Jamaican Black Cake…yeah man

Sometime before Christmas I got a strong hankering for homemade fruit cake, more specifically black cake.  My father’s father used to make it every June or July, basting it regularly with West Indian rum, then serving it to the privileged few in through fall and winter.  Grandpa was an incredible cook and baker and I regret that we never banged around the kitchen together.  My 20’s were, shall we say, sketchy?  I entertained quite a bit but, being young and foolish, I allowed myself to get crazy about details and elaborate menus.  I hadn’t moved back home to Fort Lauderdale when he passed away.  And although I have his massive recipe collection, I don’t have his recipe for black cake or fruit cake but, again, I know he loved West Indian rums so as I did my recipe research and development I kept that in mind.  Grandpa traveled often to Saint Kitts, where he had family, and also the Lesser Antilles.  He always brought back beautiful bottles of rum and brandy, the labels decorated sometimes by hand, and small, mysterious bottles of bitters.  His crystal decanters were typically filled 1/3 and, in late afternoon when the sun shone in, they cast the most magical rainbows across his floors and walls.  Grandpa had a full closet in his house that was his bar.  That bar was something else!  Angostura bitters, vermouth, rum, brandy, gin, vodka, scotch, bourbon.  Glasses varying in size, hand etched with his monogram, were kept on a shelf in the closet.  And guess what sat next to those glasses?  Yup.  All those beautiful black cakes and fruit cakes sitting in fine rum through summer and fall just waiting to be served.  Through the year Grandpa would refresh each cake regularly with a quick splash of rum or brandy.   He kept them neatly stacked on a shelf in his bar and, as winter and the holidays approached,  would regularly share a slice or two with family and friends.  His apartment was on the water and since he was less than a half mile from our house we visited often.

He was a gentleman’s gentleman, from the way he dressed to how his flat was furnished.  Floor to ceiling book cases overflowed with excellent collections of the classics which gave him great enjoyment, some volumes so rare they were donated and exhibited at our main library.  His father, also a bibliophile, had been a book publisher and Grandpa had a deep affection for the bindings, the quality of paper and the worlds those written tomes could take you.  He loved raw oysters and sweetbreads, cold, rare roast beef served with an abundance of horseradish and all manner of fowl.  Nothing made him happier than throwing big, wooden crab traps off his dock, while in linen Bermuda shorts, and watching the rectangular crates sink to the murky canal floor anticipating the sweet seafood pleasure to come.   He surrounded himself with family pieces; silver was always polished, windows open at the ready for gentle, salt breezes and a homemade 4-layer, dark chocolate cake, iced and ready for company was always waiting in his refrigerator.  5 o’clock  found him without fail in one of his club chairs,  cocktail made, reading the newspaper.  He had a passion for recipes from India, Britain and the islands, handsome full brogue Oxford dress shoes and rich but worn Persian rugs.  Grandpa kept his knives frighteningly sharp and his ice bucket fresh and full.  The downside was he could have a biting tongue. When my older sister, Cynthia, and I were much younger, maybe eight and six, we were left alone in the living room of his apartment while the grownups were having drinks on the porch.  I was fascinated with learning cursive and, of course, model student Cynthia had already perfected her penmanship.  Using our index fingers we idly traced our names on an elaborate silver tray that happened to be covered with dust.  Try as I might, I just could not figure out how to connect the “c” in my name with the following letter “i”.  The next day, and I don’t recall if the tirade took place at our house or his, however, I DO quite clearly remember Grandpa bending down over Cynthia and me and with his booming, deep voice bellowing two inches from our white-with-fear faces, “…WHO DO YOU THINK I AM?  YOUR SERVANT?  YOUR LACKEY?”  We stood in frozen terror and I remember thinking, “What’s a lackey?”.  Mama came to our defense explaining we had not meant to insult him and I believe she ended up receiving the verbal brunt of his fury.  He was highly opinionated and pretty fearless.  Not only did he love me but he liked me so I moved about him with ease and affection.  I am of the opinion he would have highly approved of this cake, nibbling on a sliver every day until gone to begin again the gathering of dried fruits and spirits for next year’s batch.

This cake is nothing like the fruit cakes of old which were baked with Day-Glo candied fruits from the grocery store and best used as door stops.  No. This cake is tender, and rich and almost chocolaty in flavor.  I’m crazy about it, can’t keep my hands off it and, as I lean up against my kitchen counter and taste that first morsel redolent with the warm, mysterious flavors of candied orange peel, burnt sugar or browning, dark rum and port, well, I almost feel like a pirate in the West Indies.