As soon as mid-December arrives, things start to heat up in my house—quite literally. Having grown up in the Caribbean, the holidays didn’t mean gingerbread men or sugar cookies. They meant rum cakes. Bacardi cakes, to be exact.
In Nassau, Bahamas, my parents were good friends with Luis Bacardi and his wife, and every Christmas they would make the most incredible rum cakes using 101-proof rum. Needless to say, they were legendary. Over the years, my mum baked these Bacardi cakes for special occasions, and as children we were allowed only the tiniest sliver—probably for good reason!
When I came to Fearrington, I carried that tradition with me. Instead of Christmas cookies, I began making rum cakes. At first there were maybe ten or fifteen cakes, just a small gesture for a few colleagues. But as with most treasured traditions, the list grew—quickly. Some in my team now starts asking about the cakes in November, as if they fear I might skip a year. Even employees who have moved on check in to make sure they’re “still on the list.” (they always still are.) I even get friends reaching out via facebook to see how they can get on the list!
These days, it has become a full-fledged family production. I bake seventy small individual cakes that go to managers, friends and former employees, and eight large ones—one for each department to share. Rosie spends a couple of weeks rounding up all the ingredients, because this operation takes some serious stocking-up. And since I’m from Barbados, I have adapted the recipe to use Mount Gay rum; we go through about six 1.75-liter bottles each season. Every single cake gets a full cup of rum. They bake with half the rum in the batter, and then we make a rich, glossy glaze with the rest and pour it over while they’re still warm. And the best part? If they sit for a few days, they actually get even better. Rum cakes are like fine friendships—deeper, richer, more flavorful with time.
With two ovens, twelve small bundt pans, and two large ones, my mum and I can finish everything in about six or seven hours—assuming we stay organized. The kitchen is warm, fragrant, and loud with activity. And of course, the dogs supervise. My pups hover and drool in the hopes that something falls, as Frankie, when she was a puppy, once leapt up and took a huge bite out of a cooling cake. She has never forgotten the taste. To this day, she sits nearby with an intensity that suggests she’s plotting her next attempt.
It’s one of my favorite traditions—equal parts chaos (one year an oven gave up it ghost), laughter, butter, and rum. And every year, when the cakes go out, I’m reminded of how lucky I am to share this with my extended Fearrington family.
Here’s to the traditions that make us feel at home, and to the joy we find in making the people around us happy. Wishing you and your loved ones a warm, wonderful, and delicious holiday.
