The morning sunlight patterns the walls around me as it pierces through the blind. The Persiana. Daylight has arrived. A kaleidoscopic mural making staccato spots on the plain white walls. Though the yellow-white light barely disguises the coldness outside. The house is empty. Just. The chain rattling through the gate´s bars the clue that I am alone. It is a birthday. I have to get up. And I have barely enough time to do what I have to do.
I leap like a gazelle towards the kitchen. Fuelled neither by energy nor excitement, but by the cold, hard tiles chilling my bare feet. I turn on the oven and turn. A pot of tea waits for me on the work surface beside the kettle. Beside the sink. I take a strainer and pour the steaming brew into a mug. Steaming all the more because the sun has yet to work its thermal magic on these walls. The oven murmurs mechanically. It will come to heat in no time. It may also heat the room, but I do not intend to wait that long. Preparation is key. As I run through the house in one direction to find hot water, then the other to find the clothes I have laid out, a naked rush not even the dog deserves to witness. There is no time for modesty. As I rush, race, and ready myself, I am making a list of the things I must do. Preparation is indeed key, but time is also against me.
Refreshed. Cleaned. Ready. I return to the kitchen.
In a bag behind the door. Yes, I am still unpacking from my move. I pull out two spring-form cake tins. Their need for cleaning is as great as my need for speed. Hot water flows out of the faucet. With greater force than from the shower. I am not bitter. Liquid soap, its unnatural luridness, in contrast to the sun´s natural glow, foams water in the chrome sink. A quick dip of the tins. A quick wipe. Grime from months of idling washed away in no time. A quick dry.
I find a roll of parchment from above the fridge. I fold the paper in half, lengthways, then half again. The long strip is then folded in a similar manner. Halved once, then once more. Using scissors, I hold up the base of one of the tins. I cut a circle an inch away from the edge. I have made a selection of paper discs for my baking needs. I place a disc on each base and clip it into place, pulling the catch tight. The remaining parchment rests on the work surface. A whole piece of holed paper, the holes framed by the folds. I scrunch the punctured sheet into a ball. It will help start the wood burner at a later stage. The small rounds I collect and make a pile, putting them away safely in a place that I am guaranteed to forget about by the time my work is done.
I find a brush. A pastry brush that threatens baldness it has been so overworked. Oil. Light and flavourless. Vegetal. I push the brush´s head into the opening of the bottle and tilt it. Just enough to wet the tip. Just enough to grease the sides of the cake tins. Just enough.
Flour. Some plain white flour. The packet is so depleted I must search for another packet. The cupboard merely offers me a spelt alternative. Its beige blandness, its taupe tinge has me grimacing slightly. But I must take a punt. A flurry of floating fawn fills a small bowl. A flip. A pinch. I finger some salt from a wood-lidded pot behind the hob, returning the lid with a snap.
From another cupboard I retrieve the most important of ingredients for this surprise. I will add just a little. Joining the salt. Joining the flour. I adjust the measurement. Too much will taint the flavour. Baking powder. The invention of a Victorian chemist, Mr Bird, of powdered custard fame. He changed the British ritual of Afternoon Tea. Transforming a sweet bite into a luxurious morsel. It will also transform this dulcet delicacy.
Behind me stands the fridge. From the door I remove a pack of butter. It is solid. As hard as rock. From above me, I lower a kilo bag of sugar from a cupboard. Plain, white, granulated. Bland. Its sole character, its sweetness. But in unison with the other ingredients, it will become something magical. I pour out a measure into another small bowl.
I cut the butter into small pieces with a bone handled knife. Even in small bits it is too tough. The wooden spoon, a relic from several kitchens past, cannot make headway into the creamy cubes. The frozen fatty bits will not give in this cold room. Patience, a strong point at many times, fails me.
I put the bowl with the wooden spoon into the warming oven in the hope that it will soften enough, but before it becomes liquid. Five seconds. I peel a mandarin. I have not eaten breakfast yet. Fifteen seconds. I have a segment filled mouth, gaping with citrus slices, I have to hurry. I reach out for a fully fleshed lemon that is in a basket under the kitchen window. I am not going to eat it. My mouth puckers at the idea. I will need the zest to add flavour to my surprise. Thirty seconds. I remove the bowl from the oven. The handle of the wooden spoon has warmed, perceptibly so. Though not too warm to harm. The butter has softened and the creaming, or the attempt to cream, re-commences with earnest.
