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Alfred had been working for the Waynes for a few months, and was beginning to feel terribly homesick. Everything about America was different, from the people to the cars to the cities. Even the water tasted different.
Worst of all, Alfred missed his mother’s cooking.
It was an odd thing to miss, at his age. It made him feel terribly juvenile, like a boy who wasn’t ready to let go of his mother’s apron strings. Still, his homesickness was beginning to affect his work. He had to do something about it.
He ended up commandeering the kitchen on a quiet Saturday morning, with permission from the cook, to make a lemon cake recipe that he had inherited from his mother. It wouldn’t be quite the same as when his mother made it, but it would be close enough to dispel some of that terrible homesickness.
The recipe was simple enough. Butter, sugar, eggs, self-raising flour, as well as the juice and zest of a lemon. The ingredients were not too expensive or indulgent, but Alfred still felt a pang of guilt as he mixed the butter and sugar together. The war might have been left in the past by many people, but Alfred could still remember a time when rationing was in place. He had been born in the final year of the Second World War, and rationing had officially ended a few months after his ninth birthday, in 1954. He had grown up with several brothers and a mother who was trying desperately to make too little food stretch as far as possible. Things like cake were a rare treat when even butter was difficult to get.
Alfred still felt guilty for the meagre spread of butter he had on his toast each morning. Even if the cost of these ingredients came out of his paycheck, it did feel a bit like he was wasting the Waynes’ money on something frivolous. This sort of behaviour should have been beaten out of him, by this point of his life, and yet, here he was, clinging to a minor frivolity as though it would do him any good.
Alfred pushed the thought away, going back to the familiar steps to the recipe. A lot of baking was similar, when you knew the basics. This recipe was an old one, made by Alfred’s grandmother in the Victorian era, when she worked for a wealthy family in London. Funny, how they had ended up in such similar situations almost eighty years apart.
With the batter complete, Alfred poured it into a loaf tin and placed it carefully into the oven. Now all he had to do was wait.
A few minutes later, Thomas came into the kitchen. “Alfred… are you baking something?”
Once again, Alfred felt a little foolish, but he pushed through. He had permission from the cook. This may have been Thomas’ house, but Alfred was allowed to use certain areas if he so desired.
“I am making lemon cake,” Alfred said. “My mother’s recipe.”
“Sounds delicious,” Thomas replied. “Shall I call Martha down when it's ready? We could share it.”
Thomas really was an easy man to become fond of , Alfred thought.
He found himself agreeing to Thomas’ offer without thinking, and when the cake was fully baked, he cut each of them a slice. The moment was as perfect as the cake.