I love cake. Obviously. Well, not obviously, I suppose - there
are people who are left stone cold by baked goods, although they are as
comprehensible to me as a trigonometry lesson given in Urdu.
Think about it: cake is at the centre of every celebration. Your
earliest birthday parties weren't about the guest list and whether you should
invite Kirsty because even though you get on really well you've only kind of
just met at the school gate and she might think it's a bit weird and then what
if that makes it all awkward. No. It was about the great reveal, the moment the
cake was brought out in all its candle-flaming glory and you would get to stand
in the place of honour, brandishing the knife (a big moment for any child),
screaming when you made the first cut and reached the bottom of the
foil-wrapped tray, and, when some candles remained alight in spite of your
diligent huffing and puffing, being teased about your boyfriends.
Cakes were a really big deal in my family. We'd pour over the
Australian Women's Weekly for months before a birthday, agonising over the
selection of the cake. Should it be a hat cake, with a hat theme to match? But
what about the gorgeous hedgehog cake, or the treasure chest? Eventually, a
choice would be made. And then the wait would begin...
We'd wake up eye-achingly early on the big day, and start the
first order of business: hunting for our presents. This is a tradition I have
started in my own family, and my heart squinches every time my little girl
trips over her tongue in her excitement to find the next gift, asking if she's
hot or cold. I can't wait until my baby is old enough to join in the fun. I
imagine how my mother must have felt the same way - and, also, the pride and
excitement she must have experienced when, presents all accounted for, it was
time for the next Big Moment: seeing The Cake. We'd run up to the dining room,
where the Hotray would bear its important burden. There'd be a minute of
breath-held suspension, and then admiration for the icing and sponge creation
waiting for us. I have vivid memories of my mother bent over the kitchen
counter, cutting sponge into shapes and sticking them together with strawberry
jam, ever faithful to the recipe illustration.
The significance of cake didn't diminish as I grew up. When I
went away to university, my favourite home-coming moment was always when my
mother handed over the apple crumble she'd baked just for me. It was a cinnamon
sweet welcome; an "I love you" spelled with butter and sugar - and,
even today, the taste of apple crumble is so much to me than a carby comfort
and delicious delight. It's happiness.
My mother's baking is still my favourite, but I'm not averse to
giving everyone a fair chance. And that's how I came to meet my new favourite
cake: The Whippet Cake, from the eponymous Linden cafe.
I have to admit that at least half of my enjoyment came from my
surrounds. I love Linden: I love its neighbourly feel and the way it doesn't
have restaurants, it has institutions. Of course, The Whippet is very much one
of those. For good reason: although, while cofficing there last week, I didn't
order any savouries, every round mouthful of cappucino gave me one of those
moments that makes you pause and go 'mm'. And then, of course, there was the
cake: layers of milk tart and lemon condensed milk, by turns giving your
tongue a spicy warmth and a tart pucker. It's fragrant with cinnamon and creamy
with condensed milk, and if you're someone who can never decide which baked
treat you want to indulge in, this one is for you.
I'm not going to stop there, though. The Whippet also make a
cake with layers and layers of crepes, interrupted by creamy slatherings of
Nutella. I can't wait to try it. Watch this space...
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