I start to flatten the small squares into a paste. The bowl of sugar goes in. It showers white rain over the buttery smudge. The sharp crystals helping it render down further as I beat. Lightening the texture. The colour. My arm aching to the squelch-ching rhythm of spoon hitting butter hitting glass. Squelch. Ching. Beating; one direction, then another. I am wearing thin much of my morning enthusiasm. I pause and take a tentative sip of tea to perk me up. It is cooled enough. I take a glug. Its tannic tartness with a bergamot twist is rewarded with a sigh.
Time, though, is as precious as the revitalising infusion. I return to my mission. Vanilla. I have vanilla paste. It has a wonderful blanketing perfume. An all-enveloping, comforting aroma. A rich and creamy flavour. An ingredient that were it an item of furniture would surely be the feather bed. There. Is. Nothing. Else. Like. It. And so, I drop a carefully measured amount into the bowl. Maybe not so carefully.
Opening the utensil drawer to the left of me, I retrieve a medium whisk. Sturdy enough to make lighter work of the next round of beating. I will not chance the wooden spoon, nor my arm. I return to the fridge. I find an egg. The egg. It is the last one. I shake my head. No room for errors. No mistakes. A tap. A crack and the egg drops into the buttery paste. The whisk makes easy headway. Aerating it. Smoothing it. My arm beats faster. It is not so worn down as it was by the creaming. The batter, as that is what it has become, looks slightly curdled. I am not worried. A little of the flour lightly stirred in does the trick. I rest a second. But a second is all I allow myself.
I bring the tins towards me, scattering the remainder of the dry ingredients into the bowl. I whisk with all the energy I have in me. The mixture gains body. It is a muscular paste. I turn, taking the bowl with me, I add a splash of cold water. This helps the crumb. The texture. I fold that in and return to the tins. Eyeballing the amount, I fill each one with the buttery, battery mixture. I use a small spoon to even out the differences. Then, as quick as a magician duping the audience, the tins disappear, middle shelf, into the oven. Hey presto! Slamming the door shut I clock the time.
My washing up days stopped in a basement kitchen in London many years ago. It is true. It was the first time I was addressed as chef and everything I used was whisked away. Gone now the deference. Absolutely. Gone. Luckily, I have not forgotten how. The tins may languish in the oven, but the kitchen remains active. The washing, cleaning, drying, all done in no time. I check the clock. I finish my tea. I cream my hands. I may not have forgotten how to wash up, but my hands have.
Enough time has lapsed. The alarm in my head rings an urgent clanging peal. I tentatively peer through the oven window. They look done. They smell done. I open the door and with a cloth in my hand, lift one tin out, placing it on a wooden board. I shut the door quickly after me. The butter, vanilla, sugar waft that follows the door´s draft is as alluring to the cook as sirens to sailors. Paralysing the senses. The cake, rich and golden in colour, has domed slightly. There is a small crack in the centre, hinting at the palest yellow crumb underneath. It is nothing to worry about. I touch the surface. The crust has a sandy feel to the fingertips. The top, a springy resistence. I lean in and put my ear near the surface, careful not to singe the lobe. Trust me, it is a method. The crackling sound teases the eardrum. I place the tin on a rack to start the cooling process. I take out the other one, double checking the feel and sound, and place it next to the first tin. Switching off the oven, I move the tins to another part of the house. An unheated, colder part of the house. I return to the kitchen and take stock.
The butter, the remainder of the pack, I remove from its wrapping. The idealised image of happy cows in a glorious bucolic scene I scrunch and throw with the holed baking parchment onto the hearth ready to burn. A little fat might help fuel the fire later. I use a spoon and start the creaming process again. It has softened more. Even in this cool kitchen. I put the bowl aside for a minute while I gather the other ingredients.
I take my grater. It is a plane. A modern, long and narrow, razor-toothed tool. The lemon I found earlier, I hold it firm as the grater glides along its surface, flurrying the yellow skin as if it were confetti. It drops onto the board beneath. I gather it up with a knife and toss it into the bowl with the smoothed butter.
