Illustration: Stacey KnipeThere are two kinds of people in
this world: those who can bake, and
those who can cook. I am decidedly
the latter. Not because I don’t want
to – I do, and every now and then
when I forget how awful I am, I try
again. Only to be reminded. I began
to realise that baking was not my
forte in Home Economics class when
I was 14. Somehow, the other girls
were all little Martha Stewarts in
the making. You could just see it by
the way they handled whisks and
disinfected countertops. Their soufflés
(like their big ’80s hair) would have
been too afraid to flop. I, on the other
hand, was only taking that class
because girls weren’t allowed to take
woodwork. Though I’m sure I would
have sucked at that too.
For our first practical exam we had
to make scones. I grew up with a mom
who whipped up endless batches of
magnificent scones – tall, buttery
towers of perfection leaning prettily toBEAT IT
Maybe one day I’ll figure out why the cakes hate me, writes GH columnist
Susan Haydenone side while
they waited
to be broken
open and filled
with jam and
cream. Being
a teenager
and knowing
everything,
I suppose
I reckoned that
if she (who
knew nothing)
could make
them, how
hard could it
be? Turns out,
very. Despite
following the
recipe to a T, what came out the oven
were tiny brown golf balls, hard as
rocks. You needed a chisel to open
them, and then very strong teeth.
I should have given up then and there.
Except, when you’re a mom and
you have little kids with birthdays,
making the cake yourself – even
when you know better and there are
perfectly lovely cakes being sold in
shops all around you – just feels like
the right thing to do. So, armed with
my neighbour’s so-called ‘foolproof ’
chocolate-cake recipe (she served it to
us once and it was sublime), I bought
some cake tins and, with no small
amount of trepidation and a husband
watching from a safe distance, set
about the task. To this day I don’t
know what happened. I followed the
steps exactly. I can’t imagine why,
when I peered cautiously through
the little glass window of the oven,
they had not risen a centimetre.
In fact, they seemed to have sunk.I suspect the workings of voodoo. That
neighbour was always a bit suspect.
It was difficult removing two
pancake-thin discs of cake from the
bottom of the tin. And then even
when they were placed on top of each
other, the cake was barely a couple of
centimetres high. But there was no
time to bake another, so we had to
come up with a plan. And that plan
was a huge amount of icing. So much
icing that by the time the candles
were placed on top it was almost
the right size. It was nauseating in
the extreme, but definitely looked
like a cake. Luckily, for little kids
appearances are everything, so we
doused it in silver balls and chocolate
sprinkles and they nibbled at their
slices and ran off to play and all was
well in the end. But it was a close call.
I’ve developed a bit of a theory
around this whole baking business.
I think the cakes (and the bread and
the muffins and the biscuits) know
I have no faith, and are therefore
destined to fail. It’s a self-fulfilling
prophecy. They know I don’t believe
in them, so they don’t believe in
themselves. My husband makes
ciabatta like anybody’s nonna. My
12-year-old makes chocolate-chip
cookies you’d happily die for. But
no matter what recipe I follow, my
bread is what my granny used to
call ‘doodgooi’; as in, if you threw it
at somebody they would surely die.
Maybe it’s time to accept that my
kitchen skills lie elsewhere. I know
what to do with meat on the bone
and legumes and veggies and curries,
but that special alchemy of flour,
butter, rising agents and eggs ...
well, it remains a thing of mystery.SUSAN HAYDEN
GH COLUMNIST
discopantsblog.com#JUSTSAYING
Illustration: Stacey Knipe80 GH SPECIAL RECIPE EDITION 2020
0420_GHE_080_back page.indd 1 2020/03/10 9:16 AMTherearetwokindsofpeoplein
thisworld:thosewhocanbake,and
thosewhocancook.I amdecidedly
thelatter.NotbecauseI don’twant
to– I do,andeverynowandthen
whenI forgethowawfulI am,I try
again.Onlytobereminded.I began
torealisethatbakingwasnotmy
forteinHomeEconomicsclasswhen
I was14.Somehow,theothergirls
werealllittleMarthaStewartsin
themaking.Youcouldjustseeit by
thewaytheyhandledwhisksand
disinfectedcountertops.Theirsoufflés
(liketheirbig’80shair)wouldhave
beentooafraidtoflop.I, ontheother
hand,wasonlytakingthatclass
becausegirlsweren’tallowedtotake
woodwork.ThoughI’msureI would
havesuckedatthattoo.
