Classic Pound Cake

My memories of my great grandmother are a little hazy and telescope-y. Given that she died when I was still a kid, they are mostly clouded over by the film of childhood, the rose-colored light that gives everyone a softness that they may or may not have possessed in real life. I remember her as a little ball of a woman–soft, round and warm. I remember her as loving and full of mirth (there’s an SAT word for y’all, go look it up). She seemed easy, even in recollection, yet I also was aware of the family jokes surrounding her as a bossy, simple woman who lacked strength and fortitude. 

By the time I was born she was well into her 80’s, living in a home in South Jersey where she had a tiny little room (I can still remember the smell–baby powder and Jean Nate–grandma scent 101) with a giant recliner from which she would hold court. I remember her as a collector of gaudy costume jewelry and a maker of yarn hangers which have since become a family treasure. I remember she was bossy, very much so. I don’t ever recall “Please” or “Thank you” coming out of her mouth and still love the family tale of the time she walked into my grandmother’s kitchen, slammed an empty Coke can down on the counter, barked “Coke” as a command and promptly turned on her heel to make her way back to her throne.

I remember her as a character. I remember this much.

But I guess what I could never know, well, because I was a kid, was how hard her life was before I came along. And that, my friends, is the stuff of legends.

Born into a wealthy family in South Jersey, by all accounts Becky Fisher was a spoiled little girl. She grew up pampered and coddled (modern-day parents: listen up. There’s a lesson here). She was never pushed, never stretched. Keep in mind the timing here–not much was expected of girls in her generation beyond looking good, cleaning the house and catching a husband–all of which she managed to do.

Like life somehow manages to do, though, it gave her more than she bargained for. Because her husband, also a well-to-do businessman, turned out to be a cad. Yes, I’m talking here about my great-grandfather and yes, his blood still runs through these veins. Yet somehow I know if I knew him, I would probably want to throat punch him or at least give him a giant stink eye. And often. He was critical. And demeaning. And controlling. Nana, she could never ever do anything right. Ever.

Yet she stayed. Because that’s what people did back then. They stuck around. They stuck it out. I’m not passing judgment one way or another on her situation, heaven knows I have no stones to throw. But I can at least imagine that it was tough.

But the thing is, she didn’t return the favor. She didn’t fight back. What could have been a volatile hotbed of conflict, turns out it really wasn’t. Nana, she kept her peace. She kept going. She wasn’t a fighter. I’m sure it hurt. I’m sure it broke her spirit often and taught her how to retreat and step back, letting the thunder or her husband pass through. What may have, to others, appeared as weakness in just “taking it,” was in its own way, power. There is strength in peace. She proved this over and over throughout her life. 

Because as luck would have it, if you believe in luck, life wasn’t done with Nana.

After the tumultuous yet prosperous early years of marriage, my great-grandfather was stricken with a crippling version of rheumatoid arthritis. Confined to a wheelchair, he could no longer bring in the big bucks to support their lifestyle. Things, I’m sure were looking grim. Probably more so because, well, a confined great-grandfather was decidedly not a humbled great-grandfather, sadly. Just angrier. And his favorite target, Nana, became his only target. And the criticism, it continued.

It continued as she took in boarders to make ends meet (they did that back in the day without fear of serial killers. How quaint). It continued as she took a part-time job at a department store in Philly. It continued as she began making and selling cod cakes out of her home kitchen to support their family (if life is not full circle with this story and mine I do not know what is). 

Nana, as the story goes, persevered. She pushed through. There was no “GoFundMe” for her family. There was no government support. There was just Nana. And she had to be the hero of her own story. She dug deep, she pulled out her big guns and she got to work without a ton of fanfare. She just did what she had to do for years.

Eventually, her husband passed away. At this point, her kids were grown and married. She was alone. I didn’t live her story, but I can imagine the mixed emotions, the feelings of relief mixed with guilt mixed with sadness, as she worked through her grief. I can imagine it all. And then, six months later, Nana got down with her bad self and married my great-grandfather’s younger brother who was apparently the polar opposite, a near-silent man who was, at the very least, kind. (go ahead and try and figure out that family relation. I still can’t).

