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WWI Trench Cake

 For some reason, I decided to try my hand at making a WWI trench cake today. I mean, why not? That's a totally normal thing to bake. Everyone does it. All the time. 

Women would make these cakes for their men on the front. These cakes are made without eggs and can stay good for a long time. It was a special treat for the soldiers, bringing them a taste of home.

 As you can see, there is a trench within the trench cake. These things happen. 

Trench Cake (Via)


225g/8oz. plain flour
2 teaspoons cocoa
110g/4oz. margarine
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vinegar
1/4 pint of milk
75g/3oz. brown sugar
75g/3oz. cleaned currants
Grated lemon rind

Grease a cake tin. Rub margarine into the flour in a basin. Add the dry ingredients. Mix well. Add the soda dissolved in vinegar and milk. Beat well. Turn into the tin. Bake in a moderate oven for about two hours.

Mine was a bit different then the recipe. First, I forgot to dissolve the soda with the vinegar/milk. Oops. Also, I didn't have any currants or lemon rind to add, and my cake only took a half hour to bake. And yet, it still tasted good! I'll have to re-try it when I have currants and lemon rinds on hand. 


Snippets From The Eastern Front

I've been busy editing/formatting Resist for its February release and thought I'd share some snippets from the student medical company's campaign on the Eastern Front. (All images via Pinterest.)

I followed his gaze out into the field and spotted a young man trudging through the flowers. It was a drastic contrast—a soldier with soot covering his boyish face, his clothes singed from an explosion, and his gait weary among the cheerful, waving sunflowers. Otto snatched a rifle that was leaning against the school and began clicking off the safety-catch. He closed one eye and aimed. —RESIST

“I intend to change the way they perceive all Germans.” Alex tapped the book against his knee.
“How do you plan to do that?” Hubert appeared skeptical.
“A bit of music, vodka, and chivalry.” —RESIST

I stumbled down the steps with a jesting shout, “You’ll pay for that, Schmorell!”
“Are you drunk, Sergeant Scholl?” The lieutenant asked, grabbing my shoulder skeptically.
“No, sir!” I stood up straight and dusted off my uniform.
“Then kindly refrain from shouting and stumbling in the street like you’re stoned.”
I suppressed a grin. “Yes, sir.” —RESIST

The stench of decaying flesh, sickeningly sweet, hung to the breeze. I lifted my head, the scent so strong that I felt weak and lightheaded. Just inches in front of me lay the torn off legs, rotting in the grass. The boots were still on his feet. I stood up, running a hand through my hair and gasping for clean air. But now I couldn’t escape it. It was as if the air was impregnated with death, casting a horrible spell on anyone who entered its realm. I rolled the soldier into the grave, then picked up the legs and placed them beside him. Using both hands, I filled the grave with earth, watching as it covered his glassy eyes. I wondered how old he was … if his family was still alive. Perhaps he was even related to the little girl I danced with the other evening. —RESIST

They were dark haired women, each branded with a Star of David on their thin jackets. A wisp of a girl, with arms so thin I thought they might snap under the strain, stared at me as I approached them. She had hollow, ebony eyes that bore into me as she lifted the burdensome pick, a tool meant for a healthy man to use, not an emaciated child. —RESIST

To the left of me lay the carbonized skeleton of an exploded tank among a patch of daisies that danced under the wind’s gentle fingertips. I shook my head at the paradox. —RESIST

The little girl was leaning over and picking up the gifts I had left at her feet. I grinned and felt a burst of elation rise in me as she tucked the flower behind her ear with a small smile. It was moment’s like these that made me thankful to be serving in Russia, if only to bring a smile to a lonely, oppressed child’s face. —RESIST

You can pre-order the Kindle version of Resist HERE.
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