An American friend and I were having a very convivial drink under the massive bressumer beam of the inglenook fireplace in the bar at the Mermaid Hotel.
She was explaining the perplexity and complexity of absorbing the English culture based entirely upon cakes. She found there was a passive aggression (now called pas/ag!) in force for you and me to make a cake for your local fete, Christmas sale, church fund raiser and so on and so forth. Always a very worthy cause.
So you diligently and painstakingly bake your first ever cake. Then you buy an expensive tin to transport it in safety and comfort, and proudly present it to the great and the good in charge. Thereafter your poor humble little cake takes on a life of its own. It sits there, once a visible product of your hard work, and entirely standing up for itself, now completely overawed and overshadowed by braying, oozing chocolate brownies, and smug sponges sporting wave after wave of frilly cream icing in every possible and impossible shade.
In time the buying public is allowed in to the venue with whoops of joy to purchase the cakes and wares on offer. You spy your poor little cake appealing to your loyalty, quietly begging you to notice it, and even buy it back. But in a completely wanton moment, you turn your back and buy a tart amongst cakes, sporting pink upper clothing, spangles and with a vulgar cherry on the top. Needless to say you feel a worm. A greedy worm.
All you can do is pray that in the end someone will buy your little cake, or you will be cajoled into taking it back home with your tin under your arm and your tail between your legs.
My American chum said it was the sheer circularity of this cake culture that, more than any other one custom, persuaded her that she was in olde Englande.
