The Cake That Got Away
What happens when your neighborhood bakery stops selling your favorite dessert
I’ve read that honey cake is the fruitcake of the Jewish world. The cake that shows up on the holiday table out of a sense of tradition but brings little joy. I’m here to avenge this notion. Or at least, to agree to disagree. The honey cake baked by my paternal grandmother resides in the pantheon of my most beloved childhood desserts. My father’s parents were what you would call rustic bakers. They would spend the days leading up to our visits to their one-bedroom apartment in Worcester, Massachusetts, baking old-world cakes and yeast-dough pies from their native Russia. Among them was honey cake, baked in a ring-shaped pan, sliced into wedges and served plain.
By most accounts, my grandmother’s honey cake would be considered dry and overly springy. The color was dark brown, and the flavor was dark brown, too — probably overcooked, a little chewy, richly sweet. But I could eat piece after piece. I loved it. When I later asked my mother if she could replicate the recipe, I found out that the cake was made with allspice and cloves, so I guess I could say it tasted like that. But the flavor to me was just “honey cake,” and it made an indelible mark on my young palate.
