A Reflection on Pound Cake, Memory, and Soul
There’s something quiet and personal about returning to a kitchen after a small failure. You remember the last time—how it crumbled, how you forgot the parchment, how it fell apart before it ever came together. But you also remember the taste, the intention, and the lesson. That’s where this began.
So it’s me and cake again. But this time, I kept it simple: a pound cake, humble in name but rich in history. I didn’t chase complexity—I honored instinct. I moved with the memory of what went wrong last time and the hope that this time, it might go right. It’s not perfect. It’s just real.
I made adjustments, measured the flour carefully, lined the pans, and whispered thanks to the ancestors. I didn’t use anything fancy—just what I had. And that, I imagine, is exactly how it began generations ago. Our people didn’t bake from abundance; they baked from necessity, love, and spirit—from what was on hand. And somehow, what they made was enough—sometimes more than enough.
This time, I tasted the batter and had to pause. It was everything: smooth, sweet, gently spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, lifted with a little lemon. It was the kind of batter that made you wonder why we even bother baking it at all. I almost didn’t—almost just sat at the counter with a spoon and a smile.
But I finished it. I poured it into the pan, slid it into the oven, and let the scent remind me who I am.
When it came out—cracked top, deep golden edges—I knew I’d done something right, not just in the measurements, but in the meaning. I had baked something that nodded back to the past while standing firm in the present. I made a cake with my hands, memory, and heart.
It wasn’t about impressing anyone. It was about honoring where I come from—a kitchen without frills, a recipe born of survival, a dessert passed down not through written cards but through repetition, rhythm, and watching someone you love beat butter and sugar until it sang.
That’s what soul food really is. It’s not the trending dishes on Instagram. It’s the small, sacred rituals in quiet kitchens. It’s using what you have and turning it into something worthy of memory. It’s the story inside the bite.
So yes—it’s me and cake again. And this time, I came correct. Not because I had to prove anything but because I remembered what matters: presence, patience, and the power of making something from nothing.
This cake?
It’s more than dessert.
It’s inheritance.
It’s healing.
It’s home.
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By Kyle J. Hayes
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