Coconut Cake

Like many families, our holidays revolved around food. The steadfast Christmas menu based upon signature dishes rarely changed. After a marriage into the family, it may have taken a while to find your signature dish that was unanimously accepted by our family, but once found, don’t ever show up without it. It didn’t matter where you were or your health status when we got together, your dish was expected to show up regardless whether you made it or it showed up by proxy cooking.

The grand entrance always was food before presents. Some members waited near the door for the aunt with red paprika sprinkled atop the deviled eggs to snatch at least one from beneath the plastic cling wrap. Others followed closely behind the aunt who lived near the Blackhawk Bakery.  This latter aunt’s arrival was announced when the front door opened accompanied by scent of several dozen warm flakey butter rolls wrapped tightly in a festive Christmas dish towel. Another favorite for those less accustomed to home cooked meals was a cousin who brought creamy still warm German potato salad.

Meanwhile those family members who were kitchen challenged eventually were delegated to bringing sodas and paper goods like towels and napkins. If you weren’t cheap you might be asked to bring “the good paper plates,” the ones as thick as cardboard, and largest diameter you can find. Rarely was anyone delegated those now famous red cups, those were washed and reused by the eldest members of the family, so plenty were always on hand. Plastic utensil held the same recycled fate as the cups. My family knew where to spend the money —on the food.

One sister-in-law experimented with different dishes for years despite the unanimously decision of  was dubbed “Sinful Salad” as her signature dish. It was a layered strawberry gelatin with a cream cheese mixture between. The upper layer of gelatin nuts hung suspended; the lower held strawberries, always in a clear glass dish. Sitting in the middle of the table as a Christmasy red and white edible decoration. After the bold move of bringing something new instead every year, the third time it was missed another member who had yet be assigned a dish adopted it. From then on the sister-in-law was perpetually back in the loop looking for her “dish,” while the adopted cook  counted on for that decadent bit of sin on the table. 

Where and when this tradition began was with the Coconut Cake. A white monstrous triple layer of delicate white cake hidden under a mountain of whipped icing coated in coconut, my Granny’s specialty. It was more than a family holiday staple long before I was born, it was for Christmas only. The first slice was ceremoniously granted to the male family member who could boast the biggest belly full after the main meal, a coveted honor. 

It never failed, every year the men assisted in unloading of family vehicles had their appetites wetted by all the food. Bringing in containers of plastic, glass, ceramic and even the hot pot from a stove at home wrapped in foil and potholders, they had their senses attuned to the feast coming. They would warn and cajole one another to not take any of this or that, because it was their favorite.

When meal time came, meaning all the food had arrived, it was time for the line up. Those in the running for the first slice of coconut cake were always strategically last. This was only so that the rest of us would be assured of a sampling of the food. Once those guys at the back got their plates filled one time you might find some empty serving dishes ready for cleanup.

The men sat together around the dinning room table for honesty. They talked and ate and watched each other eat. The counting began with the round of extra helpings. If you couldn’t make it past the second, you weren’t even in the running and better start eyeing one of the other desserts.

After the last plate had been pushed away came the big debate over who got the first piece. Many times this took a good hour before anyone was officially bequeathed the title. One might say they had to wait until they had digested dinner before dessert, though it is doubtful any one of them would admit it.

The women who had cooked these delectable dishes were given so many complements and the high honor of going home with clean empty dishes. For those few dishes that more was made than consumed, the leftovers would be divided and taken home with by someone who favored it, or an up and coming challenger. Though leftovers were not necessarily looked up on as a good thing. Pride seemed to be taken in leaving with clean empty dishes.

Granny could most often be found sitting at the table with all that testosterone. Blushing, smiling and soaking in the attention of her male progeny as they competed for the favor of her homemade cake. She thoroughly enjoyed their appreciation for the hours spent in the kitchen preparing something they all enjoyed. The honor of that first slice would be debated and bragged about throughout the following year. Tallies were kept as to who had won more often than others and from Christmas to Christmas they would tease each other.

When our matriarch passed away, her recipes were shared among the family. Looking through them, every single traditional holiday fare, along with her coconut cake were found. The first Christmas after her passing an aunt made the cake that Granny usually brought. 

Granny’s cake, by recipe, didn’t start with any box mix, from the delicate cake crumb to the fluffy icing coated in coconut, all was made from scratch. The store bought part of the finished cake was packages of shredded coconut.

The first year without Granny, the men still boasted about their appetites, and teased each other about who would get the first piece of cake but their voices were softer and the laughter a little hollow. No one knew quite how to fill the void of Granny’s absence. It was bleak despite the Christmas tree, table decorations, good food and full house. 

Dessert time rolled around and instead of an argument over whose belly was biggest or how much they had eaten, the men stood in a silent line at the counter where the cake sat waiting to be cut. I don’t remember who finally cut the first piece, but I do remember seeing five men at the dining table each with a slice untouched silently looking at their plates. 

Finally my cousin Sue spoke up, admonishing the gents, ”Granny would be heartbroken if you all left that cake after the love and hard work that went into it. She loved you all making over her and that coconut cake. That brought her a lot of joy.”

Her husband, Dan, remarked,”Well, Granny didn’t make this cake, so it won’t be as good.” He cut a slice from the piece on his plate with gusto and ate. 

It was her recipe and a good cake. It wasn’t as good as one Granny would make. Her love was the secret ingredient we can never replace.