The Yes Woman: Cake was taken seriously in our house

I take a baking class in Dublin and suddenly I miss my mother

Photograph: Thinkstock

Photograph: Thinkstock

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine whose hobby and passion is food, and who always seems to know where to find the best food in every county, informed me that we were going for cake. The very word is cheering. Cake. That little word, with its hard consonants, promises so much soft sweetness; a relenting texture that capitulates gently to your inquiring teeth and slides merrily down into your stomach to hug you from within. Ah sure, you’ll have a piece.

One November evening, our breath clouded the view ahead as we wandered off Camden Street in the dark and headed down a little alley. While examining the contents of my own head to check whether I had given my friend motive to murder me in that seemingly vacant alley, we approached a gate and walked through it into a courtyard, which looked like someone’s very prettily tended back garden. The Cake Cafe is a wonderful combination of traditional homeliness, arty creativity and kitsch femininity; a contrast of wood panelling and geometric design.

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