A Sorting Hat sponge cake

The Sorting Hat sponge I made for my son's Harry Potter party is not the best cake I've ever tasted. That would be anything baked by my granny, or the coffee religieuse au cafe (a choux pastry puff) I ate in Boulogne-sur-Mer with my mum. But it's the most surprisingly edible cake I've ever made – a vaguely Jamie-Oliver-esque recipe with buttercream filling and tinned mandarin slices. It didn't only work; it tasted great, and wasn't quite as teeth-screechingly sweet as expected. My one regret is that I over-pimped the decoration: it looked so sinister in the fridge with its cold, Sorting Hat stare that the next day I stuck on googly eyes and further sparkles. This perhaps explains why everyone assumed it was a poo emoji cake, despite it being a Harry Potter party with heavy-touch theming. That people thought I actually wanted children to eat shit is a shame, but it still remains my greatest culinary success.

A perfectly piped 35th birthday cake

My dreams of a cake fit for Marie Antoinette came true on my 35th birthday: with a single baby-blue tier, whimsical white piping and glace cherries for a welcome dash of gaudy. After taking it home in a taxi from Lily Vanilli bakery in London, I proudly displayed her for all to marvel at. Inside, the vanilla sponge had a raspberry and buttercream filling. It felt like my wedding day when I cut the first slice. By the end of the night, after everyone had tucked in and I was about 10 tumblers of prosecco deep, I fulfilled another lifelong dream: face-planting a cake. (Well, half of one.) I picked at those sugary remains for days afterwards.

An orange cream gateau

My most treasured Christmas present of 1992 was the Hamlyn All Colour Cook Book. While I don't remember cooking any of the savoury recipes – sherried kidneys and turkey in aspic weren't quite to my 10-year-old tastes – the "family favourite cakes" chapter was a different story. I started with Mary Berry's classic Victoria sandwich and graduated to her triple-decker chocolate button cake. But I found the ultimate in sophistication, decadence and all-round deliciousness in Audrey Ellis's "fancy cakes" section: a glorious orange cream gateau. I lovingly baked two orange-zest sponges, sandwiched and smothered them with orange-juice buttercream, and decorated the top with jellied orange and lemon slices. It looked, and tasted, like pure sunshine.

Nigella's pear, pistachio and rose cake

The monumental creation is Nigella's pear, pistachio and rose cake, expertly reinterpreted by my friend Sian. This entity represents the three all-important ingredients of the perfect bake. First, it was made by someone whose cakes always taste as good as they look (a difficult achievement), the kind of person who is tired of everyone saying to them: "You should go on Bake-Off. No, but really, you should." Sian very much ticks this box. (She really should.) Second, it is part of the grand tradition of "birthday swim" cakes to be eaten with friends at 7am after a freezing cold dip. And third, it features the inventive use of a single candle to represent the numeral "one". (It is a 51st birthday cake.) No cake could compete on taste, suitability-for-occasion or creativity.

An iced gingerbread cake

Before my father died, I had never had to organise a funeral. The strangest element was choosing items for a funeral buffet when I was so choked with tears that I could barely swallow. But my mother was keen that we offered a good spread for my foodie father's send-off. I chose iced gingerbread mainly because my dad loved ginger. But a mass-catered cake sounded unpromising. Imagine our surprise when it turned out to be one of the most heavenly bakes I've ever eaten. Tasting as if it was homemade, it was perfectly moist, with a good kick of ginger and cinnamon. The showstopper was the melt-in-the mouth lemon icing. There was loads left over and it offered us some solace in the gloomy days afterwards.

The Forg meme cake

The best cake I ever had was a replica of the notorious "Forg cake" meme, surprise delivered to my door by a friend who had never baked before. I was in the middle of a full nervous breakdown, and had been hooked up for a 24-hour blood pressure test the day before that had brought me to the edge of sanity – so this gentle, generous act of friendship restored my faith in better things to come. It was delicious, too: a superlative victoria sponge hidden underneath droopy pastel icing.

