I guess I was about 10 when I started making chocolate layer cakes. I don’t remember if anyone taught me, but I do recall frequently picking up my Mother’s little black cookbook, turning to the page with cocoa smudges and knowing I was in just the right place. I instinctively knew how to measure and mix ingredients, pour evenly into greased and floured pans, jiggling them back and forth to level the batter, then pop the pans into the oven and eagerly anticipate the finished product. My favourite memories of this cake were on nights when my Mother would make an early retreat to bed and I would become the queen of the kitchen.
The whole process of baking a cake is an absolute delight… sifting through cupboards searching for baking powder, releasing the sweet aroma of vanilla, inhaling cocoa dust wafting from its yellow can, listening to the rhythmic hum of the electric mixer, then licking the batter from the bowl and beaters. And we’re not even done yet! I’d always keep the oven light on so I could peer inside and watch the fluid chocolate rise into solid, moist mounds. Every few minutes I would open the oven a crack to bask in the gentle rush of warm chocolate-scented air.
And we’re still not done! Now it’s the frosting’s turn in the mixing bowl. I’ve never used a recipe – just lots of butter, icing sugar, cocoa, vanilla and a few drops of milk to make it creamy and perfect. When the cakes were cooled, I would pull my Mother’s sewing thread through the layers, splitting them in half. Then I’d slather gobs of rich, chocolaty icing on each layer before stacking them together for the final frosting. With a flourish, I heaped swirl upon swirl of creamy chocolate to the top and sides of my masterpiece. I would eat slice after slice while sipping milk and watching TV, nestled into the comfy rocking chair with nary a care about wayward crumbs settling into the two-toned green shag carpet.
This was a far cry from the time as a five-year-old when I insisted my teenaged sister serve me chocolate cake on the living room couch. As I sat there with a cushion on my lap, claiming it to be my “table,” we argued back and forth. Sensing she wasn’t going to give in, I began screaming incessantly, “I want cake! I waaaaant caaaaaake!” She simply ignored me and before too long my screams became croaks. And soon after, my croaks became silent as I had no choice but to shut up when my vocal chords shut down. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid, so I threw the cushion off my lap, plunked myself down at the kitchen table and plunged my fork into that moist, chocolaty confection.
A cake is, without a doubt, the crown jewel of baking; the pinnacle of celebratory occasions like anniversaries, weddings and birthdays. Yesterday was my 40-somethingth birthday and I really waaanted caaaaake! Knowing myself the way I do, resisting the temptation to overindulge wasn’t going to be a slice. After supper, I contemplated making a small batch of mini-cupcakes to pair with dark, creamy chocolate frosting. I felt drained, yet knew I would have to be awake for at least another three hours.
Even though I’d been running around all day with errands, pick-ups and drop offs, I decided to run some more and ditched the kitchen for the treadmill. You see, my sister took me out for lunch to my favourite Indian restaurant and while the food was delicious, it put me on a bloat that will probably last into the New Year. So I ran and ran and thought of nothing. No reflections of the past, no speculations on the future. Just running. And when I was finished, so was my desire to bake little chocolate cupcakes.
For the first time in my life, I celebrated my birthday with not so much as a crumb of cake to delight in, nor a flickering candle to wish upon amidst a rousing rendition of the birthday song. I felt a little sad. It was late and I was too tired to bake. I thought about having some tea or a cookie instead, but knew they wouldn’t fill me.
Because in each cake, the most important ingredient isn’t the chocolate, the butter or the sugar. It’s that little dash of comfort and familiarity that turns each slice into a ‘peace.’
