Floury Day by Jill Williams

We sat in the peaceful warmth of the kitchen, gazing through the rain smeared window into the garden.  The wind was leading the daffodils in an enthusiastic, if somewhat elaborate jig, while the trees head banged to an altogether different rhythm.  It was a day for hunkering down and keeping cosy. What to do on such a day?  So far, Gwen’s plan for the day appeared to be singing ‘Humpty Dumpty’ as loudly as she could whilst jump, jump, JUMPING on my legs; a tip top plan, no doubt, but I had reservations over its longevity.  It was a long time ‘til lunchtime; it was 7.43am.

Inspiration hit like the very sharp elbow of a two year old in the ribs; baking!  Before I knew it, I’d popped the aubergine hued apron over my head and was heading for the pantry. Flour, sugar, eggs and butter, nothing could be simpler.  The first obstacle occurred as I pulled the flour from the cupboard, naming it as I did so; 
‘Flower, Mummy!’ 

One very confused face and a thorough explanation later we were ready to move on. 

Gwen sat perched on the faux granite worktop, diligently heeding the instruction to not move. In an uncharacteristic moment of sense I’d removed her new green trousers (lovely flowers on the left leg, shame to cover them in baking gloop), so her little pink legs dangled, ever so slightly, over the side.

Bowls?  Check. Wooden spoons? Check. Scales? Check. Oven to 200oC? Check. Enormous neck to toe yellow non-stick smock (for Gwen, not me)? Check.  

Measuring quantities takes on a whole new meaning when working with a wonderfully keen toddler; Delia would have been shocked to her very core at the wild abandon with which our ingredients were measured and flung into the bowl. So who cares if we added one hundred and thirty six grams of flour to one hundred and seventy eight grams of sugar?  Two (ish) eggs instead of three?  We certainly didn’t; or rather, Gwen didn’t. We had decided, early on, to abandon the ‘Delia’ method in favour of the all new radical, guerrilla method of baking ‘a la Gwen’.

The recipe called for us to ‘fold’ the flour into the egg, sugar and butter mixture. We found a swift random battering, with the occasional jerky flick of the wooden spoon, is what really matters when making a ‘beautifully light’ sponge cake.  The more flour there is fluttering over the worktop, onto your hair and into your mouth the better. Were we doing it right?  I doubt it but you know, Gwen’s smile, obscured as it was by floury, sugary, eggy paste, said it all; baking rocks!  

An hour later, we were spooning the mixture into paper cake cases...and onto the baking tray, the worktop, the floor and Gwen’s enormous neck to toe yellow non-stick smock.  The eighteen, perky little white cases I’d laid out in strict, ordered rows seemed somewhat optimistic; we filled nine.  No matter, the cliché says it’s quality not quantity that counts so we were quietly optimistic that our little sponge offerings would enchant, beguile and seduce.  At the very least we hoped they would be edible.
Twenty minutes.  That’s all.  Twenty minutes. It’s no time at all; unless you have cakes in the oven and a two year old.  That cold, wet, windy Monday morning in April, those twenty minutes felt like a lifetime.

‘Cakes ready, Mummy?’

The cakes had been in the oven for 15 seconds.  I looked into the oven (through the closed door – must retain the heat). The cakes haven’t even begun to feel the heat of the oven – they sat pale and uninterested in their little cases, the concertina paper walls gripping them tightly, giving them form.

‘Cakes ready, Mummy?’

We were seventy three seconds in and there was now an almost imperceptible sweaty gloss on the top of each nascent sponge.  Hope surged in my heart. It was about this time that Gwen lost interest in the task at hand and we lost ourselves in the search for a bear.  We thrashed our way through grass, took our shoes off to wade across a river and fought our way through a wild snow storm.  

The bear chased us three times before the alarm rang out – against all the odds, our little paper-clad golden nuggets were ready.  I carefully extracted them from the oven and slid them onto the faux granite worktop. Gwen’s face was rigid with excitement, her smile frozen with anticipation.  We could see them; the gently risen peaks of moist, fluffy sponge.  We could smell them; sweet and warm, and so inviting we could almost taste them.  Her little fingers twitched as they reached forward…

Obstacle number two: cakes take longer to cool down than they do to bake.  As the realisation of this devastating revelation took hold Gwen’s once dry face became awash with tears, her once pale even skin, blotchy and red. I desperately tried to retrieve the situation with a snappy song and dance routine but my efforts fell on distraught ears; I felt helpless, adrift on a sea of salty, sticky, snotty tears. 

The healing power of an enormous quantity of butter icing should never be underestimated.  Normal pallor was resumed at the first mention of icing.  Again, our swift random battering with the occasional jerky flick of the wooden spoon technique proved successful. And then, there they were, our nine little iced cakes standing proudly in a row.  As the rain continued its unprovoked assault on the windows, we gorged.

They may not have been the most beautiful little sponge cakes in the world and they may not have been the tastiest but to Gwen and me they were heaven; and the smile on my daughter’s face was even better.

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