It's baking - but not as we know it.

You know, I have had dark days in the kitchen.  Disasters of epic proportions have emerged from the cavernous filthy hole that is my oven from time to time, but this one really takes the biscuit.

Lacking a decent pudding/dessert to offer Oliver and his friend after tea last night, I had a mind to rustle up a batch of Hummingbird vanilla cupcakes with jet black icing, topped with little gold balls.  Oh yes,  it all looked so lovely in my mind's eye.

 

Er, no.
This is not how it was supposed to happen.  In fact, their physical appearance belies their appalling texture.  Oliver's friend kindly described them as 'alright, but a bit spongy.'  He wasn't kidding.  These could give Spontex a run for their money.

Thankfully we were spared the throat burning smell of freshly laid tarmac, but in every other respect the icing very closely resembled a road surface.  You could not separate the cake from the wrapper, so tightly the glue-like interior clung to the cheap folds.  Kim -  even these cannot be rescued by consuming with a cup of tea.  A cup of Rennies, maybe.

I apologised to the boys and threw them away.  I expect that it will take several days before the one they did manage to eat can clear their digestive system anyway.

I know where I went wrong.  I am too ashamed to tell you about it, but suffice to say, it involved a lack of patience and corner-cutting.  Tut tut.  I imagined myself knocking these out in a round of the Great British Bake Off, and felt quite faint at the awful prospect.

These can now sit in my Great Hall of Crap Baking, along with these gems:

This was supposed to be flapjack.

This was supposed to be a smooth ganache covering.

Meh.

If we lived in the days of Pioneers, my family would surely be the one to starve to death.

Nessun dorma

 

 

A couple of years ago, Oliver went to a cub 'no sleepover.'  This involved his pack rocking up at the local headquarters, playing games, bit of rifle shooting, unrolling their sleeping bags and watching movies on a giant screen until their eyes bled, or they dropped dead from exhaustion - whichever was the soonest. 

On Friday, there was another no sleepover event.  This time it was different. This time I had 'volunteered' to be parent 'helper' and boy, was I not looking forward to it. 

Here is Oliver's sleeping bag:

From Millets, for life in the great outdoors.

Here's mine:

From 1985, for Toyah.


It started to go downhill from here really.

There were 42 cubs there.  I felt tired from the moment I arrived at 7pm.  I was greeted by the brother of my ex-boyfried who, rather horribly, is something to to with district scouting.  He was going to be there all night too.  I spent a lot of the evening avoiding him, dreading him revealing to all and sundry the tale of how we knew each other.  At 9pm I got sent to the chip shop for 62 portions of chips.  It was that sort of night.  Scream scream scream. 

At 11.30pm, after a multitude of teeth-gnashing activities, enduring noise levels which made my eardrums buzz and screeching 'shush' at countless cubs, they were finally laid out in a looonnnnnng room end to end in their sleeping bags to watch films.  But it wasn't over there, ooohhh no.  It became apparent that the leaders were going to push through til dawn, and not sleep at all.  I wanted to cry.  In fact, I think my voice broke a little when I whimpered 'seriously, all night - not sleep???  We sat in the very brightly lit  IT suite on Very Upright chairs with the computer server humming away in the background.  It was like being trapped on a bloody ferry.  In the wee hours, a  couple of the ladies gave up and went 'to bed', so I gladly followed them, crawling into my cold, hard sleeping bag in a grateful daze.  Where I dozed fitfully and shiveringly until 5.45am when they turned on the lights for the commencement of more brain-frying will-sapping activities.  Everyone looked like death warmed up.  I sulkily gamely joined in until we were summarily dismissed at 9am.  I practically ran to the car, and my screeching tyres and getaway speed rivalled that of a bank heist.

By 10am I felt so tired, I felt ill.  By 1pm, both Oliver and I were crashed out asleep on the sofa until he woke up declaring 'I'm hungry, can I have my tea' at 3pm.  Ghastly.  It was like suffering the worst jet lag.  Horrible, horrible, horrible.  And it wasn't even for charity. 

Enough tales of shitty nights away.  I have finished this:

 

 

This pattern was originally seen here.

It clearly has a right and wrong side though.  Let's not dwell on the dark side.

Laters.

bonne cuisine, incroyable

In fact - it was tres bon indeedy.  The cream, I think, was too much, although Oliver had second helpings, and Mark thirds.  Greedy buggers.  It gave me tummy ache but I will deffo make this again, but maybe with single cream (is that less rich??) or creme fraiche and milk.

This is what is left.

 

And I am awaiting this to emerge from the depths of my overworked oven:

It is teabread, made from a recipe copied from my sister in law when she was living in Tunisia.  I remember copying it out sat in the garden in the sunshine in November, I think.  Anyhoo, she can have a slice with her cuppa tomorrow as she is dropping by for a  pasta and pesto lunch.  Two days of culinary delights eh? 

Tomorrow night I have a thing to go to which is so awful I can't even begin to describe how much I would rather not be going to it at all.  Yes folks, it's another labour of love for my son which I strongly suspect will be bitterly endured by me, and thoroughly enjoyed by him.  No change there then.

I like me potatoes

O-KAY, moooooving on....

This is the evening family repast in four not very good photos:

I have no idea how this will turn out - I panicked at the last minute about flavour, or lack of therein,  and bunged on nutmeg, salt and pepper.  I am also dubious about the health benefits of 600ml of double cream.

