Three and a Half Cakes

Served up with a helpin’ of what-for . . .

This is the story of three and one-half cakes which somehow create or come with some grudge frosting.

I have real questions whether Hannibal Anne dust-stormed into my small town and my family by just pure sad accident or (bad) luck. Or if she targeted my family by acting out of one of her many life long grudges.

I do not know for sure. Here is what I do know.

Listen with Cake Short Skirt / Long Jacket

The Great Sherman County Cake-Off of 1962

It’s April 1962. Hannibal Anne is in Stratford participating in a Sherman county 4-H baking contest, along with 56 other girls. The judge is none other than Mrs. Jackson, of Hansford county, my paternal Great Grandmother (i.e., my Grandma’s Mom). The Jackson women and men are legends of cooking, baking, pit BBQs and handling of recipes. The Jacksons are also a feisty group who don’t look to kind on folks who may have missed Church last Sunday, among other misdemeanors and/ or transgressions. The Jacksons had been in the TX panhandle since the mid to late 1800s, when parts of it were still Indian Country and most of it was dirt.

They are a tough breed, indeed! I could totally see one of these old school Jacksons, when encountering an errant non-church going citizen during a stroll down Main St., walking across the street to meet said miscreant, smacking him in the face, patting him on the back, saying “you have a good day now”, while using an Oxford comma, and moving on.

Win or Lose?

Anyway, back to the baking contest. Sadly, Hannibal’s group did not win. She did not even place. Even worse, it got reported in the newspaper so the whole world could see her humiliation -- no doubt upping her sour-puss quotient and expanding her jutting out jutting jaw a few extra inches.

I imagine she was livid. She’s always livid. I can see her hands forming into tight fists, digging fingernail furrows in her palms, her eyes wide staring sharpened daggers, her jutting jaw jutting out. Think Heath Ledger, as the Joker in the Batman movie, but uglier. You know, the scene when he is wearing the nurse outfit.

Here is Hannibal Anne in her 1962 yearbook photo. She was in the fourth grade.

Love those Devil Horns! I am now going to call her Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear.

Here’s me at about the same age. Aren’t I adorable? And I don’t have Devil Horns!

Grudge Cake #1

So, this was the original grudge cake. Her sights became dead set fixed on the Jacksons (my paternal Grandmother’s family). I can hear Hannibal doing her screaming mimi thing, sounding like a rooster on fire, “how dare her! I hope she dies in a car wreck.”

Ooops . . . I mean . . . so, this was the original grudge cake?

This lividity and furious grudge cakery really stands out to me. The diabolical degree of hypocrisy even more. Think about it. Hannibal Anne does not win a 4-H baking contest. So she carves out a lifelong grudge against the entire Jackson family? However, when Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear commits some “hyenous” act against me or anyone, it’s “move on”. It’s “after all I have done for (to) you.” Or “you’re too sensitive. Or “get a grip. Get over it”. Or “I was just joking. You take things too seriously”. Followed by “No, you owe me.” I could continue, but I think you get the point -- even if I for the longest time did not.

Like I said, I don’t have a single “shart” of evidence it happened this way. It just seems like Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear to me. She picks up grudges as easy as tadpoles grow legs. And she never forgets them, grudges that is, not legs.

Cake By the Notion -- Grudge Cake #2

Read with Jonas Brothers Cake By the Ocean

For decades Hannibal Anne would bring a chocolate sheet cake to most family birthday parties, especially for my Grandmother’s and often for Fredo’s, and other special occasions or celebrations. This cake is a one level construction -- like a sidewalk but less tasty -- set in a large rectangular cake pan and lathered up with overly sugared chocolate frosting . . . enough, some might say, to mask the flavor of maybe other stuff. Just sayin’.

Hannibal Anne would also bring the chocolate sheet cake to family reunions. Half would have nuts and the other with no nuts. Speaking of nuts. Having Hannibal as my biological mom, I was really concerned I might by a psychopath myself. I asked my therapist, Dr. Nadine, that question. She said, simply asking the question probably means you are not one. I also once asked my Grandmother if I was nuts. She replied, with a smile “yes, you are good nuts.” Which I think she is exactly right. I’m just nutty enough to use Hannibal’s own tricks against her and to offset all her “hyenous” acts.

