Baked with love in the dark days of war

by CARY RIDEOUT

photography by LORAIN EBBETT-RIDEOUT

Maybe you were leaning against a Sherman in the weak autumn sun or breaking down your trusty Bren gun, wondering if Ronnie assembled it. You might have been in a noisy aerodrome of democracy on the Prairies, a barracks in drizzly Scotland, or steaming into Halifax on a corvette fresh from shepherding a frightened flock through periscope-peppered waters.

Regardless of where somehow the mail found you and with all the care of Carter opening King Tut’s tomb, you unseal the crumpled package to find letters, home-knitted socks, and an object that, upon unwrapping, reveals a can of your favourite smoking mixture, far superior to any army issue hay chaff. But opening the tobacco tin reveals something so beloved, so fragrant, with the homey kitchen scent you miss, it nearly knocks you over. A molasses cake made by hands that reached across impossible miles, offering for a moment the one thing you dream of in those fragments of sleep. Home.

With our seamless ease of travel and constant connectivity the notion of a handwritten letter perhaps seems quaint. But for the shadowy past of nearly 90 years ago, a letter was a crucial link in the unbreakable chain that strained to hold back fascism during

“This war sure is a hard row to hoe And I miss all you dears more than you can know But with your next letter could you please bake Another tasty molasses cake?”

From a letter to a relative by Private William Rideout, somewhere in France, 1944 the Second World War. No matter rank or posting, every soldier longed for a package from home.

Warm thick socks for sore feet tramping towards Berlin, maybe tobacco, or a taste of beloved baking, all went overseas. Shipping was decidedly difficult with cramped space, rough handling, and U-boats all testing the mail, let alone the cook. Added to this were rationing restrictions at every turn, amounting to a confectionary conundrum. Nevertheless, like so many others, my paternal grandfather’s family of youngsters wanted to send over a taste of home, despite the logistics of the day. But how?

They needed a confectionary sturdy enough to stand wartime transportation. Various cookies were considered but crumbs seemed the likely outcome. Cake might fill the bill, and the famous War Cake came close but was too fussy. But never underestimate the determination of a family intent on sending their beloved father some cheerfulness.

A recipe from the recent Depression solved the cake problem with a thick basic batter infused with ordinary spices and molasses. What made this cake so well liked was our long East Coast love affair with molasses, the cook’s choice for sweeteners. Unlike other sugars in the war years, it was available everywhere and helped preserve the cake during its journey.

Next came the shipping question, which stumped them until the answer appeared in a cloud of tobacco smoke. This was genuine genius offering a stout sealed container, and if it kept the Virgina Blend fresh, it’d work for cake. Lacking eggs, milk, and sugar was no problem for this country recipe shrewdly employing a smattering of scientific substitution. Combining vinegar and soda produced a leavening agent that put every layer cake’s pride to shame.

A modern homemaker would cringe at the thought of dealing with a fire-breathing range requiring skill somewhere between witchcraft and alchemy. Powered by wood or coal with vague heating nuances along with climatological eccentricities, more than one tobacco can of molasses cake came out a bit scorched.

Wartime calls for speedy solutions and this all-in-one baking system answered the bugle call, pulling double duty as cook and postmistress. My grandfather, Pte. William Rideout, mentioned in letters how welcome a tobacco can cake was, particularly once in Europe eating rations, which the troops disliked due to the apparent lack of decent sweets. From France to the Netherlands and finally Germany, he received mailed tobacco cans of molasses cake, and while many times it was a little worse for wear, he always appreciated it.

Any recipe is a snapshot of time and place a way to touch the hands of loved ones long passed. What better way to remember those who served with sacrifice and those who waited at home than with a cake cooked in a can and sweetened with molasses memories.

Wartime Tobacco Can Cake

Serves 4-6

INGREDIENTS

2 cups (500 mL) flour

2 tsp (10 mL) baking soda

1 tsp (5 mL) cinnamon

¼ tsp each (1.5 mL) nutmeg, cloves, ginger

1 ½ tbsp (22 mL) vinegar

½ cup (125 mL) shortening or lard

¾ cup (177 mL) molasses, either blackstrap or cooking

¾ cup (177 mL) water

METHOD

1. Combine flour, baking soda, and spices in a bowl.

2. Make two pockets in mixture, add vinegar in one and softened shortening/lard in the other.

3. Add water then molasses, mixing thoroughly.

4. Grease and dust two medium 14-ounce cans and divide the mixture between the cans.

5. Heat oven to 350F/177C, set both cans in, and cook for 55-60 minutes.

6. Remove, cool for a quarter hour then gently shake cakes out of cans or store for later.