It wasn't my birthday, but it was time to make my birthday cake.

In childhood - and adulthood - when we lived in the same town, Mom made Carrot Cake for the special occasion. The last was in June 2019. She died the next month.

I recently baked her recipe − or recipes, to be more precise. I'm months late on making my favorite cake. And that's OK.

Until a few weeks ago, I wasn't ready to pull out her weathered and handwritten cooking notes. Grief works in mysterious ways.

I've tried a slice of Carrot Cake at a handful of restaurants in recent years. None have come close to Mom's. How could they top that high bar, though they looked pretty?

What her cakes lacked in the extravagant adornment of professional bakers' tiered beauties was overcompensated by the time and attention she devoted to buying and using just the right ingredients for a sweet, flavorful cake.

The carrots were shredded by hand on a box grater, usually not too soon before making the batter for more moisture and flavor. There were tidbits of pineapple, not crushed flecks as is common in most recipes, for more texture. The cream cheese frosting was rich.

In recent years, she shied away from a two- or three-layer version for a sheet cake. A late-in-life hand tremor impeded the exacting technique needed to bake, cool, stack and frost cake layers.

Grating carrots also was a challenge, so one of my daughters usually went to her house to handle the task. They built more than a cake in those moments.

Mom didn't have a Carrot Cake recipe. She tried variations. I have two of her handwritten versions.

One is on the back of a yellowed, splattered auto policy adjustment form dating to about 1975. I also have a photocopy of it from 2017 with notes I jotted as we talked to fill in some of the missing directions that Mom intuitively knew to do.

The second is on notebook paper that she gave me in 2019, along with a photocopy of a newspaper food column by Jeanne Jones, who specialized in reducing the fat, calories and/or sugar in popular recipes. I have red-ink notes indicating more of mom's tweaks to Jone's recipe.

The newer versions have less oil and sugar. And, contrary to her Texas roots where pecans are native, Mom switched to walnuts. The latter was less likely to burn during cooking, she said.

I was in no hurry to make my cake, but I wanted to document her legacy of love.

Food memories do not have to be as time intensive as the following recipe. A friend tells the story of her young son writing about how she lovingly opened a can of pears and spooned the fruit into a bowl for his snack when asked to describe a special food a parent makes.

She was embarrassed because classmates recalled scratch-made cookies and other complicated kitchen creations.

I loved the memory. It showed the power of doing simple things kindly and for the betterment of others.

You don't have to be Oprah Winfrey giving away cars to make a difference. Pass a bowl of pears at the dinner table and talk about the day. Engage. Encourage. Enjoy the time together. Social media algorithms pale in such value.

Cooking − in all its simple, complex, low-budget and expensive possibilities − is often about more than feeding the body.

As for the Carrot Cake, it is rich. Indulging in such a dense cake should be a rare, cherished moment savored with loved ones and good coffee or cold milk.

Below is the recipe I cobbled together by pulling ingredients and steps from Mom's multiple versions. The recipes are in sheet protectors and stored in a binder.

Memories of cake by Mom and shared with my family are stored in my heart.

Use this recipe, or find one as equally cherished to move forward a legacy of love.

A final note: With this tribute to Mom, I close out about 14 years of food columns. I hope you've learned something from these culinary journeys. I know I have.

It's been a tasteful ride, and I'm so thankful to all the cooks, chefs, farmers and readers who shared recipes, kitchen tips, questions, corrections and suggestions.

As I move on to a new venture, I'm grateful to the ordinary people who extended time, patience and sometimes personal vulnerability in entrusting me to tell their extraordinary stories.

3 cups raw carrots, grated and lightly packed

1 (8-ounce) can pineapple tidbits, well drained

1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, at room temperature

1. Heat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour three 9-inch round cake pans and set aside.

2. In a stand-up mixer bowl, cream together the sugar, oil and eggs until well blended, about 2 minutes. (Or, use a hand mixer and large bowl.)

3. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, ginger and nutmeg.

4. Add the dry ingredients to the wet mixture, stirring on low until evenly combined, about 1-2 minutes. (If necessary, stop the machine midway and use a spatula to scrape ingredients from the bowl's inside wall.)

5. Add the carrots, pineapple, raisins and walnut until combined, about 1 minute.

6. Evenly pour the batter into the three prepared cake pans. Bake for 23-25 minutes, or when the layers spring back when touched lightly with a finger. Cool on racks for about 5 minutes, then flip cake layers out of pans onto racks.

7. When layers are cool, put one on cake plate or board. Top with about 1/2 cup frosting (see directions below). Add second layer and cover with about 1/2 cup frosting. Add third layer and use all the remaining frosting to cover the top and sides of the cake. Store in the refrigerator. Yields 12 servings.

Frosting: In the stand-up mixer bowl (or medium-sized bowl using hand mixer), beat the cream cheese 1-2 minutes. Add the butter and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Beat 1-2 minutes, until smooth. While mixer is running, slowly add the powdered sugar in batches until frosting is smooth. If frosting is thick, add a few drops of vanilla until spreadable consistency. Store in refrigerator until needed.

Instructions for 9-by-13-inch baking dish: Butter and flour dish. Pour in batter and bake for about 35 minutes in a 350-degree oven. Frost in dish and serve.