I want you all to pause right here and remember I’m talking about the 1950s. This stuff, it wasn’t done. So while there’s a huge part of me that’s all “Yes, girl, Get it!” there’s also a part of me saying “Oh, you devil you.” Because I can almost hear the whispers. I can guess the scandal. Still, she never fought back against it. Truth be told, she didn’t care. She did her thing. She smiled all along. She was peace. 

And she kept on. Life wasn’t done with Nana after that. She didn’t ride off into the sunset finally with a prince charming. There were a series of yet even more devastating blows to come. She would lose her son to unimaginable tragedy. She would lose her second husband shortly thereafter. 

But still, after all of that, what I remember is a peaceful, joyful Nana who I liked to visit. I don’t remember an embittered resentful old woman, mad at the world for the cards she was dealt. I remember, honestly, an almost childlike great-grandmother. I remember her laugh. I remember her hands. I remember knowing she was happy and at peace with her life in that little room, which is even more amazing to me now as I know her story.

And it makes me think, today as I hold one of her withered recipe cards in my hand, a little bit about peace. About strength. And how maybe we’ve got it all a little confused these days. Now, strength is equated in might. Might is equated in the fight. The last word. The victory of exposing others for their wrongs. We all have so very much to say about everything, and we say it loudly and often, anywhere we can (I’m looking at you, Facebook). The loudest, the angriest, the worst of ourselves, we don’t have to keep it under wraps anymore. It seems as if reason takes a back seat to posturing and simply being peaceful is disregarded as weakness and weak is the very last thing we want to be.

But peace, it’s strength in its own way. Sometimes retreating is the smartest thing to do and being peaceful is a simple act of self-preservation. It doesn’t mean being a doormat. It means insulating yourself and your soul from the darkest of attacks without having to put the attacker in its place. I am 100% sure my great-grandmother did not give a flip about having the last word or being viewed as strong or mighty or honestly, even right. But dang if she wasn’t happy. She sure did know, even in the worst of times, peace. 

And if being strong means having my dukes up and fighting words designed to put you in your place tucked at the ready right inside my soul, well, I’m with Nana on this one. Because peace, it’s so much more than weakness. It’s sometimes harder than fighting. It’s a conscious choice, a difficult one when times are hard and you feel broken and filled with despair. 

But if I’m being honest with y’all here, it’s exactly how we’re called to live. You know, according to the Bible and all.

All of this, this story, these memories, were sparked when I found my grandmother’s recipe box the other day. It’s chock full of recipes straight from the tiny kitchen I remember squeezing into as a child, including this classic pound cake recipe in this post.

If I’m being honest, I don’t remember many of them. I have no idea if they were regulars on the family table or something saved but never made. I do know there is a heck of a lot of “deviled” recipes in there. (How many things can be deviled? I have no idea, but apparently the 1950s were intent on finding out). 

Classic Pound Cake

These women of my family, their stories are longing to be told. And I feel like I’ve been called to tell them. We are nothing if we don’t know where we came from so this is my passion project right now. I’ll be recreating some of the best recipes and telling their stories over the next few weeks. I’m not kidding, they might break your heart. But the food, hopefully, it will mend it right back up again.

This classic pound cake was my first attempt. Because, well, butter. It’s amazing. A simple, easy, and delicious recipe. This is one of those classics in that it contains the full pound of butter, cause that’s how Nana made it. Make this one for company or brunch one day or, I don’t know, dessert tonight. It’s awesome with a dab of raspberry jam or throw some Boozy Whipped cream on there if you’re feeling wild (recipe here). Either way, make this one. It’s a gift from my family to yours. 

Peace, love and, well, peace,

Meg

Classic Pound Cake

January 24, 2020

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By: Meaghan Dawson

Ingredients

• 1 pound butter, softened to room temperature
• 2 cups sugar
• 6 eggs, at room temperature
• 2 teaspoons vanilla
• 3 cups sifted flour

Directions

• Step 1 Preheat oven to 325 degrees and grease and flour a loaf pan. Set aside.
• Step 2 Cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
• Step 3 Add in eggs, one at a time, beating well after each to ensure it’s incorporated.
• Step 4 Add in vanilla and mix.
• Step 5 Slowly add in flour, mixing very well until completely combined (the secret is to almost overmix).
• Step 6 Bake for about one hour until browned and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
• Step 7 Cool on wire rack before removing from pan.
• Step 8 Serve with jam and whipped cream.

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