She would also bring this flat cake to the older ladies imprisoned in the Hansford Manor Old Folks Home -- which we renamed the “Hansford Mansion”. After not too long, everyone started calling it that. That is where my Grandmother died. She should have died in her own home. When she was still alive and living in the Mansion, though, I used to arrange giant birthday parties.

One year, I sent in 200 bean burritos, 20 of which were with extra green sauce (a.k.a. salsa verde) from Taco Villa. When I called my local Taco Villa -- to arrange the order and delivery, the conversation went like this:

ME

“Hi, I would like to arrange for 200 bean burritos to be delivered to the Hansford Mansion for a birthday party. I can pay you with a credit card right now.”

TACO VILLA

[Pause] “Ummm.”

[Longer pause] “Is this a prank call?”

Come to think of it, it does sound like a prank call.

Anyway, my Grandmother’s birthday is July 19^th. So it’s a good time to write about this particular Grudge Cake.

Recently, maybe in 2020 or 2021, I was surprised to learn what the flat chocolate sheet cake really represents. One of my favorite friends sent -- who (whom?) we shall call “Whittney” sent me a recipe. We call him Whittney, because he loves Whitney Houston, but spelled with an extra “T” because he earned it. We often trade recipes and chat about kitchen ways and wares. This particular recipe was exactly for the chocolate sheet cake. The recipe was entitled The Funeral Cake.

I was surprised. Ha. Kidding. I was not surprised.

“Whittney, no! This can’t be”, I said. “Hannibal Anne has been bringing this cake to birthdays forever.”

Whittney laughed and said, “it is a Southern tradition to take this chocolate cake to funerals.”

Whittney totally gets Southern tradition, seeing as how he is from South. From South Carolina, to be precise. From Hampton county, South Carolina, to be more precise. From the same town and county as Alex Murdaugh, to be even more precise. So, I reckon he knows funeral tradition too.

My eyes got wide and my face pulled back. Like Jim Carrey in The Mask. LITERALLY!

Like what the hell Hannibal? As I thought back, I can remember Hannibal carrying in the large pan covered in foil over and over, spanning many years. Every time she went to remove the foil and cut to serve, there it was. The smirk. She knows and, now, I know she knows.

For most people, cake is our way of telling the universe that we are refusing to let a beautiful moment pass by unnoticed. Or for just eating. Mainly eating. But the beautiful moment thing is true too. Like making chocolate cookie dough that never makes it to the actual certified cookie stage. “Somebody” always eats it. Like my Nieces. And maybe me.

Celebration cake is a physical treat of gratitude, transforming a simple calendar date into a sacred sanctuary of a celebratory moment. You can even have a favorite cake like the St Regis’s cheesecake, Del Frisco’s lemon cake or my Great Aunt Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake. Her cakes really deliver, like a truth teller.

Jo Jo’s Cake of Truth -- Grudge Cake #3

In January 2021, we did cooking classes with my Grandmother. We even made hats for the occasion.

Somehow, we focused more on desserts. Poppy cock, chocolate fudge sauce, Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake and, for our Houndball friend Scotty, cookies (all kinds of cookies).

Funny story. When we delivered the cookies to Scotty, it was almost dark, so we laid them out on his golf cart which he parked in the driveway. Scotty, not recognizing us, comes running out his front door -- “what are you doing?” Then he recognized us, and all was well.

When any of the recipes came out great, we would say it was superior quality. They never came out non-great, unless due to “operator error” of course. Like the time my Aunt Ju Ju kept missing a crucial step in the making of the Poppy-cock. She knows what I’m talking about! But, even then, that turned out great too. I will write about that in our Christmas Special, entitled “Come on Baby Light My Fur Tree“ or maybe something else. Waiting on copy writers.

My Grandmother also gave us tips like “run a paper towel, with olive oil, over your wooden serving pieces to keep them from drying out.” Or “fill a pan with water when making baked potatoes so they won’t dry out”. It’s dry up in Hansford county. Humidity of 20% would be considered sticky.

