Free The Pat Conroy Cookbook by Pat Conroy Page A

immediately and transfer to another (not hot) baking sheet to cool. Reserve.
    3. To make the cake: Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.
    4. In a large bowl, sift together flour, baking powder, and sugar. Stir in the coconut.
    5. In another bowl, whisk the eggs and add the coconut milk and melted butter until the mixture is smooth. Stir in lemon zest and vanilla.
    6. Using a wooden spoon, mix the egg mixture into the flour until just blended.
    7. Pour the batter into the prepared cake pan. Bake at 350°F until cake is golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 55 to 60 minutes.
    8. Cool the cake in the pan on a rack for about 20 minutes. Invert the pan and release the cake onto a clean work surface or a cake stand. When the cake is cool, cut horizontally into two equal layers, using a serrated knife and pressing down lightly on the top of the cake as you cut. Transfer each half, cut side up, to an individual plate and prick holes in several places on the surface. Rewarm the rum syrup and brush the syrup over the cut surfaces of the cakes.
    9. To make the frosting: Whip the heavy cream and sugar together until the cream is almost firm. (Do not overwhip.) Fold the untoasted coconut into the whipped cream.
    10. Frost the bottom layer of cake with one-third of the coconut cream. Place the second layer on top of the coconut cream, and frost top and sides of cake with the remaining cream. Sprinkle the top and sides with toasted coconut.

A t Beaufort High I took one course that I had to keep secret from my father at all costs. Gene Norris had talked the only writer in Beaufort County Ann Morse, into teaching a high school class in creative writing. Mrs. Morse wrote under the name of Ann Head and admitted to me once that she never would be a distinguished writer. “But I have a few things I want to say” she said. Her list of novels included
Fair with Rain
and
Always in August
, and her first mystery
Everybody Adored Cara
, was in galleys when we first met in a room off the library at Beaufort High. On first sight, Mrs. Morse projected a steely withholding and icy reserve that would have been off-putting to me except for the thrilling fact that she was the first novelist I’d ever met in the flesh. She looked like a woman who would not tolerate a preposition at the end of a sentence or the anarchy of a dangling participle.
    “Mr. Norris has told me nice things about you, Mr. Conroy” Mrs. Morse said. “He thinks you might become a writer someday.”
    “How do you do it, ma’am?” I asked.
    “Simple. You write. You just write. Beginning, middle, end. That’s it,” she said. “I made some suggestions to improve your poems and writing assignments. Mr. Norris says you got a little drunk on Thomas Wolfe last year.”
    “I loved him, Mrs. Morse. I couldn’t help it.”
    “Alas and alack,” she said. “If possible, don’t imitate him in everything you write, Pat.”
    “I’ll try, Mrs. Morse,” I promised.
    “Please do,” she said. “I would like to find out what
your
voice sounds like, Pat. I had the class come into the library to read the screenplays of Ingmar Bergman. Have you ever heard of him?”
    “Mr. Monte, my English teacher at Gonzaga High School, gave us extra credit if we went to see
The Virgin Spring,”
I said. “I wrote a paper on it.”
    “This Mr. Monte must have been a special teacher,” she said. “This is my personal copy. Take it home, but bring it back. I loathe people who don’t return books and their tribe is legion.”
    “I’ll bring it back next class,” I offered.
    “Thank you. You used the word ‘poignant’ in one of your poems. I dislike that word intensely. It’s been greatly overused by untalented people.”
    “Poignant’s gone, Mrs. M,” I said.
    “Why did you call me Mrs. M?” she said.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I shorten people’s names. It’s a bad habit.”
    “Mrs. M,” she said coldly. “I like it. Please call me