A Piece of Cake

There’s a certain amount of skill required in baking a cake. The best cakes in my opinion are the ones that are still warm and fluffy as you smuggle a piece into your mouth when the cook isn’t looking. I reckon it’s not so much the taste of the cake but the stealth required in acquiring it that makes that warm piece of oven baked goodness set off fireworks on your taste buds.

Have you ever gone into a shop, bought a slice of cake, taken a bite; and everything stops? I mean everything - people, cars, ambient noise; even the flow of air. It all halts as you slip that prize across the threshold of your lips and let your tongue take charge for the first few blissful seconds. The world seems to make sense for a few moments doesn’t it? Like the ingredients that went into making that cake are the very elements that make up the fabric of the universe.

Well ... try eating that gem-from-heaven after you’ve lived several weeks in my house! It’s virtually impossible to casually walk into the kitchen, remove the umbrella food net covering one of mums Picasso’s on the counter and expect to see more than a few crumbs before tea time on a Saturday.

I’ve had to come up with all kinds of tricks to be first in line once a cake departs the warmth and security of the oven. Mum usually shoes us away with a wooden spoon and a look that says: Go on, make me! We’re a pack of jackals, all ten of us, baying for warm sponge. The younger jackals are the craftiest.

Out of the pack I’m number seven. Eight, nine and ten are, 4, 6 and 7 years old. Oliver, Harry and Grace. They tend to work together in tight formation, setting up traps and diversions for us older ones. Once, they set up trip wires from the hallway, through the family room, to the edge of the kitchen. The seven of us made a sprint for the cake when we heard mum leave through the back door for her Saturday afternoon reading spot in the garden. The noise we made tripping over each other brought mum running back in the house. She was wearing a scowl mingled with a faint hint of a smile as she noticed the cake was already gone. Where Grace, Harry and Oliver were, no one could figure out, and the only evidence any of us could find was a few errant crumbs on the floor in the dining room.

I’ve always wondered what the special ingredient is that mum puts into the mix. Dad sometimes jokes that mum has a, ‘little bit of magic in her’. The way the cakes taste he might be right. I decided to stop trying to out-hustle my brothers and sisters and learn how to bake a cake myself. How hard can it be?

One humid Saturday afternoon I asked mum if she’d let me help her bake one. She was reluctant at first, but after a barrage of pleading and promises to do chores she agreed. None of us had ever thought to learn how to bake; we were all focused on eating the end result.

I left all my older brothers and sisters in the games room playing on their phones or consoles. Our house is like the big ones you see in family movies rated U, all wooden panelling and space galore. Grace, Harry and Oliver were nowhere to be found as per usual.

Mum went through the list of ingredients as I listened intently for the one that would stand out, the ingredient to end all ingredients, the very element that defines us, binds us. I didn’t hear it! All I heard was instructions for a basic cake mix, like the one we use at school during food class.

Slightly disheartened I stuck with the process, helped mum with the mix and followed her every move as we scooped spoonfuls of rich creamy goo into a baking tray. It smelled great even though we hadn’t put it in the oven or used a super-secret ingredient, and that troubled me. What were us kids fighting for really? A cake made from nothing more than regular cake mix? Not even a pinch of the extra terrestrial?!

Forty five minutes or maybe even an hour later the smell blazed a new coat of aroma around the house. The jackals could be heard breathing deeply as their primal instincts began to take over.

The sun had come out as me and mum cleaned up the utensils. She was happy to be able to go and have a quiet read on her favourite deck chair, leaving me as the last line of defence between nine hungry stomachs and maybe the best cake I’d ever sniffed. Her last instruction was to take the cake out the oven and place it on the counter, cover it with the umbrella net and let it stand. I did as I was told.

I’d hardly put the net down when several pairs of feet began heading my way.

Through the open kitchen door I could see Harry at the foot of the stairs across the hall, his face calm and calculated. He had what looked like a phone in his hand, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was rigged as a remote detonator. He looked straight at me, then his eyes panned right as though gauging the sound of all his older siblings heading toward the kitchen. I began to inch backwards, now convinced that he really did have a remote trigger in his hand.

His eyes and mouth betrayed a tiny smile and he looked back at me in such a way that sent a chill down my spine. He pressed a button on the device.

As one, several pairs of scurrying feet changed direction as the sound of multiple texts/pings/and messages reverberated from the games room.

HUH!

He’d somehow simultaneously contacted everyone knowing they’d dash back to check their phones in an exodus of ‘teenage technology high dependency’.

I don’t remember taking my eyes off him but he was now standing in the kitchen with Grace and Oliver. None of them made a sound, so when I looked at the cake and saw half of it gone I instinctively looked back at them, but like a billow of smoke after lighting a match, they were gone too.

“Ah, I see the little critters left some behind.” Mum said walking in from the garden, book in hand.

“They never leave any behind. That or, one of the others gets there first.” I offered, still bewildered by their deviousness and cunning.

“The little ones always leave me some,” Mum said retrieving an empty glass from the cupboard. “They put a slice in the pantry for me. Don’t ask how they do it; I’m yet to figure that out.”

“But why?” I asked imploringly.

“Because I made the cake, that’s why. And today, so did you.”

The cogs in my brain rubbed against each other and made a squeaking sound in my head as they began to turn again. “So, the ingredient, the special one?” I asked.

Mum gave me a tired look and placed the book and glass on the counter. “I too was one of many children in my house. My mother used to call us her eggs. And I was the only one, like you, who offered any help in the kitchen, maybe because like you I had the desire to know why my mother’s food tasted so good,” Mum paused to let the thought sink in and continued. “The secret ingredient isn’t what goes into the mix; it’s the attention to detail and desire that makes the food taste great.” She collected a bottle of milk from the fridge, poured herself a glass, sliced a bit of cake and returned to the garden.

The realisation of it all hit me like that first bite: all the noise fell away, the sound of texts/pings from the games room, birds chirping and the rustle of leaves from the open window. Nothing moved in that moment and nor did I.

Stuck in my brief reverie I failed to notice my older brothers and sisters come crashing into the kitchen before it was too late. By the time I picked myself off the floor all the remaining cake was gone, but I wasn’t upset, I had the secret ingredient.

This is my first time in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge so I'm a little nervous. This is also my 100th blogpost so it's kind of kismet, I think. Here's where it all started: January 31st Sucks!
My writing prompt came from Miss Ash who wrote:

"The good egg."

Initailly I looked at that and thought, nah she can't be for real? But I thought, suck it up dude and write, so I did. I hope she likes what I came up with. Thanks for the prompt Miss Ash, I tried to have a bit of fun with the idea! 

You can find the response to my writing prompt issued to Trish at: 3 Kids & a Breakdown. Trust me, it's explosive!