I missed you, oh dear kitchen

I have been craving cake for the past two weeks.

I dream about cake. I fantasize about what kind of cake that I will make. I had been thinking about making a coconut loaf cake from Pierre Herme's "Desserts", but when I told someone that I was making a cake, they asked that it be chocolate so that they could come over and help me eat it.

Sure. Chocolate it is.

I went to the grocer, bought a few things and came home and got everything ready. I put on a mix cd of songs I made for someone else and sang along. I dug out bowls, measured ingredients, turned on the oven, lost myself.

There is a rhythm that comes in making food. A rhythm that I haven't followed for a while. I have been guilty of making ten and fifteen minute meals, tuna salads, sandwhiches, a piece of fruit. Altough each of these things were quite good, they don't beat the methodical approach of taking one's time, going slow, following the beat of the kitchen, listening, watching. Add flour here. More chocolate there. Stir well. Fold ingredients into each other. Watch. Smell. Taste. Magic.

When the cake comes out of the oven, I place it gently on racks and open the windows to help them cool. I walk around the apartment, cleaning things, putting away laundry, flip through a book, dig out old records I haven't listened to in a while.

These are all part of baking the cake: the time you take to do what you want to do, what you need to do. This is where the anticipation builds, slowly, deliberately. How will it taste this time? I pace myself, pace my needs, slowing them down with a small nap, a cup of tea.

As I frost the cake, my fingers grace its edges, keeping it clean, licking my fingers, smoothing the tops, making sure the edges are well coated and covered. I dust the cake's frosting with poppy seeds, tiny dots, black stars in a sweet white sky.

When I cut into the cake, all I care about is that first bite. Will it be sweet? Will the crumb be soft, moist, yielding? Will the alchemy of mundane ingredients release something precious and light?

Yes.

And it's done. Two, three hours, all for one bite. But that bite pleases me. Immensely. It is the end of something wonderful. Of an afternoon spent lounging around in old clothes, remembering things, tasting.

I am grateful for this ending. Sweet, sweet ending.