Christmas Day, you could find my family and me driving along Highway 6 so we could have dinner with cousins in College Station. The view was wonderful, filled with rolling pastures, barbecue joints, and barns painted to reflect either the owner’s love of the Texas state flag or their preference for Aggie football.
We kept stopping so I could take photos of all the Texana, until at last my uncle said, “Hey, can we get there already? I’m hungry!” Of course, he was correct to insist we keep moving, as our potluck dinner comprised of Tex-Mex, Southern and Cajun dishes promised to be a feast.
“I bet there will also be a ton of incredible desserts,” said my mom. And when we walked into the kitchen, her prediction proved true, as the first thing you saw was the buffet lined with cookies, pies and a gorgeous, round cake standing proud and tall. “Is that a pound cake?” I asked my cousin Susan. She replied that indeed it was, adding, “Pound cake is so Southern. The secret to this one is it has sour cream.”
Pound cake—it’s such a simple thing, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten one, nor could I remember the last time I’d even baked one. When we were leaving that evening, I grabbed an extra slice for my plane ride back to New York the next day. But I accidentally left my slice of pound cake in Texas, and have been missing it ever since.
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