My aunt was chastising me for not carrying on my mother’s legacy of pineapple tarts and butter cakes. Why had I been so resistant?
‘A
iyah, why don’t you bake?” my Aunt Julie scolded, her voice shrill with disbelief. “You should learn how to bake for the sake of your child! Your mother was such a good baker!” Her comment stung. I had always adored my mother’s youngest sister. As the only member of my family who also lived in Germany, we had a special bond.
But here she was, chastising me for failing to be a good mother before I had even given birth. I contemplated the question from her immaculate kitchen, where I stood round, hormonal, in my second trimester of pregnancy and on the precipice of new motherhood. But I didn’t have an answer.
Aunt Julie was right. My mother had been an excellent baker. The best, really. The kind who baked after work late into the night just because someone asked for her melt-in-your-mouth pineapple tarts or pandan chiffon cake. She kept her recipes in a thick, blue-lined, leopard-print notebook filled with neat, girlish handwriting and yellowed magazine clippings. My aunts, her sisters and my father’s, used to call her regularly for instructions and she always obliged. My Aunt Joanne waxes lyrical about her butter cake to this day, remembering it in hushed tones of awe.