A Swiss-meringue buttercream chocolate cake

It's not my fault I'm not a cake person. When I was growing up, after the birthday kid had blown out the candles, my saturated-fat-fearing aunties (it was the 90s) would scrape off the cream before serving the naked cake slices to my unimpressed cousins. One upside of adulthood is cake (and cream) whenever I want. On a recent child-free day with my husband, we went to Cafe Lewi, a tiny venue in Lewisham, Sydney, where they serve homemade bakes and pastries, as well as enticing meals and drinks. Their "vintage" cake is a thing of beauty – layers of chocolate sponge with a sultry crumb, sandwiched together with a chocolate ganache and raspberry curd, and thickly slathered on all four sides with a snow-white Swiss meringue buttercream, all embellished by someone who knows their way around a piping bag. We ate it for breakfast.

A Kirby birthday cake

Every year since my son's third birthday, I've put together a fancy fondant based on one of his fleeting interests: on my first attempt, when the theme was Pokémon, my Pikachu was so lumpenly misshapen that my son burst into tears. It turns out, though, that if you practise something once a year (with a few clay modelling sessions) and watch a of videos, you do improve. This cake, made by my wife, was a victoria sponge with buttercream and jam filling, but the wrapping – modelled, of course, on video game hero Kirby when he turns into a car – was all me. It tasted like triumph.

My mum's chocolate hedgehog birthday cake

As a child, I had one currency: chocolate. The more the better. Nowhere offered a better exchange rate than my mum's cakes, not least her chocolate hedgehog birthday cake: chocolate sponge, chocolate buttons for spikes and a chocolate-icing face. It became the best bit of birthdays, until I got too old for candles, left home and somehow went 30 years without a birthday cake from Mum, hedgehog or otherwise. Luckily, I've corrected this terrible injustice by telling her that all Guardian journalists are now required to have their mum bake them a cake … and she believed me. Thanks, Mum. Happy birthday to me.

Three fourth birthday cakes

In April 2000, I turned four while on a family holiday to Nepal to visit my grandparents, who were living there. My parents had explained that it might not be possible to get me a birthday cake while we were away. For an almost-four-year-old, this was a huge tragedy, a fact that I shared with almost everyone we met. When the big day arrived, the hotel staff surprised me with a huge cake decorated with green, pink and yellow icing. I was overjoyed. I can't remember what it tasted like, but I know I've never been so excited about eating a cake. My tiny mind was blown again soon after, when it turned out that my grandparents had also arranged a cake for me. Then my mum baked another when we got home. I couldn't believe my luck – birthday cakes! I was on a high for weeks.

The perfect vegan chocolate gateau

It was my friend Anastasia's birthday party. We were watching Eurovision and had just finished stuffing ourselves with pizza when she brought it out. A vegan chocolate cake, covered in edible purple flowers, plump strawberries and juicy blackberries, it was more a work of art than a simple gateau. She had baked it using a recipe by Nigella (who else?) and the glossy chocolate icing oozed on to the plate. From the first spoonful, I knew I had finally found it – a vegan cake that didn't taste like a vegan cake. As someone with an extremely sweet tooth who is lactose intolerant, I have tried many over the years. Usually, they're too dense, too dry, or taste too virtuous to feel like a treat. But this was rich, creamy, and ridiculously indulgent, even without all the sinful dairy. I savoured each chocolatey bite.

A cafe's lemon drizzle cake

I was 16 and on a school trip to Westminster. During our lunch break, I visited Caffè Nero, which, in the early 2000s, still had an exotic Italian appeal and a hint of sophistication. In a hurry, I made an impulse purchase – an individually packaged slice of lemon drizzle cake. It was so delicious that I still think about it all these years later. The cake was moist, with candied lemon peel, topped with fondant icing, and contained what I can only describe as bursts of lemony icing sugar balls within the sponge. I can't remember much about the trip except for that slice of lemon heaven. I have yet to find a lemon cake that matches it.

A tarta de galletas birthday cake

For decades, this no-bake wonder has been birthday cake in every Spanish household. It's perfectly sweet, moist and beautifully balanced, with alternating layers of milk-soaked biscuits, velvety vanilla custard and the smoothest chocolate ganache. Easy to assemble and incredibly forgiving with measurements, it is the perfect introduction to cake-making for little kitchen helpers. I've enjoyed it hundreds of times (I have a very large family), and it remains my favourite – not just for its wonderful taste and lovely texture, but for the fond memories attached to every bite.

