Chasing Amy-Lou

If it’s one thing I remember about my childhood, it’s chocolate cake. We never regularly kept cake in the house so whenever a birthday came around it was an excuse to stuff our faces on delicious, melt in the mouth, moist chocolate sponge.

The anticipation was always too much as my brothers and I eagerly awaited the unveiling. What would it be this time? Chocolate sponge with a rich cocoa icing? A chocolate swiss-roll with yummy cream wedged between each layer? A thick, moist, chocolate fudge with dark, heavy chocolate fondant to decorate? 

As the dinner plates were cleared we licked our lips and sat upright in our seats. Rubbing our hands together we would become more impatient as the time ticked by. “Come on mum, where’s the cake?”, was the standard quip from us all, half teasing, half dying of cake-starvation. Suddenly the lights dimmed. From the corner of the room we could spy the familiar flicker of candle flames. It was all too exciting, and we could almost smell, almost taste that divine, luxurious chocolate cake we were about to be presented with.

The obligatory ‘Happy Birthday’ song was rushed through and the candles aggressively blown out; it was cake time! A sharp knife was produced and mum always did the honours, slicing from the middle out to the edge of that circular dish of perfection. One more slice and the first piece was ready to be devoured.

As I picked up my teaspoon (the smaller the utensil, the longer the cake lasted), I gazed longingly and in admiration at this glorious bake in front of me. It was smooth on top, the glazed icing piped just to perfection. I could already tell it was a creamy fudge flavour and the consistency looked thick and gooey. The sponge was tight, appeared quite fluffy but not too dry; it was moist enough to hold together well and not crumble apart in my fingers (just how I liked it). In between two layers of this magnificent sponge was what I could only describe as dark chocolate cream heaven; it looked scrumptious.

I plunged my spoon into the tip of the triangular piece, my brothers and mother following suit with their own slices of decadence. The icing stuck to the metal of the spoon, the sponge expanded and the cream oozed from between the layers. I opened my mouth and closed my eyes as I let the cake settle on my tongue before chewing and tasting as rapidly as I could. It was sensational. The chocolate literally melted in my mouth and I swore I had never tasted anything so good in all my life. The icing was sweet but not sickly, the hint of fudge awakening my taste-buds. The sponge was light and airy but moist and baked to perfection, and the cream filling, well, that just topped off the whole eating pleasure to a tee. 

Before I knew it I had wolfed down the whole thing and my plate lay empty, and slightly sad. There was still room for another piece though and as we all dived in for seconds, polishing off the rest of the cake I took a minute to savour the moment: there really was nothing like chocolate cake.