The F@#$+%g Birthday Cake!

One afternoon, Figu, the local surfboard-shaper, stops by my cabin after his surfing session on The Point. We hang out for a while, shooting the breeze as I trim pumpkin flowers and chop onions and tomatoes for a sauce. Then, he drops the real reason for his visit.

“It’s Pablo’s birthday today. Can you make him a cake?” he asks.

“Sure.”

I happily agree to make his brother a birthday cake, without a single clue of the pending nightmare about to descend and darken my life. We discuss the flavor, I give him a very fair “friends” price, he pays and then leaves. Not long after, Amber, Pablo’s girlfriend shows up.

“Can you make it a heart-shape?” she asks.

“No problem.”

I take the heart-shaped cake mold from the bench and show it to her. Satisfied that I can complete the mission to her specifications, she leaves, grinning from ear to ear, content that her boyfriend will be happily surprised later that day. Not as surprised as me, I’ll bet. Not wasting any time, I get to work. First, I have to find an oven. Since my thriving café business was abruptly shut down at the beginning of the year, I haven’t baked anything for a long time, and don’t have an oven handy.

“We’re going out, but it’s okay. You can use the oven here,” agrees Cecilia, who is renting Didi’s house at the other end of town.

The oven is at the back of the house, behind the kitchen. This will be logistically interesting, but whatever it takes, right? I go back to my cabin and, while the tomato sauce simmers on the stove, I prepare the cake batter, creaming butter and sugar, adding eggs and fresh passionfruit pulp, sifting in the flour. Piece of cake! I’m out of baking paper to line the cake tin, so I scrub the gathered dust out of the mold and grease and flour it well. Batter poured into the tin, I walk back to the other side of the village, to Didi’s house, and light the gas oven. Setting the cake in the center of the top shelf, I ask it not to burn, and return home to finish preparing the stuffed pumpkin flowers for dinner.

I stir-fry cooked wholegrain rice with chopped onion, garlic, pepper, raisins, and a sprinkle of cumin. Then, I add nutmeg, soy sauce and a dribble of natural achiote for color before stuffing spoonfuls of spiced rice into the delicate yellow flowers. Meanwhile, the fresh tomato sauce is simmering, rich with onions, garlic, tomatoes, and fresh oregano. I gently place the flowers into the sauce. They’ll cook slowly in the covered pan. Fifteen minutes in to the cake’s journey, I return to Didi’s house to check on it, only to discover the gas has gone out.

Oh no! Then, patting my pants, I realize I’ve just changed my clothes and no longer have a box of matches in my pocket. Damn! I quickly return to my cabin to retrieve the matches, add some water to the divine-smelling pumpkin flowers, and run the one hundred and fifty meters back. I light the oven again. No gas. The tank is empty. Aarrgghh!

Leaving the the uncooked cake in the still warm oven, I set off to search for another oven. On my way back across the village, I run into Amber on the street. Rearranging my frown into a smile, I wave a friendly greeting, hoping to whizz past quickly. But no, she wants to stop and chat!

“Hi! How’s it going?” she asks cheerily.

What can I tell her? It isn’t going that well so far.

“Um. All good,” I respond, almost jumping out of my skin with alarmed urgency. “The cake is great. But I really have to go and find some stuff right now. Talk later!” Without further ado, I run in the opposite direction.

All over town, I search for another oven. Most of the restaurants don’t even have ovens. Who knew! Those who do are using them and do not have space for a cake, thank you very much. Knitted disapproving raised eyebrows dismiss me. As I run from place to place, desperation creases my brow. How am I going to cook this damned cake? At the crossroads in the center of town, as I’m wondering where I’m going to find an available oven, Figu appears. There is one oven left unexplored.

“Help me!” I explain the problem so far. “I need you to go and talk to Leo about borrowing Morongo’s oven to cook this cake for your brother.”

Morongo has a bar across the street from my cabin. He has a strict policy about not lending anyone things from his bar, including his oven, and having already used it a few times this week, I can’t stretch the friendship any further. An outright “NO” from Morongo will destroy my chances of ever cooking the cake. But . . . he’s leaving town today, leaving Leo in charge. Figu runs away to find Leo, who is renting the bar in Morongo’s absence.

“Can it wait until after Morongo leaves later today?” asks Leo when he sees me.

