My late father had lived in San Francisco for many years. When I visited him from Australia after he suffered a stroke, he was in his late seventies and the last thing I thought I would find him was baking cakes. James had always been admired for his talents in building pianos. With nothing more than great enthusiasm, a love of music, a few German books on piano making and someone who translated them into English for him, he was able to build his first piano from scratch in his twenties, turned it into a business and established a factory producing them to meet a popular demand in Hong Kong. From a young age, I had watched in fascination the way he worked, the enjoyment he gained from work, and his determination to overcome obstacles. To me, my father has always been a model of resourcefulness, self-reliance and a never ending source of inspiration.
He recovered quite well after the stroke, thanks to the loving care and support of Amy his wife and others in the family, though his movements had since been restricted. He had tried to continue to work but eventually gave up. I was discomforted the first time I saw him after he had a stroke. Hobbling along stiffly, no longer able to do many things he used to be able to, my father was but a shadow of his former self. I think the biggest loss was his ability to play the cello, which until then, was a great love of his life. Music had suddenly gone out of his life. He couldn’t even bear to listen to it anymore. Sometimes, there was a hint of depression and pessimism in the way he spoke, a certain sadness in his eyes. Loss of hearing affected his communication. He hated crowds and had a low tolerance for noise. Going out and socialising was out of the question. You thought you were looking at an old man living out his years, stubborn, awkward at time, and alienated from the world by his own volition.
Strangely, each year as my husband John and I made our trip across the seas to see him, we couldn’t help but become re-inspired. My father has taught me a lot by the way he lived his life, but none more so than the years since he had been physically 'disabled'. His mind was not affected by the stroke, and if anything, had become more alert and discerning, as if making up for the movements he had lost. Slowly and painfully, he had regained a lot of his functions. Even in his late eighties, he could cook simple meals and looked after himself quite well. He had his living quarters comfortably set-up and organised with a place for everything he required. He enjoyed reading, tended to his orchids with loving care and watched his melons grow in the garden with the fascination of a child. My brother Richard bought him a scooter, which he used to go to the local shops and the famous Golden Gate Park nearby for exercising. Every morning, he would walk around a lake with his walking stick tucked under his arm (not using it unless absolutely necessary), greeting everyone he came across, stopping occasionally for a conversation or two. He was so well-known around the lake that people call him 'The Mayor'. There he made friends with San Franciscans in the neighbourhood from all over the world, people who loved nature, people who decided that they would keep themselves active in whatever way they could, no matter what state they were in. There, he dedicated a bench in memory of my late mother, who died decades ago.
'Life is eternal, love is immortal', the plaque reads.
On special days, he would take flowers in a little jar of water to the bench for her. After his walk, he would manoeuvre his scooter to a sunny spot to read the day’s paper. John and I often went with him for his morning walks where he would proudly introduce us to his friends as his daughter and son-in-law from Australia. Watching his figure advancing forward slowly and rhythmically from a distant across the lake, time stood still. I could see that determination in him. Beaten, but not defeated, soldiering on bravely against old age and degeneration, clinging onto the smallest measure of independence he could manage as he faced his own mortality. He had taught me how to grow old. He had taught me to slow down, to enjoy the simple things in life, and to take each day as a bonus.
I remember stopping one day to feed a squirrel that had come to just beneath my feet with some nuts we had brought from home. Others darted out from behind the trees with their bushy tails, not wanting to miss out. Soon we were surrounded. A woman came forward from an old beaten-up caravan nearby with her dogs to say hello and told us how my father was very kind to have given everyone cakes on his birthday. She would be one of the many 'homeless people' who permanently camped out in the park in danger of being cleared out by the city council. The Tai Chi instructor, a Chinese man dressed in a white tunic and black pants, was calling out the steps as he moved his body and limbs gracefully in the air in unison with his group of followers. A few Russian-speaking men had set up a little chess table by the lake ready for their game of the day. My father had stopped walking and was waving his stick towards another man trying to descend from a gentle bank of grass towards him, balancing unsteadily on his own walking stick.
'Careful!' my father cautioned him.
The man was introduced to us as Harold. He was ninety-four. There was a bench dedicated to him by his children, right next to my mother’s.
'Your father gives me the inspiration to keep walking here,' he said.
We met many other walkers and friends of the lake. They all seemed to love and respect my father.
In this little corner of the earth, by the side of a greenish pool of water populated by ducks and turtles, surrounded by pine trees, flown over by pigeons, the piano man had found his space, contentment and peace. It was also here that the story of his soy bean cake evolved.
The health benefits of soy beans are well-known to most. Regular intake of soy products has proven to help reduce high blood pressure, lower cholesterol levels and protect against hormone-related cancers. This is owing to soy’s high content of phytoestrogens, which are also helpful for controlling menopausal symptoms in women. Rich in fibre, soy is a good source of the type of energy that is released slowly, safeguarding the blood sugar balance. Since my father had the stroke, he had been very careful in the food he ate, keeping away from anything potentially harmful (such as processed foods, fats, sugar and salt). He ate mainly fruits and vegetables, fish, nuts, and lots of soy bean cakes, which he made himself. When I was first presented with his special cake, I was suitably impressed. The idea apparently came to him after reading about the benefits of soy. The recipe was developed over time through trial and error. The beans were ground with water into a paste, to which other ingredients were added. During his daily walks around the lake, he had become friendly with two elderly Jewish gentlemen, Bud and Warren, who for many years had worked at a local bakery called The Schubert. At the beginning of the second world war, the two were forced to leave Germany by the Nazis with nothing other than the shirts on their back and ended up in Shanghai without family or friends. They eventually migrated to San Francisco and became bakers. Taking advice from the experts, who also willingly sampled, my father had learned how to bake and perfected the art of his soy bean cake in a way not dissimilar to how he worked out the art of piano making all those years ago.
With the same attention for details, timing, and precision in execution, he weighed and measured out the ingredients; beat, stirred and folded one into another; divided the batter equally into small cake tins; then watched and waited for them in the oven. Slowly and meticulously he proceeded. A slight clumsiness in him was not a deterrent, though carting bowls and tins around the kitchen was becoming a challenge being unsteady on his feet. Baking days were major events for him. Soy beans needed to be soaked the night before. The sultanas needed to be 'cured'. The dried apricots needed to be cut into small delicate pieces. In the early hours of the next morning, you would hear the sound of his Vitamix grinding the beans coming from the kitchen. Quietly and purposefully he worked at his own pace. You could hear him breathing laboriously on the job when things became a little tricky, but help was rarely asked for.
The cakes were produced in no small quantities. As he ate them daily, there had to be a constant supply. He also made plenty more to give away to friends and family. Everyone loved his cakes, not only for their health benefits, but they genuinely tasted good. Perhaps it was the care that he put into them, or because of the goodness of the ingredients, eating them gave me a warm, satisfied feeling each time. At Christmas he would painstakingly package the cakes and decorate them with festive red bows as gifts to others.
I have had the opportunity to watch him make his cakes on several occasions, and could not help but become totally inspired by the effort he made to eat well and be independent. Effects of the stroke aside, his health was exceptionally well up until a few years before he passed, aged 93. Because of him, I have become more aware of healthy living and eating. Extracting a recipe from him was not easy, as he had nothing written down. His procedures also varied from time to time in his strife for quality improvement. I am providing the last version I knew – that of September 2006. You will find the recipe on this blog here. True to his spirit of generosity, they are to be made in small aluminium pie pans which can be wrapped up and given away, or you might want to make a large single one instead. Enjoy, and be inspired.
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