A Southern mother might be tempted to marry off her daughter to Jack the Ripper (who reportedly was a member of the royal family—so there) if it meant she could get out all her tea napkins. Many Delta ladies once possessed a special tablecloth called an army navy cloth, which was grand and long enough for the longest tables. The army navy cloth (we don’t know why it was called that) was loaned out to adorn the bride’s table, where the all-important wedding cake sat, surrounded by garlands of white flowers with perhaps a touch of green ivy. Years before Martha Stewart persuaded the Yankee bride that her wedding cake is “a statement,” Delta brides were already making statements. Indeed, the Mississippi Quarterly once published a learned article on the significance of the wedding cake in Miss Eudora’s Delta Wedding. We wonder if literary quarterlies in Massachusetts delve into the metaphysical meaning of the wedding cake. The wedding cake, if you care to delve, was originally a fertility symbol—and the bride’s mother is just glad if the cake is cut before there is tangible, rather than symbolic, evidence of fertility.
What we really need in the Delta, of course, is not an erudite treatise on the meaning of the wedding cake but a how-to article on transporting and assembling the cake so that it doesn’t make an unintended statement. Since, given the bride’s refusal to take sustenance in the months and weeks leading up to the wedding, the cake probably weighs more than she does, this can be complicated. Our mothers still talk about the disaster of the weeping wedding cake. Perhaps it should be known as the incident of the cake that should never have left Memphis. It seems that a prominent family from Como, Mississippi, had spared no expense on ensuring that their eldest daughter—her name was Precious—would have the most memorable cake in the history of the Methodist church of Como—and it turned out to be memorable, all right. The fabulous cake was ordered from Memphis’s then-reigning society baker, and Cousin Maudie Lee Poindexter was deputed to fetch it. Unfortunately, the family had neglected to pave Highway 51, then mostly gravel, for the wedding. On about the hundredth swerve to avoid a hound dog, the fabulous cake’s top tier fell off and went plop into the lap of the by-then suicidal Maudie Lee. Fortunately, a local baker was called in and he was able to repair the damage, though his gloating proved almost unbearable. His handiwork was short-lived. Precious’s beautiful cake began to melt in the Delta heat, or at least the sugar flowers did. Even with air-conditioning (which some of us call air-condition), the life of a Delta wedding cake is short and fraught with peril. The odds for disaster increase exponentially if the cake is the creation of an out-of-town “sugar artist” who has been paid more than the proceeds from last year’s crop.
We remember the Atlanta artiste who brought an expensive cake to the Greenville Country Club and assembled it in the ballroom. Then the Leonardo of the sugar flower, unwilling to avail himself of the joys of such local establishments as the Holiday Inn on Highway 82, hopped the next single-engine plane out of town. Almost immediately, a decorative screen fell on the cake. Frantic calls went out to several local bakers, who were otherwise occupied, this being the height of the matrimonial season. The cake was reassembled—sort of—by the bride’s hysterical mother and the staff at the country club. Still, several guests commented that this was one wedding at which the cake looked more smashed than the bride’s dipso uncle Horace.
Sweetie Pie Sievers, for whom baking was a cross between a hobby and a cottage industry, was for many years one of Greenville’s most beloved bakers of wedding cakes. She has, regrettably, taken her recipes to the grave, though Olivia Morgan Gilliam’s elder daughter, Little Olivia, cherishes a picture of her wedding cake, a present from Sweetie Pie. There were delicate white sugar trellises, and the cake was topped with pink sweetheart roses grown in Old Mr. Gilliam’s garden. Sweetie Pie baked silver charms attached to satin ribbons into the cake. The bridesmaids gathered round to pull out the charms. The one who drew the silver ring would be the next to get married, while the one who got the thimble was supposed to become an old maid (all the bridesmaids were soon married, we are reliably informed). This is a tradition that has fallen by the wayside.
As statements go, we feel Sweetie Pie’s genteel wedding cakes were far superior to some of the “unique and one-of-a-kind cakes” proposed by a Mississippi bridal magazine: The article suggests topping wedding cakes with porcelain dolls that look like the couple, “often wearing the same elaborate wedding clothes, embraced with genuine diamond jewelry.” We have one word for decadent, jewelry-encrusted dolls atop wedding cakes: no. Sometimes one-of-a-kind is one too many. This is a far cry from the “quaint dolls” an etiquette expert referred to in the 1940s. Wedding cakes are now likely to be square, and white is no longer the rule. We’re waiting for the scarlet I-refuse-to-even-pretend-I’m-a-virgin wedding cake.
