The Rickety Tower
Back in secondary school, we were introduced to a subject called Vocational Aptitude. As part of the course, we were asked to pick a vocation that interested us. There were so many options to choose from, but I went with baking, mostly because I thought it was girly and cute.
We were given two months to learn our chosen skills before taking a test. Everyone took it seriously; obviously no one wanted to fail a subject that seemed so simple, especially one we got to choose ourselves.
I genuinely enjoyed my baking classes. My teacher was kind and patient, and she always shared whatever we baked at the end of each lesson. It was such a fun and fulfilling class. My favorite part was wearing my apron and getting flour all over myself. I never wanted to wipe it off before heading home as I wanted my mom to see me and be proud of her little baker.
We learned how to bake cakes and make klenat (a crunchy fried dough), but our main focus was on cakes(their icing and toppings). Our tutor showed us the essential steps and ingredients, and once she thought we had mastered the basics, she put us in groups and let each group take turns baking a two-layer cake for practicals. Unfortunately, before it got to my group’s turn, our two months were up and we had to return to normalcy at school for our individual tests.
That was when the shock came. I was assigned to bake a ten-layer cake. First thing that came out of my mouth when I was given the assignment was “at my age?” And the whole class erupted with laughter. It was supposed to look like a wedding cake, just smaller in size to reduce cost. I almost cried when I saw the instructions. I had never baked even a one-layer cake on my own, but I was expected to pull off ten!
I took a few deep breaths and ran to my mom for help. I had just one week to bring the finished cake to school. Mom helped me shop for ingredients while I got busy mixing and baking in the kitchen.
Somehow, I managed to get to the ninth layer, though by then, my cake looked like something out of a nursery rhyme, a leaning, wobbly tower. The ninth layer almost broke me, but I was determined to finish that night so I could deal with the icing in the morning. Sweaty, tired and frustrated, I finally stepped aside to rest pretty much in time for Mom to offer her help with the tenth layer.
Well, let’s just say her “help” didn’t go quite as planned. Three layers came tumbling down. Speechless and fighting back irritation, I politely asked her to give me space.
That night, I stayed up fixing the damage and finally got to the tenth layer. It was stressful, and the cake looked rickety but I told myself there was nothing wrong with having a unique cake.
The next morning, I iced and decorated it using my recipe notebook as a guide. Dad helped me take it to school and when my classmates saw it, they nicknamed it “Rickety Tower.”
When the results came out, I got a distinction in the subject. I guess my teacher saw the effort and creativity that went into my crooked layer. I’ll never forget that experience. My perfectly imperfect ten-layer cake.
I used pixabay images because I don’t have images of my first ever baked cake. I didn’t have a phone back then. My parents are more of the real world people, focused more on education and creativity than letting me own a device with a camera.
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