The time was 10.45pm.
I was cursing in the kitchen as Chika walked in, stopped, and slowly backed away with the baby.
I’d been electric whisking the egg whites for 15 minutes and it simply would. not. whip.
Was it the speed, was it the way I held the beater, the angle?

I jumped online, and sure enough some people said you need fresh eggs.
Some said the eggs have to be under room temperature.
You definitely can’t have even the tiniest amount of egg yolks or water in your egg whites.

Ah fudge this, I’m going to bed, I said to myself as I poured the runny foamy egg mixture down the drain.
But then for some reason, I cleared the bench, and started from scratch.

I cleaned the electric mixer and bowl again and dried it immediately with towels.
Using a thermometer I made sure the egg whites were 27 degrees Celcius, without a hint of contamination.

I took a deep breath and squeezed the mixer trigger.
And sure enough, within seconds, even before I added the lemon juice and sugar, it rose higher than any of my attempt for the night.

There’s a lesson in this.

I could beat the egg whites the whole night, but if the temperature wasn’t accurate, the mixture not right, it wouldn’t matter.

Like photography.

We could change angle and keep pressing the shutter, yet if the couple isn’t comfortable, or the lighting not working out, it wouldn’t matter.
Sometimes it’s not about hard work, it’s about knowing when to spot when things go wrong.

And once you find the right ingredients, the right combination, it is easy as cake.
All it takes is seconds.

Maybe that’s life, maybe that’s relationship.

The time was 1am.
I sat in front of the oven, staring at the cotton cheese cake.
Rising, like a giant souffle, like I’d never seen before.

Happy Birthday to me, I told myself.