Ruth Walker: Some pinching might have been involved, and maybe a Chinese burn or two, but he refused to blab

Published on Friday 13 March 2009 14:08

LADIES and gentlemen, balloon whisks at the ready – let the cake wars begin. It has been like the set of Masterchef at home lately – but without the unbearable build-up of tension and all that intolerable barking.

The Teenager has long been queen of the Victoria sponge in our house (though, needless to say, all the children are spongers to varying degrees – the Mild One less so since he became independently wealthy, thanks to his paper round). Her speciality is a straightforward circular sandwich, jam in the middle, bright-pink royal icing on the top. And lots of sprinkles (do they still call them hundreds and thousands?).

Her only real difficulty throughout this long and distinguished culinary career has been an inability to make her creations rise. She has varied her ingredients (yes, it is self-raising flour she's using – I've checked), tried adding baking powder and patiently folded in the ingredients for hours, but still the end result bears an uncanny resemblance to a large, flat empire biscuit. I blame our prehistoric oven, with its broken handle and a seal that is almost certainly past its sell-by date. But the cakes always taste good and, to my knowledge, no one has ever complained.

Having cooked up her masterpiece, however, she routinely abandons the kitchen in a state not unlike a particularly grisly scene from CSI – flour and icing sugar spattering the floor, walls and work surfaces, and dirty dishes piled high in the sink (why use one spoon when three will do?). I've tried telling her the job isn't done until the dishes are cleaned and put away but, strangely, that doesn't seem to wash with her.

Then, unbelievably, she hogs the whole thing to herself (okay, I may be allowed one small slice; ditto Jen, her pal/conjoined twin; but the boys are banned from going anywhere near it – they can only look on and drool).

So the Mild One has taken matters into his own hands. And, since his great-grandfather was a master baker, he seems quite at home in a pinny. His first effort was not at all bad; admittedly, the bottom layer of his chocolate cake had to be put back in the oven after it emerged with the middle rather undercooked and looking more like a doughnut. Then we couldn't ice the top as the Teenager had used up all the icing sugar for her heart-shaped Valentine's Day cake. All things considered, though, it was looking pretty good. Most importantly, it had risen into two deep, soft pillows of chocolate perfection. He couldn't wait to gloat.

"It has risen!" squeaked the Teenager when she spotted it on display in the kitchen. "How did you get it to rise?"

"That would be my secret ingredient," he smiled, knowingly.

"What ingredient?" Voice rising an octave or two. "It's not fair. Mine never rise. What did you use?"

He looked like Gregg Wallace after he'd just stuffed his face with a particularly large forkful of Mat's lavender mousse, hokey-pokey honeycomb and blackberry sauce. The words 'cat' and 'cream' sprang to mind.

The questioning proceeded for some time. I think some pinching might have been involved, maybe a Chinese burn or two, but he refused to blab. And I was sworn to secrecy.

It was three days later when, in a rare moment of domestic helpfulness, the Teenager was putting out the recycling box that the Betty Crockett box came to light. The Mild One was rumbled, the Teenager felt vindicated. But I know whose cakes I prefer.