Helpful Advice or Brad Bakes A Cake.
My wife, daughter and dog, son, daughter-in-law and their kids in tow, all stood in the front hall pulling on shoes and jackets. Some were going in one direction, others going in another. I sat firmly planted in my chair enjoying the show and tell, the Grandkids teasing each other, Mums and Dads herding them towards the door. "Aren't you coming grandpa?" I told my Grandson no, I had things to do. I murmured with feigned disinterest "Grandpa has a project to do this morning." I am well practised as a parent in telling half truths with meagre information. I can spill short advice as easily as a long drawn out lecture, and can also be tight lipped when necessary. You do what ya gotta do. My Grandson turned 14 today, and it was high time Grandpa baked this kid a cake. My wife was in on this kitchen project, having laid out various items for me to find, butter to soften, a bag of sugar, measuring cups, spatulas...and my mother's cake recipe. The only advice my wife gave me was "Don't forget to grease the cake pan well with softened butter, and dust it with liberally with cocoa powder. That way the finished cake will be flecked with cocoa rather than the usual white flour. Just a little detail." Ah. Good advice. I like details that make a difference.
Mom would bake my favourite cake for my birthday every year, a chocolate pound cake with chocolate icing. I've long since lost interest in chocolate, and cakes in particular, but this recipe whispered to me in a dream the other night. It's almost like she leaned down from above and patted my face with cocoa powdered fingers. I just wish she had explained more in her recipes. It's a running joke in our family how sparse Mom's recipe directions are. Lovely script writing flows across the page, and then leaves you hanging at the end of a short abrupt sentence like the very best mystery novel.
I smiled confidently at my gathered equipment and ingredients "This is gonna be sooo easy." I have baked cakes before. Our daughter likes coconut, so I've done a few of those. But every time in the kitchen is like the first time for me. For some reason I can't gather layers of accumulated experience like I have with other types of hands-on projects. I wrestle with tasks and instead of a neatly ordered workspace I'm accustomed to, I wind up turning the kitchen into a battlefield. Wreckage and ruin covers every counter and tabletop. Well, if it gets results I suppose. I followed my Mom's lovely cursive script on the virgin white page beside me as I sifted the flour, cocoa powder and salt into a bowl. In another bowl I creamed the butter until fluffy. (sorry Mom, I'm using butter rather than your marg). "Add sugar and eggs" I continued, but hmm, it didn't look right? The words that sprang to mind was Icky shloppy. Continuing down to the next line on the page "...one egg at a time & beat well." Oh for crying out loud. Why couldn't she write that all on the same line. Geeze Mom, what I wouldn't give to have you at my side helping me. With advice.
"Sift flour, cocoa powder & salt & add to the creamed mixture." Ah, no problem. But geeze, it's looking a little dry. What's up with this? Checking the next written line "...alternately with milk & vanilla." Oh for Pete's sake. Knowing the full set of rules and advice would've been handy, but never mind. Eventually well beaten and mixed the batter went into the pan.
By now the clean white recipe page was dusted with cocoa and smeared with butter. The family dog looked up at me with deep brown eyes emploring me to let her lick the page clean, but instead I patted her on the head with my floured hand, tucked the page into my favourite cookbook, and started the daunting job of tidying up the battlefield. When I collected the beater whisks and tipped them into the bowl that had been scraped nearly clean of chocolate batter a memory lost in time exploded from a time long ago; Mom used to divide up the two beater whisks and batter bowl between my three brothers and I. Four youthful tongues and only so much chocolate sticky mess, but it always seemed fair. "Alright you kids. You decide. Two get the whisks and the other two get the bowl." I stood at the kitchen sink staring at the whisks and the bowl, not sure what to do. I was all alone while the whole family were out for the afternoon. Should I just toss them into the dishwasher? Maybe give myself a treat for old times sake? Looking at the cake pan sitting waiting for the oven to reach 325 and the empty batter bowl I felt a brush of cocoa on my cheek. Taking her advice I reached for the full cake pan, and scooped a little more batter into the empty bowl and more onto the whisks. Didn't seem like enough leftover chocolate batter to go around all those youthful tongues coming home soon.
The smell of chocolate cake fills the house. The dog is laying on the carpet in front of the sink. She probably thinks she'll catch me before I clean anything else she wants to lick. Ah! The timer just went off on the oven. The knife slid out with a smear of soft batter sticking to it. I put it in for another 10 minutes. Just a guess, but I'll go with that. With no-one here to help me I will just take my chances. If the cake is a little burnt it'll still taste like chocolate, right? Examining the recipe page I see no advice for her chocolate icing. Ah Mom! What? Did you write that on a separate page? In another book!? Well, I could just go out and buy readymade, but this is a scratch cake, and special in every way. Drawing on the past to bless the future. I know the web world will have countless recipes for me, but no. I'll wait for the cake eating team to return. Maybe together we can all put this cake together complete with icing. Sage and sweet advice from all corners will contribute to finishing Grandpa's project.
One more test and 5 more minutes till the cake is ready. That was 5 minutes ago. The family dog on the carpet lifts one lazy eye looking for encouragement from me, as the nervous family cat curled simmering on the table glowers at the dog through half closed eyes. Neither move as I ease the hot cake pan onto a cooling rack. Sun streams in through the open kitchen window as I stand admiring another birthday chocolate pound cake, and as I wipe away the dusting of cocoa from my cheek I wonder how did that get there?