Aunt Linney's Texas Sheet Cake

Aunt Linney's Texas Sheet Cake and Other Deeply Gurded Secrets

Aunt Linney always seemed ancient. She was a short Lithuanian lady with platinum blond hair and a nubby mole on her cheek that somehow made her seem both beautiful and mysterious under her wrinkles. She always wore poppy-colored lipstick and matching nail polish. Whether it was 20 or 90 degrees, whether she was going to church or heading to the grocery store, whether she was attending afternoon tea or scrubbing the kitchen floor, her nails and lips were always perfect.

She sewed all her own clothes, cut her own grass, maintained her own garden, and cooked and baked everything from scratch.

Aunt Linney was known for her cookies and cakes, not only in our family but seriously for miles around. That's not an exaggeration. Everyone knew and lovingly dreamed about Elenore Makjiekas' baked goodies.

She was also infamously tight-lipped about her recipes. She never used a cookbook, and never wrote anything down. I swear she would sooner eat the paper than reveal her secrets.

Her poppy-tinted lips were sealed.

As a person would bite into one of her confections, she would stare at them intently as they closed their eyes and moan in ecstasy. Their eyes would pop open, "This is the best banana chocolate chip cake I have ever eaten."

"I know," Aunt Linney would respond with a smile.

Unphased, they would ask, "Can I have the recipe?"

"No." And she would simply pivot and walk away.

Aunt Linney was not married, and she never had children or pets. She owned a sprawling rancher on the main road in the back mountain where all the wealthy folks in my hometown lived. She drove a cranberry-colored Cadillac with a white leather interior. You could eat off her linoleum kitchen floor. The woman had white carpeting in the living room for crying out loud! Her house smelled like a faint yet delicious mix of chocolate chip cookies, bleach, and Kent cigarettes. I loved it.

She was always a mystery to me. How was she so rich, but never worked? Why was she not married? Did she ever want kids? Or a dog or a cat? I spent hours playing with her Hummel figurines and crystal swans contemplating this enigma. You see, while Aunt Linney was downright mean to everyone else, she had a soft spot for me.

Every summer on the last day of school she drove into town and picked me up for a week-long stay at her house. Our first stop was the grocery store where she would ask what kind of foods I was craving, and she would pick up all the ingredients.

While Aunt Linney was famous for baking, she was also a talented cook. She wouldn't dream of us eating hot dogs or canned spaghetti all week. Piggies, Kugel, Pierogies...all from scratch. You see, this was the 80s and the era of convenient frozen foods like Salisbury steak, Chef Boyardee ravioli, microwave popcorn, and Count Chocula. All of which comprised my typical childhood diet.

In the mornings, Aunt Linney baked before it got too hot. She flitted around the huge kitchen smoking and sipping coffee. She made cinnamon streusel cake or zucchini bread or strawberry layer cake.

I always assisted.

"Get me three eggs from the basket." (The eggs were always kept in a hanging metal basket)

"Go down to the basement and get my Bundt pan." (There were endless shelves of baking and roasting pans and dishes)

"Pass me the butter there on the counter." (Butter is best at room temperature, she NEVER used margarine)

She would open cabinets and throw in a pinch of this or a spoon of that.

Aunt Linney did not own measuring spoons or cups. She used silverware tablespoons and mugs. Mix it up, pour it into a pan, and pop it into the oven.

It felt like I was watching The Fairy Godmother from Cinderella turn a pumpkin into a carriage, and rags into a beautiful ball gown. When it was ready, she placed it on a cooling rack and we would head outside.

We spent the days in her yard, me laying in the grass while she tended to her roses or vegetable garden. The summer never seemed overly hot or humid thanks to the cool mountain breeze. Around three o'clock it was time to head inside, make more coffee, and prepare dinner.

In the evening, we sat in the glider in the screened-in breezeway between the garage and the house. Sometimes she wrapped my long hair in rags and tied it in tight bundles to set overnight curls.

One night, when I was about 10, while we rocked on the glider watching lightning bugs in the yard (Aunt Linney did not own a TV) she casually asked, "What is your favorite food that I make?"

Without hesitation, "Texas Sheet Cake, " I answered.

My mouth waters as I think about it even now. It is a thin dense chocolate cake baked in a sheet pan. The cake was moist but not too dense. It was chocolatey but not overly sweet or rich. The frosting was not a buttercream but a glistening sheen over the top that was the perfect thickness with the slightest snap on top. You could eat it with a fork or pick it up like a brownie.

I have no idea why it is called Texas Sheet Cake. No one in my family ever lived in Texas.