A book made out of cake

I'd worked for four years to write my second book and, like every author, was looking for attention. What I received from my mum was more than I could have hoped for: a facsimile of my book Who Wants Normal? made entirely in cake. The real cover was recreated in orange and yellow icing wrapped around sponge pages, and even the endorsement was piped on. It was akin to that episode of the Bake Off where contestants make roast dinner gravy out of chocolate, except that this was baked by a professional my mum had hired. Was it a book? Was it cake? I could never write anything so delicious.

A black forest gateau

My very first memory, at the age of two and a half, is of a black forest gateau. No chocolate cake could have prepared me for it. It stopped me in my tracks; a vast slab of dense, dark chocolate-and-purple-stained cream dotted with posh, burgundy cherries – all far more sophisticated than the sticky glaces I knew from fairy cakes. And it was on wheels (a dessert trolley). I told the waiter I wanted a "big slice". He tapped me on the head and said I had to wait. Strangely, my memory doesn't stretch to eating it. Perhaps it remained a feast for the eyes alone. Either way, it set the cake bar for life.

A baklava cheesecake

While I'm not a big fan of cakes, there was one that bucked the trend: a baklava cheesecake. I tasted this melt-in-the-mouth delight when I was working at Nuba, a Lebanese restaurant in Vancouver. Its flaky filo pastry pistachio base was perfectly complemented by a soft cheesecake centre. Three years on, I'm still waiting for the pastry chef to send me the recipe.

My mum's tea loaf

In terms of looks, this cake is pretty underwhelming. It's brown on top, and brown inside. There's no icing, decoration or fireworks. But it tastes fantastic. It was the cake my mum always made growing up: a simple loaf with sultanas and raisins inside and, crucially, tea. The fruit gets steeped in it. Not surprisingly, it pairs well with a cup of tea and sends me back to the Sunday afternoons of my childhood. I think this cake's feelgood vibes have seeped in deep, because whenever I want cheering up – not being much of a cake maker – I put the kettle on.

A coconut cream cake

One of my best friends baked me a coconut cream cake for my 26th birthday. I'm dairy intolerant, so this type of whippy treat usually sends a shiver down my intestinal tract. But she made it vegan by replacing all the milk ingredients with coconut, even using coconut milk powder in the icing. It was buttery, subtly sweet, featherlight but satiating, with toasty, nutty notes. Five years later, my family still talks about it. My friend had been so nervous it would be horrible that she also baked me a backup cake. A fine testament to friendships in your 20s.

Schwarzwälder kirschtorte

Can there be anything more thrilling to a child than a cake trolley? The anticipation as it works its way towards you, pushed by a smart and austere waiter, laden with cakes lavishly decorated like something out of a children's picture book. My sister and I, both about 12, were with my dad, who was working in Salzburg for the summer. One day he took us to this grand cafe, all retro Mitteleuropean magnificence and good manners. I chose a black forest gateau, probably because it was the biggest. I actually don't remember eating it, so perhaps I was underwhelmed. It's the delight of the trolley I remember, and – rare for a child – being able to choose what I wanted. I remember its name: schwarzwälder kirschtorte. The words still pop into my head, on repeat, like a spell.

A popcorn mermaid cake

When I was growing up, I was allowed to choose the cake I wanted for my birthday each year. At five or six, that meant a mermaid cake. Chocolate-coated popcorn "rocks" covered the sponge, on top of which perched a (non-edible) Ariel doll, her legs obscured within the cake itself and a mermaid's tail fashioned from "scales" painstakingly cut out of icing. I seem to remember she also wore a shell-shaped icing bikini top. It possibly wasn't the most sophisticated cake in the world, but I had chosen it from a recipe book and my mum had somehow made it real. I was thrilled.

A burnt Basque cheesecake

I was in San Sebastián for the night – though it felt more like a week as we hopped from one pintxos bar to another. Ending the evening at La Viña, we joined a 20-strong line for Basque cheesecake from the restaurant that invented it. Sitting on a shop stoop with violently coloured Patxaran cocktails in hand, we carved our way through the slab. It was a dreamy custard mousse with a caramelised cut-through from the burnt outer layer, descending into a centre more liquid than solid. A rare dessert that felt both light and decadent at once.

