The Coconut Cake I Can Still Taste

For two days, since my beautiful and dearly loved Bubby Denburg passed away, I have been living in my memories, searching for the words to describe her.

My mind takes me back to my childhood, as a young boy on Friday afternoons, waiting for her and my Zaidy to arrive for Shabbos.

My grandparents were snowbirds. Every winter, they would come down from Montreal, and they never spent Shabbos alone. We would take turns with our cousins hosting them, and when it was our turn, I looked forward to it all week.

Bubby didn’t just come for Shabbos. She arrived.

All the grandkids would help unload the car, packed as if she was going away for a month. First came her sheitel box, her hanging dresses, and her suitcases. Then came the cakes.

I think she may have also brought food, but honestly, I only remember the cakes. Every Friday afternoon we had pre-Shabbos cupcakes, covered with chocolate frosting and sprinkles on top.

Bubby was famous for knowing every single person’s favorite cake. Sometimes she got it wrong, and woe to the person who no longer liked the cake Bubby had decreed was their favorite. But I was lucky, because she decided my favorite was her coconut cake. And she was right.

Although I haven’t had that cake in years, as I write this, I can still taste it. That soft, moist cake, with little shreds of coconut in every bite.

Thinking back now, I realize that part of what made it so delicious was knowing she had made it just for me. She told every guest at our table that this cake was in my honor. I knew that before she ever walked through our door, she had already been thinking of me.

And this wasn’t just me. She knew, from memory, what every grandchild loved, and she made sure every one of us knew she remembered. That she cared enough to make us what we wanted.

Then there were her stories.

Bubby was an extraordinary storyteller. There was something about the way she spoke, the way she told a story, that held your attention. She had an aura, a presence that drew you in completely.

As a kid she almost felt larger than life. She carried herself like a queen, her personality filled the room, and her stories were so unbelievably grand. She could turn even a cake recipe, right down to how many eggs she used, into a dramatic story full of suspense.

Yet being close to her felt so comfortable. You wanted to stay near her.

Years later, I spent a year learning in yeshiva in Montreal. That year, I got to experience Bubby’s love in a whole new way.

She insisted on feeding me every single Shabbos, together with a whole group of my friends. But just two meals on Shabbos weren’t enough for her. She insisted I come over for dinner at least once or twice during the week, just me, her, and Zaidy.

She even insisted on doing my laundry. It was always waiting for me, neatly folded.

When I came to Montreal, she took me shopping. After all, she had to make sure I was properly dressed. I still remember arguing with her that since I was in Yeshiva all week, I didn’t need snow boots.

She bought them for me anyway.

Which brings me to the one word I would choose to describe my Bubby: loving.

So unbelievably, absolutely, overwhelmingly loving.

She had such love and Nachas from her grandchildren. I doubt anyone ever met her without hearing all about us and how amazing she thought we were. Her pride in each one of her grandchildren was something she expressed freely and often.

Bubby had strong opinions, and her love came with those opinions. But it was so authentic, so intense, so real.

You knew she loved you because she told you. Often. Loudly. Clearly. Unequivocally.

You felt it in her tight hugs and her constant kisses. You saw it in the way she cared for you and fed you. In her insistence on buying you clothing, getting you gifts, cooking exactly what (she thought) you wanted.

Her love had a force to it. In Kabbalistic language, her love would be called “Chesed of Chesed”, always finding one more way to give. Her life was all about giving to others. And nothing could stop her from giving you all the love she felt. Want it or not.

This week’s Torah reading opens with Avraham running to welcome three strangers. He wants them to come in and eat. He insists they grace his table.

As I visualize that Biblical scene, I see my Bubby running after those angels, her famous strudels in her hands. “You must taste a piece! Come inside and eat!”

And when our sages describe Avraham teaching his guests about the one G-d after their meal, I see her once again. Despite having just served an elegant five-star meal, Bubby would be calmly sitting at the table, drinking her black coffee, smiling, and confidently explaining her view on life.

She wasn’t afraid to tell you that you were wrong. She wasn’t shy about how she thought life should be lived.

And yet you listened to her because you knew she loved you. A lot. You had just felt that love in the care and effort she put into feeding you. So your heart was now open to hear what she had to say.

Avraham changed the minds and hearts of an entire generation, because those around his table felt the love and care he had for them. My Bubby did the same.

She was an Avraham. She loved with everything she had.

And she made sure you felt it.

She loved strongly. Intensely. Unequivocally. Absolutely. Powerfully.

I miss that.

I miss the coconut cake, the stories, the hugs, and the kisses. I miss being a child looking forward to those Shabbos visits, and seeing her absolutely radiant face of joy as she watched us speak, sing, or even just sit on her lap.

I miss being wrapped in that powerful love.

In her memory, I hope to love as fully as she did, so that the people in my life feel as loved as she made me.

May the memory of Esther Frumah bas Shlomo Zalman A”H be for a blessing.

Good Shabbos!

Rabbi Yankie & Chana Denburg