Self-discovery story

Task for the week: we had two weeks to write a story based on something mundane that leads to a journey of self-discovery.

They say life begins at the end of your comfort zone. Gemma had never put the theory to the test though; she just fell into her mundane routine of eating, sleeping and working, with the odd bit of socialising thrown in. Each week was really a repeat of the previous one. At the back of her mind was a nagging thought that perhaps there was more to life than she was experiencing, but she didn’t know how to go about finding more meaning. Inside she was an empty husk; an automaton going through a life that seemed to blindly follow the lead of others. She didn’t feel brave enough to try something new, or deserving enough to do something for herself. But of course she pushed all this aside most of the time; to dwell on it would not bring her happiness or more contentment.

One Saturday morning though, Gemma could not help but dwell on her shabby existence of a life. Things at work were not going too well, her friend had cancelled on their planned meet up and Gemma was feeling alone. She was so caught up in her thoughts that the rattle of the letterbox made her jump. She hauled herself to her feet wondering if the postman might have brought her something of interest; an antidote to her present malaise. It was not the postman though; it was a local community newsletter. Gemma was ready to consign it to the recycling bin but as she picked it up a flyer dropped out. “The Big Bake Off. Can you rise to the occasion?” it read.

Gemma had to admit that her interest was piqued. It had aroused a bit of nostalgia in her: memories of baking with her gran when she was a lot younger. How she had enjoyed making a mess, licking the spoon of raw mix, watching the magic in the oven, and then eating the final result. It had been fun and had always given her a warm, fuzzy feeling. She wondered now if that was how contentment felt. It made her consider picking up a wooden spoon again and a big mixing bowl to see if that feeling could once again come to her. She was very competitive and she liked the idea of then entering her bake for judging. But no, she dismissed the thought as soon as it had arisen. She was no star baker and even with practice she might fall short. Somehow though, she couldn’t bear to throw the flyer away.

Life went on as usual and a couple of weeks passed, but Gemma could not displace the idea of taking up baking again and entering the competition. So it was, one Saturday morning she set out for town to equip herself with some baking essentials. That afternoon she embarked on her first cake: a simple Victoria sponge. She creamed together the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. She cracked her eggs in a separate bowl and lightly whisked together with a dash of vanilla extract, before beating the egg gradually in to the creamed butter and sugar, adding a spoon of flour to ensure the mixture did not split. She could feel the love flowing from her heart, down the wooden spoon and into the mixing bowl. Gradually she gently folded in the rest of the flour. Her first cake mix was now complete after nearly 20 years; it seemed she had not forgotten what to do. It had felt so natural. Of course she had to have an obligatory lick of the spoon, just to check it was OK.

With the cake in the oven, Gemma sat on the floor peering in through the oven door. She didn’t want to miss seeing the magic happen…or the magic she hoped would happen. The cake started to rise; she breathed out a sigh of relief. With the cake now cooked and out of the oven, Gemma was getting impatient: she wanted to see if it was any good. It might have looked the part but it was all about the taste and texture. She still had to fill it, so once the cake was cooled she spread one half with raspberry jam and some halved raspberries, and the other half with buttercream. The buttercream covered the kitchen in a light film of icing sugar; she’d forgotten how messy it was to make. But now, finally, she could have a taste.

She was not to be disappointed. It was light and buttery and slipped down a treat. It seemed baking was a little like riding a bicycle: you didn’t forget how to do it. And it seemed to be delivering a natural high for her. The elation was mixed with pride and she had enjoyed the chance to be creative. With the competition only a week away now though, the pressure was on.

Every day Gemma made time to practice her baking. She lived alone and with her relatives scattered around the country she couldn’t share the fruits of her labour with them, so her friends became friendlier, ever eager to try one of her latest creations. They enjoyed her cakes and were very encouraging, so Gemma found her confidence growing. Eventually she settled on making a courgette and lime cake for the competition as one of the categories was vegetable cakes. On Friday she took the day off work and set about creating it.

Grating the courgettes was hard work but surprisingly therapeutic. She figured that most people probably used a food processor rather than doing it by hand, but Gemma didn’t have a food processor. Anyway, she enjoyed feeling the ingredients with which she was working and she figured it would invest the cake with more love, which was bound to make it taste better. She whipped up the cake mix quickly, it feeling like second nature to her now. There was something so comforting about it. As the smell of cake began to fill the house, Gemma knew it was about ready. She carefully lifted the cake out the oven, checking it was properly cooked with a skewer. Leaving it to cool she made a start on the candied lime peel for decoration, boiling the peel in a sugar syrup which filled the house with a sickly sweet aroma, mixed with undertones of citrus. Next up was the lime buttercream with which to fill and top the cake. By now she managed to create less of an icing sugar cloud when making the buttercream, adding the icing sugar to the butter gradually, instead of trying to combine it all in one go. Carefully she piped the buttercream on the top of the cake and sprinkled over the candied lime peel, along with some lime zest. Cake complete!

As Saturday morning dawned, Gemma was awake with the larks, so excited and nervous was she about the competition. As she placed her cake on the judging table she could not help but compare it to the others already there. They all looked stunning; all she could hope was that hers tasted the best as it wasn’t quite as pretty to look at; she’d not yet fully mastered the art of piping even though it had improved considerably since her first attempts.

