My wife baked pound cake for
my 75th birthday yesterday. Whatever degree of good anybody else’s pound cake
attains, my wife’s is at least two times better. We have been married 48 1/2
years. She has made at least 55 pound cakes, and each has been the same degree
of good.
My wife’s pound cake is not
that smooth, arced thing made and sold by commercial bakeries. No. Her pound
cake is Bundt-pan-size, with almost a crust of ridges. I should stop and just
say her pound cake is delicious.
Priscilla, Michael, Kathleen
and I had cake with strawberries and whipped cream. Delicious. But I repeat
myself.
I asked my wife what were the
ingredients. I should have known, after 48 1/2 years, and I sort of did. Flour,
a little sugar, butter and eggs, my wife said. Six eggs.
When I heard the six eggs
part, I said, “Breakfast!” Six eggs might sound like a lot, but when whipped
and mixed with the other ingredients, those half dozen eggs are spread out.
At supper last night, I
mentioned to my wife that she, Michael and Kathleen could have half the cake. “The
rest is mine,” I said.
I am looking forward to
several breakfasts of the best pound cake ever. Ever.