Banana Cake

Banana Cake

Blue shortbread, chocolate cake supposed to be shortbread, fudge, oat bars; every Saturday afternoon Ruth and I took over my kitchen, baking sweet treats from a recipe or from memory. My dad’s cookbooks were as good as Judy Blume and Enid Blyton stories; we planned, prepared, baked and ate.
One weekend we decide to make a banana cake, that being the only fruit either of us will eat. We drag a dinning room chair over to reach the cupboards and shelves, I am in charge of climbing up and passing them down. Ruth weighs out each ingredient; 2 and a half cups of flour, baking soda, salt, half a cup of butter, 1 cup of white sugar, three quarters of a cup of light brown sugar, 2 eggs, 4 bananas, two thirds of a cup of buttermilk and half a cup of walnuts. Mom is always fully stocked. Kerry, my Springer Spaniel sits quietly by our feet, wagging her tail.
We line them up in separate bowls, pre heat the oven to 350 degrees and set the mixing bowl in front of us; in goes the sugars and butter to be creamed. When it looks fluffy Ruth beats in the eggs; we chop the bananas and stir them in two at a time with the buttermilk and walnuts, taking it in turns. Setting the timer for thirty minutes we slip it in the oven
Peeking our noses through the darkened glass we wait for the mixture to rise but as the buzzer signals time up, we have yet to see any movement.
“Shouldn’t it be ready?” I ask Ruth.
Risking the heat escaping we open the door and with thick oven gloves pull out the cake tin.
“Better get your mom,” she says staring at the burnt sludge.
Mom inspects the concoction, “what was it going to be?”
“Banana cake.”
“Did you put flour in?”
I look at Ruth and then at the side board. The salt, baking soda and one bowl filled with flour sit unused.
“It didn’t say to add them in,” I protest.
Ruth scans the recipe, shaking her head.
Mom runs her finger along the instructions, she stops.
“Add dry ingredients.”
“We didn’t know!” I shout, snatching the book and slamming it shut.
“Hey, hey, we’ll make something of it and I know someone who will always enjoy it.”
I stomp off to my room, Ruth following quietly, sure nothing can be made of it until mom brings a tray with two bowls full of custard and burnt creamed bananas. The black bits do not matter, we lick our spoons and as we place our pots in the sink, Kerry is wolfing down the rest of the cake.