Monday Motivation: Christmas, Cakes and Nostalgia

This Sunday afternoon, while the rest of the neighborhood relished the cozy charms of the quill, I decided to follow an unusual routine that I had started a week earlier. Last weekend, thanks to the Internet Shutdown, I had churned out a less than perfect sponge cake. Since then, though, the internet had returned and life had taken a turn towards normalcy. However, that was not enough to refrain me from the enticing possibilities of an empty kitchen this weekend.

You see, I must admit that my love for cooking can be discriminatory at times but I am extremely fond of baking a cake. So this Sunday afternoon, I took the flour and the eggs and the powdered sugar and worked up a creamy batter. By the time little Messi woke up, the room was filled up with the sweet aroma of a freshly baked cake.

“Umm, Happy to you!” Messi uttered, with a smile. To the little fellow, cake meant birthday and birthday meant cake and on a birthday one has to say “Happy to you”. The “Birthday” after the “Happy” continued to stay silent, unfortunately, but we are working on that.

“Yes, Baba, Happy to you.” I acknowledged that there was, indeed, a cake in the room.

“Khabi?”  That was his way to let us all know that he wanted to have a taste.

Later that evening, when he gave me a “tasty, tasty” certificate after his first bite, I felt a sense of pride inside me. This was, after all, a family tradition very close to my heart. While the rest of my family indulged in their respective pieces of the cake, I delved into the past and remembered this time of the year from decades ago.

Christmas was always a time to cherish in the quaint little town I grew up in. The whole of Malbazar came together to celebrate the festival. But the year end’s biggest attraction unraveled deep within the confines of my home. Every year, during the festive season, my father would prepare a cake to die for.

The process usually started late on a Sunday afternoon. In the days before the advent of mixer grinders and Microwave ovens, cake making was a tedious process that brought the family together. From ensuring that the sugar was finely powdered to making the batter himself, I grew up watching my father put his heart into a simple cake. After he had placed the batter in the simple cake-making machine, I could feel the anticipation build within me with every passing minute. It was extremely difficult to control my inner urge to open up the lid of the machine and devour the cake all by myself.

“Is it done yet?” I would enquire about a hundred times.

My father would always smile.

“Have patience.”

Years passed and the cake making machine got lost somewhere in the realm of time. Now, every year during Christmas time, I miss watching my father turn a bowl of flour, eggs, and sugar into the most delicious thing in the world. I miss watching him take the knitting needle and stuff it slowly into the cake, pull it out and check it to see if the cake was ready. Sometimes, he would put the needle near me and the aroma would rejuvenate my inner self.  I miss that ecstatic feeling that filled up my heart when he finally took out the cake from the machine. And most of all, I miss that special Sunday afternoon in the last week of December.

As such, on a Sunday afternoon before Christmas, I decided to improve my cake-making skills. After all, it is a family tradition that I want little Messi to indulge in as well. Someday soon, maybe, he shall pester me while waiting for the cake to rise in the oven. Maybe, if my baking skills improve, he shall wait for the final piece with the same anticipation that drove me as a child.

The next morning, I packed two pieces of cake to work. Frustrated by Monday morning blues, I pulled my bag aside and took out the Tiffin. The aroma filled up my heart and the taste? The cake tasted of Christmas and nostalgia.

‘Tis the season, folks! Happy Holidays!