-decent Saint Nikolaus.
* * *
No matter where I land, any kind of future would be dim without the prospect of playing with sugar, butter, and flour. I always want a cookie or a piece of cake to accompany my adventures. And I realise I can honestly say that, yes, baking is my dream job… Had it occurred to me growing up that I might live my adult life dedicated to creating any sweet I desired, I would have considered that to be a future wonderful beyond imagination.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank, with love and an assortment of treats, the beautiful people who tolerate and help me. To my husband, Raymond. You’re the best. To my Omi, for having been what an Omi should be. To Sandy for being a one-woman army of love and support. To Dad for loving and encouraging strength in your womenfolk. To Laura Nolan for whipping me into shape and nurturing the book. To Kathleen Finneran, a glorious writer and tremendous teacher. To Cheryl Maisel, who I’d want as a friend in any world: Hollywood, pastry, you name it. To Ann and Anne, writers and friends who possess so much talent and encouragement, you made it impossible for me not to finish. To Larry for being Larry. To Weenie for being a soulmate in dessert and beyond. To our amazing crew at Gesine’s and to the best customers…ever. To my family, both stateside and in Germany. To Jesse, Terri & Jeff, Cliff Gilbert-Lurie, Joanne Henderson, Terry Shannon, the Fitzes for digging me out of the snow on a daily basis, the Valentine’s Phantom for keeping magic alive, and to the great state of Vermont.
Conversion Charts
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Starting Over, One Cake at a Time Page 16
