The sweet aroma of pound cake wafted through the air, teasing my senses and beckoning me to the kitchen. I had a sudden craving for a slice, or perhaps two. But, alas, I found myself in a predicament – no scale to be found. The measurements, it seemed, would have to be guessed.

I cracked open the fridge, and my eyes landed on a generous slab of butter, roughly the size of a small brick. I estimated it to be about... a brick's worth, let's say. I unwrapped it, and with a flourish, I sliced off a chunk that looked like a decent-sized fist. That should do.

Next, I turned my attention to the sugar. I grabbed the container and poured a heaping handful into the mixing bowl – about the amount that could fit in the palm of my hand, cupped just so. A rough estimate, perhaps, but I had a feeling it would suffice.

Eggs, I thought, should be next. I cracked open four, maybe five? The carton had six, but one of them looked a bit... off. I didn't want to risk it. Four, then. They went into the bowl with a soft splat.

Flour, now. I opened the cupboard and pulled out the bag. I poured in a stream that looked like it might rival the width of my thumb. A decent amount, I reckoned. Not too much, not too little.

As I mixed and creamed and folded, the ingredients began to take on a life of their own. The batter transformed into a smooth, silky entity that seemed to hum with promise.

Into the loaf pan it went, and then into the oven. The waiting game began.

Twenty-five, thirty minutes passed, and the cake emerged, golden and resplendent. I let it cool, then sliced into it with a satisfying crunch.

The first bite... heavenly. Moist, rich, and buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. It was a culinary masterpiece, born of chance and improvisation. I devoured slice after slice, savoring every morsel. This impromptu pound cake was, without a doubt, a true delight.