Reminiscing an old love for Christmas log cakes
The scrumptious-looking log-cake recipes and photos published in newspapers and magazines during the 1990s-2000s were all the fancy for a child growing up in a small town
Childhood naivete makes everything seem vivid, especially the festivities - regardless of the faith associated with them.
As a child who grew up between the 1990s to early 2000s in a Jamuna-side town in Bangladesh, approaching double digits in age, the most jovial aspects of the Christmas season were the recipes and photos of the colourful cakes that would be published in the newspapers and magazines available.
Those days, I could barely read and the only reading and seeing materials on culinary matters were the daily Prothom Alo's weekly Naksha page - which would be run every Tuesday and the fortnightly magazine Sananda that my mother and aunt were fond of.
I developed a "love" for scrumptious log cakes they would publish during the Christmas season - about even before having the slightest idea of what that intense and pure feeling might be, and of course - tasting the cakes.
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But such delightful indulgences were not available in the small town I lived in then.
And so, I would resort to my aunt and grandmother to make me the cakes, given their adeptness in good food and cooking with love.
But they weren't able to given the ingredients and instruments were not available there either.
Despite their failed attempts, their love and the essence of their endeavours left an indelible mark on my heart.
These experiences cultivated within me a fondness not just for log cakes, but for the warmth of family and the beauty found in cherished, albeit imperfect, moments.
Fueled by these cherished memories and a seemingly unyielding fancy, my penchant for coffee and cake blossomed.
Now, many years later, I can both cook and easily have cakes.
And it has become a sort of a ritual to have a slice of cake and a cup of coffee with a dear one, albeit, with a notable absence of the last part.
But serenading bitter solitude with sweetness has a different kind of inebriation.
The absence of log cakes during those formative years mended into an appreciation for the simple pleasures of togetherness and the artistry of homemade delights.
As I sit alone at a ritzy cafe, with coffee and cake - the aroma dances with the whispers of cherished anecdotes, crafting a tale of nostalgia, resilience, and the unwavering beauty found within imperfect yet lovingly crafted moments.
