I’m feeling the need for something to counter balance the woesplosion of my last post. Sanitywise speaking, I am much better this morning and far less prone to a small course in melodramatics. Hurrah. In the proverbial nutshell, nobody said doing the right thing was easy.
So, as a contrast I thought I’d offer up a brief tale of culinary hilarity. Oh c’mon, mes chums, I don’t want you labouring under some horrific misimpression that I’m the next Delia Smith or something with all my ‘LOOK WHAT I BAKED’ posts. No. Because nothing could be further from the truth to be quite frank. Let’s face it, for a large part of my life my culinary skills have rested on a par with Jayne Torvill’s circa 1984*.
Skip back to Sunday, as I’m trudging about whinging that I have to go Christmas shopping (and what a failed mission that was) my housemate said she’d cook me dinner. Super. Several hours later I offered to make dessert. Problem was, by that stage I couldn’t be bothered to pop out to the shops to get anything I might be missing so it was a case of ‘head in the cupboard and see what I can cobble together’. Treacle sponge seemed to be the answer.
It was all going swimmingly, I only had one egg and there were only two – not six – of us so I remembered to halve all the quantities, shoved it in the microwave and turned my back to do the washing up. A few minutes later there was a horrendous smell of burning sugar…
I may have remembered to halve the quantities but I forgot to halve the cooking time. Too late, too late! I rescued a slightly sorry burnt looking treacle sponge from the microwave and swore a lot.
You’ll be pleased to hear that we didn’t go dessertless. The sponge may have been ruined but instead I whipped up a quick batch of pastry and we had treacle tart instead. And I missed the first forty five minutes of X Factor, which from what I could judge in the next room was only a good thing 😉
*There’s a beautiful quote about her in a book (I suspect the one by John Hennessy, can’t check all my books on them are at home and not in my office) from Christopher Dean about her domesticityness falling short of boiling an egg. But, as the great lady herself said, when you live out of suitcases and hotels you don’t really need to know that sort of gubbins. I adopted the philosophy, I’m just missing the lifestyle to match… 😉