baking cake - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Baking cake was a special occasions thing. It was a sign that a birthday was afoot, or perhaps a festival. As such they held special places in our hearts, for their baking was an act of love, a way to show that we were special to everyone and worth celebrating.
Suki was in her own world when she was baking a cake, you could see her building new worlds in her imagination as she whisked and measured. It was as if the choreographed freedom of her actions, free yet orderly, did the same for her brain. And so as she made the cake she would often smile and quickly write a few notes in her book, the one she always carried in case inspiration came.
Baking cake was all Rose could think of. Little gateaux's danced around her brain, cupcakes with rich fondant toppings. She mentally mixed and matched the ingredients like a professional shopper chooses clothes. By the time her baseball shoes hit the cracked concrete steps of her home, a place so old people were shocked to see her come and go. Before she rented it the local gossips had pegged it as an abandoned house, haunted even. But the only thing that haunted Rose was cake and the urge to get baking...
Baking cake was Autumn's favourite way to pass the afternoon after church. She'd sung hymns to the rafters and now she was ready to work with chocolate and butter. It wasn't that she was a master baker, not at all. The filling came from a mix every time, "devil's food cake" no less. She would just laugh and say "Well, if I can't beat Betty I may as well join her." Though she swore she'd never be so domestic as to wear an apron, she had decided to eat those words out of practicality. It was either that or have cake batter and frosting on her favourite t-shirt.
Some nights the aroma of a baking cake would bring me back to consciousness. Leon would never wake me with the noise of a mixer, everything he did was with ninja stealth, all hand-mixed. It was how he relaxed; some folks soak in a lavender bath, others take a walk in nature or loose themselves in a book. Leon baked cakes. When his work stress was at his worst I was finding homes for cakes every morning. Each one of them was gratefully received and Leon was free to bake more the next evening.
Sugar fever had come to number eleven Spring Street. The eyes of the children were that bit brighter, their steps that bit bouncier. It was time for baking cake! Each one of them was clad in a Christmas apron, little Ben with his folded twice over his middle so he didn't trip. The tethers were tied around double with the bow at the front and their mother was prepared for the mess. The dog had been relegated to the backyard and the mixing bowls and cooking supplies lined up on the linoleum. The kids chattered sporadically, sometimes singing along to the nursery rhyme tape that was the usual background noise until father got home from work.
Anna spent a great deal of time in the large communal kitchen, a couple of doors up the street, with her Grandmother, who'd taught her how to use the sandstone grain mill, and mix the ingredients for various pastries, and the correct way to knead dough, and bake bread.
But today she was baking a cake, a delicious cake, an oatmeal cake packed with apple and fig.
Baking cake was the default activity in our house, I can't imagine how we never weighed three hundred pounds each. Not having the right supplies constituted an emergency. If I close my eyes now I can still see the glass jars all lined up on the shelf with every flavourful addition you can imagine and probably a few you can't. We measured the ingredients like a science and decorated like an art.