The origin of the cake recipe…could be my great-gran or even great-great-gran. If it was great-gran, it was a lady named Missouri Duff; and if it was great-great-gran it was Rebecca Morton, of the Mortons and Cages of Cages’ Bend, Tennessee. Cages’ Bend used to be a trading post, I suppose: it was a bend on the river, which is now Old Hickory Lake, near Nashville, so the orginal Cages’ Bend is probably now under water; and Cages’ Bend is now a book, a rock band, and a state park. We don’t know much about Rebecca, except that she married into the family and had my great-grandfather Tolbert Vandeventer, who got out of Tennessee and ended up in pre-statehood Oklahoma with his wife and son.

His wife, now, was Missouri Isabel Duff, born in 1852. It’s possible her original name was Nancy, but Missouri is what’s on her tombstone. She had no family: they all, she said, “were lost in the stream–” , ie, lost in a flatboat accident on either the Mississippi or the Missouri.

Flatboats were how timber got from Illinois and Michigan to New Orleans: enterprising people would build these chancy flatbottomed boats out of finished lumber, families needing to get across or down the Mississippi at its wide part would buy them or hire a flatboatman and put everything they owned aboard, sit atop the pile, and hope it held together long enough to get them across and further down the river.

These boats had no capacity to go upriver. They went further and further south in their careers, and passed from hand to hand, until they finally fetched up in the lower courses of the Mississippi, and became valuable for lumber, which was building the wooden walkways and porches and walls of New Orleans, a former French colony founded to look for pearls (the Louisiana Purchase was sold because no pearls were ever found). New Orleans at the time was a mostly collection of board buildings huddled on high ground in what we now call the French Quarter. The levees did not yet exist. And travelers on the river had to cope with river pirates, who also plied the river attacking boats where they thought they could get away with it: their main port was, yes, New Orleans.

Well, Missouri Duff’s family met some accident—they were all lost but her: as she reported. She got to shore and lived. She was alone, calling herself Missouri, in 1871, when she met and married Tolbert, in Iowa. She had a son in Nebraska, lived in Missouri, having other chidren, and she went with Tolbert to the Oklahoma Territory. She was quite a woman—frontier wife to the hilt. She survived Tolbert by some few years. She’d arrived on houseless, farmless Oklahoma Territory hills where she and Tolbert negotiated a deal with the Kiowa, built a two-room house. Her husband and later her son set to farming; and when she died in a young town in a state only just made, they’d bridged the Mississippi (Eads Bridge, 1874), and she was still active and managing her household.

Ironically, when I was doing research, I came across census records that indicate her mother and one young brother may also have survived the river accident, and settled in Illinois. But she would never have known it.

It’s my suspicion that she was the person with the recipe, since she would never have had an opportunity to know Tolbert’s mother, great-great-gran.