When I first met my husband Lee almost 15 years ago, I could tell he was the perfect man for me. He was kind, funny, good-looking (shallow of me, yes, but honest), and intelligent. Also – as his friends and family pointed out – the man could bake, really bake. Not being a fan of baked goods or sweet treats in general (I prefer savouries such as cheese and olives), I wasn’t fussed about the talent for making cakes, but I went along with it anyway, figuring it would hardly impact on our lives together. How wrong I was.
On our second date, he invited me over to his house where he whipped up a decadent chocolate cake for dessert (I should have been elated I suppose; when cockroaches court, they make the object of their desire watch them do endless series of push-ups. I would much prefer cake). Though it was lovely, I wasn’t into the cake, but like all people entering new relationships, I lied and told him I LOVED IT!
He, in turn, told me he loved Duran Duran just as much, and for a while it seemed like things could be okay… until that first cake turned into a tray of cupcakes the following week, followed by some breakfast muffins the week after that. On and on it went until I was forced to admit the ugly truth that I truly did not care for cakes or baked goods in general and did not wish to eat them anymore. Lee looked at me as though he’d been punched in the stomach, his mind searching for explanations on how someone could not like cake, but eventually he said through gritted teeth, “Fine, I guess we can try to make… the situation… work.” He also took this moment to point out he really did not like Duran Duran either, SO THERE.
Now that we’re well into our second decade of marriage, I’m the first to admit that being married to someone who loves to bake certainly has its advantages. Our children, for example, always have impressive made-to-order cakes for their birthdays (had mum been in charge, it would have been store-bought all the way) and I always get a Pavlova for mine (it’s one of my few sweets I love). Bake sale at school? He’ll stay up all night baking all manner of slices and cupcakes. Family event? Lee’s got it covered with not one dessert, but a multitude to choose from (“I can’t help it,” he tells me. “I get into the zone and then one dessert just doesn’t seem to be enough”). One year, he made dozens of macarons for me to take into the office to help raise money for our charity morning tea. As my colleagues tucked into lighter-than-light rosewater cream and salted caramel bites, they swooned over my ‘perfect’ husband. “You’re so lucky – you know that, right?” Hmm, I’m going to go with yes and no. And also take a moment to tell you that I also have some rather cool skills up my own sleeve, like push-starting cars and changing oil. Erm, that’s about it.
When you’re the wife of someone who loves to bake, the reality of your life together is a little different to what people imagine.
Baked by Lee: Birthdays are always sorted in this writer's house Source: Dilvin Yasa
First, there are all the countless hours you spend on the couch alone as your partner locks themselves away in the kitchen perfecting their craft (once, he spent TWO DAYS making Bourke Street Bakery’s famous ginger tarts). Then if, like me, you’re not interested in eating the fruits of their labour, there are the arguments that follow the presentation of such goods. “Just have one slice/piece/macaron! ONE!” he will insist even though 13 years of experience should tell him by now that I’d really rather not. “I’ve worked so hard on it!” All well and good, but when I do happen upon something I really like and would like to see more of - such as the fiery ginger cake that burnt my mouth like I’d been gargling mouthwash for 10 minutes – he will never bake it again so that it’s almost like torture and I wish to God I’d never met that ginger cake in the first place.
And sometimes, things go so terribly wrong that we quickly need early morning or midnight dashes to our local supermarket – such as earlier this year when Lee made 30 cupcakes for our daughter’s classmates to enjoy on her birthday this year. He was just settling into bed, proud of his hard work, but he sat up with a shot. “Oh no!” he said, quickly putting his jeans back on. “I used peanut oil in the mixture!” After a quick late-night replacement cupcake grab from Coles, he made it clear that we would have to find ways to consume all 30 of those cupcakes between us. “But I don’t eat sweets!” I yelled into the abyss for what felt like the 330,000th time since we met, but I know it doesn’t matter. I’ve made the bed in which I lie.
Today, I’m a lot closer to accepting my position as a baking widow, and some might say that since I’ve purchased Lee a Kitchenaid and countless baking books, I’m actually an enabler. This might be true, but I think my acceptance comes down to the realisation that I just want Lee to be happy (and believe me when I tell you that baking makes him happy). And if his hobby gets him out of my hair for long enough for me to eat cheese and listen to Duran Duran without a single snide comment, I’ll say that we have indeed found a successful method to making ‘the situation’ work. It’s compromise. It’s marriage.
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