Let Them Make Cake

The theory goes that Jane Austen wrote in the sitting room. The novels would collect on scraps of paper hastily stuffed in her desk drawer whenever domestic duty called her away. She never married or had children – I think it's safe to say that if she had, even those brief stolen moments in which she wrote wouldn't have existed, and the world would be without Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I certainly can't imagine a man writing “Pride and Prejudice,” let's put it that way.

I recently re-read Virginia Woolf's “A Room of One's Own” (and if you couldn't tell, I'm just in that sort of mood). These scraps of paper are important, damn it, even if they are only on a screen. Not that I'm comparing myself to Jane Austen, or Virginia Woolf (also childless), for that matter. I'm just saying, as a woman, I can relate. A friend commented to me recently how convenient it is that my hobby is also necessary for the family. I was thinking about this, and I totally agree – it is convenient. If people didn't need to eat, maybe I would be into stamp collecting or dog breeding or Harley Davidson motorcycles or something else completely unrelated. But people do need to eat, and there are always birthday cakes that need to be made. Make them I will. And then I'll write about it, because birthday cakes are important enough to be written about. Yes, they are.

I will say that I am particulary proud of this one. The five-year-old (who is now the six-year-old) requested strawberry shortcake for her birthday. Throw a bunch of strawberries on a cake with some whipped cream, and people will be impressed. This is the best looking cake I've ever made, and it tasted as good as it looked. (I nabbed the recipe from Adam the Amateur Gourmet, who found it via the good old Barefoot Contessa. Adam is right, don't skip out on the orange and lemon zest.)