Back again at Camp Grandmama

When we went to vising my Grandmother the last few times, we would stay for a few weeks. The pattern was always the same. When we arrived, she was using a walker and appeared forgetful and a bit slower than normal. After a few days of eating properly -- like the giant Tomahawk steaks we picked up from the Sam’s in Amarillo, accompanied by the world’s largest baked potatoes -- sourced from Neighbors, the local grocery -- and palling around town, watching Family Feud with Steve Harvey (in between those Pharma ads for drugs with unpronounceable names, all with warnings that say “side effects include retching, psychotic episodes, using Oxford commas, and death”). Then we would have some swell homemade hot fudge sundaes with self-made whipped cream with a slight but detectable dose of bourbon added for flavour. The bourbon was hidden in a low cupboard, way in the back, behind a bunch of pans.

In the morning, we would enjoy a fresh cup of Fluffy Muffy. Fluffy Muffy is made by combining some random combination of oranges, carrots, celery, and whatever vegetables are abundant at Neighbors, the local grocery, in a blender for 3 -5 minutes, after which the concoction develops a nice airy fluff. Hence the name, Fluffy Muffy.

After all that, in just a couple of days my Grandmother was up and at’em. Sharp as a Taser. Not needing a walker. That is when she would tell us stories of my Grandfather and my dad, Fredo, and the other kids. Oh yeah, there was also the story about Kay Hobbs.

Kay lived across Hwy 15 to the South at the time. She was a “larger” lady. She got really excited when her bread maker arrived. Not long after that, her car broke down and it took a few folks -- my Grandfather included -- to lift her into the tow truck. Oh yeah, reportedly -- and I was not there to confirm this, mainly because I hadn’t been born yet -- but reportedly there was also gas involved. Not the kind you put in your gas tank.

I am Ready for My Cake Up, Mr. DeMille

One time I was sitting down with my Grandmother going through a recipe for Jo Jo’s angel cake and came across an ingredient called “Cream Butter”. I think this was April 2021, the second to the last time I saw her. Well, I had never heard of Cream Butter before. So I looked at myself (don’t try that at home) and said. “Hey, what is Cream Butter”?

She slunked a little bit in her chair, as if to say “uhhh, she still doesn’t get it”, turned to look at me with a look a sidewinder might give, and, using an Oxford comma, laughed. “No, not ‘Cream Butter’, it means cream the butter, you know soften it, beat it with a mixer and cream it up”.

“Oh, right, creeeam butter”, I said emphasizing and stretching out the vowel parts, mock pretending like I misunderstood the words. “Oh, I totally knew that!”. I didn’t. We both knew I didn’t. She gave me a gentle elbow, as if to say “Oh you!” I responded in kind. Then we laughed with each other.

Jo Jo was my Grandmother’s sister, so I guess my Great Aunt. He recipes are all simple, beautifully crafted, use Oxford Commas, and get the everything out of the small handful of ingredients involved. Like Hamburger Helper!

Here is the recipe for Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake.

This is a beautiful fluffy towering white layered round cake. Visually, it presents celebratory. I could never get the coconut frosting to work, so I switched it out with a butter-milk formulation, completely homemade.

This one time (at cake camp) we made this cake as a 7 layer cake with only 5 layers, which was a statement that, despite all we accomplish, we are never done. Or maybe we ran out of eggs. You decide.

So, why is this a Grudge Cake. In December 2021, my Aunt Ju Ju was there and we made this cake, along with lots of other, stuff for Christmas. A month or so later, Fredo was describing to my Aunt Ju Ju all about making the cake and how good it was. Like he was there. He wasn’t. It was gone before we left -- “somebody” ate it -- so he would have never sampled it. I took this as a bitter grudge Hannibal and Fredo had developed.

Fredo has a history of taking other people’s stories and somehow plopping himself in the middle of it. Like this. Dolphyn told Fredo one of his “little boy” stories. I was there, and heard the whole thing. It goes like this, when Dolphyn was young -- maybe 3 or 4 years old -- his Dad kept pigeons, including Carrier Pigeons, Tumblers, and these pure white Fantail pigeons. There were two fantails, and they were a mating pair.

