Having now convinced myself that I can cook (following my recent baby food triumphs), I decided to really push my luck and attempt to prepare something for adults. Yes, I've cornered guzzleability for my easily pleased and other option-less daughter. But for my next challenge I'll coup a dish which exists beyond the realms of mushed up veg.
When meeting with the more refined adult palate, my latest culinary victory must encompass actual edibility. It must embrace actual form and most importantly, it must comprise actual flavour.
A tall order. Especially for such a shining beacon of gastronomic ineptitude as my heavy handed self.
So, wishing to marry together my desire to churn out passable foodstuffs and my recent shallow, principleless, band wagon mounting, fleetingly fashionable patriotic desire to commemorate the Diamond Jubilee of our dear Queen's reign, I decided the right dish could tick both boxes.
So, weighing up the options and having the intelligence to ensure I do not saddle myself with something I'll be asked to cook for people every two bloody minutes, I decided to bake. People don't eat cake all the time. They're a special occasion thing. I don't mind being a special occasion chef. So I chose to bake an indisputable British classic. The Victoria Sponge.
|That's me. Stirring stuff, adding flour and drinking tea. With an ironing board in the background.|
Don't get that on This Morning.
I followed a Jamie Oliver recipe almost to the letter - I mean, who wants to dedicate five minutes to sieving flour or greasing tins or bugger about ensuring eggs don't curdle? Just chuck it in. And how much is a 'splash of milk'? Is that like a dash? Like the amount you put in a cuppa tea? Or on cereal? I don't do vague Jimbo - I need specifics.
I finished the cakey bit with both halves coming out of the oven looking and smelling ridiculously spot on. Hmm. I must've accidentally knocked a dog poo into the mix somewhere along the way.
Just a perfect looking cake. That tasted....perfect.
After extracting both cakes from their baking tins, and them remaining intact, I seriously began to worry. I suspiciously added the cream and strawberries all the while searching anxiously for evidence of mould, poison, razor blades...but nothing.
So perfect in fact that Dave and I polished all of it off over the course of ONE HOUR.
There it is!
The Catch: turns out I'm an astounding baker of exceedingly good, regally inspired, beautifully British cakes. Who now weighs fifteen stone.
See you in another sixty years, when I will commemorate the Diamond Jubilee of that time I baked a cake: when the presence of my interfering grandchildren, my waning stomach capacity and faltering eyesight will prevent me from creating and gluttonously consuming such an amazingly tasty cake.