There's something sacred about Sunday mornings in my hometown – especially when you're blessed with two grandmothers who understood that faith, family, and food are the essential ingredients that bind a family together
Every Sunday of my childhood began the same way: my mother, Robin, would wake me early, dress me in my Sunday best, and drop me off at Mt. Lebanon AME Zion Church for Sunday school. She'd then hurry back home to finish getting herself ready for the main service.
The church itself was a masterpiece of sacred architecture, its centuries-old brick walls housing some of the most beautiful stained glass I'd ever seen. Every window in the sanctuary told a Bible story in jewel-toned light, and massive stained-glass chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. When the sun hit just right, the entire sanctuary would come alive with dancing colors across the comfy burgundy cushioned covered extra long wooden pews.
By 10:55, all of us children would make our ceremonial dash up the hidden back staircase, past the chair lift that fascinated me endlessly (I could never understand why the adults didn't share my enthusiasm for this mechanical marvel), beyond the pastor's office where he is probably hands up in prayer, past the secretary’s office who was likely counting money and would look up with a disapproving gaze, and through our secret passage behind the choir box. We'd emerge stage right, each trying our best to appear as though we'd been perfectly behaved angels all along.
As the organ's first notes filled the sanctuary at 11 o'clock sharp, I'd peek over my shoulder, seeking the comfort of familiar faces in their usual spots. There was Grandma Laura, resplendent in her all-white usher's uniform – from her pristine white gloves, white stockings, white orthopedic shoes, to that white doily-like thingee perched atop her head. She always wore a white flower corsage pinned to her dress with a yellow ribbon, a splash of spring against the crisp all white uniform. Seven rows from the back sat my mother and great-grandmother Aleize, as dependable as the sunrise. Directly across the aisle, Aunt Cindy and my big cousin Shondalyn occupied their regular seats, and Uncle Ernell in the choir box, top back, right corner, completing our family's Sunday formation.
The service moved like a well-choreographed dance – the hymns, the offering (where I'd get to march proudly down the aisle with my miniature collection plate), and the sermon. Through it all, I'd find my way to Grandma Aleize's side, where she'd silently slip me a peppermint from her purse and turn back to the sermon - I just knew I was loved. Most Sundays, I'd spend half the sermon lost in my own world, watching dust motes dance in the rainbow light from the windows, making up stories in my head, until Grandma's gentle hand squeeze would bring me back to earth.
When service ended, we'd join in the ancient prayer, "May the Lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from another" (Genesis 31:49). Then came my favorite part – walking home hand-in-hand with both my grandmothers, one on the left, the other on the right, while Aunt Cindy and my mom gossiped about something behind us, and Shondalyn behind them. The spring air would be thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers, and the half-block walk to Grandma Aleize's house felt like a parade of love. We'd walk past the giant blue hydrangea bush that stood in the front yard, its blooms nodding in the salty breeze brought over from the Albemarle Sound down the street, up the concrete steps, through the creaking screen door – and I'd break into a run, knowing what awaited.
Grandma Aleize's house was humble but filled with love. The tin roof would ping with rain or crackle under the summer sun, and without central air, the windows stayed open to catch any breeze. The outhouse around back was just a fact of life, but none of that mattered when you stepped into her kitchen. There it would be, sitting proud on the kitchen table next to the antique white wood-burning stove: her lemon vanilla pound cake. Still warm, because she made it right before church. I'd stand there, mesmerized by its golden-brown perfection, the glaze still slowly dripping down its sides. And then it would happen – Grandma Aleize's conspiratorial wink as she'd head over to what she called a “sample cake” (the cake always available to try before cutting the main cake) to cut a sliver ("just a taste"), wrapping it carefully in a napkin and pressing it into my eager hands. My mom shouting how I needed to wait to have cake after dinner. Then, right behind me, Aunt Cindy would sneak in, with that same childlike delight as she too would get her secret slice too– a multi-generational tradition of both proper Sunday behavior and delicious rebellion!
In her humble kitchen, with no standing fancy mixers, no matching measuring cups, no expensive, fancy bowls or pans, Grandma Aleize was like a conductor of a silent symphony. She preferred to work alone, understanding that some forms of magic require solitude. Despite the simplicity of her surroundings, she was precise in her baking – measuring ingredients exactly, never wavering from her trusted recipe. While she wasn't one for many words, her pound cake spoke volumes – its crispy glazed drizzle telling stories of love, tradition, and the power of a well-made dessert to bring people together.
Even now, I can close my eyes and feel the warmth of her kitchen, hear the tin roof creaking overhead, see her knowing wink, and remember the weight of tradition and love in every bite. Her kitchen may have been humble, but the memories created there were rich beyond measure.
Grandma Aleize's Lemon Vanilla Pound Cake Recipe
Ingredients:
- 2 cups (4 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
- 3 cups granulated sugar
- 6 large eggs, room temperature
- 3 cups all-purpose flour
- 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1 cup whole milk, room temperature
- 1 Tablespoon pure vanilla extract
- 1 teaspoon almond extract
- 1 1/2 teaspoon lemon extract
For the Glaze:
- 1 cup powdered sugar
- 2-3 tablespoons milk
- 1 Tablespoon vanilla extract
-1 teaspoon lemon
Instructions:
1. Preheat oven to 325°F. Grease and flour a 10-inch tube pan.
2. Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy (about 5 minutes).
3. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition.
4. Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt.
5. Alternately add flour mixture and milk to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour.
6. Stir in extracts.
7. Pour batter into prepared pan.
8. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.
9. Cool in pan for 10 minutes, then remove and cool completely.
10. Mix glaze ingredients and drizzle over cooled cake.
Note: Like Grandma always said, "Measure with your heart, but be precise with your ingredients."
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