Black Forest Cake

The end of March, and the year's anniversary arrives — four years since the first entry in this journal, four years of standing in a kitchen and writing about the life that happens between meals. The anniversary feels different this year. The kitchen is the same. The stove is the same. The cast-iron skillet is the same. But the world outside the kitchen window is unrecognizable — masked, distanced, afraid — and the unrecognizability makes the kitchen's sameness feel not like comfort but like defiance: this room refuses to change, this room insists on continuity, this room declares that the cooking will continue and the writing will continue and the life will continue, because the continuing is the point, and the point does not require the world's permission.

Mama turns seventy-seven this week — March 28th, her birthday, which I celebrate with the coconut cake and the pearl earrings and the singing of "Happy Birthday" by five people in a house that is sealed against a virus that is particularly dangerous to seventy-seven-year-old women with compromised immune systems. The celebration is fierce. The fieriness is the fear turned inside out — the fear that this birthday might be the last, the fear that the virus could reach us, the fear that the sealed house could become a trap instead of a shelter. I bake the cake with the intensity of a woman who is baking against something, and the something is not the virus but the possibility of a world without the woman the cake is for.

Mama blew out the candles — not all of them (there were seven, one for each decade, because seventy-seven candles is a fire hazard and also unnecessary, because Mama does not know how old she is and the candles are for us, not for her). She blew out five of the seven, and Carrie blew out the other two, and the sharing of the breath was both unhygienic (the pandemic) and sacred (the family), and we chose the sacred over the hygienic, because some rituals are more important than safety, and birthday candles shared between a grandmother and a granddaughter is one of them.

Joy called on her own this week — Mrs. Patterson dialed the number and Joy said, "Naomi! Happy birthday Mama!" The remembering of both my name and Mama's birthday was a triumph I celebrated by crying in the bathroom, the old crying room, the room with the running water and the mirror that reflects a woman who is managing.

I made the coconut cake — three layers, cream cheese frosting, the birthday cake that has been Mama's since 1997, the cake that has survived every disruption this family has endured and that will survive this one too. The cake was perfect. The cake is always perfect. And the perfection is not about the baking. It is about the baking-for, and the for is Mama, and Mama is here, and the here-ness is the birthday, and the birthday is the defiance, and the defiance is the love.

The coconut cake is Mama’s cake, and it belongs to her alone — but the spirit of baking against something, of layering love into a pan and pulling it out as defiance, belongs to anyone who has ever stood at a stove and refused to let the world win. This Black Forest Cake carries that same energy: three dark, rich layers, cherries like small fierce hearts, and cream piled high because abundance is its own kind of answer to fear. If you are baking for someone whose birthday feels urgent this year — whose candles feel borrowed — this is the cake. Bake it with everything you have.

Prep Time: 40 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 1 hr 15 min | Servings: 12

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 cups granulated sugar
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
1 cup strong brewed coffee, cooled
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
2 cans (15 oz each) pitted dark sweet cherries, drained (reserve 1/4 cup juice)
3 tablespoons cornstarch
3 cups heavy whipping cream, cold
1/4 cup powdered sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract (for whipped cream)
2 oz dark chocolate, shaved or grated (for garnish)

Instructions

Preheat and prepare. Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease three 9-inch round cake pans and line the bottoms with parchment paper.
Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt until evenly combined.
Combine the wet ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, buttermilk, cooled coffee, vegetable oil, and vanilla extract until smooth.
Make the batter. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir until just combined — do not overmix. The batter will be thin; this is correct.
Bake the layers. Divide the batter evenly among the three prepared pans. Bake for 30–35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pans for 10 minutes, then turn out onto wire racks to cool completely.
Prepare the cherry filling. In a small saucepan over medium heat, combine the drained cherries, reserved cherry juice, and cornstarch. Stir constantly until the mixture thickens, about 4–5 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool completely before using.
Whip the cream. Using a stand mixer or hand mixer on high speed, beat the cold heavy cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract together until stiff peaks form. Refrigerate until ready to use.
Assemble the cake. Place the first cake layer on a serving plate. Spread a generous layer of whipped cream over the top, then spoon half the cherry filling over the cream. Add the second layer and repeat. Place the third layer on top.
Frost and finish. Spread the remaining whipped cream over the top and sides of the cake. Scatter chocolate shavings over the top and arrange a few whole cherries in the center. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Black Forest Cake — Baking Against the Dark, for the Woman Who Made the Light