In honour of thy Lamington

Grandma Valerie didn’t take much to the grave with her, even her headstone simply read “Valerie Gerschwitz. Sister - Drinker - Loner. R.I.P.”. It’s funny the things you remember people by when they’re gone. All I seem to remember about Grandma Val is her curmudgeonly demeanour, and her ability to create the most magical Lamingtons I have ever tasted. 

Our family has never been spoilt with wealth on any limb of the tree and the older generation, especially Grandma Val’s, struggled to make ends meet most of their existence. A century old Queenslander on two acres on the outskirts of town housed her and her 6 siblings all raised by my Great Grandma Pat when my Great Grandpa Derek became a statistic to the war. Growing and cooking their own food was not just a matter of necessity in the post war depression, but also one of the rare avenues of joy in the harsh time and place that was rural Queensland.

I recall attending bake-offs in both ours and the surrounding towns in the district, ordinarily a ghastly experience for any pre teen to endure. However, something about all the freshly baked tarts, the smell of warm bread in the air, the glistening shine atop a pre baked quiche and the women rushing around fussing over this and that as they prepared for judging filled me with excitement and hunger. Grandma Val was never in a rush or fussing, she seemed to always convey an air of confidence and supremacy on these occasions, a far cry from the stern and bitter woman she embraced life with at every other opportunity. Her forte at these events was 3 entries consisting of one each into the baked savoury, small cakes and desserts and of course, the Lamington competitions. 

You may wonder why the Lamington isn’t included in the small cakes and desserts competition. 

Such a revered and popular dessert amongst both consumers and bakers of, the Lamington sits atop the bake-off hierarchy as a blue ribbon event, like the 100m at an athletics or swimming meet. The Lamington judging is always held last in the day, the anticipation building after the awards for best Apple Crumble, best Pavlova and best Sour Dough have been distributed. The judges come all the way from Brisbane for each bake-off, because the award can only be determined by an expert panel of authenticated judges who have been tested to the rigours of Lamington adjudication. After much deliberation, discussion, measuring, tasting and inspecting, Grandma Val is of course awarded first prize again, much to the disdain of her fellow competitors. 

“Typical…Val wins it again”, a surly middle aged woman would be heard complaining. “This competition is rigged” another would decry. “I’m travelling to the Toowoomba event next year” another frustrated baker would say. 

But I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, to me, Grandma Val’s Lamingtons were extraordinary. Something about the fluffy texture, the precise depth of chocolate soaked into the sponge, the perfect cubic conformity of each and every cake and the coconut which was presented in a light yet even dusting on all six sides of the prism. And the taste was all Lamington, except for a hint of something extra that I could never put my finger on exactly.

“Granny, why are your Lamingtons always the best?” I would innocently ask as a young girl at her kitchen table.

“Because they’re made with love” Grandma Val would gruffly respond in a matter of fact tone that also had a hidden warning to not ask any more questions. 

The kitchen was Grandma Vals fortress and battleground. On this day I found her rolling dough for her steak and kidney pies with a cigarette hanging limply from the side of her mouth. Her small bungalow home was typically modest with berber carpets throughout and matching circa 1970’s wallpaper that had a gummy and icky feel when you touched them with your fingertip. Some well worn mid century furniture adorned her living room and her bedroom trimmings were just as tired and unremarkable. In the kitchen however, Grandam Val had collected and preserved over her lifetime, a unique collection of culinary ware and kitchen accessories to shame even the most seasoned of professional chefs. 

“Did I ever tell you the story about how the Lamington was invented girl?” she asked me. “Girl” was what she called me only when my mother wasn’t within earshot.

“No Granny Val” I would dully reply, with no comprehension at my tender age that cake, as well as automobiles, furniture and other things were inventions of mankind. “You mean someone actually thought up the idea of making a Lamington?”

Granny Val cast a glare at me while setting down her cigarette in the ashtray. “You see girl, one hundred years ago there lived a very important man in Queensland” she came and sat her hefty frame at the rustic farmhouse table opposite me. “This man lived in a grand house and had all types of servants to clean and cook and look after for him. People came from all over the state and country for meetings with this man and do you know why?”

“No Granny” I would immediately reply, having not yet tackled the subject of nineteenth century Australian political history at school.

“This man was the Governor of Queensland” she said with a gentle fondness in her voice I had rarely heard before and a twinkle in her eye as she gazed straight through me. Collecting herself a few seconds later, she continued “His name was Cochrane-Baillie Lamington.” 

Grandma Val had never married, nor as long as I could remember even had a man in her life at all, but there seemed to be something special about this Cochrane fellow. 

