Baking Is Also For Girls
Elizabeth and I can’t remember exactly how we met. You’ve probably got friends like this – they turn up in your life and weave themselves into it so warmly you can barely remember not knowing them.
We’ve just been discussing this at a shared dinner - quite by chance, we’re in the same study programme which means for the second time in a couple of months we’re together on a three day intensive retreat.
We think originally we met at a writers’ festival, maybe a conference? What I do recall clearly is discovering that one of the myriad things we have in common is we both believe the skill of Parallel Parking A Car doesn’t get the societal recognition it deserves.
You find a space – already a triumph – and successfully manoeuvre your vehicle into it, often enduring impatient glares from Volvo drivers behind you and doubtful looks from pedestrians, some of whom offer unsolicited “left hand down a bit” commentary. And yet once you’ve exited the vehicle there is no round of applause. We find this disappointing.
So we’ve fixed that for each other – scroll back through years of our messages and you’ll find dozens along the lines of “executed a 9 point turn into a particularly tight spot” followed by exuberant clapping emojis sent in reply.
A more recent discovery about Elizabeth is that her husband, Tim, makes truly excellent shortbread. We know this because, in July, Elizabeth brought enough of Tim’s shortbread for our whole group.
Inevitable comparisons were made to the shortbread our grandmothers used to make and, may our ancestors forgive us, Tim’s might be better? The magic ingredient is custard powder, he says. Impossible to argue when your mouth is this full of powdery, sticky, buttery goodness.
Conversation turned to childhood baking memories. My mother would cook up a storm at the beginning of each week, filling biscuit tins with date slice, Rice Bubble squares and banana loaf.
But the rule was these baked delights were for my brother, not me. After school he could wolf down any and all contents – if tins filled on Monday were empty by Wednesday, it was a healthy sign of a growing lad who needed fuelling like a Mac truck.
I was, however, a Morris Minor – small, stocky, deemed less likely to burn off carbs and sugar, more likely to store them on my thighs which already resembled “kauri stumps” which was not aspirational.
This was the Audrey Hepburn gamin era, remember. Which morphed into Twiggy, then evolved into heroin chic, and none of it has ever gone away despite our efforts to embrace body positivity.
The upshot back then? Biscuit tins were off limits because “thighs” and also “you’ll spoil your dinner”.
Upon hearing this tale when Elizabeth got home about “baking is not for girls”, Tim would not let this stand. A fancy biscuit tin was found in the back of a cupboard – RSA red poppies, collectors edition – and filled with Tim’s signature shortbread, then brought here to our study retreat. For me to keep in my room, share if I want to (I will), wolf whenever I feel like it, and wear on my thighs if that’s where they go.
The part of me that is a small girl cannot believe how lucky she is to have her very own baking tin and no rules. I had two pieces earlier and it did not spoil my dinner. I’ve just had another piece now. It is delicious. That’ll be the custard powder, and the kindness.