The Cake I Never Measure

It’s a funny cake, this one.

I’ve never properly measured it. A bit of this, a handful of that, and yet somehow it always comes together. Trying to turn it into a written recipe has been far more difficult than actually making it.

It’s a spiced apple cake, filled with cinnamon and whatever blend I feel like using that day, with sultanas folded through. The kind of cake that fills the kitchen before you even open the oven door. Sweet apple, warm spice, a hint of vanilla. The sort of smell that makes a house feel like a home.

And yet, it has never really just been a cake.

It was my dad’s favourite. And my husband’s too.

I think our generation found joy in simpler things. We were talking about it the other day. As children, everything felt exciting because it wasn’t always there. A fizzy drink at Christmas. A shopping trip. Something new for the house. Even just the change of seasons.

A piece of cake sat right up there.

Not as something ordinary, but as something to look forward to. Something that meant pause, and sharing, and a moment.

Like the bakery van I wrote about last week.

My dad understood that kind of joy. So does my husband. They both have that same appreciation for simple pleasures, and there is something quietly lovely about watching someone enjoy something so completely.

Maybe that’s where it comes from.

Maybe that’s why I feed people.

When we were children, my dad worked long hours, but every now and then he would come home with something small. A comic. A sweet. He would stand at the back door and make a whole performance of it, as though it were the most exciting thing in the world.

And to us, it was.

At Christmas, my mum did all the work. The shopping, the wrapping, everything behind the scenes. But my dad would always do one present from him, and somehow that one always felt the most special.

He had that childlike innocence about him. Even when he was trying to be serious, his eyes would give him away. They always smiled.

I remember one day my brother and I were fighting on the landing. I threw my jewellery box at him, missed completely, and smashed the window. It landed in the garden below, where my dad was working.

I ran downstairs, locked the back door, and declared he was not allowed in until he had calmed down. Then I ran back upstairs and put myself to bed, knowing full well I was in trouble.

He came up to tell me off, but even then, his eyes were laughing.

That was him.

I would make this cake when they came to visit. My dad loved it. I would send him home with slices, or sometimes the whole thing, wrapped up for later. When I divorced and lived closer to them, I would make it for him to have at home.

He never needed to say much. Just that quiet appreciation. That was enough.

And now, I can’t make it without thinking of him.

There is another layer to this cake too, one I didn’t expect.

In the last few days of my dad’s life, while he was in hospital, I was driving to see him when I had a small accident. It wasn’t my fault, but it shook me.

The damage to the car was minor. Just a broken Mini light. But the insurance company wrote it off.

So within a matter of days, I lost my dad, was supporting my mum, and as a single mum with a young autistic son, found myself without a car too.

I remember travelling by train to buy another one, completely out of my depth. My dad would always have been the one to help me with things like that.

That car, as it turned out, had its own issues. When I took it to a local garage, they told me there were quite a few problems. I think they felt sorry for me.

They charged very little to put things right, and the apple cake made an appearance as a thank you. A quiet sort of bargaining tool.

The garage man was very appreciative.

And that’s the thing about this cake.

It’s never just been something to eat.

It’s been a thank you. A peace offering. A comfort. A way of showing love when words feel unnecessary or not quite enough.

A way of holding on to something.

When it bakes, the kitchen fills with that familiar smell. Apple, cinnamon, vanilla. Warm, soft, comforting. The kind of smell that feels like everything is as it should be, even if it isn’t.

And for a moment, it brings him back.

Not in a sad way. Just in that quiet, steady way memories sometimes do.

A slice of cake. A warm kitchen. And the simple pleasure of something made by hand.

Some things don’t need measuring.

Serves 10 to 12

Nutritional information per serving

(approximate, based on 12 slices)

Calories 320 kcal

Net carbs 34g

Fat 14g

Protein 5g

Fibre 2g

Ingredients

200g butter, softened

200g caster sugar

4 medium eggs

230g self raising flour

2 Bramley apples, peeled, cored and diced

100g sultanas

2 to 3 teaspoons Spice Pots Sweet Spice blend or use 2 to 3 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Method

Preheat the oven to 170°C.

Line a loaf tin or 20cm round cake tin with baking paper.

Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy.

Add the eggs one at a time, beating well between each addition. If the mixture starts to curdle, add a spoonful of the flour.

Fold in the self raising flour gently until just combined.

Stir through the diced apple, sultanas, spice and vanilla. The mixture will be generous and slightly heavier than a standard sponge.

Spoon into the prepared tin and level the top.

Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until golden and cooked through. A skewer inserted into the centre should come out clean.

Leave to cool slightly before turning out.

To serve

Lovely served slightly warm, just as it is, or with a spoonful of thick yoghurt or crème fraîche. It also makes a very good afternoon slice with a cup of tea.

To store

Keeps well in an airtight tin for 3 to 4 days. If anything, the flavour deepens after a day as the spices settle.

A slice of cake. A warm kitchen. And the simple pleasure of something made by hand.

These small things matter more than we realise.

Until next time. Sarah x