Disaster Cooking

Do you think a person in crisis could make THIS? Words and photos by Robin Craig.

Good morning and welcome to Vittles. In Issue 1 of our magazine, Robin Craig wrote about the role of hospices and food at the end of his father’s life. Today’s article by Robin is a sequel of sorts, on the limitations of cooking your way out of a mental health crisis.

We highly recommend you read the original, which you can find in the magazine and online here:

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Disaster Cooking

On the limitations of cooking your way out of a mental health crisis, plus a recipe for a raspberry and lemon sponge cake. Words and images by Robin Craig. 

Do you think a person in crisis could make this?

Six months ago, when my life was falling apart, I decided to make a horrible cake.

Now, you must understand that I did not intend for the cake to be horrible. I was desperate to make something impressive – a showstopper that, when posted to Instagram, would prompt my friends to tell me that I was doing so well, despite the circumstances (i.e. being signed off work because of a mental health crisis). That way, I wouldn’t have to face up to the fact that I was experiencing increasingly severe PTSD after the death of my father. The cake had to be good because I had to be good. If I could make an enormous cake, that had to mean that I was fine, actually, even if I couldn’t sleep without nightmares and I couldn’t go outside without having a panic attack.

Even when I am in good mental health, I am not a baker, so this mission was always going to be a struggle. My lack of interest in baking also meant that I did not have many ingredients, and because I couldn’t leave my flat without panicking, I was restricted to whatever was in the cupboards (most of which belonged to my far-more-baking-proficient housemate). I asked ChatGPT for a cake recipe – a critical sign of unwellness – and it presented me with a two-tier sugarless chocolate sponge cake. It did not at any point cross my mind that ChatGPT was not a reliable recipe source, or that the recipe it spat out sounded horrendous. I dutifully began to bake.

The cake took three gruelling hours to make, an absurdly long time. This is partly because I mixed everything by hand, partly because I unknowingly put the oven on the wrong function and spent a long time watching the cake slowly grill. When it was finished, it sat dense and uneven on the cooling rack like a slab of volcanic rock. I spread the sugarless buttercream filling on without waiting for the cake to cool and it was immediately absorbed, rendering the cake even denser. Still, I took some photos and uploaded them to Instagram, but the post was politely ignored. Nobody told me I was doing well. After forcing myself to eat two sandy, flavourless slices, I put the rest of the cake in the bin. I had wanted to prove to myself and to others that I was still competent. The cake’s failure was an unwelcome reminder that I was not. 

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Although in retrospect it’s obvious that a cake, any cake, could never have done the hard work of getting me through a crisis, I hadn’t known what else to try. Attempting to get help from the health service had only compounded my feelings of chaos. I was unwell enough to require urgent help, but not so unwell that I needed admission to an inpatient ward. My GP signed me off work without speaking to me. I requested – and was given – antidepressants, which prompted a referral to a mental health nurse, but both times the nurse was scheduled to call, I was forgotten. When I finally spoke to someone about my issues, I was directed to charities like Mind for support (perhaps unsurprising, given that demand for mental health services is at an all-time high, according to a 2024 report from NHS England, with bed occupancy routinely above 95% in mental health wards). Eventually I gave up and relied on the antidepressants and my long-term (and reduced-cost) therapy to get me through. 

The feeling of being lost in the system and begging for help was profound. With seemingly few other options available, it felt only natural to attempt something like my baking project in order to restore a sense of agency. There’s a sense of control that doing something difficult in already difficult circumstances can offer, a way to prove to yourself that whatever else is happening, at least you’ve got things somewhat together. I’m not alone in this compulsion: when I opened up to my friends about how much I was struggling, many of them told me about their own responses to crises, and more than one revealed that they also made complicated meals to prove that they were in the process of rebuilding their lives: boeuf bourguignon, Sunday roasts, and what one termed a ‘mental illness lasagne’. 

