Cooking A Cake

tempscrews

This morning I decided I simply could not go another day without the smell of something sweet wafting through the house, so I pulled out my mixing bowls and determined to bake a cake. My fingers ached something awful as I measured the flour and sugar, and I had to pause more than once to rub my knuckles before continuing. The eggs gave me a real battle — those stubborn little shells didn’t want to crack neatly — but I managed, slow as molasses. Stirring the batter took longer than it used to, and I had to switch hands halfway through, but the sound of the wooden spoon scraping against the bowl reminded me of when I used to bake with my children all crowding around me.

By the time I slid the pan into the oven, I was tired but smiling. The sweet smell that crept into the kitchen made every wince and every slow step worthwhile. When the cake was finally done, I let it cool on the counter and cut myself a generous slice. The first bite was warm and comforting, soft enough that I didn’t have to fuss with it. I sat at the table with a cup of tea, looking out the window, and felt proud — arthritis or not, I can still make a cake when I put my mind to it. It might take me twice as long as it once did, but oh, how good it tastes when it’s finished.

Caro1970

Irrelevant post.