Saturday, December 10

I made for the first time last night the cake that Mom made for me for so many birthdays so that I could surprise her with it on her 86th. 

It brought back a flood of childhood memories like the color that egg yolk makes when mixed with sugar.  It is a yellow like you would see on an Italian fresco.  (Renaissance painters used to mix egg yolk in their paint to add pigment.)

The kitchen was alive with the smells of lemon zest, orange zest and anise extract.

I felt comfortable in what I was doing and seemed to instinctively know when the sponge cake was fully baked and when the cream had thickened enough, as if Mom had passed the knowledge on to me through osmosis from all the years as a kid hanging around her licking spoon fulls of batter and cream.

I forgot no steps, like making sure to soak the cake with coffee.

There were small victories, like getting the egg whites to beat into a fluffy peak.  (Whoever thought of doing this?  When did they say to themselves, "This slimy oozy egg white if beaten to a frenzy would be great for baking.")