Keep the cakes COMING!
There are some drool-worthy aromas coming from Colin’s new kitchen
My mother used to like describing my wife as a “saint”, which was perhaps a reference to her carefree ability to co-exist with me. Or perhaps for all sorts of other reasons. My beloved wife certainly has some saintly qualities, as mentioned, but I’m just not sure that qualifies her for a sainthood.
Though I am currently reassessing that view in the wake of a cake that, honestly, only a saint could have baked. And it was made in our new oven, in our new kitchen, finally up and fully operating after eight long weeks of renovations that had us cooking in the outdoors, while the indoors was made marvellous and our bank account was silently and steadily siphoned.
But I’d pay almost anything for a quality sponge cake and that’s what the beloved promised to make the moment she had an oven that was up to the job. Our old kitchen and its antique appliances had been falling apart, to the point where sponge cake or almost anything else that needed a sensitive oven was out of the question. The beloved wife had made it clear there would be no quality oven action till we had a quality oven.
In the midst of all the renos, I’d been having dreams about a Victoria sponge, a personal favourite of mine. A light and airy style of sponge thought to have originated in Italy, and a particular favourite of Queen Victoria, who liked a slice of it with her afternoon tea. Queen Victoria has had an awful lot of things named after her, but that sponge cake might just be the best of them all – and certainly a lot better than the Mt Victoria Tunnel.
And so it came to pass that not too many days after the last tradesperson left and the house was finally ours again, the brand-new oven in the brand-new kitchen was activated, and some sort of saintly situation occurred, resulting in a sponge I can only describe as divine. I was as fulsome in my praise as I could manage with my mouth full of cake. The only downside to the Victoria sponge is that it really needs to be eaten on the day of creation, though that’s not entirely a downside.
And please don’t think that me with a wife baking sponge cakes is a sign of some sort of old-fashioned and sexist set-up where the woman does the cooking and the man simply sighs compliments. Before the great baker even got to the new oven with her sponge, I’d been in with a roast chicken and a few other things besides. We share the household duties and cover for each other’s weaknesses. I, for instance, lack the delicate touch required for a Victoria sponge. I didn’t even eat it particularly delicately.
There are other cakes named for royals. There’s a King Albert cake and a King Edward Cake. There’s a Queen Elizabeth cake, but in the royal cake department, Victoria still rules. As, at the moment at our place, does the new kitchen, though it’s hard to know where anything is. Except perhaps the baking gear.
The beloved wife had made it clear there would be no quality oven action till we had a quality oven