I've always been envious of people who come from rich cultural and ethnic backgrounds. I had a friend in college whose mom was Brazilian, and, even though this girl had never been to Brazil, she spoke Portuguese with her grandmother and ate lots of delicious Brazilian food all of the time. She would talk about the amazing-sounding rice dishes her grandma would make and then, for the life of me, I couldn't come up with one meal that my family made that was unique to us. We basically would just put stuff in a crock pot and hope for the best. Hell, we ate peanut butter bread with spaghetti. That's some sort of original, isn't it?
Or, in high school, I lived next door to a woman who had been in the Peace Corps in Cape Verde for a couple of years and, while there, became pregnant with a Cape Verdian man's child. The child, a girl, lived with my neighbor and rarely saw her dad, but she could understand Portuguese if it was spoken to her and walked around bragging about her unique ethnic makeup.
I on the other hand was nothing but a WASP. The last names in my family - Carey, Miller, Greeley, and Thomas - all reek of Anglo-Saxonism and suggest that, throughout the generations, we never really mixed well with others. I don't know much about my ancestors. I know that my maternal grandmother's parents were Pennsylvania Dutch, but I'm still not really sure what that means, and, seeing that my last name is Carey, I assume we have some hearty Irish stock somewhere in our background. Though if I have a great-great-grandpa Liam from Killarney somewhere in my history, I sure as hell don't know about him. I do know that my great-grandfather Thomas (my paternal grandmother's father) was Welsh, and this brings me to the point of this post.
I lied a minute ago when I said there was nothing unique to our family's culinary tradition. There is one thing that my family eats that I have never known any other American family to eat - Welsh cakes.
Welsh cakes are essentially scones, but if you talked to anyone on my father's side of the family, you would think they were the food of the gods, the sweet nectar of life, the sweetest morsel upon which you've ever set your mouth!
I have one very distinct memory of Welsh cakes, but I can't remember if it's my first or not. When I was 12, I spent Christmas in Florida with my dad and his family. One night, a few nights before Christmas, the entire family (my aunt, uncle, two cousins, both of my grandparents, my dad, and I - and possibly some other people I don't remember) were over at my grandparent's home in Orlando, simply enjoying the togetherness of the season. All of a sudden, I heard someone mention that grandma was making Welsh cakes.
"Oh boy! Grandma's making Welsh cakes!"
"Oh! I love Welsh cakes!"
"Grandma! When are the Welsh cakes going to be done?"
What the hell are these things? "Dad, what are Welsh cakes?"
"You've never had a Welsh cake before?!" his eyes were wide with disbelief. "You have to try a Welsh cake. They're delicious."
This was coming from the man whose favorite dessert was sour cream and raisin pie.
Grandma finished the Welsh cakes and brought a tray into the living room to serve. The family scrambled to help themselves. I picked one up and tasted it.
What was all the friggin' fuss about?
They were good. I mean, they weren't bad. But with all of the hullabaloo surrounding the event, I had assumed I was in for some epicurean delight. Some taste I had never experienced before. Some flavor that I would dream about for night on end after sampling just a bit. Some scrumptious bit that I would crave from then on whenever I felt the need for something sweet.
But no. None of that. The Welsh cake turned out to be a simply unremarkable little bit.
"Brooke, do you want another one?" my dad offered me the plate.
"Um. No thanks. Not right now."
"Good, more for us."
Precisely, more for you. Leave me out of it.
Even when I was 12, I understood that the commotion over my grandmother's Welsh cakes had absolutely nothing to do with the cake itself. It wasn't about some secret family recipe that had been passed down through generations and worked into perfection by Thomas women over the course of centuries. It had nothing to do with the actual taste (basically, it's like a scone but not as good). As I would later tell a friend, "Welsh cakes are not a dessert you crave. They are a dessert you eat when there is a plate of them in front of you, and you have nothing better to do."
The fuss surrounding this dessert had everything to do with my family's identity. My great-grandfather was Welsh, and we like to think of ourselves as Welsh. However, none of us spoke Welsh. We didn't know much about Welsh history (actually, I don't think I know one damn thing about Welsh history). Most of us have never visited Wales. I know that Catherine Zeta-Jones is Welsh, and so is Christian Bale. Does that mean I'm related to them? How big is Wales anyway?
