“Bring over the cookbook,” Grandpa said, motioning to the tattered blue hardcover, its pages browning and spine showing signs of wear. “There’s a honey cake recipe in there,” he pointed as I turned to the “Cakes” chapter. My grandfather had not had an appetite for the last two weeks, but now suddenly wanted honey cake, a dessert traditionally served during the Jewish High Holidays to welcome a sweet new year. Before I could make the cake, though, my grandfather, Si Spiegel, passed away peacefully in his Manhattan apartment. The cookbook was still open to page 239; the cake still just ingredients. That year, for Rosh Hashanah, I made honey cake to honor his memory.
During the final years of his life, my grandfather and I spent most of our time together in his apartment at his wooden pub table, recording his life story. Si was born in the family apartment on 61st and Amsterdam on May 28, 1924, grew up in Borough Park, Brooklyn, and worked weekends at his father David’s laundry store in Greenwich Village. His mother, Massia, was a passionate suffragette who much preferred to be out canvassing rather than in the kitchen. Still, food was a through line for his parents, who fled violent antisemitism in Eastern Europe during the early 1900s. Food was a connection to home, to which they never returned, and to the new community they found in Brooklyn, from the knishes they found at Yonah Schimmel to blintzes and kasha varnishkes with mushrooms at Ratner’s on Delancey Street. It was language when there was no common language.
For me, baking during the holidays is about staying connected to the generations of my family and our roots. It’s an affirmation of something that flows through my veins and yet, in so many moments, feels intangible. When I cook, the through line through my family’s history feels tangible—from my Jewish grandfather’s time as a B-17 pilot during World War II to my grandmother’s time interned in the Japanese American camp in Heart Mountain. Baking connects me; I am eating what my great-grandparents and grandparents ate, what they cooked in their kitchens and what they served in their happiest moments.
The cookbook my grandfather asked for is the Jewish Cook Book by Mildred Grosberg Bellin, published by Garden City Books in 1958. My copy still has notes penciled in from my grandmother as evidence of her use. It was the main source of inspiration for my recipe, but with adaptations on my end. My recipe does not call for white sugar—instead it draws sweetness from honey and apples, two ingredients that are traditionally eaten together during the High Holidays to represent a sweet new year.
Roasting the apples for the cake is a necessary step. Cooking them beforehand not only improves their flavor and sweetness, but also draws the liquid out and protects the cake from becoming too chewy. The use of apple-cider vinegar in the cake—a trick I learned from baker Claire Saffitz—helps create a fluffier texture as it interacts with the baking soda. This oil-based cake recipe is pareve, which in the context of Jewish dietary laws, means that the recipe contains neither meat nor dairy ingredients and can therefore be eaten with both.
The resulting cake is lightly spiced with a spongy texture and bits of roasted apple throughout. I recommend you bake this cake the night before serving. With the apples, honey and spices including cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom, the flavors of this cake develop over time after it comes out of the oven. Once the cake cools completely, wrap it and put it in the fridge overnight. Before serving, let it sit at room temperature for at least an hour so it doesn’t get served cold. I recommend serving this cake with nondairy vanilla ice cream or apple jam for a delicious pairing. I hope this cake brings sweetness into your new year as it does for mine.
Photos: Jason Donnelly, Food: Sammy Mila, Props: Breanna Ghazali
