It’s serious now.
I baked a cake. Not just any cake. A birthday cake. A lemon one. In a bundt cake pan — which I also had to purchase. Because when he said he liked lemon cakes, a bundt cake was the first thing that came to mind and once the thought was there — it wouldn’t leave.
I searched on line for a recipe which didn’t sound too complicated or too horrible, because lemon is not a flavor I would ever eat on purpose, under normal circumstances. But as I said — it’s serious now — I’m baking.
For a man.
Even my neighbor pointed out when I mentioned I had also cooked for said man, “Ann, you don’t even cook for yourself!”. No kidding? I have noticed. Up until just recently the only humans I would break out pots and pans for carried my DNA, or were married to people who carried my DNA. It was a very short list. Seven people.
But lately that has all changed. Then I baked the cake this weekend. It was a hit because I am a damn fine cook and an excellent baker. Even though I might be a bit on the rusty side.
It appears many things are getting exercised with this relationship business. Long dormant nurturing skills as well as old recipes are coming out of hibernation. Trust me — no one saw that one coming.