Eva Bradley: Sweet success in secret art

Eva Bradley

THERE is a certain expectation when you become a mother you also become a domestic goddess. An ability to magically soak stains out of eco-friendly nappies and produce wholesome, tasty meals hot out of the oven while simultaneously bathing and bedding a baby is all hormonal, right?

Given I have always been more dedicated to my computer than my kitchen, I didn't have huge expectations for the miraculous transformation that supposedly overwhelms first-time mums, but I was looking forward to finally having some time in my life to do all those things I'd never had time for when working 60-hour weeks, such as cooking.

Over the years, I have collected dozens of beautiful cookbooks, which all remain in pristine condition, excepting the ones I loan out to friends, which come back adorned with the sort of food stains that make me look like I've actually used them. Perfect.

Like just about everything in life, the reality of doing less work to be more domestic was nothing like the ideal I had imagined.

Instead of having more time, I have so much less it feels like every single second of my life is being managed by either the demands of a small baby, or a small business - neither of which are at all suitable for operating on a part-time basis.

I have always been that lame friend who turns up to the barbecue with store-bought potato salad and a Crofters cheesecake for dessert.

With guilty pleasure, I pass over these items on the outdoor dining table and go for the intrepid gastronomic delights produced from the kitchens of my friends, as does everyone else.

Now that I didn't have the boring old "sorry, too much work" excuse, I was determined to be the one showing up with the impressive food.

And so it came about that for a friend's birthday, I was the one bringing the cake.

The cake is not the dessert; it's not just that tasty little dish among many on the table. It's the cake. It has candles.

Swinging past Countdown on the way was not going to be an option.

On close analysis of the situation, I calculated I had two options: to bake (which frankly was a marginal option at best), or pretend to bake.

Deception is not an art form I am especially good at, or supportive of. But in this instance the lie was a white one ... or rather, a double-chocolate one.

The cake I ordered was fluffy and light, made of two layers, with cream and jam in the middle and beautiful icing on top. It was perfect.

There was no way in a month of Sundays anyone would believe I made it myself.

And so I took it to my kitchen and with all the domestic precision I possessed, I gave it a facelift. The layers were pulled apart and mushed back together.

The icing reworked so it slopped over the sides. I dug out a few small holes on the sides to make it look like it had stuck to the tin and then with a final flourish put it inside a Tupperware container instead of the perfectly-sized box it came in.

When I looked at the cake it was so rough, ready and home-made looking that I almost felt a sense of pride in what I had (re)created.

Taking it around to my friend's place, it was met with effusive compliments and surprise.

Which upon tasting, morphed into outright suspicion. It was one thing for me to make a cake that looked okay, but one that tasted absolutely fantastic was a step too far.

These were my friends, after all. My domestic challenges were no great secret.

With a simple "So where did you get the cake from, Eva?" and an equally simple "the bakery down the road", everyone laughed and reached for seconds.

-Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist and photographer, who runs Napier-based Eva Bradley Photography.