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.