Chapter 1: The Legacy of Forgotten Treats

In 2020, I had a Christmas pudding that went uneaten. It makes me wonder how many individuals prepared substantial festive puddings last November, only to find that their families wouldn't gather, leading them to postpone it for a year—waiting for a time when everyone could come together again. Perhaps it will taste better next year, allowing us to reflect on that extra year—the one when Christmas was effectively canceled, a year etched in our memories.

A similar experience occurred when I purchased a Fry’s Peppermint Cream but opted to take a walk instead of consuming it immediately. Hours later, I rediscovered it in my pocket, and rather than indulging right away, I chose to set it aside, hoping to enjoy the surprise all over again later.

Recently, I stumbled upon a forgotten bottle of Pontac sauce in the back of a cupboard. It has another year to age before I can taste it. I have diligently followed the recipe from Florence White’s ‘Good Things in England’ and have allowed it to mature for six years. At this point, I can scarcely recall its contents. I know it includes elderberries and vinegar, but I will need to consult the recipe when the time finally arrives. This process of storing and waiting evokes a sense of nostalgia and anticipation, akin to a game where the act of home-ageing becomes a delightful mystery filled with surprises.

The allure of a seven-year sauce lies not only in the flavor development—from a sharp, vinegary taste to a rich, mellow one—but also in the reflections on growth, decay, and our relationship with time and mortality.

Long-term aging exists not only in home kitchens but also in large-scale food and beverage production. Consider the remarkable 15-year-aged Blonde Aquitaine rib steak, the 18-year matured Bitto Storico cheese from Lombardy, or even the extravagant Glenlavons Special Liqueur Whisky, bottled in the 1850s and auctioned for £14,850. Each item carries with it a history, potentially older than your vehicle or even your children, and perhaps predating significant historical events.

However, when it comes to food that occupies our homes, the significance shifts. Since brewing my Pontac sauce, I have relocated three times, and I am uncertain where I will be when I finally open it, let alone the world I will inhabit.

Fruitcakes are typically the most common items for long-term storage. They could be a Christmas cake left to mature for a year or two, but there are also astonishing historical examples, like Scott of the Antarctic’s cake, which was retrieved from the ice a century after he abandoned it, or the one kept by a Michigan family since it was baked in 1878, shortly before the baker's death.

The traditional, romanticized notion of long-aged, alcohol-infused confections aligns with scientific findings. Research has shown how fruit tannins evolve similarly to wine, and how, through some alchemical process, fruitcakes retain moisture while preventing bacteria from ruining their appearance. Some foods genuinely improve with time, but in the midst of storage, forgetting, and remembering, we embark on an ontological journey where the everyday act of eating transforms into a physical representation of memory and a domestic memorial.

Food is primarily meant for consumption, and unless you work in the cheese or brewing industries, you typically wish to eat what you've prepared right away or within a few days. In a home kitchen, ingredients transition into meals, leftovers, and eventually find their way into the bin. The presence of a food item intended for long-term storage necessitates a complete reevaluation of our relationship with what we consume. Suddenly, you're wrapping your new creation in protective layers and seeking space in cupboards, on top of wardrobes, or under beds for your jars and cans. It evolves from being a mere part of the supermarket-to-table cycle to becoming a resident in your household.

Families often have their meaningful meals—those reserved for special occasions and repeated through tradition. Recently, it was reported that 59% of British families tend to stick to the same six meals week after week. The meals we replicate, or those made again due to family favorites, may even be documented. A recipe serves as guidance for a performance, with each serving reiterating the original concept. However, the old cake lurking in the drawer embodies the idea itself; the continuously made meal exists perpetually, consistently enjoyed and always returning. This stands in stark contrast to the aging food, which lazily accumulates flavor, a meal deferred, sometimes indefinitely. The cake that may never be eaten has transcended its culinary purpose, akin to a deep-space traveler in stasis, awaiting the unfolding of humanity’s future, unseen and unmoving behind a frozen facade.

The cakes we do eventually consume connect us to seasons gone by, offering a comforting reminder as we move forward. They present a potential dish to share with someone new in our lives—someone we didn't know existed when we baked it—or evoke memories of those we've lost, individuals who would have cherished or detested it.

In 2019, I made an extra Christmas pudding purely by accident, but I never found a purpose for it in 2020 due to well-known circumstances. I've resolved to keep it permanently, stored separately from the Pontac Sauce, wrapped in paper inside an old cake tin. There may never be a better moment to inaugurate my personal monument. I will have baked it just after the first Covid case was reported in China, unaware of the impending changes for us all. By the time the 2020 Christmas was canceled, it had survived two million lives lost to the disease. If I preserve it for thirty or forty years, I could pass it on to my children, who might share its story with their kids about the significant event in history—witnessing its packaging fade and the design become outdated. It might even accompany me to my funeral or be showcased during the wake, a curiosity in a world that has moved beyond interest in past diseases and the lessons they impart.

When I finally indulged in that Fry’s Peppermint Cream, the excitement of waiting had been overtaken by hunger. I’ve also been guilty of receiving wine as gifts and waiting too long for the right occasion to drink them. The longer wine remains untouched, the more monumental its consumption seems. Eventually, no occasion feels special enough, and when you finally uncork it, the experience often falls short of your expectations. This sentiment holds true for that ancient cake or pudding; the longer you wait, the more challenging it becomes to find the right moment. Ultimately, you may need to let it go and accept that you will never eat it. The line between memorializing and abandoning is surprisingly thin; rather than waiting for the cake, the cake is waiting for you.

Chapter 2: The Essence of Waiting and Memory

The video titled "I found an OLD recipe! Delicious cake with unique icing!" explores the significance of rediscovering old recipes and the memories they evoke, showcasing the beauty of time-honored treats and their stories.