I baked a cake today. It had Oreos, Twix, Galaxy and Reese’s cups in. The recipe said that I should keep it in for 20-25 minutes, so when an hour passed and it did not set, I began to wonder whether I should worry about the fate of my cake. You see, apart from the 20-25 minute rule, the recipe did not include the Oreos; or Twix; or Galaxy; and definitely warned people off from sticking peanut butter in, so I guess the Reese’s cups I stuffed in were a no-no too.
You see, I have always been a recipe kind of guy. My cooking books are filled with stains, as I hold them on my right hand while the left is doing the cooking, eyes darting between letters and ingredients. Leave me without instructions in a kitchen, and you will find me in the same spot an hour later.
So, sitting here, looking at my rather wet mix in the oven, I felt a sense of pride. If this was a failure, it was my own. If it was a success, it was my own. It was my cake. My totally imperfect, flawed, and ridiculously moreish looking cake. This was not the work of a baker; most likely, the work of a baker’s child. If Paul Hollywood passed from it, he would not give it a second glance (I would like to imagine that Mary would at least try it, and give me a sympathetic look). But I am not in the Bake-Off. And this is not a competition –life is not a competition. If all you end up with is perfection and blue ribbons, where do you keep your memories?
The cake came out of the oven 1hour and 15 minutes later greeted by a fit of incontrollable belly-laughter, and it smelled delicious. We let it cool down, and then divided it to muffin-like pieces. Two glasses of milk and three pieces later, I am glad to say it is perfect, in the most imperfect way.