Those who know me better understand that the Lycra uniform sported by superheroes would do nothing for me, and that I simply whip out the spatulas and spoons to kid myself that I really am a domestic goddess to counter the mounting evidence that I am anything but.
I have two friends who still recall with misty eyed fondness visiting me when all our first babies were freshly out of the womb and scoffing down thick slices of cherry and almond cake warm from my oven. The speak of this cake in awed tones as if it were manna from heaven. But I am sure it was more what the cake stood for that made it so special, a touch of indulgence in lives so recently plunged into dark drudgery of by our newborn babies. The chance to stop still and treat yourself in an endless day of breastfeeding, nappy changes and crying babies.
When each of my subsequent babies were born I had to bake the same cake as some sort of birthing ritual, to prove I could still find the space and time to be me in a world that is increasingly dominated by my babies. And any day, such as this, which starts sadly can only be improved by the addition of a homemade cheesecake
I am not sure that my brand of baking therapy is to everyone's taste, but it works for me and the best bit is that I get to have my cake and eat it.