Mosquitoes, as we have noted, were once upon a time the tiny protectors of a Delta girl’s virtue. Unfortunately, these mighty exponents of chastity inevitably exacted a price for their moral vigilance: bites of delicious wedding guests. Now that the virtue thing is no longer an issue, they expect their fleshly homage. To prevent the wedding from turning into such a sacrifice, many families found it essential to spray with DDT. We all grew up loving DDT—it was so much fun to play in the “fog.” Look, if you don’t get first-run movies, you have to explore other ways to amuse yourself. We chased the DDT truck. Wedding cakes, on the other hand, should not be sprayed with our favorite Delta Chanel. One of our society doyennes scheduled the DDT truck too close to the time of the outdoor reception. Yes, that certain je ne sais quoi was… DDT. We regret to report that several guests thought it was the best cake they’d ever put in their mouths. There are now more advanced forms of mosquito repellent, but none have given us as much enjoyment as DDT. So what if we’re harboring mutant genes?
The etiquette governing the wedding cake is simple—the bride and groom cut it and feed each other a bite, their first matrimonial act. Couples who feel compelled to smash the cake in each other’s faces are to be discouraged. Believe it or not, the wedding cake isn’t strictly decorative—the bride cares how it tastes. She most likely has not partaken of sustenance since he popped the question, and is by now almost ready to attack and eat the army navy cloth. The bride isn’t the only one who wants a piece of cake—little girls attend weddings for no other reason than the cake. Those little girls who have iron willpower take it home and put it under their pillow for good luck. The bride and groom cut only the first piece of cake and then ladies appointed by the bride’s mother, or children—cake girls—do the rest. Because wedding cakes are structured differently from other cakes, the girls have received special instruction in the art of wedding-cake cutting. Some brides still follow the tradition of sending guests home with a piece of cake in a tiny box with a satin ribbon.
We are thrilled when anybody wants to share their hospitality with us, but a wedding is a time when you want to limit your hospitality to the number of people who can be served without resorting to plastic forks. It is better to have a smaller reception, with cake and punch and a few dear friends. We deplore the wedding from hell with an expensive cake, flown in from who knows where, a cast of thousands, and top-of-the-line plastic. There is no such thing as top-of-the-line plastic. We’d rather have church stainless. But, if you’ve already spent four years of college tuition on one weekend, why not incur the expense of better forks for that fine cake? Think rent-all. They can bring the forks when they deliver the tent.
A Stalwart of Greenville’s “Catholic Carnival,” a yearly fund-raiser for the parochial school, Cyrilla Duprel always helped with the cake booth. It featured an array of homemade cakes that you could win by spinning the wheel. She also baked wedding cakes. Most caterers would die before sharing their recipes for wedding cakes. Mrs. Duprel, who has retired to Nashville, graciously shared hers. And what is her super-secret ingredient? Uncle Dunkie’s white cake mix. Yes, you got that right, Duncan Hines. Lots and lots of Uncle Dunkie, as the average wedding cake weighs between seventy and a hundred pounds—or just about what the bride weighs if her starvation has paid off—and is five tiers tall. But Mrs. Duprel did develop her own icing.
1 package (2 pounds) Domino confectioners’ sugar, sifted.
½ teaspoon each of a combination of orange, pineapple, lemon, raspberry, almond, and clear vanilla flavoring
½ cup Pet milk or water
1½ cups Crisco shortening
Cream together the liquids (water, flavorings, milk) with powdered sugar. Then add Crisco and beat for at least 15 minutes. Pet milk gives the icing a lovely, ivory color, but for white icing, use plain skim milk or water. Mrs. Duprel always used several batches of this mixture, depending on the size of the cake. Of course, in all likelihood, you will not make your own wedding cake—even if you do know Mrs. Duprel’s secrets!
We are on record as deploring the groom’s cake, but if you must have one, this white fruit cake is the best. White fruit cake, not the wedding cake itself, is generally the one put in boxes as wedding souvenirs. This recipe, which appears in Gourmet of the Delta, the Bible of Delta cooks, belonged to the late great Linda Haik.
1 pound butter
1 pound sugar
8 or 9 eggs, separated
5 cups flour, sifted before measuring
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon granulated lemon rind
1 cup candied citron (fruit), slivered
1 cup freshly grated coconut
1 cup white raisins
1 cup candied cherries, whole
1 cup candied pineapple, thinly sliced
1½ cup almonds, blanched
1½ cup pecans
Preheat the oven to 300°.
