This is another Carol recipe.

If you’ve been reading a while you know the name; a good share of what I cook on repeat came from her. This is the one I make every holiday season, and it has never once let me down, which is a longer run than most things get.

It is not a fussy cake. That’s most of why it works. There’s no creaming, no folding egg whites into anything, no stand mixer required, no step where you hold your breath. You sift the dry, you whisk the wet, you fold them together, you dump in the good stuff, and you put it in a pan. It’s spicy in a way most carrot cakes aren’t (cloves and ginger and nutmeg all showing up alongside the cinnamon), and it’s heavy with carrots and crushed pineapple, so it comes out moist and stays that way. It gets better on day two. It’s gone by day three.

(The carrots go through a hand-crank rotary grater, which the internet will happily tell you is a useless gadget, hogging counter space. Mine puts a pound of cheese through in under three minutes and I have no notes.)

A green hand-crank rotary grater on a granite counter shredding carrots into a clear catch tray, with bright orange shreds spilling out; two frames side by side. — The rotary grater the internet will tell you is a useless gadget hogging counter space.

Now. I have made two changes, and I want to be honest about both of them.

Carol made this with walnuts, and that makes sense: she grew up in California, and California is walnut country. It was delicious with walnuts. It was delicious with walnuts in her kitchen for a long time before it ever got to mine. But y’all, I’m a Texas girl living in Georgia, and if a nut is going into a baked good in my kitchen, it’s going to be a pecan. That’s not a culinary argument, it’s a regional identity issue, and I’m not litigating it. (For the record, both of my states have a claim here. The pecan has been the state tree of Texas since 1919, and Georgia grows about a third of the pecans in this country. I am, nut-wise, exactly where I belong.)

Freshly chopped pecans on a red cutting board beside a container of whole pecan halves. — Pecans. This is not a culinary argument, it is a regional identity issue.

The second change isn’t really a change, because Carol and I were in complete agreement on it: one cup of nuts is not enough nuts. Not for a full 9×13. The recipe says a cup. We both measure out the cup and then add a handful more, which puts it somewhere north of a cup and a half, and neither of us has ever regretted it. If you want to be precise about it, use a cup and three quarters. If you want to be like us, use a cup and then a handful.

I also add golden raisins, roughly three quarters of a cup, for no better reason than that I like them. Carol did not do this. Dealer’s choice.

What I haven’t changed is the oven temperature, and I want to talk about that for a second, because it’s the strangest thing on the card.

This recipe bakes at 360°F. Not 350. Not 375. Three hundred and sixty, which is not a number ovens are marked for and not a number any cookbook I own uses. I questioned it. Carol swore it was right. This recipe is at least sixty years old, older than I am, and it has been baking at 360 that entire time.

I could round it down to 350 and add a few minutes. I could push it to 375 and take a few away. Nothing catastrophic would happen either way. But that is exactly the kind of small sensible improvement that turns out not to be one, and a recipe with sixty years of not failing has earned the benefit of the doubt. So I set the dial between the marks and I leave it alone.

There’s one more thing that came with this recipe, and it isn’t written down anywhere.

I sift every one of these cakes through Carol’s flour sifter. I am fairly sure it was Nana’s before that. It’s an old tin Androck, the three-screen kind with the hand crank, printed with the little atomic starbursts that put it somewhere around the fifties, and the label has worn down to almost nothing from being handled.

A vintage tin Androck flour sifter with a hand crank and worn mid-century starburst printing, resting over a teal mixing bowl. — Three screens, a hand crank, and atomic starbursts. Androck, by the Washburn Company, somewhere around the fifties.

It has never been washed. It does not get washed. You don’t put water through a flour sifter; damp screens mean rust and clumping and a ruined tool. So it gets shaken out, zipped into a plastic bag, and put back in the pantry. That is how it was handed to me and that is how it goes back, and it is the only storage instruction I have ever followed to the letter.

The same vintage flour sifter sealed inside a ziplock bag on a granite counter, flour still clinging to the tin. — Shaken out, bagged, back in the pantry. The only storage instruction I have ever followed to the letter.

A recipe older than I am, an oven temperature nobody uses, and a sifter nobody is allowed to wash. That’s the inheritance. I changed the nuts.

Thick, spreadable carrot cake batter smoothed into a white rectangular baking dish, flecked with carrot and pecan. — Thick and spreadable, not pourable. If it sloshes, something has gone wrong.

Here’s the thing I’ll fight about, though: this cake does not need frosting. It’s spicy and moist and full of texture and it stands up perfectly well on its own. I have served it bare with a dollop of whipped cream on the side and had people ask for the recipe.

Carrot cake baked and cooling unfrosted in its white baking dish, the top domed and deeply browned. — This cake does not need frosting. Exhibit A.

But cream cheese frosting on carrot cake is traditional, and traditional is traditional for a reason, and this is the exact bump of decadence the cake wants. So I make the frosting. I just want you to know you have options, and that “I didn’t have cream cheese” is not a reason to skip making this.

