I rarely go to the grocery store but I have a hankering for Deb Perelman’s Pork Tenderloin Agroldoce. It uses acorn squash, which I have an abundance of, and is the perfect Fall Dinner. I walk through the meat aisle to pick out a pork tenderloin and take a detour down the baking aisle to grab a Duncan Hines cake mix. My birthday is in a week and I want to save my family the hassle of finding the perfect cake recipe. (That’s a lie. I’m a cake snob. There are so many bad recipes on the internet. I fear what they might choose.)
I return home from my errand and shake the brown paper bag in my hand. It crinkles with excitement as I pull out the box and proudly hold it up for David to see. “What’s that for?” he asks. “My birthday!” I reply. “Now you don’t have to find a recipe!” He looks at me with a sinister smile on his face. “Eden has something she wants to show you.”
I walk through the house. “Eeeeeeden,” I yell. “Do you have something to show me?”
“Yes!” She says, scampering through the sunroom. I follow her to the homeschool room where she’s made a picture using tangrams and wants me to rate it using a checkmark system. Gazing at me with her huge blue eyes, she points to her paper. “Do you like it?” I tell her I do; she points to a line of empty squares is drawn on a piece of paper next to her art. “How much? You can mark it three times.” I give her three checkmarks. Satisfied (and clueless I’m thinking about my birthday cake), she prances out of the room.
“I bought a cake mix,” I call after her, “so you can make my cake.” David overhears and looks at me questioningly. It’s obvious her math assignment is not what he had in mind when he said she had something to show me. Eden picks up her cookbook. ”We don’t need it! We found a recipe!” She opens the page to show me a Chocolate Sheet Cake sprinkled with powdered sugar and my heart sinks. I want a layer cake, but they don’t know that. When they asked what kind of cake I wanted, I told them chocolate. With chocolate icing.
I stand silent for a moment, thinking about how to tell her this cake isn’t what I want when she interrupts my thoughts: “But we are going to make icing instead of powdered sugar!” I give her a huge smile. She has clearly thought about her recipe selection and cake baking, so a sheet cake I will eat.
I scan the ingredients and see “mayonnaise” in the list. “You know this has mayonnaise in it?” I ask, with an incredulous voice. David looks at me from the sink where he’s cleaning dishes from lunch. “What?!” He throws a spatula down in disgust. Soapy water splashes from the sink. “Ewww, really?” Eden points to the quotes on the page from kid testers and reads them out loud. I really liked the cake! I hate mayonnaise, but I loved this mayonnaise cake! and I thought it was the best cake I’ve ever had in my life. My finger moves down the page and lands on a large heading at the bottom of the page.
Mayonnaise in a Cake?
We read about the science behind mayonnaise in a cake. Most cake recipes have oil and eggs in them. That’s really all mayonnaise is, with a little lemon juice and a few seasonings. “Mayonnaise is the trick to making this cake super moist and delicious,” I read out loud. I guess we should trust America’s Test Kitchen—they know more about kitchen science than I.
I’m still not certain this mayonnaise cake will be any good. It’s taken me more than ten years to find the perfect cake recipe and it’s not a recipe I want them to try; but, I take pride in empowering them, so I’ll consider this a lesson in experimentation. “Let’s try it!” I muster excitement in my voice, taking comfort in knowing if it isn’t any good, Duncan Hines will come to the rescue. “Science in the kitchen,” I say, “but you’ll have to buy mayonnaise because we don’t have any.”
The day before my birthday, David and Eden head to the grocery store with a small list. Red wine vinegar (for the pork agrodolce I still haven’t made), hummus (for my birthday dinner), heavy whipping cream (for the frosting), and mayonnaise (for the cake). They come back with the smallest jar of mayonnaise I’ve ever seen. “We picked the best one!” Eden proudly says, when she pulls it out of the paper bag. “It’s organic!” “I’m sure it will be delicious!” I nod my head, keeping my real thoughts to myself: they probably should have bought Hellmann’s for something like this.
“I’m going outside,” I say, grabbing my book. It’s sunny out—a beautiful 68 degrees—and I don’t want to be in the kitchen when they are. The truth is, I wanted to make my cake. The kitchen is my happy place. It’s where I can create something beautiful (most of the time) and delicious (also most of the time). The kitchen is where I go when I need to stop my brain from spinning in circles over the many things I need to do. In the kitchen, I pull out a list of ingredients, follow instructions, and end up with something to show for my time and energy. Sure, there are times when I have kitchen fails, but the act of creating in the kitchen brings peace to my soul. But my family is unwavering. They want to pamper me. So here I am, outside, while they take over my kitchen and bake.
Fifteen minutes pass. I start to sweat in my long sleeves and scarf. I walk inside to change my clothes and see Autumn sitting at the counter. It’s clear Eden is doing all the work. I can’t help but sneak a peek at what’s happening inside my sacred space. Two round pans lie on the counter, with parchment paper circles nestled perfectly inside. I look at the recipe to see if there’s going to be enough batter to fill two pans. “So…” I say, trying to figure out how to break the news gently; “this recipe is for an 8-inch square pan. Those are 8-inch round pans. Did you double the recipe?”
