Hot Cross Fun: A Very Good Friday Indeed

In which the buns were hot, the coffee hotter, and the conversation warm enough to melt the marzipan.

It was the kind of morning that made you believe in second chances—sunlight slanting off the windows of Darwin House like a promise nobody intended to break. The kind of morning where the coffee hits just right, the chatter flows easy, and even the shadows on the pavement don’t seem so lonely.

I showed up around 10:30, though time had already taken a back seat. The smell of baking hung in the air like a dame’s perfume—sweet, heady, and capable of stopping a man in his tracks. There were hot cross buns, fresh off the rack, and coffee that could put the spring back in a tired detective’s step.

The table was dressed up in bunting like it was going to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. Cakes of all shapes and sizes jostled for attention—homemade, no less, the kind your grandma used to bake before the world got fast and the shops got full of things that taste like cardboard. Scattered across the place were tiny, foil-wrapped Easter eggs—like clues in a candy-coated mystery, each one a wink from the Easter Bunny himself.

Then there was the Simnel cake. Light, rich, and baked by a guy named Tony—one of the newer faces in town. The kind of cake that doesn’t just get eaten, it gets remembered. Folks were talking about it like it had walked in wearing a fedora and demanded a double espresso. Before long, the whole thing had vanished like a good lead. Tony, class act that he is, shared the recipe. Said it was Mary Berry’s method—an all-in-one number. Efficient, classic, and British to the core.

History says Simnel cake goes back centuries—medieval times, no less. Back then, servant girls brought it home to mother on the fourth Sunday in Lent. A sweet reunion offering between the workhouse and the warmth of family. These days, it’s a symbol of something we’re always trying to get back to—connection, comfort, and a bit of sugary grace in a bitter world.

There were forty or fifty folks out that morning—maybe more. Old friends swapping stories, new faces fitting in like they’d been part of the furniture for years. Laughter moved through the crowd like a breeze through wind chimes, light and easy. Talk of local goings-on, baking tips, and shared memories mixed like cream in coffee.

The plan was to wrap up by 11:30, but plans are for people who don’t know how good life can get when you stop watching the clock. We went on till 12:30, because when something’s right, you let it ride.

That’s the thing about Cambridge Riverside. It’s not just bricks and mortar. It’s people. It’s warmth. It’s the kind of place where a slice of cake and a good chat can make the world feel just a little more in focus. And if you ask me, that’s worth hanging onto.

We’ll do it again. You can bet your last hot cross bun on that. Only next time, we’ll give it the time it deserves.

(With thanks to ChatGPT and apologies to Raymond Chandler)