D. Barbara McWhite grew up in York County, S.C., and lives in Orange Park, Fla., with her husband and cat. Her column is published here each Tuesday. Opinions expressed are solely her own.

I am a pretty good cook. I can cook a mean pork butt, all marinated in mesquite. I can make candied yams like my mama used to make. And, whether you believe it or not, I can make canned greens taste like they were picked fresh from the garden.

What I don't do well is bake. Over the years, around Christmas time, I have tried, time and again, to whip up a holiday confection — red velvet cake, various pound cakes, etc. Most of them have been edible but not good enough to earn raves from my family.

So I decided some time ago to stick with boxed cakes. Betty Crocker became my holiday friend. With Betty, I was able to pull off a good cake, but still I longed to make a cake that was good and homemade.

One of the reasons for my desire to do homemade was my mother-in-law , Wilma. Wilma comes from a long line of excellent bakers. Wilma ,as did her late mother Annie, takes cake baking to a whole new level of invention. While we amateurs struggle to make a simple yellow cake, those culinary trolls make extravagant creations like Seven-Up cake, refrigerator strawberry cake, pineapple Jell-O cake and a wonderfully delicious concoction called a good luck cake.

All of my homemade cakes are good luck cakes. I get a recipe, mix it up and say, "good luck" as I shove it into the oven hoping for a good outcome.

Meanwhile, the culinary trolls make perfect cakes without recipes … from memory ... without measuring … in the dark … blindfolded!

Well, this year was going to be different. This year, I called my oldest sister and she agreed to share with me a foolproof recipe for a lemon pound cake she had served when I visited her home last Christmas.

Don't you hate the word " foolproof "? Especially when you are the fool with the task?

As I was mixing my ingredients and following along the hastily scribbled recipe, I couldn't tell if I had written 1 teaspoon of lemon extract or 1 tablespoon. I put in a frantic call to my sister, but she didn't answer.

I didn't have long to ponder the correct measurements because the baking was well underway. So, deciding the recipe called for 1 teaspoonful, I soldiered on with my baking, running the teaspoon over its rim for good measure. "Now, that ought to do it, either way!"

No sooner had I slid my cake into the oven, my sister called. "Its a tablespoon of extract." she said. "I thought you were writing it down."

I was sick to my stomach. I clung to the hope that by running over the teaspoon with extract, I had come close to a tablespoons worth of lemon, thus saving my cake and my self from another holiday flop. To hedge my bets, though, I quickly whipped up a lemon glaze that I would use to top my cake ¬ just in case the flavor wasn't quite right.

I began to suspect that all wasn't lost when, a few minutes later, I began to smell the lemony aroma as the cake began to bake. An hour later, I had what appeared to be my first success. My pound cake was perfect. After it cooled a bit, I drizzled on my lemon glaze, and it was declared “perfection” by everyone.

My in-laws were down with the flu and unable to make the holiday rounds, so I did a "stop, drop and roll" at their house to deliver Christmas gifts … and a few slices of my perfect cake — along with the subliminal message: "Nah, na, na, nah, nah!" 

The call came quickly. "Thank you for the gifts. Thank you for the fruit and candy. Did you make that cake?"

Now she wants the recipe.

I will share it with her … if I can just remember where I left it.

Should I share my pound cake recipe with my mother-in-law or keep it as my family secret? What do you think?

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