Carrot cake in its baking dish under a smooth, swirled layer of cream cheese frosting. — But traditional is traditional for a reason, and this is the exact bump of decadence the cake wants.

One more thing, and it’s the only real technique note in the whole recipe: let it cool completely before you frost it. Not mostly. Not “it’s barely warm.” Completely. Cream cheese frosting will melt and separate on a warm cake and then slide off it in a way that cannot be fixed, only mourned. Go do something else for two hours. The cake will keep.

I know this because I know what a badly frosted cake looks like. There is a whole story there, about a carrot cake I made in 2010 that was not this one, and about what happened when I set a recipe I trusted down on the counter and walked away from it to chase something fancier. That story is coming. It is not a happy one, and the photographs are gorgeous, which somehow makes it worse.

For now: here’s the one that works.

A slice of frosted carrot cake plated on a white square plate, showing the moist crumb studded with carrot, pineapple and pecan. — It gets better on day two. It is gone by day three.

Notes

On the pan. A 9×13 and an 8×12 both work. The 8×12 is the smaller dish, so the batter sits deeper and it’ll want roughly 10 more minutes. Start testing early either way; ovens lie.

On the nuts. Use pecans. Use walnuts. Use whatever you have. Just use more than a cup of them.

On room-temperature eggs. If you forgot (I always forget), sit them in a bowl of warm tap water for five minutes and get on with your life.

Crushed pineapple draining in a fine mesh sieve set over a measuring cup, an opened Dole can beside it. — The can label is the instruction: twenty ounces, packed in juice, not syrup.

On the pineapple. Buy a 20-ounce can packed in juice, not syrup. You want one cup of drained fruit out of it, which is about eight ounces by weight; written as “1 cup (8 ounces)” that reads like an 8-ounce can, and a cake short half a cup of pineapple is drier and sadder than it needs to be. Drain through a sieve and press it.

Keep the juice. A 20-ounce can gives up about a cup and a half, which is a real drink and not a swallow. Put it over ice and sip it while the cake cools; you’ve got two hours to fill. Add a splash of whiskey or vodka if you’re in the time and the place for it. I was, on a hot evening, and it hit exactly right, so there’s a pineapple juice cocktail coming to this blog shortly. Consider this the trailer.

A glass of golden pineapple juice over ice on a navy napkin. — A cup and a half of juice, and two hours to fill.

On storage. Covered, on the counter, two days. In the refrigerator if it’s frosted and it’s July in Georgia, which it is. Let refrigerated slices come back to room temperature before you eat them; cold flattens the spice.

Print Recipe

Carol’s Carrot Cake

A moist, spicy carrot and nut cake.

Ingredients

Dry Ingredients

2½ cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon EACH ground cloves, ground ginger, ground nutmeg

Wet Ingredients

1 cup vegetable oil
1¼ cups packed light or dark brown sugar
⅓ cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs at room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Everything Else

2 cups shredded carrots
1 can 20-oz can crushed pineapple in juice not syrup, drained to yield about 1 cup of fruit; keep the juice, see notes
1.5 cups chopped pecans Carol used walnuts; see notes
¾ cup golden raisins optional; Carol would like it noted that these are my idea

Cream Cheese Frosting

8 oz Philadelphia cream cheese, softened 1 brick
½ cup butter, room temperature 1 stick
3 cups powdered sugar plus more as needed
1 teaspoon vanilla
⅛ teaspoon salt

Instructions

Carrot Cake

Preheat the oven to 360°F. Butter or grease your pan.
Sift the dry ingredients together in a large mixing bowl. Set aside.
2½ cups all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1 teaspoon baking soda, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon EACH ground cloves, ground ginger, ground nutmeg, 1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
Whisk the wet ingredients together in a smaller bowl.
1 cup vegetable oil, 1¼ cups packed light or dark brown sugar, ⅓ cup granulated sugar, 4 large eggs, 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Fold the wet into the dry. Scrape the bottom of the bowl to catch the pockets of flour hiding down there. Do not overmix.
Fold in the carrots, pineapple, pecans and raisins.
2 cups shredded carrots, 1 can 20-oz can crushed pineapple in juice, 1.5 cups chopped pecans, ¾ cup golden raisins
Pour into the pan. The batter should be thick and spreadable, not pourable. (If it sloshes, something has gone wrong. Ask me how I know.)
Bake 55 to 70 minutes, testing from about 45 to 50 minutes. It’s done when a toothpick comes out of the middle clean.
Cool completely before frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting

Mix ingredients with a hand mixer until well combined and fluffy. Add more powdered sugar as needed
8 oz Philadelphia cream cheese, softened, 1/2 cup butter, room temperature, 3 cups powdered sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla, ⅛ teaspoon salt

P.S. If you make this with walnuts, Carol will be pleased and I will respect your choices from a distance.

P.P.S. The golden raisins are not negotiable in my kitchen and entirely negotiable in yours.

P.P.P.S. “Cool it completely” is the single most ignored instruction in all of baking and I have personally ignored it more than once, which is how I know exactly what it costs. Two hours. Go weed something.

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