Once upon a time, there was a wonderful cantor in the Jewish community of Cologne, Shimon Ben Zeev. And he had an equally remarkable wife, Hedva. She was the embodiment of what one might imagine an English lady to be—always impeccably groomed, with an ideally kept home, beautiful napkins, delicious tea, and mouthwatering cakes. At the same time, she had a wonderful sense of humour, was incredibly caring, and was an active member of the Jewish women’s organization. I always thought I wanted to grow up and be like Hedva. Hedva passed away many years ago. I grew up (didn’t quite become Hedva, but I hope she would “approve” of me nonetheless). Hedva had a signature honey cake, which she called “Anke’s Cake,” after the woman who gave her the recipe. The recipe was typed on a typewriter, and anyone who asked for it would receive a copy. The cake turns out wonderfully fluffy, fragrant, and magical. Over time, in my circle of friends and mine, it became “Hedva’s Cake.” I bake it yearly, and every time I hear her voice, I remember, “Remember, this cake loves to play tricks. It might bake in an hour, or it might spend two hours giving you trouble.” Baking brings me a sense of calm no matter what’s happening around me. Right now, that mischievous cake has been in the oven for over an hour, filling the house with its warm aroma, but it’s still not quite ready. Yet, I know it will be ready soon, and everything will be just fine.