Nigella's chocolate Guinness cake

For my birthday earlier this year, my bestie Alix baked me a cake that I'm still dreaming about (and drooling over). Nigella Lawson's chocolate Guinness cake brings together the three defining features of any of her recipes: it's indulgent, unpretentious and sumptuous. The sticky cocoa sponge balances the subtly bitter taste of Guinness with enough sweetness to give an elephant a sugar high. And the sponge's delicate hint of chocolate is offset by the sourness of the unfussy cream cheese topping dolloped on the top – making the cake look like a creamy pint of Guinness.

Bettys' Dougal the dog cake

In 1970s York, children's birthday cakes came in one shape (round) and in one of two colours (yellow or brown). Then, one day, there was Dougal. Bettys tearooms' version of the character from The Magic Roundabout blew my mind – I had no idea a cake could be dog-shaped. Dougal was also a taste sensation: his shaggy coat skilfully fashioned from feather-light butter cream; his innards from sophisticated dark chocolate sponge; his face from a meringue disc with a cheeky, pink piped-icing tongue. Although now tragically discontinued, this exquisite cylindrical trailblazer will long remain in the hearts of many York children. Dougal walked so Colin the Caterpillar could run (crawl?).

A grilled banana cake

The grilled banana cake at Milk in Balham, south London, was the ray of warmth I was looking for last winter. Paired with silky whipped halva and pumpkin seed tahini, it worked divinely with a slightly smoky, yet delicate, sweetness that melts in the mouth almost instantly. Who knew a banana milkshake came in cake form?

'Death by chocolate' cake

Cake was never on the menu when I was a kid. My mum was, and remains, an anti-sugarist, who ran a tyrannical campaign of snack and confectionery suppression. But a memorable exception was made when I was around nine years old. I was invited to a friend's birthday party at the local swimming baths, but my folks muddled the dates and brought me a day late. Not only did I miss out on flinging myself around an inflatable assault course, but I also missed a rare chance to get my paws on a slice of birthday cake. I felt crushed, but I leveraged my disappointment to manipulate Mum into taking me to a local cafe, which served the legendary "death by chocolate" cake. A large slab of multilayered indulgence thudded on to the table. After years of substitute confectionery, I felt its name was a legitimate warning. The warm, buttery fudge at the top was sprinkled with milk chocolate flakes, complemented by layers of sponge as soft as cloud, smooth salted caramel, chocolate ice-cream, and a final layer of sponge stacked on top of a dark chocolate base.

A buttercream Victoria sandwich

When a traditional sponge cake – known as pound cake in the US and (describing equal measures of butter, eggs, sugar and flour) in France – is done right, there's no bettering it. I wouldn't usually ice it: that dense crumb (from using plain flour, rather than self-raising) defies decoration. Turn it into a Victoria sandwich, though (as I have for my kid from the age of four), and all that air you spend seven minutes beating into the butter and sugar sets the mind afloat with possibility. I'll bake multiple layers, then sandwich them with raspberry jam into a tall stack, which I lightly buttercream all over (I like a vanilla or white chocolate Swiss meringue buttercream) and cover with rolled-out fondant. Sometimes, I add sculptural elements – Matisse-like chocolate trees with moulded marble leaves, candy-stained-glass shards, misshapen meringue mushrooms, sidings of chocolate bark. I can say these are the best cakes I've had, not because I get to taste them but precisely because I usually don't – no matter how thinly I slice the portions, the cake is simply inhaled before I get the chance.

A lemon drizzle and earl grey traybake

Sometimes, the most delicious treats are the ones you're not supposed to eat. At 15, my friend and I baked and donated cakes as part of the volunteering section for our Duke of Edinburgh awards. On this occasion, what came out of the oven dazzled and, for once, wasn't burnt. It was the most delicious, golden, glistening lemon drizzle tray bake. As I sliced our masterpiece into bite-size pieces, I snuck a few into my mouth. It was the perfect balance of sweetness and tangy lemon, with a hint of earl grey tea. It was a guilty pleasure, but so worth it.