I never knew my great-grandpa Thomas, but I assume his mother made him Welsh cakes when he was a boy and so he made them for his family as a way to preserve some part of their heritage, and my grandmother was now in charge of keeping the tradition and the Welsh pride alive in later generations.
For years after my first experience with Welsh cakes, I disdained them. My mom and I made fun of them for a long time. Since she was no longer a part of the Carey-Thomas clan, she didn't feel the need to step lightly around the family tradition. My sophomore year of high school, I had to collect recipes for a cookbook my speech and debate team was putting out as a fundraiser. My mom didn't have a lot of family recipes in her arsenal, so she busted out her recipe for Welsh cakes. "I don't think I've ever even made a Welsh cake," she said. We put it in the cookbook anyway. I wonder if anyone has tried making them?
Last year, around Christmas, I was talking to my father who mentioned that my grandfather was making Welsh cakes. "I haven't had a Welsh cake in like ten years," I confessed. "I don't even remember what they taste like." Blasphemous.
A few days later I received a package from my grandfather - a box full of crumbling, homemade Welsh cakes. I never asked for these.
I took them to work the next day and told all of my coworkers about them. "They're Welsh cakes. They're not that great. My family makes them. I can't eat them all. Want one?"
They were a hit. My publisher ate about three because he was hungry in the afternoon. "These hit the spot. Thanks," he said through mouthfuls of crumbly dough. I was amazed. I thought they were being polite. But I had a few myself and, like I said, they weren't bad, and I basically ate them because they were in front of me.
As I said in an earlier post, I spent Thanksgiving in Florida this year. While there, I talked to my grandmother a bit about her family. She started telling stories about how her father's family worked in steel (I think) and came to the States from Swansea. She recited a Welsh prayer her father had taught her (essentially, the Welsh version of "Now I lay me down to sleep." I wrote it down phonetically, but I have no idea how to spell it, so I won't even attempt to put it here. Just know that there are a lot of consonants in it. This talk inspired me a bit. It made me realize that I do have a heritage. I am part Welsh, damnit. And I'm proud of it.
I got back to New York and decided that I wanted to learn more about where I came from. I studied history in college and learned all about a bunch of other people and events that shaped the world, but I still know relatively little about the events that shaped me. It's about damn time I figured it out.
I got online (God bless Google) and tried to find a Welsh cultural center in Manhattan. There had to be something right? I looked everywhere, and it was surprisingly difficult to find up-to-date events and organizations, which I found strange, but I was able to find a listing for a Welsh church service held once a month at a Presbyterian church on the Upper West Side. This Sunday is their Christmas service. I am totally going!
So now I'm looking for new and exciting opportunities to be more Welsh. Naturally, then, when my friend from work (coincidentally, also Welsh) invited me to a lunchtime potluck this coming Friday, I decided to make Welsh cakes. Huzzah!
I looked up a recipe online (I didn't have time to call my grandma and ask for hers) and decided it looked simple enough:
(recipe taken from Cooks.com - http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,166,134182-240192,00.html)
8 oz (225g) self raising flour
pinch of salt
4 oz (100g) butter/butter
2 oz (50g) castor sugar
2 oz (50g) currants
2 small eggs (or 1 medium egg plus 2 tablespoons of milk)
2. Stir in sugar and currants.
3. Add eggs and mix to a fairly stiff dough.
4. Roll out dough to approx 1/4 inch thickness (slightly thicker works well, too).
5. Use small/medium diameter pastry cutter to cut into rounds - don't forget to re-roll the trimmings!
6. Place rounds of dough on a moderately hot griddle for approximately 3 minutes each side - the heat of the griddle is critical so as not to over-brown the cakes! Experiment to find the correct heat.
7. Eat hot or cold - but our favourite is warm with a dollop of brandy cream!
Once I figured out what caster sugar was (superfine sugar for you non-Brits out there), I went to Whole Foods (knowing full well that the five-aisle supermarket near my apartment would not carry currents or caster sugar), bought the goods, headed to Kmart, bought a rolling pin and some cookie cutters, and went back to experiment.
And, I have to say. They turned out quite well. I let my roommates try them. They said they liked them, but they could have just been being polite. Regardless, we'll see what my coworkers think on Friday. I hope somehow my coworkers find this unremarkable snack and endearing as I do.
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