Catching Up
Catching up, we're forever catching up. Are we catching up to life, or is life catching us up? As it is, I can hardly believe, give credit to all the time that has slipped by us. Why we've barely had time to notice it going into the ether, leaving us behind, a little older bit by bit.
I reached that plateau before he did. Hardly surprising. I learned many years ago, in fact the year we both reached the age of fifteen that he had lied to me, telling me he was a year older than me. He wasn't, I was the older one. But then boys will do things like that, try to persuade young girls that they're manly and mature and worldly.
He even thought that smoking a cigarette in my presence would convince me of his maturity. I admit it, I was a little impressed, but not a whole lot. My father was an inveterate smoker and I detested the odour that followed him, of stale cigarette smoke. His teeth were coloured, so were his fingertips. Nothing romantic about that.
He ditched the cigarettes fairly quickly, my ardent young boyfriend. And defended himself passionately when I discovered his true age, younger than me. But in all other respects he fulfilled my childish expectations, and I forgave him. He's still younger than me, still catching up, but in this one particular instance, will never succeed. Last week was his birthday. No, he said, don't bother baking a cake, we've got the raisin pie you baked yesterday.
So yesterday I finally baked his birthday cake. It's a red devil's food cake, his very favourite. I hadn't actually used that recipe for many years, not since the children were young, and our youngest is now 43. For the most part I no longer regularly consult cook books but quickly put together a recipe much as a chemist would, knowing after long years of experience what will work for whatever I'm interested in producing. It rarely fails.
I never really thought that highly of that recipe. Too redolent of baking soda. And since there's just two of us, I halved the recipe. A mere one cup of soft-wheat flour produced a whopping big cake anyway. Light-textured and moist, dark chocolate. The two layers sandwiching chocolate frosting which also covered the top and sides. Walnut pieces sprinkled over the middle of the top, and toasted coconut at the outer edges and sides.
A nice looking cake, not that extravagent, but good to look at, fine chocolate aroma and, he claims, absolutely 'the best cake in the world'. Who am I to doubt him? I ate my share for dessert after dinner.
And the truth is, he has two birthday dates, exactly one week apart; one representing his true date of birth, the other the date his confused mother entered on his birth certificate.
I reached that plateau before he did. Hardly surprising. I learned many years ago, in fact the year we both reached the age of fifteen that he had lied to me, telling me he was a year older than me. He wasn't, I was the older one. But then boys will do things like that, try to persuade young girls that they're manly and mature and worldly.
He even thought that smoking a cigarette in my presence would convince me of his maturity. I admit it, I was a little impressed, but not a whole lot. My father was an inveterate smoker and I detested the odour that followed him, of stale cigarette smoke. His teeth were coloured, so were his fingertips. Nothing romantic about that.
He ditched the cigarettes fairly quickly, my ardent young boyfriend. And defended himself passionately when I discovered his true age, younger than me. But in all other respects he fulfilled my childish expectations, and I forgave him. He's still younger than me, still catching up, but in this one particular instance, will never succeed. Last week was his birthday. No, he said, don't bother baking a cake, we've got the raisin pie you baked yesterday.
So yesterday I finally baked his birthday cake. It's a red devil's food cake, his very favourite. I hadn't actually used that recipe for many years, not since the children were young, and our youngest is now 43. For the most part I no longer regularly consult cook books but quickly put together a recipe much as a chemist would, knowing after long years of experience what will work for whatever I'm interested in producing. It rarely fails.
I never really thought that highly of that recipe. Too redolent of baking soda. And since there's just two of us, I halved the recipe. A mere one cup of soft-wheat flour produced a whopping big cake anyway. Light-textured and moist, dark chocolate. The two layers sandwiching chocolate frosting which also covered the top and sides. Walnut pieces sprinkled over the middle of the top, and toasted coconut at the outer edges and sides.
A nice looking cake, not that extravagent, but good to look at, fine chocolate aroma and, he claims, absolutely 'the best cake in the world'. Who am I to doubt him? I ate my share for dessert after dinner.
And the truth is, he has two birthday dates, exactly one week apart; one representing his true date of birth, the other the date his confused mother entered on his birth certificate.
Labels: Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 1:28 PM
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