Since I can remember, I have been a sweet-toothed person. But it was never about a chocolate bar, a Haribo gum, or any other processed candies; I guess my father’s rigorous education worked because snacks have never grown on me. I have to admit that in this sense, I’m an actual “foodie”, as my carving is only for baked goods. And not at any time of the day; it’s only after a substantial breakfast or a sumptuous lunch.
The heady aroma of the freshly baked cinnamon-scented apple pie, the sweet fragrance of the just-picked strawberry served on the top of the ladyfinger pudding, or the tangy perfume of the homemade apricot jam welcomed me as a kid at my grandparents’ house. My granny used to bake incredibly delicious desserts and serve three-course lunches on Sunday, which were finished by the “adult discussions” accompanied by tea or coffee. As a curious kid keen on learning, this was my favourite part of the meal: I tried to open my ears as wide as possible while taking pleasure in every sweet bite.
As my grandparents grew older and for me, as a teenager, Saturday night parties meant long sleeping Sunday mornings, the visit to my grannies descended drastically. However, the damage was already done: the tradition of the three-course Sunday lunch had already been deeply ingrained into my fibres. I was about 18 when, not so kindly, I reminded my mother that a decent Sunday lunch consisted of three courses: soup, main dish, and the compulsory dessert. My mom, an excellent cook and the only vegetarian in the family did not have it easy. By tradition, meat was a dietary staple in the family: my father was the kind of person who wore the tagline “lettuce is for rabbits”. As for the other cook of the family, despite her good intentions, my grandmother’s comprehension of the vegetarian diet resulted in wrapping the instant soya ball in bacon. So, at the end of the day, my mom was forced to prepare two main dishes if she wanted to be true to her new eating habit: a usually labour-intensive meat dish and a veggie one. After all this, obviously, she didn’t have the time or the energy to prepare even the easiest no-bake cheesecake, let alone bake an alluring cake. So when she heard my more than nerve-wracking comment, she responded the following: “If you want dessert, go and bake some yourself.”
For someone who, from an early age, constantly nudged her mother and grandmother to teach different culinary techniques, explain their own secret kitchen tips, and pass on the family recipes, this exclamation didn’t come as a total surprise. From that moment on, Sunday and baking have been inextricably linked. To everybody’s astonishment, it turned out that I wasn’t the only dessert-demanding person in the family; all of them waited eagerly for my enticing sweet creations.
I remember that I started with some beginners recipes, like orange and dark chocolate muffin, carrot cake or a cherry sponge cake, then I moved on to some more elaborate baked goods like black forest cake or poached pear chocolate soufflé, finishing with fermentation required braided braids with fresh homemade marmalade or pistachio babka.
Obviously, now that I am responsible for my own household, I understand the arduous job of presenting a three-course Sunday lunch. As my husband shares my quelling desire for desserts, it remains mandatory. But to be honest, since then, I have cursed my “sweet tooth”, not once nor twice, and my mom’s historical response continuously echoes in my mind. Straining the noodles for the chicken soup, mashing the potato for the side dish, checking the temperature of the steak, and preparing meringue for the lemon tart simultaneously is more than exhausting. But every time I have a bit of a shortbread cookie, a Swiss roll with berry jam & chocolate mascarpone cream, or a chocolate soufflé, I feel it’s worth the reward, and I am thrilled that the habit of the decent Sunday lunch has been restored.
