Heat had left through an unknown gap in the seal at the top of the door, so old was the oven. The batter rose quickly, faster at one end than the other. Wedge shaped and burnt, smouldering at the ridge. The base, flat, unrisen, and biscuity. My last cake. That day I stopped baking. I hung up my oven gloves. It´s true. I am confident with sauces, stews, stocks, pot roasts, yes.
But. Just. Not. Baking.
Now though, a new home, a new oven, and a celebration. I have no excuse. I must try again. I begin.
Butter. My spring form tins, two, have been lined at the bottom. Two discs of parchment lightly greased. The walls have been buttered. I have measured out some flour, four eggs, sugar, and butter. The process is straight forward to do this. To bake. Theoretically it is easy. Practically though, all sorts of things can happen, as I mentioned earlier.
I find a sieve. Fine mesh to lighten the flour as it passes through. The cake should be light and buttery. A delicate crumb float on the palate. Sieved flour helps. It flurries into a bowl awaiting its turn.
The kitchen mixer, mint green and ergonomic, its silver bowl in place, pleasing to the eye but solid. Heavy. Gym goer or not, I use both hands to lift it from the cupboard. A paddle-like hook is attached. The power on.
I knew a man who manufactured mixers. In fact, he made almost every kitchen appliance. Mixers were easy, he told me. The one item that nearly broke him was the dishwasher. I know. I KNOW. Householders wouldn´t buy. They did not want their best dinner service, often a wedding gift, in a machine. So, he marketed it to those who didn´t care for washing up and chores: the husbands. What man doesn´t love a dishwasher? He was saved.
Back to mixing the cake.
Butter. Cubes, no warmer than room temperature or it becomes greasy, sit in the bowl as the hook is lowered. Click. Click. Click. Whirring starts as the switch goes on and up. The spinning removing all shape of the square chunks. Flattening them. Spreading them. Click. Click. Click. I stop the motion to add the sugar. Click. Click. Click. Back on it goes and at full speed the sugar and the butter merge. The sugar´s glassy edges smooth the butter further. Shredding. Changing it to a paler, warmer cream colour.
I once made one thousand pieces of confectionary for a food fair, one thousand pieces of sugar work. Those tiny crystalline particles cut. My hands were red raw, I had to wear gloves to sell the sweets. I am wary of sugar.
Friction. Beating. A combination of factors far beyond my ken to understand, have helped break down the sugar. Leaving a light, dreamy, creamy mix that tempts the little finger to stray. But I am strong. The speed is lowered to a calming, heartbeat rhythm. A drop of vanilla is added, its mellow perfume like an opiate, widening the pupils, stretching the nostrils to greedily inhale. The mouth waters. I stay strong.
Butter. The eggs, already cracked and in a bowl are ready to drop in. Plop. One at a time. Plop. Wait for it to absorb before the next. Plop. Patience and caution. Plop. If it splits, if it curdles, a tablespoon of flour brings it together again. I bring it together again. Don´t judge me.
Quickly, I pour in the sifted flour, watching a spectral cloud hover above the bowl. The folding in of the flour, thickens the batter. The dull glopping sound from the hook lending to the ear what the eye already sees. Two tablespoons of ice-cold water into the mix changes the texture. Smoother. Creamier. It will help lighten the sponge, improving the texture. I imagine each molecule puffing up, popping, popcorn style, exploding into a succulent crumb as it hits the heat. I imagine a lot. Baking is science. Sugar isn´t Schwarzenegger.
I pour the mix into the tins, eyeballing the quantity. It is not exact, but who is looking? The spatula, its work done, sits on a board, tempting the tongue to wipe it clean. I remain strong. The oven is at the right temperature, its thermostatic red light giving me a sense of comfort, reliability. The tins placed on a tray go into the oven, onto the shelf, moved to the middle for the best heat. Never put egg-based food higher than the middle. It is good advice. The timer goes on but there is no time to wait.
Butter.
Butter.
Butter.
BUTTER.
Did I mention that lactose treat? That versatile nectar? Butter?
