I washed my hands in the kitchen sink and quickly dried them off, ready to begin my task. I consulted the recipe again and began pulling out the ingredients I needed. Flour, sugar, eggs, yogurt, mascarpone, baking powder, vanilla, salt, an orange, and two lemons. Check, check check.
“Ahem,” came a quiet voice behind me.
I turned and spotted Freddie, sitting on the floor at the edge of the kitchen.
“Yes?”
“You’re in the kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think you should be feeding me?”
You know how this works, but as always, a gentle reminder:
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I rolled my eyes. “It’s not your dinnertime yet,” I said, opening a drawer and pulling out measuring cups and spoons.
“But you’re in the kitchen,” he pointed out again.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“This is where you feed me,” he said, stubborn.
I quickly measured out 2 cups of sugar and dumped them into the bowl, followed by 2½ tsp of salt. That seems like a lot, I thought, and checked the recipe again. It was right, though, so I went back to the bowl with an internal shrug.
“Why are you ignoring me? This is the place where I eat!”
I turned with a sigh and looked down at him. “This is also the place where I bake. I’ll feed you when it’s time for you to eat. Now shoo!”
He pulled himself up, indignant. “Shoo? Shoo?!”
I nodded at him and turned back to the recipe. I needed to zest the lemons and half an orange into the sugar/salt mixture. I turned to grab my microplane from the drawer behind me and almost stepped on Freddie. He squawked, dancing out from under me.
“Watch it!”
“I thought I told you to go?”
He huffed. “This is where I eat,” he told me again, deliberately.
I stopped, zester in hand, and gave him my full attention. “I told you I am not here to feed you. Either leave the kitchen or move out of my way.”
With an indignant whine, he turned from me and jumped up onto one of the kitchen chairs. I nodded in appreciation. Now he could watch but still be out of my way. “That’s good,” I told him, “now you won’t get stepped on.”
“I wouldn’t get stepped on if you watched what you were doing once in a while,” he muttered under his breath. I turned back to my bowl, ignoring him.
I zested the fruit into the bowl and rubbed everything together with my fingertips. Once the sugar was nicely coated in citrus oil, I shook out my fingers and stepped over to the sink to wash them. “What are you doing?” he called from the chair.
“Washing my hands.”
“No — what are you making?”
“Oh. It’s a lemon tea cake.”
“Would I like it?”
“Probably not.”
He was quiet while I measured out the yogurt and cheese and dumped them into the bowl. I checked the recipe again. Oil, I thought. I had missed that when I initially got everything together. I turned to the cupboard where it’s kept. Freddie perked up.
“I’m not feeding you right now,” I told him as I opened the pantry door.
“But that’s where the food is,” he pointed out.
I picked up the oil and showed it to him, “this is not cat food,” I told him, and shut the pantry door firmly with my other hand.
He settled back down, muttering something.
I continued to ignore him, turning back to my baking.
I added the oil to the bowl and whisked everything until it was smooth. Eggs and vanilla came next and those were soon whisked in as well. I picked up my fine sieve and placed it over the bowl. “What’s that?” Freddie called from behind me.
“It’s a sieve,” I said, measuring the flour and baking powder.
“I don’t know what that is,” he called. “Does it get me any tuna?”
“No,” I called over my shoulder, picking up the sieve and shaking the dry ingredients into the bowl. I picked up my rubber spatula and began folding the batter.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
I paused, looking over my shoulder. “Why am I folding in the flour, or why am I making a cake?”
“Making a cake. You should be feeding me if you are in here, but you are doing this instead.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I like to bake.”
“I like to eat,” he told me.
“I know,” I said, finishing up. I turned to my bundt pan, prepped before I began, and poured the batter in, smoothing the top with my spatula. I dropped the pan on the counter a few times, ignoring Freddie’s flinch at the sudden noise, and placed it carefully in my pre-heated oven. I noted the time, then turned back to my dirty counter.
He sat up. “Are you going to feed me now?”
“No,” I told him. “It’s not your dinner time yet.”
I started to put the ingredients away and pile the dirty dishes in the sink.
“I could eat early,” he told me, generously.
I shook my head. “You’ll just get hungry early in the morning. You’re not hungry now, so just wait for your dinner time.”
“I’m always hungry,” he said, earnestly.
I laughed and got to work cleaning up.
**55 minutes later**
I pulled the cake out of the oven and set it on the cooling rack. While it sat, I quickly set to making the glaze. Once that was finished, I said a little prayer and flipped the finished, hot cake out onto the serving platter. My luck held and it came out in one piece. I picked up my pastry brush and applied the glaze.
I stepped back and admired my freshly baked cake, liking the way the glaze made it shiny.
“Ahem,” said a voice at my feet.
I looked down at him, eyebrows raised.
“Can I see?”
“Um...”
“Wouldn’t you rather have dinner?”
Happy Caturday, Peeps! Whether you choose to spend this lovely, gloomy, rainy (at least in So Cal) Caturday baking, cleaning, shopping, or loafing I hope everything is wonderful for you!
Note: Most of these little vignettes are based on things Freddie and I do over the course of the week. I did bake this cake and Freddie did spend the entire time demanding I feed him since I was in the kitchen anyway, damn it. Recipe is here, for anyone interested (Picture of my finished cake here). It was a nice, one-bowl recipe that my co-workers seemed to like. The last of it made a good breakfast this morning, too. 😁