I have just put it in the oven and I am blogging it now for hilarity value later when it all goes a bit tits up.  As these things do when I go off piste with my cooking.  I saw this being prepared in the background of a dinner party featured on Food & Drink, and both Oliver and I thought it looked good.  Even I recognise the potential dangers of cooking a meal only briefly seen out of focus on the telly for five seconds, but I have googled the google, and a mish mash of likely recipes led me to this point.  The spinach is my brainwave addition, and caused Oliver much a-wailing, but it will all be alright.  There, there.  Won't it?

Hmmm.

The Emperors New Clothes

I have been reading this with interest over at The Coffee Lady. 

For some time I have become increasingly wound up with blogs becoming less of an interesting and informative read, and more of an exercise in samey-ness with a splash of up-your-own-arse-ness.  In short, there are bloggers who have started to believe their own hype.  And it shows.  In colour.  Lots of skippity colour. 

There is loving stuff, and there is loving stuff sooooooo much that it almost makes it plagiarism for other people to love stuff too. 

I am probably not making sense now.  And I am probably straying from the point the Coffee Lady is making, but I agree in essence with it. 

Certainly there is the very real and valid point of view that if it cheeses you off, look away.  After all, blogs are the personal mouthpiece of the author.  However, the point at which a blog moves from being on your blogroll, and referred to on a daily basis for genuine pleasure to a reader-driven site where the writing style morphs into self-inflated twee prose reflecting the opinions of its obsequious comments is almost tangible.  And depressing. And makes me shout obscenities at my computer screen.

And these bloggers stop replying to comments because there are just too many, and become one of the Untouchables.  Blog to Site in four easy steps.  Sad.

I want to say they are hoisted by their own petard, although this is not quite the right expression, I think you will get my gist.  A victim of one's own success.  And the original purpose of blogging, one assumes, is lost in a sea of self-promotion.

That's what I think.  And if you don't like it, look away.  Ha ha.

check, mate.

Oliver has discovered a love of Chess.  This is a Good Thing.  I love chess, and I love that it is an excellent thinking tool for him.  He has been giving the local chess club a whirl, and is getting his arse whooped on a weekly basis by chess boffins.  This week he came home with a book of chess puzzles for juniors, and tips for 'the Italian game'.  He has just played me a game whilst referring to the latter, and made short work of my puny efforts.  I am feeling decidedly beaten and inferior.  ~And it's Mother's Day which makes my defeat Not Fair.  He should have let me win.  sulk. 

Anyway, I don't believe in Mother's Day, never have.  But it has not stopped me graciously accepting these offerings,

nor popping on my PJs and guzzling a glass of wine in the middle of the day because 'it is Mother's Day you know.'  Ha ha.  Hypocrisy is my middle name. 

Incidentally, I had already managed to scoff all of the Maltesers in four handfuls by the time I took the above photo.  It is Mother's Day you know.

The book, as far as I gather, is about Anne Boleyn, who I admire greatly for her tenacity and cunning,  although in reality I think she would have scared me silly back in the 16th century.  You just didn't mess with her.    And I have three tawdry rags to enjoy.  Sigh.  I just love Hello magazine.   I can ignore the obsequious editorial for the access to the glitz and glamour of the celeb echelons it offers.  And they never say nasty stuff.  And I like that.  It is restful after the spite and bile of Heat magazine. 

Tried to find a replacement for these today:

I know they look filthy and smelly and as if they belong to the local vagrant, but they are very comfortable, were very cheap and are my work shoes.  And, actually, they do not smell at all.  Can I find a pair like it?  Can I buggery.  I think of them in my mind as school shoes, and so have been frequenting the type of shitty shop that sells such footwear, but over the last twelve months this design has morphed into shiny black plastic with pointy toes.  This pisses me off intensely.  Feet are not pointy.  Feet are rounded at the front, and therefore school shoes should be too.  I am thinking of complaining bitterly.  To whom,  I have no idea yet.

catchin' up

I merrily started to stitch together my target squares but managed to balls it up and had to re-do all the corners.  Frigsticks.  I can't quite face crouching down on the floor and crocheting at weird angles in one sitting.  It's a work in progress to be sure.

In other news, my mother in law, who was suffering from all manner of illnesses from Alzheimers to COPD deteriorated rapidly since Christmas, and passed away last week.  In the end this was more a relief than grief, as she had been very, very unhappy in the life she was having to lead.  Her loss of memory was upsetting to witness and made all attempts to maintain a good relationship difficult to manage.  Tomorrow is the funeral where we will remember the person she once was.  The funeral we had hoped would be private and dignified is now appearing to attract hostile estranged relatives and their 'grief'.  Appearance at the funeral is one thing.  A desire to attend the following wake, distasteful in my opinion.  I just hope it brings a sense of healthy sadness and 'good' feelings to the two people there who matter the most. 

I have also received the bad news that my uncle has died.  He was the father of my cousin who died unexpectedly aged 47 last October.  To say it has not been a great few months for my aunt and her daughter is a bloody understatement.  It makes you feel quite afraid, that life can take such a dark turn so quickly. 

I will finish with my twigs.  Which I intend to hang painted eggs on, for Easter.  And I blog this so I don't seem like a real copycat later on when everybody else does it.  And it may seem weird to blog about the misery of death mixed in with crochet and twigs, but life simply must go on and these little fripperies help it to.

Laters.