The wait for the result was the hardest part; the judges seemingly taking ages in the marquee with their deliberations. Eventually out they came and the bakers were allowed back in to see how their cakes were ranked. Gemma’s eyes slid over the table towards her own cake. It now had a slice missing and she could see the inside looked a lovely texture. Her eyes slid down on to the table; at the side of her creation was a little card with second written on it. She could hardly believe it. Before she realised, tears were streaming down her face. It felt like her place in the universe had been cemented; she could bake. Never again was she going to say she wasn’t going to try something; it just showed that when she put her mind to it, she could excel. Look how far she had come in a week!

As normal life resumed after the excitement of the Bake Off, Gemma found herself with a new sense of purpose and confidence. Her friends and colleagues noticed that she seemed different; happier and surer of herself. Gemma had to admit it was true. The simple act of baking continued to give her so much pleasure and as each cake came out the oven, she felt complete. There was also something about pleasing people with her endeavours: cake seemed to melt the ice in everyone who ate a slice of it. She was pleased she’d pushed herself out of her comfort zone to begin baking again and enter the competition. It seemed life truly did begin at the end of your comfort zone.

Adventure story

Task for the week: we had two weeks to write an adventure story based on something mundane.

All she needed was a few of the big five game animals and she could start running safaris. The garden was so overgrown it resembled the savannah grasslands of southern Africa. The grass was knee high but somewhat eclipsed by the multitude of weeds. Tilly had now successfully renovated the run down house, but the garden still remained: one final project and what a project it was, especially as gardening was not her forte. She had hired a strimmer for the weekend though so there could be no more putting it off.

Taking a deep breath Tilly tentatively took a swipe at the undergrowth nearest the back door. As soon as the blade made contact, the noise made her jump and she took a step backwards. This was her first time with a strimmer. She tried again though and soon started to find the rhythm hypnotic, even if the noise was deafening. Tilly decided she should perhaps put the ear defenders on after all. And so it was that she entered a little world of her own; one woman and her strimmer.

With about a quarter of the garden cleared, Tilly noticed some small blue flowers, trumpet shaped and slightly drooping, alongside some strap-shaped leaves. But by the time she’d registered this plant didn’t look like the rest of the weeds she’d been strimming, it was almost too late; the strimmer had already cut through part of the plant. Bending down she reached to cup a flower in her hand. It was beautiful. She decided to dig it up so it could be transplanted to somewhere in the cleared garden, or even a pot, temporarily. But as she pulled the clump out of the ground, she overbalanced and found herself tumbling over and over. When she finally stopped and managed to look around her Tilly realised that she was no longer in the savannah grasslands of her back garden, but in real savannah grasslands. It seemed she had landed in Africa. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Tilly barely had chance to draw breath before a dusty jeep pulled up alongside her, the driver calling at her to climb in. She duly did so, excited at the prospect of a safari. As the vehicle bounced along the dirt track, Tilly clung on for dear life. However, she soon got used to the bucking bronco effect and relaxed her grip, giving her more time to look around and, in the hope of spotting some wildlife, survey the view. It took her breath away: the vast expanse of the grasslands and the big sky. She felt very small indeed.

Suddenly the jeep pulled up and the driver pointed towards a large bush and handed her a pair of binoculars. Tilly could see nothing but the bush and was just about to ask what she was supposed to be looking at when there was movement. An elephant’s head pushed its way out. She could see the dry, wrinkled, grey skin, a tusk the colour of buttermilk, and the long flexible trunk gripping some vegetation and offering it up to its mouth. As she lowered the binoculars more movement caught her eye. There was not the one elephant but several, including a baby. She gasped with awe.

The jeep set off again and the driver informed her they were heading towards a watering hole, where hopefully there would be plenty of action. The light was beginning to fade but Tilly’s luck was in. It was not long before a group of antelope arrived. Tilly could clearly make out their white bottoms, shining like torches in the night, with their white underbelly looking like a reflective gilet. They were soon to be joined by a few giraffes, splaying their front legs to allow them to drink from the pool of water. They looked quite comical and Tilly could not help but smile. They were beautiful though, their fawn and ivory markings reminding her of a patchwork quilt.

Tilly was captivated. But there was more to see. As she scanned the perimeter of the watering hole with her binoculars she alighted on a crocodile, almost looking like a log, but she could just make out the protruding eyes and a cone-shaped tooth visible even though the jaw was closed.

Suddenly there was movement amongst the antelope and giraffes and they headed, en masse, away from the watering hole at a decent pace. Tilly would soon find out why. Approaching slowly was a scrawny lion. He came nearer and began lapping at the water’s edge. He was clearly aging and beyond his prime, his mane not full and flowing like she associated with lions and his fur not a radiant orange, but a nutty brown. He moved off. They waited.

They were really losing the light now, the sky glowing a purple-red and casting a pinkish light across the grasslands. She was informed they would soon have to head back to camp, but their patience paid off. A rhinoceros emerged. The guide thought it was a black one, rather than the more common white rhino, as it was fairly small and had a pointier shaped mouth. Either way, it was still a large beast with two dangerous looking horns.

The air was cooling now, replacing the dry heat of the day, and Tilly was grateful for the warm blanket tucked under her seat. The jeep re-joined a tarmacked road and the gentle lilting, along with the excitements of the day, lulled Tilly to sleep. She awoke with a crick in her neck, expecting to have arrived at the safari camp, but the sight that greeted her was the overgrown garden back at home. The light had faded and Tilly could see that she had barely made inroads into clearing the garden. She would have to have a better stab at it tomorrow. On the paving though, at her feet, was the blue agapanthus she had discovered earlier in the day. She smiled at it fondly; she might not have bagged all five of the big five game animals but it had certainly taken her on an amazing adventure.