It's likely that watching my mother cooking and helping her as a young child early brought me to the notion that cooking somehow might accelerate my growing independence. At least by age five, I could soft-boil my own egg for breakfast. When that young, the culinary art did not attract me enough to where I wanted to learn much more than a handful of rudiments. True, I continued helping my mother, and picked up a few basics on food preparation simply by observation.
For some chores, my contributions meant more than peeling potatoes or mashing same. For example, Mom liked Seven Minute Icing on her cakes. And when she had the heated sugar syrup at the right viscosity, she had me whip up the egg whites on an elliptical plate while she slowly poured the syrup into the froth – the icing gradually and magically transformed into a glossy white.
My formative years slowly graduated into pre-adolescence. Still, no compelling urge overtook me into becoming kitchen competent. Until one early 1940's evening, my parents decided to see a movie, leaving me to watch my younger brother and sister. For some reason – at least not one available to my memory bank as of this writing – I thought it a good idea to bake a cake after they left the house. After all, we hadn't had dessert for supper. True, I had never undertaken such a deed before – at least not solo from scratch to finish. But, I could read a cookbook, and had two willing accomplices – a younger brother and sister. What could go wrong?
Getting the bowl and placing all the ingredients and cake pans on the cupboard counter, we went item by item through the recipe offering a simple vanilla cake. Of course the steps took time and the recipe required constant verification. A teaspoon of this, a tablespoon of that, plus cups of flour and sugar and butter and eggs along with baking powder and vanilla extract . . . phfff. Easy! Wait a minute, how much salt did the book say? For sure, we didn't preheat the electric oven. Moreover, there may be some wisdom in the phrase that too many hands in the pot spoil the broth, but we three children merrily concocted a batter that we poured evenly into two cake tins before transferring the loads into the oven.
Nothing to do after that but watch the clock. Soon enough, yea, the smell of something sweet verily enveloped the kitchen with a promissory scent. But hold on – what's that? No, it couldn't be. Yes, for realsies, parental footsteps coming up the back stairway. No time to eat the evidence nor opportunity to destroy it. In fact, when I opened the oven door, the cake had not risen a whit. Further, the top crust displayed no color suggesting it had completed the required cooking cycle.
We clustered threesome awaited certain punishment, with my (the oldest sibling's) backside likely receiving the most swats when the time came. SURPRISE! My mother and father originally looked befuddled when first stepping into the kitchen, but no anger or disappointment registered.
My mother asked, "What happened?"
Somehow with words choked through my constricted throat, I fessed up: "I wanted to bake a cake."
Our combined efforts had metamorphed into something unfit for human consumption while simultaneously messing up the kitchen. Nevertheless, Mom looked at me, and said, "It's okay. Straighten up everything, and tomorrow I'll help you to bake a cake properly."
That was all. No punishment. My dad even chuckled over his childrens' handiwork.
True to her word, my mother taught me the proper sequence, beginning with creaming the butter and sugar before adding the eggs. Plus (in those days) the importance of sifting the flour. Most importantly, the batter had to be fully beaten without any chance of turning gummy or lumpy. And lo, I looked upon the finished product and deemed it worthy. What had little George wrought?
The above question demands an answer, so I'll tell you. Motivation to bake more cakes – enough to be invited to a couple of neighborhood birthday parties with the opportunity to prepare the cake.
Take note, Dear Readers, that my cakes were baked in the Panama Canal Zone that had no sugar rationing during WWII. When my mother and her three offspring came to California in the summer of 1944, my baking interest waned, and remained dormant until five years after I married in 1955. But, that's another baking tale . . . one that'll end in San Luis Obispo County.
