I did literally
find this recipe. It was in a recipe box placed as decoration in the kitchen of a suite at the Wellington Inn in Traverse City, Michigan (a lovely place, if you ever visit TC.) I found it sad to think that someone's beloved recipes had found their way into the hands of strangers, and resolved to document the find in photographs. Hopefully, many years in the future, someone might do the same for me.
I wonder though, who was the lady that made this cake? She had nice penmanship, just like my Grandma Nina's. Maybe her name was Irene or Gladys or Muriel, one of those names you rarely hear anymore. A woman well into middle age, yet still dedicated to the domestic arts on a daily basis, she made this cake for her bridge club, garden club, or a church supper sometime after the War. Maybe, just for fun, she wore an
apron with purple flowers on it while she baked, and wondered if, when she got older, she might like to have a
violet rinse in her hair, like the lady across the street. She cut the cake with a
Bakelite cake server, and put it on the
special plates she kept in the china cabinet for special occasions, like Sunday dinner. Baking made her feel good. She wouldn't have said it made her feel creative - that was not a word she would use as we use it today. This cake made her feel happy - if happy meant thrifty and generous and humble and proud at the same time. This helped her with the things that life brought unbidden. It was something she had learned during the War, with the bad news coming day after day and the need for solid comfort in any corner. There would not have been any sugar or eggs for the cake then, but she had learned to work around the rationing. Now, she might use butter, but the
Spry made for a light cake, and it was inexpensive. The part she liked best was seeing the first slice of cake floating on one of those pink plates. The violet filling and the fluffy frosting made her think of clouds and raindrops waiting to fall through them. Perhaps it would rain tonight. That is what the man on the farm report had said at noon. Best to get out the
cake carrier. It would keep the frosting from running into puddles on her way to Lucille's house.
Grape Layer Cake
Grape Layer Cake by
Josephine2004, on Flickr
Note: I have reproduced these recipes as written, no need to add (sic)s all over the place!
1/2 cup spry
3/4 teasp. salt
1/2 teasp. vanilla
1 1/2 cup sugar
2 3/4 cup flour
3 teasp. baking powder
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup water
4 eggs
Blend spry, salt and vanilla. Add sugar gradually and cream well. Sift flour with Baking Pder 3 times. Add flour to cream mixture, alternating with milk & water mixing each time until smooth
This is where the cake portion of the recipe ends. I could not find the second half of the recipe on the back of the card, or on another card. It might be that this is how to handle the next steps, though I invite expert bakers to chime in here: Beat in the eggs one at a time. Bake in 2 cake tins lined with parchment or coated with melted spry and flour. 350 degree oven, probably. Until done, about 28 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean.
Grape Filling
Grape Filling by
Josephine2004, on Flickr
Scald 1/2 cup grape juice & 1/2 cup water in top of double boiler. Mix 3 tabsp cornstarch, 1/4 teasp salt - 1/2 cup sugar Add to grape juice and cook until thick. Add 1/4 cup lemon juice & 1 tabsp. butter - cool
Grape Frosting
Grape Frosting by
Josephine2004, on Flickr
Mix 1 unbeaten egg white, 3/4 cup sug-ar, 3 tabsp. [tablespoons] grape juice and 1/2 teasp. [teaspoons] light corn sirup in top of double boiler. Place over rapidly boiling water and beat with egg beater until mixture will hold a peak (about 3 min) Remove from heat and beat until thick enough to spread.
Serve on pretty plates with properly ironed napkins to your neighbors, the people that know all about you and whose lives are much like your own in many ways but who don't yet have this recipe for Grape Layer Cake.
Last edited by
Josephine on September 18th, 2013, 8:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
Man : I can't understand how a poet like you can eat that stuff.
T. S. Eliot: Ah, but you're not a poet.