“The story goes” she continues, “one day his head chef was running low on supplies from Brisbane when a very important politician was scheduled to meet with Mr Lamington that afternoon” she returns to her cigarette and takes a long drag while reaching for the brandy bottle and empty glass resting in the middle of the table. “The chef had to put together a simple dessert. The Governor simply could not have important people arriving at his house without dessert so the chef baked a vanilla sponge with his remaining butter, eggs, sugar and flour. When it was removed from the oven, he accidentally placed it in the freezer rather the fridge. Later he would admit he was a little flustered by the unusual turn of events finding himself low on pantry provisions. When it was removed he found it could be cut more easily now it was solid and found himself looking at a dozen equally sized perfectly cubed handful sized pieces of spongecake.” Grandma Val was holding her right hand out in front of her in a cupped motion, showing her fat fingers slightly stained yellow from nicotine and clumped with small balls of shortcrust pastry. “With only a meagre portion of dark chocolate and desiccated coconut resembling any form of dessert ingredients, he melted down the chocolate in a double boiler and gently dipped the cubes in so that each side was covered in a thin soaked layer of chocolate” she swigged on the brandy and cleared her throat to continue. “Then, while the chocolate is still wet he dusts each side with the coconut, making sure there are no gaps or clumped coconut pieces on the cake. Then, presentation being a critical aspect, he stacked them up high on a serving platter so they resembled a jagged pile of snowy brown rocks." she reclines back in her chair tilting the brandy glass back towards her wrinkled lips, and then pauses to finish. "And that is how a Lamington is made my girl”

“But Granny, what happened when they ate them?”

“Aha…” she slams her glass down on the table sloshing some brandy across the lacquered hardwood. “Sweating and trembling with anticipation, the chef presents the cakes to his master and guests who accept the desserts with a notable look of surprise. Tea cake, plain biscuits or Madeira cake was the traditional fare for afternoon tea desserts in those days so naturally everybody was intrigued and bewildered by these cubic brown and white speckled creations they had never laid eyes on before. A pot of freshly brewed tea accompanied them as was custom to do so. The chef then retreated to await the outcome nervously in the kitchen”.

“And then what happened Granny?”

Grandma Val hesitates appearing briefly puzzled as if the question was completely unexpected. “Well…they were a hit of course weren’t they?” she recovers, “It goes as folklore now that Cochrane was so impressed with the creation it became a signature piece at every afternoon tea, meeting or formal luncheon he hosted from there on. He even had the guile to declare the cake in his own name the cheeky bugger”

I look at Grandma Val in awe of the amazing story I've just been witnessed to and ask, “so how come you always win first prize Granny?”

“Aaahh my girl” she teases as she wrestles her ageing body off the chair and back to the bench where her pastry is, “some stories are better off remaining as mystery and folklore”, she says with her back turned but I can sense a wry smile on her face.

As I stood in my own kitchen some thirty years later, racking my brain trying to raise a memory of watching Grandma Val in the kitchen meticulously slaving away over a batch of her Lamingtons I can’t recall anything out of the ordinary. Butter, flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla, combine and pour into square tray. Bake for thirty to forty minutes and let cool completely before wrapping in plastic to freeze overnight. Check. Remove from freezer and cut, strictly adhering to the official serving size of 5cm cubed. Melt chocolate and add butter for shine and texture, let cool slightly before coating all sides and immediately roll in coconut, never sprinkle from a height. Set aside and let cool. Serve.

Although the cooking genes appear to have been passed down the Gerschwitz women blood line, desserts have never been my thing. And now, flailing about trying to recall an undocumented recipe from my childhood so I can save face at the junior school annual bake-off, I can thank my eight year old son Tim for that. A rousing story at show and tell a few weeks back about Grandma Val and her all conquering ways at many a baking contest has landed me in this predicament. Tim’s teacher kindly suggested I should put forward an entry with the signature Gerschwitz recipe and although I was pleased with the outcome of my batch of Lamingtons, I had a grating fear they would not be up to standard on the day. Winning a Lamington bake-off is still a highly regarded symbol of prestige in rural Queensland to this day.

I never did recall exactly what Grandma Val’s secret ingredient was or why she was so omniscient when it came to the Lamington, but whatever it was, she took all that knowledge to the grave with her. And as for my Lamingtons, well I can humbly say that the Gerschwitz name remains all conquering amongst the Lamington baking fraternity in Queensland. I took out first prize with that batch for the school bake off. Nobody amongst the audience or fellow bakers saw me slip the fifty dollar note into the judges palm before adjudicating my work, and naturally everything fell into place. Who knows, maybe I did discover what Grandma Val’s secret was after all.