She opened the cupboard door: plain wood, unadorned, without any show of grandeur. At its centre, a single pane of lightly etched glass, modest in its design. A faint trace of dish soap lingered in the air, almost erased by time, no strong perfume, no freshness, nothing warm or welcoming.
First came the laying of the temple’s foundation. She set a mixing bowl upon the worktop and dusted it with fine pale powder with gentle hands. A thin fall of snow settled soundlessly around its rim.
A soft yellow richness of butter dropped into the bowl. Stirring, folding, kneading, until a pleasing dough was formed. A shower of sugar was sprinkled, then an egg. A few drops of vanilla slowly infused the dough, like the quiet promise of a dream. At that moment, the foundation was ready for the temple to rise, to enter the heat and submit to the quest of Hephaestus.
She moved on to the raising of the castle walls, born of the same motion, yet loftier, rising above the small cocoa-dark columns of the temple below. The temple, elevated by its castle, was placed upon a square of blue cardboard.
Beneath the gentle caress of the spatula, the cream took shape with tenderness. She blended in again the vanilla, deepening the softness further. To the left, to the right, and above, layer upon layer, until a silky, creamy Venus seemed determined to cloak the violence of Hephaestus, to soften and make one forget the harshness of the trial by fire.
She scattered those wee golden paper stars within the temple’s small alcove, adorning it with grapes, almonds, and slices of orange. Upon the castle’s summit, a few petals of rose and violet came to rest, and the fragile blue of borage punctuated the harmony of colours like a memory, lingering in eyes.
At last, the final touch was laid down like a lake of jam. Within that lake, peach carried the principal bouquet, softened by the discreet presence of vanilla.
She surveyed the cake, a cake bearing all her luminous aspirations, her sparkling desires and shimmering dreams; perhaps, too, a trace of vanity.
In one final gesture, whipped mascarpone and chai spices slipped in like a bitter breath of life, bringing inner calm and tempering this euphoria of sweetness.
It seems to me that chai and vanilla are in harmony.
