The Secret Ingredient Is Always the Memories

Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?

Fairy cakes.

That first warm bite, still slightly soft in the middle, takes me straight back to my Nan’s kitchen during the summer holidays. I’d be up on a chair, sleeves rolled up, helping her measure flour and sugar like we were creating something magical.

We’d mix everything in this huge, old ceramic bowl, the kind that feels like it’s seen a hundred years of cakes and still isn’t done. It sat solid on the counter while I stirred with all the strength my little arms could manage. I still have that bowl. Me and my son use it now when we bake. It’s chipped at the rim and faded in places, but it’s the kind of thing you never replace, because it holds more than just ingredients.

Sometimes we’d make a Victoria sponge too, filled with thick strawberry jam, or lemon curd if the jam had mysteriously vanished. And we’d hover by the oven door, waiting for the top to rise, turn golden brown and crack just slightly. That’s when you knew it was ready.

I didn’t know then how much I’d carry those moments. But every now and then, when the kitchen smells just right, I remember.