Butter cream. There is butter in another bowl. I have many. It is softened to room temperature, a satin surface rather than a silken glistening sheen. It is ready to add icing sugar. I have freeze dried raspberries to create a subtle flavour and a delicate pinky hue. The small ruby chunks blended with the sugar to create a feminine, powder-puff dust. I carefully persuade the two elements to meld using a wooden spoon that has seen more cake mixes, treats and temptations than me. Slowly the buttercream is formed; a pale rose coloured liniment that will salve any poor measuring of the batter, any poor cutting of the cake, any slightly heat tinged edges. It will cover a multitude of sins.
Rose. The bright, optimistic colours and heady aromas helped destroy a marriage. So spendthrift was Josephine with her famous rose garden at Malmaison, that in the end Napoleon could only love her but never respect her. The glorious, damascene fragrances that greeted her visitors were unlike the deeper, headier, end-of-season musty rose smell of my visit. My recent visit. I am not that old.
Candyfloss sugar and sweet butter fills the air. I could linger a while in this mellow scented heaven, but the alarm has brought me back from France to the present. Its urgency, like the dive bell of a submarine, musters me into action. I place the tins on the surface to check if they are cooked. My fingers gently touch the surface to check for springiness. The top, slightly cracked, is sandy to the touch. A good sign. Leaning in, I listen. Don´t burn the ear. The sound of crackling adds to the sight and smell of the cooked sponges. A final check with a wooden skewer. It comes out clean. They are done. I place the cakes on a rack to cool then move to the fridge.
Cream is poured into a large bowl. Wide enough to whisk to a firm consistency. Some icing sugar has been added. Cream without the sugar tastes slightly cheesy when whipped, ruining the overall sugary sweet flavours of the cake. My whisk, an enormous twelve hooped tool, a power whisk, will begin the transformation. Not before I play tuning forks, a habit I have had since training. Whack. A jarring discordant note fills the kitchen for a second before I start. A childish grin on my face. I should grow up. The multiple hoops aerate the cream in seconds turning liquid into elegant peaks that stand softly but confidently in the bowl. The sponge discs need to be cool so that the cream doesn´t break down. Doesn´t drip. A lactose lachrymosal sight that would surely ruin everything.
I take a bobbin from my mother´s sewing kit. She won´t know. A length of cotton to cut through the cake. Yes, cotton, that´s right. I loop the cotton around the cake´s circumference, and slowly, crossing hands, pull the ends until it is cut through the centre. A good party trick for one. I repeat the process leaving me with four layers. Two layers are flat. Two are not. The slightly cracked domes of the two tops need to be trimmed. My pastry knife, so sharp I hesitate to handle it, carefully saws away the curving crust. If this were a fairy cake the sawn-off bits halved, would make little wings, glued by cream or icing. These cuttings are too big. I am not De Haviland.
Jam, raspberry, is spread on the three bottom layers as they sit side by side on the counter. Ruby red and thickly covered. I hate meanness. Cream follows. Its whiteness, shocking in contrast to the jam, must stay white. No leeching. I place one disc on top of another, on top of another and crown the cake with the final portion.
Butter. Icing the cake benefits from a culinary potter´s wheel. The ability to turn and ice makes life easier. I don´t have one. My cake sits on a foil disc on a melamine circular tray that spins on any surface, its plastic base so ungripping. A photograph of me, sepia tinted rather than rose coloured, small, almost passport sized. My first birthday. Innocently gripping a handful of icing, perhaps with some cake in. Food was obviously in my genes, icing in my blood.
I use my dough scraper as a palate knife. Wide and shovel-like, the size of a hand. A big hand. The effect: classic, artistic, rustic. Screeded. Slightly see through, like butter on a slice of bread. Veiled. Hints of sponge peering through the buttercream even though it is covered, so thin the spread. Stems of red currants, dipped in sugar syrup, and sprinkled with more sugar, glistening, jewel-like, are placed confidently to one side. Classic. Artistic. Rustic.
I step back. I am done. I have no hunger. The aromas, the scents, the pervasive perfumes that have penetrated my pores, have killed my appetite. The buttery crumb and sweet buttercream icing is thankfully for someone else. A celebration.
It is buttered up. I am buttered out.
Brilliant Louis! Poetry in motion! Well done! 👏👏xx
Amazing !!! I can actually smell that cake myself !……. … very clever ❤️