One morning Betty appeared with an odd-looking slice of something that might have been tar with elaborate white frosting on the top.
‘What is this?’ I said.
‘Black Cake,’ Betty said. ‘I thought you might like to taste it.’
I took a tentative bite and was transported into a sense of rapture and admiration.
There is fruitcake, and there is Black Cake, which is to fruitcake what the Brahms piano quartets are to Muzak. Its closest relatives are plum pudding and black bun, but it leaves both in the dust.
Typical writing from Laurie Colwin’s ‘Home Cooking’.