“Sure, why not.” I don’t really have a choice, do I?

I leave the raw cake in Didi’s cooling oven and go home to twiddle my thumbs. Meanwhile, the stuffed pumpkin flowers, which have been slowly simmering away in their herbed tomato sauce on the stove at my cabin, are ready. I turn it off and sit back in the hammock to twiddle my thumbs some more.

Finally, after about half an hour, Morongo and his wife, Amy, leave for Manta. As soon as their 4WD is out of sight, I bolt across town to Didi’s house and pick up the now cold cake batter, wondering how much damage this false-start has done. Racing back across town to Morongo’s bar, I put the cake in his pizza oven and light it, with the box of matches now back in my pants pocket. The cake is now in the hottest oven in town. The temperature control is not good, and “low” is not vocabulary it understands. Knowing this could get tricky, I watch it like a hawk. Every five minutes, I peek in the door and rotate the tin. Even with all my attention on it, as I hover over it like an expectant father, the cake burns. It’s charred black on top, and only just cooked underneath. Great! Aarrgghh!

By now, I’m beginning to feel slightly stressed out by this cake. I cover the passionfruit charcoal, still in its tin, with a cotton cloth and leave it on the stove at my cabin to cool, then go to work on the cardboard box in which I plan to deliver what I have now decided is my last ever order for any kind of cake. The preparation of the cardboard box includes going out to find a box, which also means a flying visit to Sara’s house to hand over the dollar I still owe for yesterday’s muchin, and having to sit patiently and silently through yet another well-meaning but excruciating lecture on why it’s unnatural and unhealthy to be the only single woman in Mompiche.

Finally, I get back to my cabin with the cardboard box and quickly turn it into a cake-box with some scissors and tape. I cut another circle, guessing the size since the cake tin is still busy, and wrap it in foil to make a portable disposable cake plate. By now, the cake has cooled enough to be decorated.

To add to the general stress of baking, apart from the intense equatorial heat, there are no work benches and no sinks, not to mention no electricity and no running water. My cache of kitchen tools is extremely limited. Having a heart-shaped mold to bake this cake in at all is a miracle. By now, I wish I’d said no. However, I still have a cake to deliver, and time is running out on me. The only flat workspaces I have are the top of the stove, or the wonky wooden floor. There is more space on the floor. The broom flicks the dust around, and some newspapers are laid out so I can get to work.

Sitting on the floor, I flip the tin upside to tap the cake out onto a ceramic plate, so I can then flip it straight over onto the foil cake plate, and it will end up sitting top-side-up. The cake won’t come out. It’s stuck in the bottom. Aarrgghh! Maneuvering carefully around the edges, I dig it out with an egg-flip. It ends up in crumbs. Delicious, charred crumbs that now barely resemble a heart… Dammit!

With a bread knife, I slice off the charred top and throw out the black bits. It’s a bit messy, but I figure I can tidy it up a bit with the frosting. I mix cream cheese, icing sugar, and chopped fresh pineapple to make a filling. I slice the cake in half, juggling with all the bits as they fall off when I remove the top half, inventing an entire trilingual vocabulary of brand new curse words as I work, and then spread half of the pineapple cream over the base. Just like a jigsaw puzzle, I put it all back together, trying to gather some shreds of serenity and patience, which is now in very short supply.

Hot and sticky, and fed up with this damned cake, I take a break. I’m a bit over the massive effort it’s taken so far to create a simple cake. A drink of water restores me a little. I go to the rainwater tank and splash cool water over my face and neck. As I turn back to my tiny workspace, I see Mascara (The Mask), my cat, with his face gleefully buried in the frosting bowl. Aarrgghh! Anything remotely resembling rejuvenated mood and restored patience flies over the balcony with the cat, who is instantly evicted with a thump and a roar. Spinning back to the cake, I stand on the metal cutting edge of the aluminium foil box and roar again, violently flinging the box far away. Unbalanced, I accidentally put my hand into the pan with the pumpkin flowers, squashing three of them flat. The third roar is tigerish, a wild angry growl. My wide-eyed neighbor silently scarpers inside her cabin, not even daring to ask. Now, I’m totally over this freaking birthday cake!

“I cannot work in these conditions!” I cry in despair, washing tomato sauce from my hand.

