My mama is a complicated woman.

Raised in Birmingham by two native Midwesterners, my mom does not believe in the mealy-mouthed way of speaking that plagues some southerners, especially southern women. She believes in speaking directly or not speaking at all.

As you might expect, this habit of hers sometimes takes Mississippians aback. I cannot count the number of times I have run into women older than I am, the mothers of her former students, who exclaim, “Your mom is Mrs. Killcreas! I was so afraid of her!”

They typically go on to explain that they lived in fear of the days they were late to drop their kids off in Mom’s preschool classroom, trying to tiptoe around so as not to interrupt her circle time.

In fact, my own childhood friends have said, “I don’t think your mom likes me. She told me all about how I should be doing things differently.”

What my friends don’t always know — indeed, what I didn’t realize until I was an adult — is that my mom only offers advice to those she cares about. If she thinks a person is too far gone, she won’t bother to tell them anything at all. In fact, the worst response a person could get from my mom is no advice at all. An absence of advice says, “I”m not going to waste the breath it would take for me to correct you.”

But at the same time, she would literally spend hours helping a person fix a mistake they made and never so much as whisper the words, “I told you so.” I know because she’s done this for me countless times. It doesn’t matter that I foolheartedly ignored all of her earlier advice; when I need the help, she will be there. Unfailingly.

So I guess it’s only fitting that my mom’s specialty cake, the one people ask for again and again, the one my daddy has had for every birthday since before I was born, is also something of a paradox: carrot cake.

It’s hard to believe that any dish containing three cups of shredded vegetables could be considered a dessert, yet here we are. In much the same way that my mama’s brutal honesty comes wrapped in selfless kindness, the carrot heart of this cake comes wrapped in a dense, moist crumb and smooth, tangy cream cheese frosting.

By all rights, these ingredients shouldn’t work together. Why, even the zucchini in zucchini bread has the decency to disguise itself under a layer of cinnamon. But the carrot in this cake is enhanced by the spices, not buried beneath them.

Try it. I think you’ll like it. But be careful. Eat enough, and you might even stop saying, “Bless his heart,” in favor of the more direct, “He is a total fool.”

CHRISTINA’S CARROT CAKE

Ingredients
Cake:
1 1/2 c. oil (any mild oil works)
2 c. sugar
4 eggs, beaten
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 c. flour
1 tsp. salt
1 Tbsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. ground cloves
2 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. baking powder
1 c. broken pecans (optional; I omit)
3 c. grated carrots

Filling:
1/2 c. (1 stick) butter, room temperature
1 8 oz. package cream cheese, room temperature
3 1/2 c. powdered sugar (one 16-oz. box)
2 tsp. vanilla extract

Directions
■ Preheat oven to 350 degrees if using loaf or tube pan or to 325 degrees if using three round cake pans. Grease and flour pans (or line bottoms with greased parchment paper).
■ In a large mixing bowl, beat together oil, sugar, and vanilla. Add eggs and beat. Sift together all dry ingredients two or three times into a separate bowl. If using pecans, add them to the dry ingredients. (Pro tip: always toss add-ins like nuts or chocolate chips in a bit of the dry ingredients before adding them to batters. The coating of flour keeps them from sinking to the bottom.)
■ Add dry ingredients to sugar mixture and mix by hand until no dry flour remains. Add carrots, a small amount at a time. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour in a loaf or tube pan; bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes in three round cake pans.
■ Mix all filling ingredients. Beat well. Spread between layers and over cake, once cooled.

Amelia Plair is a mom and high school teacher in Starkville. Email reaches her at [email protected].

Amelia Plair is a Starkville resident who writes occasional food columns.