Dark Blue: A Simple Bake of Cacao and Blueberries.

Two small gold cups sit on the counter, side by side, each holding a dark little cake that looks solid and self-assured. The tops are cracked and matte, the kind of surface that makes you wonder what lies beneath. They are small enough to hold in one hand, light enough to feel almost insubstantial. They look confident, almost convincing, as if they know they have turned out well. But looks can deceive, and these two proved that beautifully.

It began with a thought rather than a plan. I wanted to bake something simple, something chocolatey but not sweet, a little experiment using what was already in the kitchen. Two eggs, one cup of cacao powder, a teaspoon of baking powder, and a hundred grams of frozen blueberries. Four ingredients that seemed unlikely companions, yet interesting enough to try. I imagined something soft and dark with the berries shining through, a quiet balance between fruit and cacao.

Without a mixer, I used a blender. At first it seemed efficient, until the thick batter began to cling to the blades. Cacao behaves like stubborn dust when wet, sticking to everything and refusing to let go. It took a spatula, hot water, and patience to get it all out. By then, I already knew the process would leave a mark on both the blender and my mood. Still, the mixture was beautiful. Smooth, glossy, and the colour of wet earth.

I poured it into the two gold cups, filling them almost to the top. They looked small and neat on the baking tray. The oven was already warm at 180 degrees Celsius. I did not use a timer, only the clock on the wall, and the faint hope that fifteen minutes would be enough. Baking without scent feels uncertain. Usually there is a moment when the smell of chocolate fills the air, but this time there was only silence and the low hum of the oven.

When I opened the door, both cakes had risen slightly. Their surfaces had cracked open, revealing soft shadows inside. They looked finished. I let them rest for a short while, not long enough for patience, just long enough to stop the steam from escaping.

The first taste was startling. I had used too much cacao. The flavour was dark, strong, and bitter enough to sting the tongue. Not the kind of bitterness that feels sophisticated, but the dry, lingering kind that refuses to leave. I drizzled a teaspoon of honey over one in a hopeful attempt to soften it, but the honey disappeared instantly, absorbed without effect. The bitterness stayed, determined and unmoved.

Still, I kept eating. The texture was unexpectedly good. Firm yet soft, like a cross between pudding and brownie. The blueberries had burst open, leaving tiny pockets of violet sweetness that were fighting for attention but never quite won. Each bite was an uneven battle between richness and sharpness. I finished both, not out of pleasure but out of respect for the effort.

Next time, I will use less cacao. Half, perhaps. I might add grated apple instead of blueberries to bring in moisture and a natural sweetness. I can already imagine how it would change the flavour, rounding the edges, giving warmth where this version gave challenge. Some might serve it with vanilla ice cream, which would balance the bitterness, but that never appealed to me. Yoghurt or cottage cheese crossed my mind, though I was not sure if they would help or only confuse it.

When I cleaned the blender later, I noticed how the cacao had clung even tighter, as if it wanted to remind me of its strength. It took hot water and soap to loosen it. The cleaning felt almost meditative. It gave me time to think about what I would change and what I would keep.

Now the cakes are gone, and the gold cups sit empty on the tray. The light catches them softly, the faint traces of chocolate still visible along the edges. They are small tokens of an afternoon spent experimenting, learning, and tasting. Not every bake has to be perfect to be worthwhile.

There is something satisfying about these quiet attempts. The ones that teach rather than impress. Next time, less cacao, more fruit, more balance. But even this version had its own truth. It was honest, imperfect, and full of potential. And that, more than sweetness, is what keeps me coming back to the kitchen.