Eating Velvet


They say trivial things break chronic writer’s blocks the best, just like quick remedy and warm soup. Even though in today’s conundrum I explore an itsy-bitsy little theme of interest, it is something that comes from the heart, being the food lover that I am.

One of the biggest tragedies existent in this cruel world of today is possibly one’s inability to cook while having a warm taste for food and an appetite that returns like a boomerang. A good food-y does not necessarily cook well, but this can often, in moments of parody be quite a pandemonium.  After all, food is one of your best inanimate friends. Fizzy, buttery and peppered popcorn for heartbreak, cold ice cream with espresso for moments of ecstatsy, curled and tasty noodles for cold evenings and pancake mix that makes for a perfect early sunny morning. Yes, I relate better with minute maid foods that can be cooked in the microwave (read: inability to light the stove) and no, I did not mention lasagne, Mexican prawns or crème brulee (read: not much of a, if I may say so, fancy food-y).  

But when you leap from cooking French fires to something as precious and challenging as baking a red velvet cupcake, it heats things up a bit. No, it is not out of leisure that I do so, or out of some burning vehemence to cook, it is for my sister’s grand 21st birthday. Consider this a suicide note of dramatic fashion: I shall either cook amazingly delicious and soft velvet cupcakes or die in the effort of eating the [more probable] undercooked, chemically stained, sugarless, inedible muffin lookalikes. In light of the latter, understand that the baker must verify under oath the demeanour of the flour he sold me, the cheesemonger must vow similarly and the velvet is ought to be the proof of the pudding. In the fortunate event of the court finding the truth of the matter, the velvet must be convicted…oh and I have my doubts you might want to pull up a good show with the whipped cream, and then, the world shall know that it was but a stealthy velvety conspiracy against me and I happen to be not so bad a cook. Smell the sarcasm, and blow your nose if you will.

Also, I must squeeze in a little word of respect for Jerome K. Jerome, a man who can wander into the strangest and most bizarre of retrospects known to the literary world and make it seem effortless, lyrical and acquittal all the same. One, who has today, influenced greatly my pen and type pad (the ring of which I happen to like).

I prepare the vanilla, the buttermilk, the food colouring and the pretty eggs, I victual my vial of courage and I get set to bake. The course of this advent I cannot determine, dear reader, yet with all my heart I hope I survive this baking, hitherto I remain proud and contented to have made through an otherwise chronic writer’s block.