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THE CAKE by Cathy Birch

What is it, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
Is it shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
Is this the one I am to appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring flour, cutting off the surplus
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Sylvia Plath

I cannot make cakes. Hefty fruit ones, yes - but not light spongey ones that are supposed to rise. No matter how hard I try, the result is a miniature ski-slope with nasty burned edges. My son makes superb sponges with gooey fillings, and took on this job for the family. Unfortunately we now live 200 miles apart, so he was unable to help me when the postcard arrived from one of my closest friends, celebrating her 50th birthday in a caravan on Dartmoor and deciding at the nth hour that she would take me up on my offer to help with the catering. "All taken care of," she wrote, "except for one item..." and you can guess what that was - a chocolate one, no less - with no way of contacting her to explain the dilemma. Why didn't I just buy a cake? Well - if she had wanted a bought cake she would have bought one. It must be important to her to have a homemade cake...so I reasoned, piling on potential pressure and stress.

I have several neighbours who are very good at cakes but, despite my going from house to house in a most pleading manner, nobody was available. One had her "Whole family descending any moment", one had just returned from a gig in Blackpool and had a month's washing to do, one had a meeting - but lent me a tin. This was unheard of in our little village. We always muck in when somebody needs something - but this time I was on my own, reverberating with powerful echoes from childhood. All the grownups were too busy. I felt totally abandoned and hated everybody. My Moon was in for another growth experience.

Saturn, in practical and kindly mood, tried to calm me with the assurance that if I followed the recipe exactly, nothing could go wrong. "That's what you think," my Moon said. "Trust Saturn," Venus said. "Do exactly as she says, and all will be well." "And anyway," the Sun said, "it's a long time since you last tried. You're older and wiser now. Have a go."
So I looked at the recipe. It seemed reasonably straightforward. I started measuring out the ingredients...and in came Uranus. "This is just a boring old chocolate cake," she said. "Nothing special really. Now how about that super hazelnut one you made a while back. If you used the same recipe but added chocolate..." "Oooh yes, " my Moon said. "Then everyone will say how unusual it is and want the recipe." Saturn and the Sun left at this point, I think. "You've always got to be different haven't you," Saturn said rather sourly as they departed - or was it one of my sisters?

Anyway - in my excitement, I managed to burn the hazelnuts and had to start again. I then followed my successful hazelnut recipe exactly - as Saturn had advised - except that I added a large bar of dark chocolate and half a tin of cocoa for good measure. Then I discovered the baking tin was the wrong size. I went to all the neighbours again. Nobody had one suitable, so I used the one I had, hoping for the best - mistake number two. By this time, the kitchen was extremely hot and streaked with chocolate, and so was I. It was all beginning to feel horribly familiar.

The Volcano
The recipe specified 50 minutes baking time, but by 30, I could smell burning. The cake was more than cooked. Rather than the usual ski-slope, it resembled a volcano - a smoking mound, sloping down to thin-and-crispy edges all round. "Why does this always happen?" wailed my Moon. "Confused question," Jupiter said rather pompously (considering the lump of chocolate on the end of his/her nose) "But in this case, what has happened is undoubtedly the result of a reduction in depth, due to your employing too large a tin." That rather killed the conversation for a while.

By the time the cake cooled, Saturn and Sun had returned. "Just cut off the burned edges," the Sun said kindly. "You'll still have a decent-sized cake in the middle." I did - but the decent-sized cake was like aero - dry and full of large holes. "That's because of the cocoa powder," Saturn said. "Why didn't you follow the recipe like I told you?" "Not a helpful remark at this stage," the Sun told her. "But remember it for another time," Mercury added quickly, "Yes - thank you Mercury," said the Sun, "but what we need to think about at present is the fact that 15 people are coming to this party. The shops are shut now, and will be until 10 tomorrow because it's Sunday - for which I take no responsibility - so it would seem we are unable to make another cake." "Oh NO!" wailed the Moon (unable to face making another one anyway).

"So make this one into a novelty cake," cried Uranus, pirouetting across the kitchen and executing a pas de chat pres de chat (who quickly left through the cat-flap). "It looks like a volcano, so decorate it like one. Very appropriate for a 50th birthday - hot flushes and all that - and it will explain the rather pumice-like interior. No offence."
"Cosmic, man!" chorused Neptune and Jupiter - who seemed to have got hold of something dubious while Saturn was out. "Seems like a good compromise," said Venus.

There was a sudden flurry of activity within the cake itself, and Mars erupted from the top of the newly-defined volcano, with a resounding war-cry. "Yeah - we've cracked it!" "And I don't mean the top of the cake," he added, landing on the work top in front of me. "Have you noticed - all this potential stress, and you've dealt with it. No hysterics - no migraine...." It was true. Apart from the odd streak of chocolate, there were no physical manifestations. I had even forgiven the neighbours.

"Splendid," declared Pluto rising from the ashes of the Raeburn - which had almost gone out while everyone's attention was elsewhere. "A dire situation has been transformed into something of true and lasting value - not to mention a dire cake. No offence."

"There's learning here somewhere," said Jupiter, a little blearily to Neptune. "Magical thinking, comes to mind," said Neptune, also sounding a little slurred. "Cath thought that the acquisition of some maturity and insight in certain areas would somehow enable her to make a cake with no change in her earlier behaviours." "Mmmm," agreed Jupiter. "And this thing about being different. She forgot the fact that you can't go straight to Uranus without spending time with Saturn first. You've got the master the basics before you can move away from them. But not everyone knows that." "Exactly," said Venus, handing out the black coffees Saturn had made. The Moon had a wonderful time slapping Betty Crocker chocolate frosting all over the cake to make a volcano. Uranus, Neptune and Pluto must have got together overnight and decided that - since the original impetus for making the cake was love - it deserved a miracle, because the next day the volcano cake was somehow neither dry nor hole-y. It was smooth and moist and absolutely delicious.

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