I have icing sugar. Confectioner´s sugar. The packaging, squeezed, emits a puffball mushroom cloud. This cloud, though, is white and hangs in the air for longer than I have time to watch and wait. With a battered metal spoon, the dents in its curves demonstrating an age that goes beyond me, I lift out a mound of sugar, tilting it into the bowl. The butter has all but disappeared underneath. Carefully, I start the merging process. Carefully. I do not want the sugary cloud to dust the surface around me. Gently. Stroking with the back of the spoon. Loosening it further. I take a knife from the block, sharp edged and unnecessarily large and slice the denuded lemon in half. I squeeze a few drops into the sugar. The lemon´s citrus scent rising through an all-consuming creamy, sugar smell. Refreshing. The butter cream is almost done. A few more strokes, beats, stirs, and it is ready.
Quickly stepping out of the kitchen I race towards the recesses of the house. The tins are cold and the surface of the cakes tepid. Quick work. But the house in this part has barely lifted the mercury beyond night time temperatures. Good for me. Bad for any guests.
A table knife, Sheffield made, bone handled and preciously antique. But I use it, nonetheless. Holding the tin in one hand and sliding the blunt blade down the inside of the tin. I pull it around the cake´s edge. Gripping firmly. Loosening the sponge from the metal. I repeat the process. Lift. Hold. Pull. Release. I turn the cakes upside down over the rack, unclipping the clasp. Each one holds on firmly to the paper and metal base. The blade helps prise them off.
My breadknife, I weald over the two newly released halves. I hold the first half on its side. Cutting downwards I remove the curved dome that had risen during the baking. It is still warm. Underneath. Where the knife has cut, small crumbs are held together in suspension by sheer magic, surrounded by perfumed air. The palest gold colour. I may be a little proud of my work. I take the other half and do the same, ensuring that the knife has cut down straight. That I have a flat surface. Each cut side will become the inside of the sandwiched halves. The remnants I defiantly stuff into my mouth. I check to see I have not been observed. It is merely a reflex. I am still alone. For the moment.
Jam. Apricot jam. It has a delicate flavour that will not overpower the vanilla. Dull the lemon. It will complement them. I pull out a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and take a large scoop of the glistening conserve, dropping it in the centre of the cut sponge. Using the back, I gently push, spread the apricot jam outwards ensuring the side is fully glistening with jellied sweetness. I am not ungenerous.
From the creaming bowl, I use the table knife to spread some lemon-buttery joy over the other cut half. Although the heated heart of my cake has yet to cool thoroughly, it helps soften the butter further. Gently, with a light paddling action, I ease out the sweet mixture. Knowing the cake will crumble at the slightest unwarranted pressure. Risking leech from the warmth. But time is not my dearest friend. I press both coated, cut sides together. Turning the cake upright placing it on a small plate.
The table knife, almost a palate knife in its shape, perfect for finishing this surprise, is dipped into the butter cream mix again. This time I use the remaining mix to coat the top of the cake. Generously thick. There is still plenty. A creamy swirl speckled with the smallest of yellow flecks. The blade´s flat side creating waves and ridges. I turn the plate around and check the coating is even.
My time is up. The chain on the gate is rattling. I will have company, birthday company, in a minute. No more than that. I rush to a drawer, narrow, unopened for most of the year. It holds a bag with everything anyone would need to decorate cakes. My hand rummages wildly to find the crowning glory. I lift the bag in the air to look through the plastic skin. I squeeze it. Tick. Tock. At the bottom I discover what I need. A two-coloured, barley twist candle attached to a small yellow holder. Petal like tips spreading outwards around the candle´s base. Quickly, I spear it into the centre of the cake then reach for the match box beside the hob. Tick. Tock. The footsteps are accompanied by the patter of paws on the terrace. It. Is. Time. With the deftness of a chain smoker, I strike a match and put its phosphorous flame to the wick. If there was an alarm, it would ring: time´s up. It. Is. Lit.
Happy birthday…to you.
I would pay cash money to see you leap like a gazelle
A master piece as ever !!👏…….
Happy Birthday again to you know who 😉xx