A Tale Of Two Cakes

It was just over a year ago that Bert took over baking the family birthday cakes, and I was only too happy to let him. Our system was simple: we agreed on what he’d bake, I went shopping for the ingredients, and then I laid everything out – the recipe, the scales, the bowls, the spoons, the tins, and their liners.

Bert would assemble and bake the cake, take it from the oven, and leave it to cool. I prepared everything for the icing and decoration, and Bert handled the finishing touches. We’d stand back to admire the cake. Compliments would be lavished upon Bert. Afterwards, I cleared away and washed up.

The very first cake Bert baked was for Martha. He chose the recipe, though neither of us remembers which one, and the photographs don’t offer many clues. What is clear from the pictures is that Martha didn’t look especially pleased to receive it. At the time, this is what I wrote, back in 2024:

‘When a young woman hits her mid-teens she may not be just as excited about birthday cake as she once was. But that's OK. When you've experienced many birthdays, you can be excused for feeling a certain ennui.’

As it turned out, I was wrong. Nearly a year later, the real reason came to light.

In 2024 Martha had been asked what cake she wanted for her birthday and she’d asked for chocolate. Didn’t matter what recipe I picked, just let it be chocolate. Then Bert decided he’d make the cake and I let him choose the recipe. It wasn’t chocolate. I was so excited for him to be baking the cake that I forgot Martha’s request.

Bless her. She never said at the time, but she could not help feeling disappointed. It wasn’t teenage angst at all. Well, maybe it was – just a teeny-tiny bit.

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I chose Zoe's photograph because it showed Miss Martha (now a sweet 16) beaming her beamiest smile.

Chocolate, mascarpone and cherry cake

Happy Birthday, Martha!

Seamus and Granddaughters

 

Unposed pictures are always the best. This one must be from the late ’80s or very early ’90s, around Christmas time. Daddy has just come in, or is about to head out, still with his cap on. It was taken on Drumkeeran Road, before his younger daughters laid the wooden floor. My three are there, together with their cousin Sadie, and Jess, Mammy and Daddy’s collie, looks as though she is still just a pup.

Today is his birthday.

Gently Does It

 

Just easing myself back into blogging after the longest break ever.

Since my last post, I spent five days in London with our newly widowed sister. What a hard loss it has been to her, and to all of us who knew and loved her Jonny. 

Then, barely home, I was straight into preparing for a four-day visit from the children’s father and his partner. That all went smoothly enough, though on the second day, we had to say goodbye to our oldest dog, darling Judy. 

Today Jonny’s funeral date was set, and Zoe, who is far more capable with these sorts of arrangements than I am, booked our travel and accommodation. I was grateful to leave it in her hands.

Meanwhile, Bert baked me a cake from a recipe in Saturday’s Guardian. The family were here for supper, and I blew out some candles - for I will be 72 years old tomorrow. Zoe had to take the photographs in portrait mode to fit in those tall girls, who tower over their little granny.

I used to think I looked like my ma, which made me feel old enough. Now I’m starting to resemble her mother, my Granny McAnespie — and that makes me feel really old. But who cares? I’m here, and so are you. We might as well make the best of it.