350 Strokes

by Gloria Griepenstroh

Recently while browsing through my recipe box, I was prompted to remember a childhood experience that was a formative part of my life. During summers at my Grandpa’s farm, I would try my hand at baking. At Grandpa’s, cakes were beaten by hand, without the aid of an electric mixer. This almost forgotten baking method is the basis for "350 Strokes".

The soft June breezes of southern Indiana swept through the open window cooling me, as I sat on a beige vinyl kitchen chair in the breakfast nook at Grandpa’s farm. Keeping an exact count, I cradled a three gallon crock on my lap as I stirred, its lemon colored mixture coating the long-handled wooden spoon.

"Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven." A luscious two-egg cake was in the making with many more strokes around the crock to reach 350.

This vivid memory of over three decades ago seemed like yesterday as I came across this special recipe recently while looking for something to bake. The simple yellow cake was one of my childhood favorites just like those summers at Grandpa’s.

Living with Grandpa were his married son and wife, my uncle and aunt. It was with Aunt Mary’s encouragement and guidance that I learned many of my early cooking lessons. Her Job like patience was remarkable, as were her cooking skills.

I remember well the kitchen at the farm where I attempted to master the art of cooking. Its painted celery green walls accented by red stenciled borders near the ceiling had a feeling of coziness and warmth. A tattered cookbook stored on a shelf in the upper cupboard held recipes that only good cooks could use. You know the ones I mean, with measurements described in smidgens and dashes.

The cookbook’s use was characterized by its worn pages splotched with egg white, vanilla or some other select ingredient accidentally spilled by a hurried cook. Some of those splotches bore my cooking signature.

The directions for my favorite two-egg cake with Creole icing concluded with the words " beat 350 strokes until well blended." Translated for today’s baker, this meant beating by hand, not with an electric mixer. And full circular strokes too, no half-hearted ones permitted.

For me the hand beating added an unwritten ingredient, a loving tough. I was careful to beat the exact number of strokes. Never less, but sometimes a few more for good measure. A little extra love never hurts, even in a recipe.

The oven in Aunt Mary’s kitchen was unique, too. The old style propane gas oven had to be lighted before each use, no pilot light on this old antique. I was never comfortable with this step, even with the long-stick kitchen matches. I always feared losing an eyebrow or singeing my bangs when the oven ignited with an explosive puff.

The thermostat on the old oven was not the best either. Testing for doneness was a guessing game. The cake wasn’t necessarily done when the recipes designated 35 minutes were up. Frequent checks during the last 10 minutes were required. The true test came when the cake sprang back at the tough and was slightly brown, which I learned to judge pretty well.

Once baked, the cake was frosted with a caramel like topping. Melted butter, brown sugar and a little flour were mixed and spread on the warm cake still housed in its pan. Then the magic happened. The cake pan was placed under the broiler for several minutes until the topping bubbled. The result was a delicious light but slightly crunchy icing that crowned the masterpiece.

I’m not sure why this memory is so vivid or precious. Was it the simpler time without electric mixers, the loving touch of those 350 strokes, or the tender guidance of my aunt? I suppose it was all of the above ingredients.

Now I live on a farm with an airy kitchen. I have a three-gallon crock and several long handled wooden spoons. But I haven’t made a two-egg cake in years. Soon I plan to reminisce by baking the "old fashioned way" and recapturing that "350 stroke feeling" once more.

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