In 1976, Johnny Cash released a song called “Strawberry Cake.” It was a bit of an outsider song and wasn’t entirely popular. But for me, it fits well within the canon of simple yet great Americana storytelling.
In an interview, Cash described a time when he was on his way to a hotel and passed a man sleeping on the street in New York. He went on to see a fine strawberry cake on the dessert table in the lobby restaurant and wondered how he could help the man eat a completely cloudy whole cake for himself. said.
Recipe: Strawberry Layer Cake
He thought better of the idea and wrote “Strawberry Cake” instead. In this song, a man sneaks into the Plaza Hotel from the street, wants a cake, remembers his days picking strawberries in California and his life leading up to that moment, grabs the cake and rushes out the side door. He overtakes the chef and waiter and eventually lands in the bushes where no one can find him. He is alone, full, animated, and devours the entire cake in a frenzy. It’s no surprise to me that Cash, a fellow Southerner and Nashvillian, would choose strawberry cake as the antihero’s coveted prize, and that the cake itself would be central to his personal calculations about class. there is no.
We Southerners love storytelling, and the outsider art and poetry that breathes Americana into songs can be a recipe for sharing stories that may not seem important in the moment, but are actually about being alive. It holds a story that defines much of its meaning.
Inside the song, there’s a recipe for outsider art and poetry that lives up to Americana.
As my own recipes are released into the world and freed from me, I become more aware of the stories they tell. Each one shows time and place (where I was, who I was cooking for, who I was cooking with), and history (my own and others’) . Digging through my archives, I find a lot of joy, some struggles, and mostly just a simple love for the humanity of recipes.
Some are quieter than others. Some are as vivid as novels. But the richest story lies within my layer cake. I think that’s true of many other Southerners as well. Layer cakes are more than just a bystander. These cakes, often referred to as church cakes, are meant for a heightened experience and the idea that they are carried in cardboard boxes with no top or Tupperware cake holder and are sacred centerpieces for gatherings in our part of the world. Nod to both.
This cake recipe also has a story. As a chef with strong opinions, I don’t think there are any better strawberries than those grown in Louisiana in early spring. In April, we Southerners are almost dumbfounded by the abundance of this crop, and it stays that way until early summer, when the berries get a little waterlogged and overheat. I wanted to see where they came from. I wanted to meet the person who was raising me. On her 10-hour drive around her 13 flats in Camarosa, she wanted to be alone in ecstasy to think about how to best serve them. Years ago, I drove from Nashville to look for some apartments for a pastry kitchen. That desire became part of this recipe.
When the farmer asked me what I would do, I answered with just two words: “Strawberry cake.” Of course, that was his original intention, so he nodded. Strawberry cake reminds Southerners of things big and important.
My original is built around amazing Louisiana strawberries, roasted at high temperatures and lightly sugared to preserve flavor. It tasted like Smucker’s jam in the summer.
For me, this is a kind of redemption cake. It heralds the arrival of summer, lifts us out (and sometimes bounces back) from the harshness of winter, and reminds us that there’s life to live and cake to eat. It’s also a cake that pays homage to the bountiful harvest from Louisiana farmers. Farmers give you plenty of “driving stash” for long drives home. To those you love and cherish the most. All flower-like, with a mysterious pink hue, these flowers can stop people in their tracks and proclaim a kind of tenderness in the midst of sadness, love and compassion. This is how the layer cake moves from one layer to the next. A recipe thus takes the form of the person who discovers it, defines small moments, and changes over time and place. Here’s a good one to fill with your story and create your own.