Forourfirstpracticalexamwehad
tomakescones.I grewupwitha mom
whowhippedupendlessbatchesof
magnificentscones– tall,buttery
towersofperfectionleaningprettilytoBEAT
MaybeonedayI’llfigureoutwhythecakeshateme,writes GHcolumnist
SusanHaydenonesidewhile
theywaited
tobebroken
openandfilled
withjamand
cream.Being
a teenager
andknowing
everything,
I suppose
I reckonedthat
if she(who
knewnothing)
couldmake
them,how
hardcouldit
be?Turnsout,
very.Despite
followingthe
recipetoa T,whatcameouttheoven
weretinybrowngolfballs,hardas
rocks.Youneededa chiseltoopen
them,andthenverystrongteeth.
I shouldhavegivenupthenandthere.
Except,whenyou’rea momand
youhavelittlekidswithbirthdays,
makingthecakeyourself– even
whenyouknowbetterandthereare
perfectlylovelycakesbeingsoldin
shopsallaroundyou– justfeelslike
therightthingtodo.So,armedwith
myneighbour’sso-called‘foolproof ’
chocolate-cakerecipe(sheservedit to
usonceandit wassublime),I bought
somecaketinsand,withnosmall
amountoftrepidationanda husband
watchingfroma safedistance,set
aboutthetask.TothisdayI don’t
knowwhathappened.I followedthe
stepsexactly.I can’timaginewhy,
whenI peeredcautiouslythrough
thelittleglasswindowoftheoven,
theyhadnotrisena centimetre.
Infact,theyseemedtohavesunk.I suspecttheworkingsofvoodoo.That
neighbourwasalwaysa bitsuspect.
Itwasdifficultremovingtwo
pancake-thindiscsofcakefromthe
bottomofthetin.Andtheneven
whentheywereplacedontopofeach
other,thecakewasbarelya coupleof
centimetreshigh.Buttherewasno
timetobakeanother,sowehadto
comeupwitha plan.Andthatplan
wasahugeamountoficing.Somuch
icingthatbythetimethecandles
wereplacedontopit wasalmost
therightsize.Itwasnauseatingin
theextreme,butdefinitelylooked
likea cake.Luckily,forlittlekids
appearancesareeverything,sowe
dousedit insilverballsandchocolate
sprinklesandtheynibbledattheir
slicesandranofftoplayandallwas
wellintheend.Butit wasa closecall.
I’vedevelopeda bitofa theory
aroundthiswholebakingbusiness.
I thinkthecakes(andthebreadand
themuffinsandthebiscuits)know
I havenofaith,andaretherefore
destinedtofail.It’sa self-fulfilling
prophecy.TheyknowI don’tbelieve
inthem,sotheydon’tbelievein
themselves.Myhusbandmakes
ciabattalikeanybody’snonna.My
12-year-oldmakeschocolate-chip
cookiesyou’dhappilydiefor.But
nomatterwhatrecipeI follow,my
breadis whatmygrannyusedto
call‘doodgooi’; asin,if youthrewit
atsomebodytheywouldsurelydie.
Maybeit’stimetoacceptthatmy
kitchenskillslieelsewhere.I know
whattodowithmeatonthebone
andlegumesandveggiesandcurries,
butthatspecialalchemyofflour,
butter,risingagentsandeggs...
well,it remainsa thingofmystery.SUSANHAYDEN
GHCOLUMNIST
discopantsblog.com#JUSTSAYING
Illustration: Stacey Knipe80 GH SPECIAL RECIPE EDITION 2020