Cream the butter until it is fluffy and add the sugar slowly, beating well after each addition. “The creaming operation is most important,” Gourmet of the Delta notes. The yolks should be at room temperature. Add them one at a time, and stir a few times after each addition.
To the balance of fruit and nuts coat with a small amount sifted flour. (Reserve all the cherries and some of the nuts for the last step.)
Combine the remaining flour with baking powder and salt. Stir. Add to the cake mixture.
Stir grated lemon rind into the cake mixture. Then add a portion of the floured nuts and fruit.
After beating the egg whites until they are barely stiff, immediately fold them into the mixture.
Fold in the rest of the fruit and nuts, except for the reserved cherries and nuts.
The cake pan must be lined with greased parchment paper, on the bottom and sides. Pour a thin layer of batter into the pan, and scatter nuts and cherries over this layer. Press lightly on the batter. Repeat.
Add the reserved cherries and nuts to decorate the top during the last hour of baking. Baking time should be about two hours but start checking around ninety minutes.
Mrs. Carter was the wife of Hodding Carter, the Pulitzer Prize–winning editor of Greenville’s Delta Democrat Times. A writer in her own right, Mrs. Carter was a civic leader and all-around force of nature. She made several generations of Greenville tipsy on this potent concoction. This punch was discovered in a treasure trove of Linda Haik’s recipes.
This is great punch for a big Delta wedding—as long as you’re not a Baptist, and have appointed a designated driver!
8¾ cups sugar
16 cups water
Juice of 26 lemons
13 bottles sauterne
9
bottles bourbon
4 bottles brandy
13 bottles club soda
13 bottles grenadine
Boil the sugar and water for 15 minutes and then add lemon juice. Cool. Add sauterne, bourbon, brandy. Before serving, add soda and grenadine.
Makes 600 servings.
We call punch without alcohol Presbyterian Punch, and we like to have it for teetotalers and children. We all remember lime green punch from going to weddings with our parents. This recipe reminds us of those halcyon days before sherbet became sorbet.
1 gallon lime sherbet
4 bottles (28 ounces) very cold ginger ale
1 bottle (28 ounces) club soda
1 can (46 ounces) very cold pineapple juice
In a large punch bowl, combine liquids. Add sherbet and garnish with any or all: orange slices, maraschino cherries, fresh strawberries, sprigs of fresh mint.
Serves at least thirty.
Old-fashioned wedding receptions inevitably included these little mints. Such a nice tradition. Unfortunately, some receptions were color-coordinated: The bridesmaids’ dresses matched the punch that matched the mints. Some hostesses got carried away, and before the wedding, they gave bridal Coke parties that featured cream cheese finger sandwiches dyed to match. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten pink cream cheese on Bunny Bread.
3 tablespoons butter
5 tablespoons water
1 pound confectioners’ sugar
1 teaspoon mint or peppermint extract
Heat butter in water until very hot. Remove from heat and add sugar and extract.
You can add food coloring here, if desired (see above). After the ingredients are well mixed, put them in the tube of an icing decorating set. (I used my cheese straw machine.)
Using the star tip, make small mounds on a piece of foil that has been lightly coated with cornstarch. Allow to rest for 24 hours. The mints will be dry on the outside and be creamy on the inside. They keep well in tins.
Makes seventy.
Crystallized roses add an old-fashioned touch. They can be used to decorate a cake or with sugared grapes. Beautiful to look at—sweet to eat. The meringue powder is a specialty item. You will probably need to buy it at a baking shop.
3 tablespoons meringue power
1 16-ounce package powdered sugar, sifted
1 cup water
30 medium to large long-stemmed roses
2 16-ounce packages superfine sugar
48 rose leaves (with stems—-you’ll need the leaves)
Combine first three ingredients in a large mixing bowl and blend at medium speed with an electric mixer for four to five minutes or until smooth and creamy. Cover tightly and set aside.
Trim stems from one rose three or four inches. Wrap stem in florist tape. (This is optional.)
Spoon ½ meringue mixture into a bowl; cover remaining mixture to prevent drying.
Coat rose petals with meringue mixture. Using a small, soft paintbrush, gently separate large petals from small to make an opening rose. Brush the mixture around tight center bud (do not try to open). Sprinkle roses with superfine sugar, shaking gently to remove excess; dry on a wine rack for at least eight hours (do not cover or chill). Repeat procedure with remaining roses. Crystallized roses may be made up to 48 hours beforehand.
Makes thirty-six.