I stop all movement and sit cross-legged on the floor. Meditation. Close eyes. Count to ten. Breathe. My heart pounds in my ears from pent-up frustration I am not able to release completely just yet. Count to twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Trying to clear mind. Passionfruit cake aroma distracts me. After a long painful minute, I spread the rest of the cat-licked pineapple cream over the top of the cake, hiding the worst of the damage, and maintaining a rough heart shape. Once it’s ready, I try to get the cake in the box. The foil plate doesn’t fit. It’s too wide. Aarrgghh!

Finally, I fold over the edges of the foil plate and squish and squeeze the cake into the box, trying not to touch it as the sticky cheese frosting drips over the sides in the clammy humidity. Using tweezers “Happy Birthday Pablo” is drawn carefully with sliced bits of fresh pineapple over the top of the cake. Glad my ordeal is finally over, I close and seal the box and go to put the cake in Cristhian’s fridge. Locked. He’s not home. Aarrgghh!

Switching to Plan B, I get permission to put the cake in Carlos’ fridge next door instead. I go home to take a well-deserved nap in the hammock. A few hours later, Amber comes by to collect her cake. We go to the fridge to retrieve it. Someone has put a heavy bucket on top of the cake box and squished the cardboard down into the middle of the cake. It’s a complete mess. I’m totally devastated and would like nothing more than to scream. Aarrgghh!

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” she says, smiling and shrugging. “It will still taste good.”

As she walks away with her squished birthday offering, I swear on my Irish ancestors that this culinary abomination is the last birthday cake I will ever bake in Mompiche. As it turns out, that isn’t quite true, but it’s a very long time – and in someone else’s well-equipped kitchen – before I make another attempt at baking another one! At least the stuffed pumpkin flowers in herbed tomato sauce are delicious.

The Lesser Of Two Weevils

Ants in the sugar again. Even with the lid sealed tight, the critters still get in. Ten pounds of sugar ruined. Or is it? What the hell… I scoop out a cup of sugar and put it into the mixing bowl. Ants flee in all directions. Gently tapping the bowl, I give the little sugar thieves a few minutes to get away. By the time the cup of butter is added, a stream of ants have fled the scene. Several still rummage around in the bottom of the bowl, reluctant to leave behind such rich treasure. No one will notice a few ants in today’s special: Triple Chocolate Cake.

Flicking the switch on the beater, I check to see if we have electricity. Yep. It’s on today. Then I whip the butter and sugar together, ants and all, until it’s light and creamy. Adding two eggs to the mix, I chuckle as I recall the day, fourteen years earlier, that I swore I’d never again cook for a living. After thirteen years slogging out an existence in industrial kitchens, working twice as hard to be considered half as good in a predominantly male domain, I’d had enough. In a volcanic rage I quit cooking professionally and changed careers. And now here I am; baking cakes to pay the rent, and trying to forget everything I ever learned about food hygiene.

When you come to Ecuador, aside from the obvious advice: never go anywhere without toilet paper and always check your change, another thing to remember is that very often food hygiene is an anomaly. Rats, cats, ants, kids, weevils, and a menagerie of bacteriological health hazards too numerous to mention are all part of a normal kitchen environment; especially in rural regions.

Once I was kneading cookie dough with my right hand and squashing weevils in the wholegrain rice canister with my left, shaking the container every so often and wondering if I’d get them all. It doesn’t help that weevil worms resemble grains of wholegrain rice; same shape, color and size. Only their wriggling gives them away. No biggie; many cultures consume insects as a major source of protein. Before you screw your nose up and say “eewww” try to remember the last time you ate a cute lobster. Right? And if you’ve ever been to Cambodia… Well… let’s not go there right now… Besides, the rice is always washed before it’s cooked. And we’ve all eaten our share of ants. The French cover them in chocolate. Leaving a few ants in the cake is not nearly as bad as the local butcher who dropped his cigarette ash all over the meat I was trying to buy. It’s one more reason my diet leans heavily towards vegetarianism.

A food hygiene official in my country would take one look in the kitchen, have a conniption and then shut down this little beach front cake shop in the blink of an eye, along with every other restaurant and food outlet in town. In fact, a housing department official would condemn my little grass-roofed cabin in less time than it takes to breathe in too, but that’s another story. Regulations do not exist here; or rather, they’re not enforced. Therefore, we all happily stir, blend, barbecue and bake for countless clueless customers while shutting our eyes and minds to the gory reality: Triple Chocolate Ant Cake.

