With deep delight I plunged my fork into the airy sponge. The texture was perfect, fluffy with a firm but soft crust topped with a light sticky drizzle of icing. The anticipation of my first mouthful was greeted with heaven melting between my lips.
I looked at my friend sat opposite me. She too was overjoyed at the prospect. It was worth our trek up to town clearly. A cold, crisp morning. Perfect for a cup of organic breakfast tea and organic pumpkin cake in our favourite so-hipster-trendy-we-pretend-we-hate-it coffee shop and a long needed catch up.
As I blissfully tucked into my cake I started to get over excited about it. As I do about baking in general. It got to the point that my entire conversation became about the cake.
“I wonder if I asked, they’d give me the recipe… wouldn’t you just love to bake this at home?” I exclaimed, waving my fork about.
“Not really.” my friend said, suddenly looking serious. “I don’t bake cakes. In fact. I refuse to cook.”
“Oh. Right.” was all I could respond with. I think my face gave me away.
This prompted my friend to leap into a long complex explanation that while she could learn to cook, it was her responsibility as a woman to not cook so that her boyfriend had to cook for her. It was her way of (to use her exact words) “keeping feminism alive”.
As much as I admire her protest on behalf of all of us women (we all thank you), I don’t think it would matter what gender I was. Making someone a cake is one of the nicest feelings in the world.