Poor Man's Cake

“Hi, Mom. Whatcha making?”

“A spice cake.”

I perked up. Spice cake had always been my favorite. “Great! I love it!”

Mom smiled and took the pan of plumped raisins off the range. “We always called it poor man’s cake.”

“Really? How come?”

“It’s made without eggs or milk.”

“Yeah? So?

Mom pulled out an index card from her recipe file, a small tin box, painted white with a floral border around the edges. “In the Depression, people were so poor, they didn’t have money to buy them.”

I’d read about the Depression in school, but this was completely alien to me. No eggs? No milk? We always had both, and our family was definitely not rich.

My attention came back to the cake. “When will it be ready?”

“Not ’til dinnertime. Now, go play.”

I went to my room and stuck my nose in a book for a few hours. When I came out, the scent of that cake drew me to the kitchen like a porchlight draws June bugs. I’d timed my arrival perfectly and sat on a stool while she made the frosting, a light chocolate frosting with a little coffee added.

I slid off the chair and joined her. “Can I have a beater?”

“Sure, but don’t make a mess.”

Since Mom left us, I’ve thought of that poor man’s cake many times. She baked it in a smooth, ring pan and made it whenever she wanted, frosted with that same mocha icing.

Her recipe box disappeared before she passed, so I did some research online and found several methods. I tried a few of them, but the taste was never the same. Maybe, she baked that cake because she knew I liked it so much. I just can’t find a recipe that contains her love.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.