Friday, January 16, 2009

Iced Domesticity

There is something so pleasing in sparse domesticity especially in the art of baking. I am not the house type but on the rare occasion I venture into the strange and alluring world of domestic life I come out feeling quite in control. I do cheat a little preferring to buy packet mix rather than spending hours measuring out fattening ingredients. In fact it’s all just better if I don’t have any idea of what goes into these iced creations because then I don’t have to feel guilty about the pounds I am piling on as I eat them. One of the best things about baking is the memories behind it. As you mix you stir the child inside who emerges joyfully to lick the bowl in exactly the same way you did ten years ago. Who could not feel happy when the inner child appears?I am the kind of person that when applied to a project it must be done and there is a satisfying feeling in the pit of my stomach when my doughy buddies arrogantly grow puffing up their chests like a group of adolescent boys around some of my pretty, more voluptuous friends.

Unfortunately I am not the best of cooks and each cake bares the battle scares of my unpredictable oven maybe that’s why I always think of my creations as male or maybe I just take too much delight in beating ‘up’ the mixture. No matter the amount of pink icing or colored roses these muffins always look like hardened soldiers worn with battle cares. They have faced my unpredictability and the ovens heat to return victorious to be covered with roses and sugared 'words' but then tragically each dies slowly and mysteriously under the steely gaze of hungry eyes leaving only there battered cases. Poor things. You are forced to feel sorry for them.

If any of my friends cared to read this they would be shocked by the lack of feminism. How dreary it would be though if I was forced not to take delight in something? Plus I was baking for myself not for anyone else, so dear person who shall remain nameless please save your breath to cool your porridge! I felt that I had to put that in to avoid confusion or perhaps the label of hypocrite. So in conclusion my dabble in dough has certainly been interesting and certainly a pleasing walk down memory lane as I licked the left over mixture of the spoon, so innocently childish, so wonderful.


  1. Loved the metaphor. So which males in particular bring out this urge to beat them, or is it just males in general? No wonder women make cakes, beating batter is a great way to take out frustrations! Love the way you write, you have a poets view of the world.

  2. Ahhh the sheer pleasure of licking the bowl clean. My new beau, Maxie, cooked a cake over Easter and offered me the bowl as a treat. Immediately I was transported to my childhood. My brother, sister and I would fight over who got the bowl and who got the beaters. You never knew which one would be better before the event. It depended on whether Mum fastidiously extracted every last morsel, or whether she left a fabulous treat clinging to the sides of the mixmaster's ceramic bowl.
    Maxie's batter was a sensation, and as I joyously devoured the sticky date pudding batter with the spatula, my mate Allie arrived at my house for dinner. She proceeded to finish it off with the same delighted look. Lucky I've learnt to share in my old age. There would have been words when I was 10, or some serious sulking.
    Ahh the profound pleasure of childlike things ...