Recipe For A Happy Life Coffee Break Tale
The healing cake was a tradition I had absolutely no intention of carrying on…
Iwasn’t a big cake eater – but you simply couldn’t tell Lee’s mum that you didn’t want a piece of what she called her healing cake.
“What’s wrong with you?” She had a way of looking you up and down. “Take a small slice if you’re slimming.”
I did, often, and have to say it was good. Moist and sticky with dates and a butterscotch taste – and there was never any chance of eating too much and putting on weight, because it was always gone in seconds.
“It cheers miserable people up,” she said, slipping a slice under Lee’s kid sister’s nose when she returned, tearful, after a relationship ended. Her sniffs subsided when she smelled brown sugar and butter and the guy was history before she’d dabbed the last crumb.
“Lee loves this cake,” she told me one day. “You’d do well to learn the recipe for when I go.” She had the steely look of someone destined to last a long time and I’m no baker, so I didn’t bother. “It’s just two hundred grams of best butter mixed with a hundred and fifty grams of cane sugar…” I nodded, but I wasn’t listening. “Pinch of cinnamon, same of ginger.” She rattled on with her recipe. “It doesn’t only move the spirit,” she informed me. “No one who eats my cake will suffer from you-know-what.” Honestly! Occasionally I did think her cake had healing powers. Lee’s other sister was pregnant with twins and her partner lost his job. They’re not rich, his family, but they met up to see what they could do. On the table at his mum’s was a pot of tea and a freshly baked healing cake.
No one spoke as she poured tea and cut everyone a slice. Everyone sat and thought as they ate, and when they had finished, the ideas rolled.
“My mate has a garage,” Lee’s brother said. “He’s always looking for people.”
“What about Auntie Julie’s holiday home? No one uses it now, do they?” “My neighbour’s got a double pram…” On it went until what seemed like a disaster minutes before was nothing more than a blip and a few cake crumbs.
“Never underestimate the power of a good cake,” Lee’s mum said to me as she cleared up. “And there’s nothing to it if you use plain flour sieved with a pinch of baking powder and three large eggs.” “I believe you,” I said. I nearly did. What convinced me that the cake had healing properties was when Lee took a job abroad. We went with our kids, hoping for a bright future.
The work wasn’t what he thought it would be, the money didn’t cover the long hours and lousy shifts and we were so busy we didn’t make friends or have a social life. We were coping with that, and might have continued if Lee hadn’t broken his ankle.
“How did that happen?” I could hear his mum’s voice over the phone.
“I slipped, out running.” His pride was deflated, his mood rock bottom.
“I’m not sure about this move,” he said to me later. “Me neither,” I confessed. We were feeling glum one Saturday morning when a package came.
“This won’t fit through the letterbox.” The postie laughed. “It weighs a ton.”
It was a slab of Lee’s mum’s healing cake, glistening with sticky dates. We laughed at the thought of it travelling through the post like a winged angel. Then we ate it and it was good.
When she did die, eventually, the feisty old love, what a gaping hole she left. Something no one could ever fill.
The day of her funeral, I made her cake. She’d drip-fed me the ingredients often enough and I’d seen her bake it dozens of times, so I was better at making it than I thought I would be.
We sat with it in the centre of the table and looked at it for a few moments.
I sliced it and everyone tucked in. It wasn’t like Mum’s, but it wasn’t bad – and when we’d finished it, we felt as one that she’d tried to heal us one last time. And in a small way, succeeded.