Lately I’ve developed an infatuation with cake stands. Or to be more precise, the idea of owning a cake stand. Allow me to explain.
I love what cake stands, and by extension, their owners, represent. The elusive and somewhat mystical cake stand owner is a curious creature who is:
a) a regular and talented baker and
b) has enough self-control to exist in close proximity to a large portion of delicious baked goods and not eat it all in one go.
I often fantasize about what my life would be like as one such cake stand owner. I’d wear a lot of frilly aprons, of course (but I’d wear them ironically, not in a repressed housewife kind of way), and I’d bake a tantalising array of gourmet delights. Perhaps I’d prepare an understated fig and almond tart on Tuesday, or an elaborate multi-layer chocolate cake on Sunday.
I wouldn’t bake out of necessity (though I would believe that baking imperatives exist), or with a particular occasion in mind. I’d bake simply for the joy of it.
Of course, implicit in the cake stand scenario is the notion that I’d also be the kind of person who welcomes a steady stream of friends and family into my home for a cup of tea and something sweet at any given time. And of course, the natural extension of cake stand owning is that I’d be quickly approached by Vogue Living wanting to do a feature on my home.
Fantasy firmly established in my mind, I was about to make the purchase when it occurred to me. I’m a terrible baker (there’s just something about precision of measurement that doesn’t sit well with me). And I’m also awful at resisting temptation in the form of baked goods. And the fact that I live in a security-coded building in a different state to my family tends to put a bit of a dampener on those unexpected ‘drop-ins’. Reluctantly, I set the item of my desire down and left the store.
Besides, I reasoned, if Vogue did call, I’d still have plenty of time to rush out and buy one.