The Proof of the Cake is in the Money

In my mind, the most dreaded piece of kitchen baking equipment used by my mother during my childhood was the rubber spatula.

I was a farm kid so I was lucky enough to spend my after-school time, my weekends and my school breaks and summer holidays roaming the vast reaches of our farmyard and enjoying the company of cats and dogs and pigs and chickens and my grandfather. My time away from school consisted of getting out of bed at about six in the morning, heading outside to rule my kingdom and then returning home at meal times. Occasionally, I would happen into the house while my mother was baking. My mother grew up during a time where many of the baking ingredients we take for granted today, were actually rationed or in short supply. Things like chocolate and sugar and even flour were very hard to come by when she was young. It made sense then that she tended to go a little over-board on making pies, cakes, cookies and other desserts when these restrictions were long-since lifted in her later life. I enjoyed watching as she assembled equipment on the kitchen table and as she deftly and accurately measured specific amounts of salt and baking soda and sugar and other powders into bowls containing hand-picked eggs and fresh milk and churned butter, and then beating them and stirring them and folding them together until the resulting mixture was a delightfully whipped and often-times frothy conglomeration that just simply begged to be spooned into one’s gaping and drooling mouth right then and there – never mind waiting until things were baked. More often than not, chocolate powder or chocolate chips were mixed into this ooey-gooey mass, thus perpetuating the aroma that permeated every tiny nook and crevasse in our tiny house. I think it was during my mother’s baking episodes that I came to love the smell of chocolate, and eventually the taste of chocolate. Bowls of creamy smooth chocolate mountains would sit unguarded in front of my anxious and impatient little eyes. My mind would drift away into a dream world where I would plunge myself headlong into the crests of dark and rich chocolate waves and then resurface so that I could scoop handfuls of sweetness into my mouth and across my face. I knew that this dream would never come true, but I did know that there was a possibility for me to scoop and scrape and lick the remaining chocolate from beaters and cups and pans and bowls once the contents had been poured into the final baking pan. I waited always for that moment – waited that is, until the middle cupboard drawer opened receiving my mother’s reaching hand which was finally spit out triumphantly brandishing the dreaded rubber spatula. The rubber spatula – a simple wooden slat resembling an over-sized popsicle stick which, upon one end was placed a floppy, soft piece of white rubber. This much-hated little device was capable of removing all but microscopic amounts of any batter remaining in any bowl or from any mixing beater. Once the rubber spatula was on the table, I knew that the chances of anything being left for licking or swiping were gone for good.

Regardless, the batter would be poured into two round baking pans, smoothed with perfection and then put into a pre-heated oven for just the perfect amount of time. Once removed, the now-cake-like discs were allowed to cool before they were inverted onto a big round plate. Going back in time slightly to a point just after the cakes were put into the oven, my mother would prepare a rich gelatinous chocolate filling to place between the chocolate discs once they were baked. She would also prepare a bowl of frosting to slather generously over the outside of the cake once it had been assembled. Going forward again now, when the first circular cake was placed flat onto the big round plate, my mother would insert items wrapped individually in wax paper, randomly into the baked cake. Most times, these items were coins, pieces of money. Occasionally, she would wrap a bank note – a ‘fiver’ or a ‘tenner’. Once she wrapped the deed to a quarter-section of land. Consequently, she soon became known far and wide for her famous money cakes. When she baked cakes for church bazaars and community raffles and organizational fund-raisers, buyers from all over the country would travel to my home-town to make bids for the purchase of a cake. The last cake she ever made, just before she died, contained her Last Will and Testament. She had her WILL drawn up at the local Notary’s office, then took it home, cut it up into pieces, wrapped each piece in some wax paper and eventually inserted each bit into the bottom layer of the cake. After all the pieces were inserted, she covered this bottom layer with an ultra-thick coating of rich chocolate filling, onto which she set the top layer of the cake. Once the cake was assembled, she applied an inch and a half of dark chocolate icing over the entire exterior of the cake. Shortly after finishing the cake she passed away from, what the doctors claimed was, a heart-attack brought on by the quick and sudden stimulus of excessive chocolate intake – in short, “Death by Chocolate”. Her children and grand-children (myself included) found the cake and also found her crumpled body on the floor beside her kitchen table, a smile on her face, chocolate on her lips and chin and a rubber spatula clutched tightly in her hand.

Of course, in the shocking time around her sudden death, my family found it impossible to eat that final cake. So, we stored it in my brother’s deep-freeze. It had been there for about two years, since the time of my mother’s death. Finally, about three weeks ago, my sister-in-law was cleaning out the freezer and she found the cake. She knew that it was my mother’s final masterpiece, so she called all of the family together to partake in the consumption of the creation. We knew there would be something hidden in the cake but we had no idea about the magnitude of the prizes (surprises) that would be found on that day. Without boring my readers with a complete list of her final bequests, I will just let you know that my sister’s first piece of cake contained a segment of my mother’s will which left her $50 thousand richer. My niece was served a piece that entitled her to my mom’s piano. Over the course of the day each of us took in about 5000 to 8000 calories and I’m sure that we gained collectively over 50 pounds. But, it was fun and it was worth it, because by the end of the day I had become richer, so much richer – both materially and spiritually. In fact, by the end of our cake-eating binge, I had also become richer to the tune of ONE RUBBER SPATULA!