Pigeons have a habit of landing on roads and ingesting gravel for their gizzards. One day, the fantails were on the street picking up gravel when a car hit the female and killed it. The male walked up to his mate’s body and refused to leave. He was then killed by another car. To Dolphyn, it felt like the beauty of love.

Anyway, a few months later, Fredo recounted that story to me as if it happened to him. Except he mistook the white fantail pigeons for doves.

I know what you are thinking about this story. I have the same question. Why would anyone let a four year old kid play on the street? That is a great question!

Coffee Coffee Everywhere

Another surprise, while we were in cooking class, was around coffee. I love coffee. I enjoy all kinds of different coffee -- except the kind from the super market -- from all over the world. Ranking coffee and “expresso” (as some people call it) is in my score card when traveling.

The coffee at my Grandmother’s was made with a percolator. It was excellent and this eventually evolved into my go-to coffee recipe. It looks like this.

· Turkish blend coffee from Fonte, the brand that used to be at the Wynn when Steve Wynn was at the Wynn

· Make coffee in old school percolator, which one may buy from Ebay, preferably from the 1960s or before

· Espresso Illy pod in the Illy pod machine

· Homemade whipped cream

Make coffee, add whipped cream, pour espresso on top. Enjoy. By the way, you can add sugar to the whipped cream when you make it if you want it sweeter.

We call it the ‘Spro, because while in Amarillo I stopped by the local Coffee Roasters and asked for a coffee and an espresso. The barista gave me the coffee and then said, “your ‘spro is coming right up”.

Here is a picture of me enjoying my ‘Spro.

Image Courtest of PFFK#7

Fredo has my Bosch Porscha machine at #6 Accosted. It was a gift, to me, for doing an Illy promotional event for Time Warner in NYC. So, naturally it ends up serving my parents. That’s me, the Kind Kommodity Kid.

One Half of a Grudge Cake

The following is based on a fake story. All scenes and dialogue have been made up . . . entirely.

Fredo was in a bind. It was early January 2010, and extra cold in Gruver that day. It was around 9 am. He had a meeting with the bank in Spearman, the next town over, but bank people don’t even take the first sip of their Morning Joe D until 10 am.

To bide the time, he was sitting in truck in his Mother’s driveway, hoping to warm up and stop his teeth from rattling. He had earlier grabbed one of those Pillsbury frozen triangle things from his Mom’s freezer, wrapped it in some tin foil, and placed it gently on top of the engine to heat it up. He put the little pouch of icing on the engine block to warm that up as well.

Back to Fredo and the cold, sitting in his pickup. Sure wouldn’t want to be a brass monkey, he thought to himself, not knowing exactly what that meant. His Dad used to say that whenever they were out working in the fields on the really cold days, so Fredo knew it must have been something funny.

Fredo had never seen a brass monkey and was pretty they didn’t exist. But no denying it got cold in Gruver -- hell freezing over is a regular occurrence.

As he waited there in the frigid driveway, the heat melted the icing packet and icing began dripping down the engine block. The engine began to squeal as if it was an air raid siren and the bombers were incoming.

Fredo got scared. He was about to be busted. He backed up, drove out to Hwy 15 and disappeared down the road, never getting to enjoy those Pillsbury’s.

Fredo had driven up from Amarillo that morning to see his “good friend”, Mach Schnell, who was the loan officer at First State Bank – which everyone calls FSB. That in itself is funny because there are probably 50 banks in Texas named First State Bank of Somewhere. Do they all call themselves “FSB”, Fredo wondered, laughing to himself. He could imagine a regional banking convention where everyone’s introduced themselves as “Hi, I’m Mike from FSB”. He laughed a little louder. Fredo always laughed at his own jokes. Not one else did.

Well, it is not as confusing, Fredo thought, about the old bank in Amarillo called Boatmen’s Bank. There aren’t any boats in Amarillo.

Why was Fredo in a bind? I will discuss that story in a future episode entitled “Equity is Equity, How to Steal from Your Own Daughter for Fun and Profit“. And this story is a true one.

It involves an investment, straight up fraud, gaslighting, and an Oxford comma.

Here is a teaser.