Chapter 10

Pamela and Warren are getting on famously by the time we arrive. (Famously being an apt word, since they’ve both had their own TV shows.) Coincidentally his wife’s name is Pamela and they both agree that patience is key when it comes to baking—taking your time every step of the way.

“The best parts of life are in the roads traveled to get to your destination.”

(When I read this line on his website, I knew he had to be part of this project!)

He’s equally thoughtful while ruminating on the joy-inducing nature of cakes: “I think it’s all about memories—cake harks back to the earliest recall we have of gathering with others, celebrating with song, cheers, wishes and being in the spotlight. Everyone likes that a little and, even if you don’t, it’s still a special moment of every year that forces everyone to focus on themselves. I think that has something to do with the staying power of cake—especially when it’s targeted as the unhealthy bogeyman in one’s diet!”

As we watch him top the now-cooled cupcakes with old-fashioned buttercream frosting, I ask which recipe he liked best from his state-wide research for the United Cakes of America.

“Well, there are so many,” he muses. “I enjoyed the avocado cupcake for California because it’s so different.”

“I’ll say!” Gracie concurs.

“It’s good; most won’t give it a try. And the sweet potato cake for Louisiana is great—it reminds me of the holidays we spent with family from that part of the Deep South.”

He then brings us neatly back to New England as he sets his finished batch of Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes before us.

“They smell so wonderful!” we chorus.

In between mouthfuls of flavorful sponge (and licking frosted fingertips), I show Pamela the 1796 recipe for the traditional Hartford Election Cake, which Warren notes “makes enough to feed an entire church.” It also makes for amusing reading—the instructions may only comprise one paragraph, but they are curiously specific:

“Make a sponge of the milk and flour at four o’clock, at nine mix together . . .”

“Did you actually test it out?” I ask Warren.

“I did,” he cringes. “Very bad. The entire pound of raisins made it way too heavy.”

Gracie can’t help but chuckle. “That’s exactly what Georgie loved about my fruit cake. He said it sat like a brick in his stomach. In a good way.”

And then she proceeds to show us just how weighty it is.

It’s fun watching Gracie at work. She has so many similar mannerisms to Pamela. People used to say that about me and Mum. We both had very “descriptive” hands. And you couldn’t tell our voices apart on the phone. I always liked hearing that. It’s strange to me that Ravenna wants to distance herself from Pamela’s identity in every possible way.

Ravenna’s sitting outside now, watching a schooner prepare for its afternoon cruise.

Once we’ve bid Warren a grateful good-bye, promising to visit his DC shop next time we’re dropping in to the White House, I head over to her.

“Are we going to the hotel now?” she sighs.

“Actually we’re not staying the night in Connecticut,” I disappoint her. “Rhode Island is just fifty miles away, so we thought it made sense to spend two nights in Newport, what with the bus to sort out and all.”

“So we’ll be there in about an hour?”

“Not quite,” I grimace. “Today is unusual in that we have more than one cake appointment, the rest of the schedule isn’t quite so jam-packed. Pardon the pun.”

Ravenna holds my gaze. “Where exactly are we going next?”

Oh she’s going to love this one.

“It’s an old mill. Very rustic. We’re going to learn how to make Johnny Cakes.”

She raises a brow.

“Apparently it’s some kind of fried gruel.”

“Right,” she nods as she gets to her feet. “This time you can leave me in the car.” As she walks away she adds a muttered, “And don’t bother cracking the window.”