My parents baked Jamaican Black Rum Cake every year as gifts for friends and family at Christmas. The fruits–raisins, currants, prunes, cherries, citrus, and more–were minced and soaked in rum and wine from the previous year. I helped out in the kitchen–assisting, watching, and learning.
My mom would ask my dad how much of an ingredient to put in, and then she would put in a little more.
“You never listen,” argued my dad, “You always do what you want.”
My mom would smile to herself, ignore him, and busy herself with the next task. She was listening to her own internal drum. She would just continue doing what she wanted. My dad continued on a loud and miserable diatribe as the mixing process continued.
The cakes went into the oven to bake, and they would come out just fine.
Now that my mom has died, my dad bakes alone. I am still there, but somehow it feels alone.
My dad is stubborn. He doesn’t listen; he does his own thing no matter what I say. The cakes, they don’t taste the same. But honestly, they taste just fine.
Baking is not an exact science for us. We don’t follow a recipe. If we have one, it is only a suggestion. We measure everything, but the cakes tell us what they need–a little more or a little less. We expect the batch of Christmas cakes to be different each year. We might even try something new. After the cakes cool, we excitedly begin the tasting process.
No matter how hard I try, the cakes never taste like my mother’s.
I follow my own internal drum, and honestly they taste just fine.