The ras el hanout and buttermilk sweet loaf by Sabrina Ghayour is my new obsession. It’s so easy to make, so delicious, and *so* perfect that I’ve essentially appointed myself as it’s informal agent. I love the contrast between the warmth of the spice blend and the sweet, floral rose icing. Gorgeous. Naturally, it made sense to bake it for a family birthday celebration. And so, with great joy and a borderline spiritual devotion, I set out on a Sunday baking spree.

It was a glorious day—sun shining, kitchen filled with the smell of baking, an upbeat soundtrack perfectly curated to match my baker’s high. The result? A stunning cake. I was pleased. Nay, *triumphant*.

Buoyed by this success, I decided to make another version of the cake for my choir group the next day. Our choir leader was leaving at the end of term, and a feast was planned in his honor. I had enthusiastically volunteered to bring a cake. Which I did.

The only problem? It was the *wrong day*.

Now, in my defense, I had *definitely* seen a cake posted in the choir’s WhatsApp group before the weekend. I thought the celebration must be that Monday. I was feeling particularly pleased with myself for balancing a successful bake with the soul-crushing tedium of admin work. Another choir member had posted a picture of her birthday cake in the group chat as it was her birthday that day. Still feeling very pleased with myself, I posted a photo of my cake to the group, I thought I was adding to the list of celebrating food we would be eating that day.

Radio silence. Not a like, not a heart emoji, not even a passive-aggressive thumbs-up. The horror.

Had I committed some unspoken choir crime? Had I, *gasp*, upstaged the birthday celebrant? Was this my social downfall, all because I dared to bring extra cake? It turns out, no—I had simply gotten the date wrong. The celebration was actually the following week. A fellow choir member (probably sensing my spiraling) tentatively asked, “Wait… were we meant to bring food *today*?” And just like that, it hit me.

I had *miscalculated*—and not in the “forgot to add sugar” way.

Cue existential crisis. Was I a fool? A cake-fool? Should I even *show up* to choir again? Two kind souls told me to bring my cake, anyway, assuring me that people would eat it. My husband, ever the voice of reason, suggested that we simply enjoy the cake at home. A wise man, truly. Did I listen? No, of course not.

I took the cake to choir.

And there it sat. Uneaten. Unacknowledged. A tragic, frosted monument to my misplaced enthusiasm.

I forced myself to smile, pretended everything was fine, and even managed to chat with the birthday girl—complementing *her* cake (a lemon drizzle, very nice). But my cake? My lovingly crafted, joy-infused cake? It sat there like an fart in a lift. I had one slice out of sheer principle, then took the rest home, feeling ridiculous.

Rationally, I knew this was *not* a problem. No one is *obligated* to eat cake. But my emotional brain? Oh, my emotional brain had other plans. It decided that this was a **full-scale rejection**—an entire choir of people subtly telling me, “You do not belong. Also, your cake is irrelevant.”

For a week, I tried to move on. I ate the cake with my husband (delicious).

I made another one for his colleagues (devoured).

But the sting remained. Had I failed at forming connections in this group? Was I just a *deeply unlikable version* of myself at choir? Should I *only* bake for people contractually obligated to love me?

By the time the *actual* celebration rolled around, I had decided I would not make the same cake. Instead, I turned to my other trusty recipe—apple, poppy seed, and lemon loaf (also by Sabrina Ghayour, because obviously). This time, as I stood in my kitchen at *6 AM* on a Monday, mid-bake before work, I had a revelation:

There is something deeply *wrong* with me.

And yet, baking is my love language, my coping mechanism, my *compulsion*. It should come as no surprise as this blog is dedicated to my love of baking. But even I was startled by my own commitment—here I was, making another cake for a group of people who *might not even eat it*.

And so, I arrived at choir with my cake. No fanfare. No grand unveiling. I simply placed it on the table, added a small label (so people would at least *know* what they were rejecting), and left it alone. I didn’t take a slice. I barely ate any of the other food (except some limp pizza, because… pizza).

And then, something unexpected happened.

People *ate* the cake.

Not only that, but they *asked* if it was mine. They *complimented* it. A tiny, victorious moment.

Then, an unexpected confession: a choir member sat next to me and *apologized* for not eating my cake the previous week. She had already eaten before choir, felt full, and just couldn’t manage another slice. “It looked amazing,” she assured me, “but I just *couldn’t*.”

I laughed. “So maybe there *is* such a thing as too much cake.”

The evening continued, and—perhaps because it was a social event as well as a choir session—I found myself *actually socializing*. I spoke to people I normally wouldn’t. I learned that one of the members is a poet, planning to publish a book. I finally had a proper conversation with the choir leader, who I’d assumed had been ignoring me for 15 months. We talked, we laughed, and I even gave him a hug when I left.

And you know what? I left that session feeling *lighter* than I had in weeks.

Granted, I *did* still take some cake home. But this time, as I snack on the last slice while writing this, I’m not feeling rejected. Just… full.

If you want to make either of these cakes (and I highly recommend that you do!) the recipes and references are below

Ras el hanout and buttermilk sweetloaf with rose icing

Ingredients

• unsalted butter 150g, melted, plus extra for the tin
• eggs 3
• caster sugar 175g
• vanilla extract 1 tsp
• plain flour 175g
• baking powder 1 tsp
• ras el hanout 1 heaped tbsp
• buttermilk 150ml

TOPPING

• icing sugar 75g, sifted
• rosewater 2-3 tsp
• dried edible rose petals to decorate (optional)

Method

1. Heat the oven to 180C/fan 160C/gas 4 and butter and line a 900g loaf tin with baking paper. 
2. Put the eggs and sugar into a large mixing bowl and use an electric mixer to beat together until smooth. Beat in the vanilla, flour, melted butter, baking powder and ras el hanout, and mix until smooth. Add the buttermilk and combine well.
3. Pour the mixture into the prepared tin and bake for 50-55 minutes or until cooked through and a skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Leave to cool in the tin. 
4. To make the icing, put the sugar in a small bowl and gradually add the rosewater until smooth and drizzle-able. Once the cake has cooled, smooth the icing over the top. Sprinkle over the rose petals, to serve, if you like.

Recipe taken from Sabrina Ghayour, Bazaar: page 212

Apple Lemon and Poppyseed Loaf Cake

Ingredients

3 very small or 2 medium apples (Braeburn), quartered

3 eggs

175g caster sugar

Finely grated zest of 2 unwaxed lemons

1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste

½ teaspoon almond extract

175g plain flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

150g unsalted butter, melted

1 heaped tablespoon poppy seeds, plus a little extra for sprinkling over the top

Instructions

Preheat the oven to 180oC (160oC), Gas Mark 4. Line a 900g loaf tin with a nonstick paper liner or baking paper.

Core the apples, keeping the skins on, then finely dice.

Put the eggs, sugar, lemon zest, vanilla bean paste and almond extract into a mixing bowl and beat together until well combined. 

Add the flour, baking powder and melted butter and mix again. 

Gently fold in the apples, without crushing them too much, and the poppy seeds.

Pour the batter into the prepared loaf tine and sprinkle the top with extra poppy seeds. 

Bake the cake for 50 minutes – 1 hours, or until cooked through and a skewer or knife inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Remove from the oven, turn the cake out of the tin on to a wire rack and leave to cool before serving.

Reference: Simply, Sabrina, Page 218