She brought it to every Thanksgiving and Christmas celebration. And honestly, the turkey or the ham never stood a chance. Aunt Linney's Texas Sheet Cake was always the star of the show.

I now understand why it was a cold-weather dish. It was labor-intensive and a bit of a burden to bake on a hot summer morning, no matter the mountain breeze.

But, as a kid, you never really feel the heat or the cold, now do you?

"Ok then. I will teach you how to make it tomorrow."

I was stunned.

"Really?"

She looked intently into my eyes and slowly replied, "Yes. But you will learn to make it my way. We will not write anything down. And you cannot ever tell anyone how to make it. Can you do that?"

My eyes widened. I slowly nodded.

"This is my grandmother's recipe. It is a secret recipe she created when items were scarce." She continued, "My grandmother and I were very close, and she taught me how to bake. My mother was an excellent cook and taught me the traditional dishes. But senelė gave me my love for baking."

"Yes! Yes, Aunt Linney! I promise!" I shouted with enthusiasm.

"Ok brangioji. We start at 5 am tomorrow."

I knew this was serious. She only called me brangioji one other time.

And that is another story for another day.

All I can say for certain is that I was now totally committed.

I awoke in the darkness of the pre-dawn to Aunt Linney clicking on the light. She was dressed in her house coat and smoking a cigarette with a coffee mug in her hand. I was super sleepy and about to protest about the early hour. She set the coffee on the nightstand. I thought it was hers and turned to her, surprised.

"Coffee, for me?" I asked.

She nodded.

I picked it up and reveled in the beautiful caramel color and delicious aroma. I took a sip and, wow! So creamy and sweet. In hindsight, it was probably more cream and sugar with a splash of coffee. I loved it. I got up and headed into the kitchen in my Little Pony PJs.

"Ok. First thing, we need to pull your hair back." She braided my long blonde hair as I sipped my coffee.

She had already laid out all the ingredients, bowls, pans, spoons, and mugs on the counter. I slowly walked past all the items. A mixed sense of excitement, calm, and focus overtook me as I silently committed them all to memory. Perhaps it was the coffee?

She gave me an apron and then tied on one of her own. Throughout the early morning hours, we worked together.

This time, she assisted and taught me. I did all the work.

I measured using the big and little silver spoons. I learned how to add the perfect pinch of salt and how the cut in the softened butter. I was the one who filled the kettle and set it on the stove for the water to boil.

She merely guided as I mixed and poured, correcting me gently, offering tips, and showing me the "right way" to do this or that.

The sun was well up in the sky and the kitchen was getting pretty hot by the time we put the cake in the oven. I was about to take off my apron and head out to the yard, she gently held my forearm.

"Not yet brangioji. We must now prepare the icing."

Admittedly I was feeling a bit tired and impatient, but she prepared me another cup of coffee, and we set to work.

The timing was perfect. Once the cake was slightly cooled, we topped it with the icing.

She went to the refrigerator and poured us each a large glass of ice-cold milk. She sliced two generous pieces of the slightly warm chocolate cake and we headed to the breezeway.

We sat on the glider and ate cake with one hand while sipping milk with the other. We looked at each other and smiled.

That October Aunt Linney quietly passed away in her sleep.

At the funeral luncheon, my mother and aunts jokingly asked, "What are we going to do on the holidays? Who will make the sheet cake?"

I looked up from my plate of stuffed chicken and baked ziti, "I can make it."

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me in disbelief.

"What? She never told anyone her recipes!"

"She showed me how to do it when I stayed with her last summer," I replied softly.

They were unconvinced.

I continued, "Seriously. I mean it. She showed me how to make it when I stayed with her this past June."

My mother was flabbergasted. "Why did you never tell me?"

"She told me not to tell anyone," I answered.

"Why did she teach you that? She never told anyone her recipes."

"Because I was her, brangioji."

And much to their initial surprise, I baked the cake every year, viciously guarding Aunt Linney's secret recipe.

Today is June 22, the anniversary of that sacred lesson, and my daughter is ten.

Tonight, while we were watching TV after dinner I asked her if she would like to learn how to make Aunt Linney's Texas Sheet Cake.

She looked directly into my eyes.

"Yes! Yes!" she shouted and bounced on the couch.

I repeated Aunt Linney's story and made her make the same promise, to which she enthusiastically agreed.

Finally, she asked quietly, "Why are you teaching me this momma?"

"Because you are my brangioji."

She looked at me with conviction. "Momma, you only ever called me that once before!"

I nodded. With tears in my eyes I answered, "Yes, brangioji."

And that is a story for another day.