Baking at age 8

One of my first memories of baking was with my dad, when I was 8. I loved frequenting the Ortega Library in San Francisco as a child and would often bring home cook books. The colorful pictures dazzled me so.


One day, I decided that I wanted to bake a chocolate cake from one of the books I brought home. In reality, it wasn't a chocolate cake at all. It was a savory pumpernickel bread made with cocoa powder. I even asked my dad what the word "savory" in the description meant, and he didn't know. I thought it meant delicious, and that was good enough for me.


I read through the ingredients and ordered my dad about the kitchen. My dad certainly isn't a chef now, nor was he fifteen years ago. So we fumbled around, trying to gather ingredients. I used to drink Nesquik, and thought that was an adequate substitute for cocoa powder. Same color, right? Check. We didn't have a loaf pan, and so we used an aluminum jello mold that looked like a flower. Good enough. And what in the world was baking powder?


So off we went, mixing things haphazardly, making a mess in the kitchen. After it came out of the oven, I was so excited! The cake was a brown, chocolatey color in a pretty flower bowl.


The cake didn't come out neatly from the pan (we probably didn't grease it, and uhm...jello molds aren't made for baking) so I scooped out a little chunk and tried it. And it tasted so, so bad. It was salty and a bit sweet from the Nesquik, with an awful dense, dirt-like texture. I remember being incredibly disappointed. I had waited patiently for it to bake in the oven for like, a whole hour! Maybe even two! Okay not, but time feels like is passes slower for children. 


My dad also tried the "cake," and said approvingly, "It tastes like bread." He smiled and chewed it some more, and even offered me another piece. Later that day, he secretly scooped out the entire mess and dumped it in the trash before my mom came home. I saw the flower tin soaking in the sink, clumps of crusty failure clinging to the sides. 


That was the first and last time I'd ever baked with my dad. I actually didn't bake much until my second year of college, when I moved into an apartment and had a fellowship group to feed.


Today, as I was baking chocolate cupcakes, my dad said, "Wow, they look so good. You could open a store."  I wonder if he remembers the failed chocolate "cake" from fifteen years ago. If he does, he has never brought it up, nor reminded me of my impulsiveness and know-it-all attitude. My dad remains to this day, the most patient man on Earth.