Eden looks at David. David looks at me. “Um, no?” My brain quickly turns to problem-solving mode—how can I help them make this work without insulting them? “Okay,” I finally say gently, “Divide your batter evenly. And set a timer. They’ll be thinner than the recipe so they won’t take as long to bake.”
Eden, grinning from ear to ear, nods her head and continues to whisk the chocolate mixture in her large metal bowl. The whisk hits the sides like a triangle in elementary school music class. “We’re going to put icing in the middle!” Her excitement is contagious; I feel my annoyance start to slip away. She loves the kitchen as much as I do, and watching her in action makes my heart leap with joy. “I’m so excited about it,” I reply. “It’s going to be yummy! I’m sure!”
“It’s time for the mayonnaise!” Eden announces, grabbing the measuring cup sitting next to her. “How much, Autumn?” Autumn looks at the recipe, then looks at Eden. “⅔ of a cup.” Eden scoops the mayonnaise out of the jar and into the measuring cup. “Ewwwww—this stinks!” she says, wrinkling her nose. We remind ourselves the reviews say it’s the best cake ever, and I take comfort in knowing there’s a box mix for backup.
They finish the batter and take a taste. That is, after all, the best part of being the chef. Autumn is the first to speak. “Um, this tastes weird.” Eden, so proud of all she’s done to get to this point, says otherwise. “I think it’s delicious! But I don’t want any more.” Usually, they fight over licking the bowl. The taste test doesn’t bode well. I taste it myself and have to agree with Autumn. I move my lips up and down, making a smacking sound. I try to identify the funny after-taste on my tongue. “It tastes herby,” I say, picking up the mayonnaise to look at the ingredient list. Sure enough, this fancy organic mayonnaise is seasoned with mustard seed and rosemary.
David, wide-eyed, starts to apologize, certain he’s ruined the cake: “I’m so sorry! We tried to get the best!” I tell him there’s no need to apologize and remind him magic happens in the oven. “The flavors may even out when it bakes.” He opens the oven door and helps Eden place the pans in the oven. She pulls a stool over to the microwave over the stove and sets a timer. “Twenty-three minutes,” she says, “that’s ten minutes less than the recipe says. Is that good Mommy?”
My intention to let them do this without me has totally failed. So much for staying out of my own birthday cake.
Twenty-three minutes later, the timer beeps. Eden runs to the oven. Opens the door to take a look. “Is it done, Daddy?” David delicately pulls a pan out of the oven and helps her check with a toothpick. She looks at him with a big grin, “It’s clean!”
“Now it has to cool for two hours,” Autumn pipes up. Engrossed in a book on the couch, I hear the clang of metal as they wrestle with the cooling racks sandwiched between sheet pans in the tiny cabinet. When they finally get the cooling rack on the counter, and the pans on the rack, I walk back into the kitchen and try to sneak a taste. There’s no extra batter anywhere. I slowly slide a knife into the side of the pan and dig out the tiniest piece.
“Hey Eden,” I call, as she’s running down the stairs to go outside. “Come here!” I split the crumb into two pieces, giving us each but a morsel of a cake. We taste it. Look at each other. “Well, it tastes like chocolate cake!” I say, relieved. “Yummy!” she says and trots down the stairs, pretending to be a puppy. To be honest, the bite was so small I couldn’t tell if it tasted like chocolate or not, but I am determined to like this cake. They’ve put their heart into making it. I won’t allow myself to be disappointed.
“It tastes like chocolate cake. Very dark chocolate cake.” I tell David, once the cakes have cooled completely and I’ve flipped them out of their pans. We taste the tiny crumbs stuck to the parchment paper left behind. “I think once it has icing on it, it will be scrumptious,” I say, trying to resurrect his confidence in this cake they worked so hard on. “But, I think you should use milk chocolate in the icing. Don’t use chocolate chips.”
I can’t help but offer advice in the kitchen. What I want, more than anything, is for them to be successful in their endeavor to make my birthday cake. I want to empower them. But I don’t want them to fail. Figuring out how to achieve both is like walking on a tightrope. It requires just the right amount of balance between being completely hands-off and offering advice.
A few days later, after we eat my birthday dinner and clear the plates away, the girls put candles on the cake. “Don’t put 41 on there,” I tell them; “I don’t think I can blow that many out!” They settle on six, confident I’ll get whatever wish I make. Autumn lights the candles and carefully picks up the plate. My heart jumps as she starts to walk with it in her tiny hands. They start to sing. I’m the starring role in a suspenseful movie. Waiting for the cake to drop.
She gently places the cake in front of me. All six candles remain lit. I take a huge breath and blow, watching the flames flicker before they go out. Autumn hands me the knife. I cut pieces and pass them around, wondering who will be the first to take a bite. I give in; after all, it is my birthday cake.
One bite of this cake makes me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. It is moist like the ground after a fresh rain. The crumbs stick together like pudding, forming a perfect bite on my fork. The taste is deep. Dark chocolate. The frosting is light and fluffy, like freshly whipped chocolate cream.
However, there is a very faint taste of rosemary. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
“Next time, let’s try Hellmann’s,” I say.