Ultimately, my friends helped me to realise that I did not have any power over what was happening to me, and that a cake could not fix things. I stopped trying to prove to myself that I was fine and began seeking their support. Most importantly, I gave myself time and space to be ill – and to let myself try to get better, and fail, and then try again. This process would have been quicker with appropriate mental health support, but in the face of systemic failures, it was the communities around me that kept me going. Slowly and painstakingly, I began to recover. Life returned to its usual rhythms, despite it all.

Recently, I asked a friend for help again. I wanted to make an enormous cake, a purifying ritual to cleanse myself of my previous chaos and close off this chapter of my life. She suggested the below lemon and raspberry sponge, based on her nan’s legendary lemon sponge cake, a stalwart that has been made again and again in her family. We added raspberry icing and decorative sugar flowers to make it our own, as this was a cake for spring and a cake for fresh starts. I accidentally cooked the first two sponges on the grill setting again and we laughed to the point of tears, and then started over. The end result was enormous and distinctly homemade, but far more delicious and impressive than anything I could make on my own – and, crucially, its recipe did not come from ChatGPT. We ate it together, sat on the balcony in the sun.

Robin’s version of the lemon and raspberry cake

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Lemon and raspberry sponge cake

This recipe makes a four-tier mega cake, but you can easily halve the recipe if you would prefer a humbler, two-tier cake (or if you don’t have enough tins). This recipe is significantly easier to make if you have an electric whisk.

Cuts into 8 enormous slices
Time 1½ hrs

Ingredients

For the cake

450g margarine or butter, softened, plus extra for greasing
450g caster sugar
zest of 2 lemons
8 eggs
450g self-raising flour, sieved
2 heaped tsp (~13g) baking powder
a pinch of salt
a smear of shop-bought lemon curd (optional)

For the raspberry buttercream

226g raspberries
226g butter, softened
500g icing sugar

Method

Katie Smith's version of the lemon and raspberry cake

1. Add all the raspberries to a pan, mash them a little, then simmer over a medium heat for 10 mins until reduced a little. Sieve into a bowl – you’re looking to get around 100g of purée and juice in total. Discard what’s left in the sieve and set the juice aside to cool (or chill in the fridge) while you make the sponges.

2. Heat the oven to 180°c fan. Grease and line four 20cm cake tins with baking paper.

3. Chop the margarine or butter into rough chunks, then add the lemon zest and caster sugar and beat in a large bowl until light and fluffy (this should take around 8–10 mins with a mixer). Add the eggs one by one and beat until just combined, scraping down the sides of the bowl with each addition. 

4. Mix the flour with the baking powder, then fold into the egg mixture, a few tablespoons at a time, until completely combined. 

5. Divide the mixture evenly between the cake tins, then bake for 18–20 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Do not open the oven door when baking or the sponges will deflate. If your oven is small, bake the sponges in two batches. Once cooked, set the sponges aside to cool for at least 30 mins.

6. To make the buttercream, chop the butter into rough chunks and whisk until fluffy. Add the sugar, then beat for another few minutes until pale and fluffy. Finally, mix in the reduced raspberry juice.

7. Once the sponges have cooled, place the first one on a cake stand or plate. Dollop a generous spoonful of icing in the centre, then spread the icing out to the edges. Top with a smear of lemon curd, if you like. Add the second cake on top of the first, and repeat until you have four tiers, finishing the top with a generous layer of buttercream only.

8. If you have any remaining buttercream, spread it over the sides of the cake. Decorate however you feel.

Remember, if all else fails, ask your friends for help.

Notes

• The cake keeps well – particularly if wrapped and stored in the fridge – for up to three days. Allow to cool to room temperature before serving.

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Credits

Robin Craig writes about sex, death, and disaster. He is currently working on his first book, Perverts: A History, which will be published with John Murray Press. He has previously written for a range of publications, such as VICE, Huck Magazine, i-D, and Vittles. He also maintains a Substack called Looking At Porn, which delves into taboo sexualities and what they say about the culture we live in. 

This recipe was tested by Katie Smith.