Here’s an essay/ food memoir I wrote some time ago back in February. Recently, tweaked, edited made into a free-write piece.
As a child I spent every summer in the small town in Georgia. The town of Sparta. BigMa and BigDad (my great grandparents) lived there. BigMa loved to garden so the house was surrounded by pretty flowers. Their house was located up on the hill. I know you might think “the hill” and think that they lived in the middle of the woods, maybe up on a mountain or back in what people called the “country” but the hill is actually the road leading to the middle of town. In order to get to the downtown area, you have to ride pass BigMa and BigDad’s house. As people rode past on a regular day, they’d slow up when passing the house to see if there was a car in the yard. A car in the yard indicated that someone was home so family and friends would always stop in and visit.
Walking up the stairs to the inside porch, there would sometimes be a batch of collard greens, turnip greens or cabbage that someone picked from their garden and left with BigMa as a gift. The aroma coming from the house as you stepped on the back porch was like no other.
BigDad was named Paris, referred to as Mr. Paris, Pump, Mr. Pump, Unc. Pump, BigMa was named Cordelia, referred to as Mrs. Cordelia, Aunt Delia, Dia to many in town. She was the absolute best cook and very hospitable. The aroma coming from the house would be such a sweet smelling fragrance. Walking through the back door of the house, she’d call out to whoever was walking in and tell them not to walk through the kitchen. As a child, I never understood why, I just listened and told people the same as she would.
To walk through the kitchen was a direct route to the family room where we’d all be seated. She, in the big reclining chair positioned so she could see all from every direction, whether it be someone coming from the back door, the hallway or the dining room, she could see. Me in the next reclining chair trying to sit as big as her and BigDad on the couch, if he was even in the house. Most likely not though, he was always working on something in his shed outside which BigMa would call his house. Now that I think about it, he spent more time out there than he did inside. Always fixing or building something for the house or for someone.
Back to the sweet smell from the kitchen. It would be that of a cake being baked. It was a pound cake made from scratch that I’ve always known as the family cake. Even now in my adult years, I don’t know anyone outside of my family to have the recipe.
As a child, I remember playing with BigDad and playfully arguing who would get the first piece of cake. Or watching BigDad walk through the kitchen while it was being made. Regardless, of how it turned out, he’d eat it. Although he was a very grown and mature man, we would both be like children anxiously waiting for the cake to finish.
BigMa would scold me and anyone else that would come in the house putting emphasis on not walking through the kitchen. She would yell and say “the cake’ll fall if ya walk too hard in here.” She’d even fuss at BigDad “Pump, you know not to walk through the kitchen”. I never understand the concept of a cake falling. I thought maybe the rack in the oven wasn’t sturdy or that the oven door would pop open and the cake would fall out of the oven. Turns out the cake falling actually meant that it would not bake and rise the way a cake is supposed to. It’s an actual baker’s term but as a child, I thought BigMa was making her own terms. I mean there are a lot of words I’ve heard she and BigDad say that I never knew to be actual words so this theory wasn’t farfetched.
Spending the summers in Georgia, I knew that “THE” cake was not baked in vain. There was always some sort of celebration or gathering related to the cake. It’d either mean family was coming which was a huge deal because our family is large and located all over so coming together was truly a reunion. Or BigMa was having a meeting with the Deacon’s wives group which she was the President and she’d have me serve the cake and prepare the table on the back porch, a large job for me that I took very seriously and enjoyed. Or BigDads friends were coming over which I think was the most interesting for me because it was like having multiple grandfathers. Because I lived in a house full of women, I was extremely attached to BigDad, his love was a father’s love that I never knew from my own so I appreciated so much from him. The cake could mean the church was having some sort of anniversary or homecoming which was a large celebration, different from my church at home so I was eager to attend. And then the cake could even mean the possibility that someone had died and we were taking it to the bereaving family, it was BigMa’s way of showing her love and support and I’d like to think, the cake brought a smile to different ones. There is so much culture associated with the cake. No matter the occasion, the cake was special.
BigDad passed in the Fall of 2010 and BigMa passed recently February of 2016. She was living here in New York with us(her children). She didn’t do much cooking anymore in these last years and she didn’t personally bake the cake anymore but the cake is still being baked. She’s passed the recipe and tradition down to my grandmother and mother and this pass Christmas, I beckoned all three of them to sit in the kitchen and teach me how to make it and they did. I want to keep the tradition and pass it on from generation to generation, I have so many memories associated with the cake, so much culture, so many experiences and I don’t every want to forget.
Whenever there is a celebration or special time of year, I want to make sure the cake is made. It’ll always remind me of my childhood summers spent in that small town in Georgia which were some of the best times of my life. Spending time with my BigDad and BigMa and being their princess and their hurricane as BigDad would call me soaking up all the lessons and culture that they could impart in me is something I’ll always appreciate. I’ll always remember how the door to the house on the hill was always open to family, friends and different people of the community not only for special occasions but on any given day. I’ll never forget the house on the hill.
To me, the cake is more than a delicious dessert but a reminder of my roots and an amazing piece of my childhood that I will always cherish.
CordeliaParis 