Cake in the Oven

Who would I be after this? The chocolate cake batter slopped into the pan. A few drops fell onto the pale countertops. Bits of flour that I didn’t fully incorporate into the batter stood out like sores. It was so hard to get these things right. What would I do if I couldn’t even make a chocolate cake right? A better person would have remixed the batter. Well, really a better person wouldn’t have needed to. I slid it into the preheated oven. The pale green door was browning around the edges. My mother had chosen the colour and now my husband and I were going to live the rest of my life with it.

After closing the door, I squatted down in front of it. I bundled the apron into my lap and folded my arms on my knees. My mother’s apron. It was yellowing at the edges, and the embroidered flowers were starting to fray. I thought that I would be better at taking care of it. I thought I would be better at a lot of this. My body was so heavy. The oven’s fan whirred, pushing some of the hot air out where I could feel it on my skin. My feet were numb under my weight.

I watched the skin of the cake bubble. The heat was finally starting to affect it. How long had I been sitting there, watching the edges brown? I should’ve been doing other things. I should’ve been doing the dishes or mopping the floors. Something more productive than sitting and waiting.

I could feel the band in my hair coming loose. It was always slipping out, so I was forever tying it up again. Touching it so much made my hair greasy. My husband said it was because my hands were dirty. The gold ring on my finger glared the orange light back at me. I always washed my hands, but maybe they were dirty anyway.

This was meant to be a happy occasion. It was meant to be a life completing, title screen, happy ending kind of moment. The sort that happened in slow motion with a close up on the smiling faces of everyone involved. My husband would be happy to hear about it, and we would cut the cake. The cake was meant to be the centrepiece in this moment. I was meant to be happy. Why couldn’t I just be happy?

The cake started to brown. I looked to the window hoping that maybe the weather would at least understand me. The sky was a brilliant blue. Perfect. Not even the world was on my side in my misery. If it had been, I might’ve been able to put this off and leave it for a sunny day. I stood and opened the oven door and the heat rushed out over my legs. When it settled, I used a tea-towel to lift the cake from the oven and place it on the stove.

It looked mediocre. Probably a little dry. At least it was cooked. With something this simple, it would be a whole new level of travesty if I had failed. A chocolate cake, the easiest thing to bake. If anyone would mess it up, it would be me.

I placed it on the wire rack to cool. It was… fine. There were cracks in the sides and bits had fallen through the wire, onto the counter. They were so stark against the pale counter. Whatever. It was going to be fine. I wouldn’t stretch myself so far and pretend it was going to be good, but it would be fine.

I washed the dishes while the cake cooled. I hated dishes. They were tedious. All my life I would have to do dishes, cook food with those dishes, put the food on other dishes, and then wash all the dishes again. Like some sort of hellish cycle. All those movies and T.V shows where people die and go to hell – where hell is some special place where their loved ones die over and over, or they go back to an abusive home – mine would be dishes. Tedious, repetitive dishes.

I only did half. It was all that I could stomach. The cake would be cool enough now. A better housewife would stand and finish the dishes, and vacuum, and start dinner before even thinking of icing the cake. I mixed up the icing.

It melted on contact with the cake, as I expected it might. It was too hot after all; I should have waited until it was cooler. Even when I knew how to do something the right way, I still never could. I was too lazy, too overzealous, and too ignorant. I was completely self-aware, but would never make an effort to change. That was simply who I was. I suppose, after all of this, I would still be that. Forever.

I stared at the finished cake. I should wait until my husband got home, show him that I’d done something right. Tell him the news. News that would send him over the moon with joy. The same news that had chained me to my pity. I cut a slice of the cake and started to eat. It was actually fine. In fact, I would even go so far as to say, it was good. It was thick, creamy, and the chocolate was perfectly sweet without being too rich. I had done a fantastic job; I deserved this slice of my reward. Besides, I shouldn’t deny myself any food. I was eating for two now.