In my Irish family, a recipe for a cake that we call gold and silver is brought out on all celebratory ocassions. On birhtdays, the gold and silver comes out. On anniversaries, on graduations, on any special event. The irony is that this rich sounding delicacy became a tradtiion because of a hold-up man.
In the year 1910, my grandfather, James J. Farrell, son of an Irish immigrant, was looking for work. Though he could sign his name with a commanding flourish, and
could read out every letter of the alphabet, literacy had not been a
goal in the home that his immigrant father established in Newark, NJ. When it came time
for my granfather to choose a career, he looked at the achievements of his two
older brothers. The oldest, Joe, had joined the police force, and his
mental acuity was helping him advance despite his inability to read. But
it was a long road to be travelled slowly. His second brother, Richard,
had risen rapidly in the ranks of his chosen career using both acuity
and athletic ability: in just two short years, Richard had gone from
street pickpocket to second story man, and was far richer than Joe. Gold and silver lined his pockets, not Joe's.
My grandfather saw the advantage of rapid advancement andknew that gold or silver were more valuable than copper pennies. Joe was his best
friend, however, and he knew that they both needed to be on the same side of the
law. He signed up for the police force, admitting to himself that it
was due to brotherly love, not virtue, that he had chosen the path of
righteousness.He was happy for the choice when he met beautiful
Theresa Jones, and even happier when they married and had a child on the
way.
My grandfather had an extraordinary memory, one that would stay sharp until
his death. He could walk into a room, look slowly around, leave the
room and list everything he had just seen. At the end of his first
month as a rookie, the captain told him he would go far, and nicknamed
him 'Camera-Eye.'
Swinging his night stick - the only weapon allowed a rookie -
'Camera-Eye' Farrell toured the neighborhoods on his beat, tipping his hat
to everyone, memorizing every detail of life in the shops of downtown
Newark and the residences up and down the block. He learned that
Jewish people cooked meaty stews or chicken on Friday mornings, then
went to the Synagogue in the evenings, leaving their houses empty. He
walked the streets, inhaling deeply, memorizing which houses had the
early morning smells of stew, then kept a close watch on those houses at
night. He made note of the back room at Steenbach's cigar store where
men got together to play poker for small sums of money. He noticed that
the butcher put fresh sawdust down only on Mondays, and that the
vegetable man cut his prices in half at four in the afternoon on
Saturday. He learned that the Tea Time Restaurant would be busy in the
late afternoon when the ladies of Newark stopped for tea, but that, at
night, it would be slow, the staff so bored that they'd rush to greet
him. Gregarious by nature, he enjoyed talking with them and allowed
himself one indiscretion: he would accept a lemon cookie, free of
charge, which the hostess rushed to give him when he walked through the
door.
One evening when he arrived at Tea Time, already thinking about that
lemon cookie, the hostess didn't come forward, but stayed by the cash
register. There were the usual handful of people sitting at tables, and
their plates were full, but not a fork or spoon was moving. He looked
at the hostess, frozen at the cash register, staring intently at a man
in a dark coat who had one hand pushed into a pocket. Now she should hand him a check, he thought, but
instead the woman opened the cash register and took out money. This
was a hold-up, my grandfather thought, and there's a gun in that man's
pocket.
Keeping his eye on the man in the overcoat, he reached backward for a
nearby sugar bowl, and lobbed it with all his force at the head of the
would-be holdup man. The man staggered to find his balance, and my
grandfather threw his night stick between the man's feet, causing him to
fall backward to the floor. My grandfather rushed forward, grabbed the
gun from the man's hand and held it at his head.
The headline in the paper the next day read, "Rookie Foils Hold-up
Man." At the police station, there was a ceremony, and, amid speeches
about courage and devotion to duty, James J. Farrell was made a patrolman
and presented with his first gun. Named "the sweetest man on the
force," he was also presented with a large, heavy package tied with
ribbon. A sack of sugar. My grandfather brought the sugar home to his Theresa
along with the news of his promotion. She laid one hand on her stomach, swelling with the
second child in less than two years, relieved to know that there would
be more money in the house, and her children would be properly fed. She put the tip of one arched finger
into the sugar, then lifted it to her mouth. "I'll make gold and silver
cake," she told him, "and we'll get your brother over to celebrate."
She made the gold and silver cake and wrote the date, September 24,
under the recipe. A tradition was born: gold and silver cake became the favorite cake, and it was always shared.
The recipe as written by my grandmother:
GOLD & SILVER CAKE
as written by Theresa Farrell
*************
JMJ
1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
1 cup sweet milk
2 cups flour
1 cup corn starch
2 teaspoons baking powder
After mixing well divide into two equal parts.
Into one part put beaten white of 3 eggs and the yolks into other part,
bake in layers.
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