During the long, dark evenings of winter, reruns of “The Great British Baking Show” were a welcome diversion while cross stitching or knitting.  The contestants’ culinary flair and passion were infectious.  The desire to dash to the kitchen and whip something up felt nearly compulsory.  An utterly surprising reaction, since I have never considered myself to be a cook, much less a baker.  Certainly I have prepared food for my family, including my share of desserts, but cook and baker?  Those designations were not part of my identity.  They were things I did, but not who I was.  Those titles were of the realm for which my mother was known. The kitchen was the domain where she reigned supreme.

For years, her tendency to view proficiency on my part as a threat to her culinary prowess diminished any inclination I had to excel in the kitchen.  She mistakenly interpreted my desire to imitate her as an attempt to compete.  She seemingly failed to appreciate that “imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”  Putting myself in the position of her competitor was unthinkable.  Consequently, cooking was not something I did until I left home for college.  

Since virtually everything I knew about cooking was learned through attentive observation, not instruction or practice, there was lots of trial and error – mostly error.  It was years before the chore of cooking transformed into the joy of cooking. Spending time in the kitchen making something to eat was definitely not the first thing I thought of doing for fun.  

So when watching this season’s TGBBS episodes inspired me to exert my culinary muscles, no one was more astonished than me.  Of course, this newfound zest for cookery demanded a complete reorganization of the kitchen as well as the acquisition of some necessary utensils.  The frenzy culminated in the purchase of my first-ever stand mixer.  With a majestic yellow, (surprisingly heavy), Kitchenaid appliance prominently ensconced on the kitchen counter, I was ready.  Now…what to bake?

The search for something to bake led me, where else but to Mom’s recipe box.  Actually, a mini picnic basket of carefully clipped and handwritten recipes accumulated over 70 plus years.  The collection had come into my possession when a few years ago the cruel fingers of Alzheimer’s stole her capacity to follow directions or complete even the simplest instructions.  Robbed of the ability to perform one of her favorite pastimes, one that had given her immense pleasure, she lost all interest in practicing the culinary arts – a shocking disappointment to us all.   

Tucked in that little basket was a lifetime of delectable gastronomic memories.  Sorting through the randomly ordered cards, I found a wrinkled piece of stained yellow paper, with edges clipped by scalloped pinking shears, from a bag of Domino Sugar.  I unfolded it to discover the recipe for Sunny Yellow Cake, the cake I annually requested and received for my birthday.  No store-bought cake mix could hold a candle to its flavor and texture.  My mouth started watering.  This was it!  

Reaching to close the basket lid, I happened to catch sight of the next card.  There, in fading blue ink, was a copy of the Sunny Yellow Cake recipe meticulously printed by my nine-year-old hand.  As the words began to blur on the aging card, there was no doubt about the choice for my inaugural bake. 

Gathering all the ingredients on the counter, the way I’d seen Mom do a million times, I added their measured amounts to the bowl.  Each container was wiped clean before returning to the refrigerator or cupboard.  Another habit I’d picked up from watching Mom.  “Clean up as you go along so there won’t be a big mess to fool with when you’re done,” she’d say.  

Flipping the switch on the mixer for the first time, I stood there in my rarely-worn, sunflower apron watching the butter and sugar cream.  Suddenly, an image of Mom popped in my head.  There she stood in the kitchen of my childhood, similarly attired, her tongue firmly tucked between her lips, cautiously scraping the sides of the bowl as the Sunbeam whirred, sending the glorious aroma of sugar, butter, and vanilla extract wafting through the house.  The anticipation of creating a tantalizing dessert to serve her family shone on her face.  All at once, I had a revelation.  

Is it possible I was the one who had misinterpreted the nature of the dynamics that occurred between Mom and me in the kitchen?  Maybe what I had taken for resentment had actually been fear.  It wasn’t that Mom didn’t want to be defeated.  She didn’t want to be displaced.  Having spent her entire adult life regretting the lack of a college education, she had always felt inferior.  There were few areas in which she considered herself accomplished.  Cooking and baking were two of them.  If I equaled or surpassed her in those realms, what might that make her?  Obsolete.  The prospect of not being needed can be devastating.  Perhaps it took reaching a certain age with grown children of my own to reach this conclusion.

Considering Mom’s current condition, I will never know whether the latter interpretation is more accurate than the former.  But what I do know is that thinking about her in this new light made it easier to empathize.  She was not only my mother.  She was a woman who had struggled to preserve her sense of purpose and significance.  With that I could relate.  

Situated on a glass, floral embossed stand, the Sunny Yellow Cake, properly glazed, stood satisfactorily displayed on the counter.  I knew exactly with whom I most wanted to share it.  Always eager for something sweet, my parents were delighted to see me arrive with a cake.  While cutting each of us a piece, I reminded Mom of all the Sunny Yellow Cakes she’d decorated over the years.  Presenting her with a generous slice, I kissed her cheek and thanked her for always making my favorite cake on my birthday.  Her still twinkling blue eyes glistened.  After the first bite, she exclaimed, “Carolyn Charesse, did you bake this?  It’s delicious!”  Finally, instead of hearing an attempt to undermine my confidence, I heard a compliment.  That meant more to me than any Paul Hollywood handshake. 

 SUNNY YELLOW CAKE

2 cups granulated sugar

¾ teaspoon orange extract

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon lemon extract

1 cup butter (softened)

3 cups sifted flour

4 eggs (separated)

2 ½ teaspoons baking powder

1 cup milk

Cream sugar, salt, and butter thoroughly in a large mixing bowl. Beat egg yolks into creamed mixture, one at a time, until light and fluffy. Add extracts.

Sift together flour and baking powder. Add parts of flour mixture and milk alternately to creamed mixture, blending well after each addition. Beat egg whites at highest speed until stiff, but not dry.  Gently fold whites into batter.

Turn into 3* greased and floured 9” round cake pans.  Bake at 350 degrees about 35 minutes or until tester comes out clean from center of cake.  Turn layers out on cooling rack.  Cool completely before frosting or adding glaze.  

*If 3 pans are not available, use 2 and bake layers 40-45 minutes.

CITRUS GLAZE

1 cup powdered sugar

¼ teaspoon lemon zest

¼ teaspoon orange zest

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

1 tablespoon fresh orange juice

Whisk together sugar, zests, and juice (adding juice as needed) until the mixture is smooth and a consistency that will run down the sides of the cake when poured.