I was brought up around cake. My father owned a bakery, and we lived right upstairs from it. I know cake from the inside, where it's made, on huge slabs of wood, the workstation, where cakes are made. The huge dough churning machines. My father's hands, kneading dough. The way he would decorate trays of cakes with speed and precision, as if the buttercreme bag was a gun.
I watched each time in awe when he would create buttercreme roses on a little pedestal, pushing out each delicate leaf, and decorating a wedding cake with dozens of these, white on white.
There was a huge barrel of sugar, with a scooper in there. I remember fetching sugar from there for our own stuff upstairs. We always had cake in the house. That was a given. My mother's sweet tooth, my father's penchant for it. I remember his 7-layer cake being around a whole lot. I can almost taste it now. I always counted the layers.
I always had the best birthday cakes. Mmm, birthday cake -- can't you just taste it?
In my novel there is always chocolate cake or rhubarb pie available for consumption.