Poke Cake: The Ode
Jason and Mel don't know what Poke Cake is. I'm sad for them both, and for the rest of you who have missed out. Last night after I got Jason's comment, I started to write a comment response and went looking for the recipe.
I stumbled across some girl's LiveJournal post. There were many words detailing this young lady's hatred of America as a cultural wasteland--all because we eat poke cake.
Obviously America does have world class chefs and a perfectly credible national cuisine (of sorts), but I fear that Poke Cake has reinforced some of my worst prejudices concerning vast swathes of the population there. I am currently visualising Homer Simpson munching messily away at a slice inbetween glugs of Duff beer...
How sad. She has written off a truly refreshing delight simply because it seems beneath her refined taste. (Is now the time for me to make mention of the fact that her LiveJournal Avatar is a Unicorn?) So I must defend Poke Cake.
Poke Cake is the stuff of the Midwest.
If you've never been part of church in Midwestern America you may not have developed a taste for the particular dishes that are our unique brand of comfort food. Forget all that "Mom, Baseball, Apple Pie" nonsense. America tasts like Green Beans swimming in Cream of Mushroom soup and crunchy fried onions from a can. It tastes like hot dogs cut up in baked beans, all slightly burned from sitting in the crock pot through Sunday School and the main service. It tastes like the overripe bananas that get baked into breads. It tastes like deviled eggs and "ham" (really bologna) salad on white bread. And Poke Cake is the taste of dessert.
It's just white cake in a 9x13 pan, with holes poked in it. You then pour Jell-o® over the top, refrigerate it and serve it with whipped cream. It's light, fresh, fruity and bad for all of you except your spirit. It tastes like spring. It tastes like Fellowship Hall and paper plates and McDonald's Orange Drink.
I love good food. Sure, it's not Bananas foster or Creme Brulee. But Poke Cake'll make you feel as though you've been fed not by a chef trying to impress you but by a nice lady who loves you.