I’ve Been Thinking About Cake (and Politics or Whatever?)

Hannah Radley

I’ve been thinking about cake. True, I’m often thinking about cake. I like chocolate cake that’s dense in the middle and probably a minute underdone. I love cheese cake but only the kind that you bake. I love carrot cake without raisins and I think fruitcake is perverse. Cupcakes should only be called fairy cakes and decorated as garishly as possible. Cake does not need cream, but neither do I really need cake, so I won’t judge.

I’ve been thinking about cake more specifically though because, as I write, Boris Johnson has been found to have had a birthday party where he was “ambushed with cake”, which I actually think sounds rather lovely, as ambushes go.

This story is shocking. It reveals deplorable, hypocritical and moronic behaviour. But it also firmly cements a suspicion I’ve been sitting on for quite some time. This is the belief that the moment the private sphere hits the political sphere is the moment you have a proper story. This is because people’s personal lives are what the masses actually care about. Or, perhaps this is projection. It’s what  I mostly care about. 

This is a major confession and one I’m still processing. At my 11+ interviews I said I was passionate about politics only to be completely foiled when they asked me who the president of the US was - it was Bush, I realise that now. At secondary school I became a “rabid socialist” and argued passionately but quite possibly inaccurately with anyone who disagreed. In fact, my PE teacher at parent’s evening said to my parents, “You wouldn’t think it but Hannah and I actually have something in common. We both hate Maggie Thatcher”. I even have an MA in contemporary politics. Though this is when I knew the gambit was up.

I would sit in seminars with academic geniuses and former politicians pondering how I was going to use up the rest of the cauliflower slowly wilting in the fridge. Whilst we were deciphering political commentary around Tony Blair in Iraq, I was thinking about whether the girl three to my right has a crush on the guy inexplicably wearing a three piece suit. Whilst questioning Ed Balls himself on his decision to not join the eurozone, it was physically painful for me that I couldn’t ask him what Craig Revel Horwood was really like in the flesh.

Unfortunately, focussing on the nuances of policy is difficult for me. I’m not sure I have ever understood economic theory enough to understand the pros and cons of different financial strategies. I voted remain and I know it was the right decision, but when pressed I possibly couldn’t give you a thoughtful and considered reason as to why. I of course care about the moralities of it all but the technicalities make me want to curl up in a ball and think about what cake I want to bake next. 

I wonder, as I reread my favourite book, Heartburn,  if the same thoughts occupied Nora Ephron’s brain too. Nora was originally a political journalist, and had even been an intern at the White House but gave it all up to write about less important things.  You know food, friendship and love. That old shit. One of the fruit’s of this shift was Heartburn, a short novel that is really not a novel at all, but more or less Ephron’s real life experience of marriage to a cheating husband.

That cheating husband happened to be Carl Bernstein, who despite being an utter schmuck to our dear Nora, was regarded as a national hero uncovering some, like, very serious corruption in the US government or whatever. Waterarch, Wetgate? Waterwhocares? You may have seen all this exciting action in the very famous Oscar winning film All The President’s Men.

This may be my hottest take ever: I think All The President’s Men and Heartburn are companion pieces. President’s Men ends with Carl’s discovery throwing the government out of office. Heartburn ends with Nora throwing a Key Lime Pie directly in the face of that same Carl. Both pieces are arguably about abuse of power and trust; one is about a cheating, lying president and the other a cheating, lying husband. But All The President’s Men doesn’t have recipes. Thank you, next.

I loved All The President’s Men, or at least I pretended to. But I sat  through the whole film and I just thought- you’ve got Robert Redford, the most handsome man in the world and Dustin Hoffman, in my opinion the horniest man in the world, why is no one kissing?! It was just that there was sooooo much talking and of course it’s fascinating and hugely important but maybe only to an extent. I think about the same Carl that Hoffman portrays, not uncovering vital intelligence on the US government but simply at the dinner table with Nora and their eccentric companions,  laughing over linguine alla cecca – like a tomato salad with pasta, Nora of course describes it better. That dinner table is where I want to be. The Washington Post’s office looks dull in comparison.

Partygate has rocked us so deeply. We can’t all understand the complexities of parliament or laws going through; though I imagine, neither do most MPs. What we can understand though, on a fundamental human level, is why it’s deeply unfair that Boris Johnson got to have a birthday with a caterpillar cake, whilst at the same time people couldn’t go to funerals, say final goodbyes to loved ones or hug and comfort their own family. That is simple, mean, cruel behaviour that can’t be hidden by clever words or mental gymnastics. 

And that speaks to the truth of Heartburn. I think Nora is analysing the personal and the political at the same time. She’s dealing with liars, fake friendship, and her own prejudices - of which she has many. Navigating the world as she finds her husband cheating with someone she knows whilst she’s pregnant. The pulling between wanting to be with him or break free is inherently political and her salvation comes in the opportunity to become economically independent by selling his ring. And all the while, food is still central. Or fundamental. As it is to everyone in some way or another, and I bet Nora would have a great recipe for a cake to throw at Boris. Chocolate please.