"You'll need an electric mixer." Retorted the chief cook and bottle washer, her eyes narrowing as she read the list of ingredients. She then reminded me what she's wanted to purchase for years. "A proper kitchen mixer, but you've chauvinistically dismissed them as unnecessary gadgets, occupying too much space for small returns...
Well, Monsieur master chef, you're going to need one if you want to make a cake au citron."
"Well..." I feebly replied, sensing consumer entrapment. "Perhaps we could purchase a cheap one ... nothing elaborate, just something that'll do the basic function."
While I picked lemons and prepared the ingredients, the caregiver hopped into town to check out the bargains in kitchen electric mixers.
She came home carrying a box big enough to suggest she'd settled for a builder's concrete mixer instead.
Unpacked, it occupied most of the kitchen bench.
Bristling with accessories, I was completely intimidated by the gleaming mass of chrome and stainless steel.
"I only wanted to make a small cake." I murmured, weakly adding, "a very small cake."
The caregiver admitted she'd gone over the top a bit, having been beguiled into buying the most elaborate mixer on the market - marketed as a "super bargain".
She justified the expense, by suggesting it was engineered to last a lifetime.
Small comfort to someone so advanced in years, that just about anything on the planet will outlive me, short of exotic butterflies fated to survive only the next 24 hours.
To add to my anxiety, I was reminded we had visitors arriving the following day, for afternoon tea. "The perfect opportunity to show off your baking skills."
The caregiver dryly smirked.
That night, I reread the recipe with the same zeal as swatting for an exam.
I'd decided to rise early, believing that the perfect cake au citron, would need some hours to cool to bring out the full lemony flavour.
I'd also had a cursory dip into the electric mixer instruction manual.
I might as well have been studying the operational manual for sending a space satellite to Mars and gave up on page three.
The following morning I commenced cake making operations, reassured by the author that not only was this a very simple recipe to follow, but the outcome was the "ideal afternoon pick-me-up for your guests with a cup of tea".
I transferred the operating management of the electric mixture into the capable hands of the caregiver, after my first attempt resulted in cake batter splattering all over the kitchen ceiling - thanks to forgetting to secure the hatch cover to the mixing bowl. Finally, with the zest of lemons added, the mixture was poured into the cake tins and popped into the oven for one hour.
I felt as exhausted as a junior neuro-surgeon completing his first lobotomy.
Sixty minutes later, I removed the cake trays. To my surprise, while cooked, my creations had failed to rise in the pans and appeared more like breakfast omelettes.
As usual, I tried to bluff my way out of the situation - airily recalling when I was last resident in the South of France - this was the usual way les dessert maison was served - with a dollop of creme fraiche.
The caregiver was unconvinced.
When our guests arrived, I attempted to cut my delicacy into thin slices.
It was like trying to cut through the soles of a pair of Nike running shoes.
"Have we any biscuits?" I hoarsely whispered to the caregiver, as she passed by carrying the tea tray.
"Nope." She responded. "For heaven's sake, just serve your cake and hope for the best." She muttered.
It was clear after we'd all tried chewing a morsel, that I'd accidently stumbled on the formula for making Kevlar, the para-aramid synthetic fibre used in the manufacture of bulletproof vests.
Impossible to eat, at least I provided our friends with light amusement with one of our guests, a patent attorney, offering to register my "discovery".
Later, I sulkily banished Bistro Magic to the back of a dark cupboard, thus ending my cake-making career.
In my next life, I'll try the Edmonds recipe.