I retrieve the rat-chewed canister of flour from under the workbench and measure one and a half cups into the sieve. As a young chef I was taught that sifting aerates the flour but here it also gets out the hard lumps and the weevils. Shaking it over a plate with a teaspoon of baking powder and a pinch of salt, I finally add a cup of grated organic Ecuadorian cocoa and sift it all together.

“Fresh cakes! Get your fresh cakes!”

A surfboard tucked under his arm, Christian walks up from the beach and sits on a bar stool on the other side of the bench where I’m working. He rests the board against the bar.

“Chocolate cake?” he asks.

“Yup,” I nod, taking a family-sized block of dark unsweetened chocolate from its wrapper.

“Think I’m gonna have to come back later to try some of that!”

“It’ll be ready in about an hour or so,” I tell him, finely chopping the cubes.

He reaches out to swipe a piece of chocolate. The tip of the large chef’s knife snaps against the cutting board, just shy of his index finger. His hand freezes. Then, with a cheeky grin, he looks me in the eye. He’s accustomed to getting out of trouble with his witty charm and handsome calendar-boy face. I’m not dazzled.

“Don’t steal my chocolate,” I warn, meeting his gaze, shaking my head and pointing the knife at his bare chest. Then, I smile. “But if you want to lick the bowl when I’m finished, stick around. I’ll be done ya mimso.”

Nodding, Chris withdraws his fingers. Half the chopped chocolate goes into the creamed butter. Alternately adding sifted flour and dribbles from one cup of milk, I gently fold the mixture together.

Christian Garcia came into my life one afternoon when I had a craving for ceviche; a raw seafood soup concoction made from tomatoes, red onions and green peppers seasoned with fresh lime juice and wild cilantro. Served with banana chips, it’s traditional fare on the northern coast. Without rival, Doña Rosa makes the best ceviche in town. After I sat down at a table in his mother-in-law’s restaurant, Chris approached half naked; no shoes or underwear, bare chested, board shorts riding so low on his hips it’s amazing his bits didn’t fall out. He displayed a perfectly proportioned surfer’s body that wouldn’t have been out of place on the cover of a Playgirl magazine. In his role as waiter, he slapped a menu in front of me and, as he turned away, I noticed the baby strapped to his back, asleep and resting against his shoulder. Saya was just a few months old then and Christian was rarely seen without his son. When I began baking cakes, the pair were regular visitors to the café. Second only to surfing, bowl-licking was Christian’s specialty.

After scraping the cake mixture into a greased and floured tin, I hand over the metal bowl and mixing spoon, leaving Christian to take the hard work out of the washing up. When the batter is spread evenly, I sprinkle the rest of the chopped chocolate over the top before sliding it into the hot oven. The gas oven is as unpredictable as its feisty Italian owner, so I have to check the cake every ten minutes until it’s done.

“Chocolate cake! Fifty cents. Made with local chocolate and much love! Best cake you’ll ever eat! Chocolate cake! Fresh from the oven! Only fifty cents!”

People on the beach stare, gawking wide-eyed and slack-jawed as if I had just stepped out of a spaceship. The basket of fresh cakes rests in the crook of my arm. Barefooted and floppy-hatted, I walk the length of the beach without making a single sale. It is no cakewalk, I tell you. Disheartened, I turn around to walk back to the café and ponder my future as a cake-seller.

“What are you selling?” asks a rotund woman lounging in a tiger print bikini.

“Chocolate cake.”

“Can I try a piece?”

I hand her a slice wrapped in a napkin. Her family gathers around, waiting for a reaction. Brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles gawp at me as she takes a bite. The children giggle and whisper – maybe they’re expecting her to turn into a toad? Her eyes close as the flavor rolls over her tongue. She passes the cake to her husband.

“Give me another one.”

In the end she buys ten slices; one for each member of the family and two for her husband.

As I turn to head back, the people sitting nearest want cake too.

It’s really good!” they tell me, surprised that a gringa could conjure up such delights.

Then another family calls me over. And another. My pocket full of change and the basket empty, I return to the kitchen to plan the next cake.