BLACK CAKE, CHRISTMAS AND LOVE.

It isn't Christmas in a Guyanese household if there's no black cake! Although, in recent times people are relying more on the store bought burnt sugar and Three Counties Fruit Mix, there are many die-hard traditional folks who will not touch the store bought products.

I am one of the latter. If nothing else, making black cake is one of the rituals that keeps me grounded in my rich Guyanese heritage. Not only does it lend itself to a sense of normalcy in these perilous times, it provides for reflection on cherished family memories.

Among those memories, is that of mom who although had a mixer, insisted that the Anchor Butter, you know the one in the gold coloured tin and brown sugar be creamed by hand in a large stainless steel basin. Mind you, mom was not doing this, the official creamer was dad. While he was stirring, she would carefully break twenty-six eggs into a separate bowl before putting them together in another mixing bowl for whipping. The bottles of Flavour Mate vanills and mixed essence (extract), a combination of vanilla and almond that is unique to Guyana, would then be poured liberally unto the eggs. She never measured the amount used, but rather used the ever-reliable sniff test (if it smells rank, pour some more). I'd of course be flitting around poking my fingers where I should not be, getting them smacked for my trouble and asking for "a stir." There would be no peace until I gave the mixture a stir.

Unto the weighing and sifting of the flour! My enthusiastic shaking of the strainer, would result in flour everywhere, with mom trying to convince me that gently shaking would by no means slow the process. To this day, I am yet to discover how she knew exactly the amount of nutmeg to grate into the flour. Likewise, the right amount of cinnamon to add. If someone, was to observe my baking now, they too in turn would wonder how I do it. Each year, it is nothing short of a miracle that just the right amount of spices are added without actually measuring. It must be some innate ancestral sense that results in instinctively shaking the right amount, whether it is one or two pounds of cake.

Mixing time! When the lid was removed from the big glass jar, the smell alone of the fermented fruit was enough to make one tipsy. At this point, mom repossessed the mixing spoon from dad. She had to gently fold in the flour herself.

For three hours, there would be a most heavenly aroma permeating the house and wafting out through the open windows. The dining table would then be cleared in preparation to serve as the cooling area. Roll unto mom rustling in dad's liquor cabinet. Let me tell you she did not discriminate. Whether it was the once popular Harvey's Bristol Cream, the sweet Bajan liqueur Falernum, or apricot brandy, mom would pour a couple of those with some rum in a jug give it a good swirl and pour it on to the hot cakes. Completely ignoring dad's cries of "wait don't tell me it is my good liquor this woman is using on her cakes." He couldn't argue further with her "aren't you going to eat the cake too?" come back.

Like last year, I could not play the Nat King Cole and Nana Mouskouri Christmas albums that we usually listened to while baking because they emphasised the Covid enforced separation of our family. So there it is, it is all the memories of love poured into the making of the black cake for one's family and friends that makes it priceless and why I continue to do it from scratch every year. Merry Christmas to all!