I don't bake. Wait, I'm not sure you quite got that. I DON'T bake. I cannot stand baking. I don't make fairy cakes. I don't make birthday cakes. I don't make rock buns*. I don't make bara brith**. I don't make pie. I don't bake. Full stop. End of story.
(Short entry then huh?)
(You know better than that!)
I think I had fooled my children into thinking that the "don't" in "I don't bake" was actually a synonym for "can't". Until recently, when Thing One started senior school and Home Economics. And now she needs to make a cake at school. And wanted to practice at home. And so I reluctantly showed her how to make a basic sponge. And now the ruddy kids know that I CAN bake.
Over the last two weeks we've made sponge cake. We've had chocolate cake. Three times. No, five - if you count Himself's efforts. We've had fairy cakes. We've had brownies. We've had butterfly cakes. If I see cake again I may just have to scream. She is going to make her cake on Friday at school and then I need some sort of memory altering ray like the Men in Black so that the children forget I can bake and stop bugging me. I just thought. She's going to bring this cake home, isn't she? We're going to have to [gag] eat it, aren't we?? Oh, help.
Shall just quickly*** tell you about Himself's cakes. Firstly, he criticised the heck out of me for chucking everything in a bowl and mixing it up and throwing it in the oven. Apparently we need to cream the butter and sugar and sift the flour and do something weird with the eggs and add some white stuff and blah and blah. He bet us that he could make a better cake than I could, because he could do it "properly". I have to admit he made a great cake. If you like ring doughnuts. As in, risen and crispy around the edge and sunken to the base in the middle. Even our very polite houseguest slipped her slice under the table towards the dog. (Poor dog now thinks cake is some form of torture).
So this weekend, Himself barricaded himself in the kitchen and with much muttering and banging and swearing he emerged an hour later with - I have to say - two extremely good chocolate cakes which I sandwiched and iced. And we were impressed. Until I found the Betty Crocker packet mix in the bin...
But I didn't complain. In the present economy I feel it is our patriotic duty to support Betty Crocker, Mr Kipling and his pals. You should all throw away your scales and mixing bowls and support our businesses by purchasing all your biscuits and pies and cakes and other goodies. Down with home-made! Support businesses world-wide! I'm on a one woman crusade. Would you like to join me?
I'll make a cuppa. But not a damn cake!
*Incidentally. Rock buns. Why can't you buy those anywhere? I seem to recall liking rock buns.
**Fabulous Welsh fruit cake thing that my mother made every Christmas but hasn't made me ONE since I left home. I want bara brith, Mum. PLEASE!!
*** Ha! Quickly. As if.