Advice for blackberry-pickers

Bramble bushes are very protective of their fruit. They don't want you to take any and they will fight you to the death. You know the gear bee-keepers wear? If you can get hold of a suit like that it would be ideal.

At sixty-four years of age you'd think I would have learned not to wear shorts when blackberrying. 'Oh, it'll be fine,' I say as I head out as unprotected as a new-born. Then as I do battle with the brambles I scold myself and George - for not reminding me.

At least this year I did wear socks and shoes which is an improvement on previous years. And I only fell down one hole.

But the satisfaction of getting food for nothing is worth the pain. But, oh the grief, of seeing those big fat juicy ones j-u-s-t out of reach.

From the bush ...

to the plate. Blackberry crumble loaf cake.

And that cake ...

Blueberry and white chocolate cake with a cheesecake topping

From a Sainsbury's recipe

My attempt to crystallise mint was less than successful!

White sugar might have worked better.

The great cake inventor

While walking today I invented a cake!

It's not everyone who can - or would want to - say that. It occurred to me that i'd never seen a recipe for a blackberry cake and then it occurred to me: what's to stop me inventing one? 

So I shall make it on Tuesday and the Zaccers can be my guinea-pigs. Of course the fact that there isn't one already - to my knowledge - suggests there may be a good reason for that. But if you look at Nigella's Kitchen book and the photo of her seed cake you'll notice that it's very sunken in the middle. She says that's okay because that's the way it's meant to be. So should my blackberry cake go wrong I shall say, as is my right as inventor, that it's meant to be like that.

Win win.

And of course if it's a huge success it could become as famous as black cherry gateau or the victoria sponge and I could become famous as the inventor and Mr. Kipling would have to pay me lots of money to mass produce my blackberry cake, and I might insist on having my name on the packet. In hand-writing. Like Linda McCartney. But not my hand-writing as that's not very good. And not Linda McCartney's as that would be confusing.

I've never thought of inventing a cake before. I've always stuck to recipes but I know the basics so what could possibly go wrong? 

And before you say you've just googled it and there is a recipe for blackberry cake, it's not for MY blackberry cake. 

To be continued.

So bad I made it twice

Today I made my worst cake ever. And I mean ever.

Since my birthday and the wonderful present Husband gave me of  new food mixer I have been convinced that my sponge cakes aren't as good as they were before. And I am - at least always have been - proud of my sponge cakes. I am complimented regularly on them.

I put it down to paranoia, that feeling that with the demise of my old mixer had gone my skill too. It was never me; it was my food processor that deserved all the praise. I kept telling myself not to be so stupid but the niggling feeling wouldn't go away.

And today, when making a birthday cake for Woody, I have proved that I was right to be paranoid. I made the worst cake ever. It rose - a bit - but on cooling sank. Not just in the middle because it's not quite cooked enough but all over! So that it ended up as a solid flat mass. So bad I had to make another. And this time I dug out my old food processor. (Of course I hadn't thrown it away. What do you think I am?)

The result:

On the left the second cake made with old mixer; on the right - well, you can see what's on the right.

So is it the mixer? Or is it me? Does my lack of confidence in the new machine transfer itself to the mixture that in turn loses its oomph? Or is it possible to over-mix? It takes much longer with the new mixer especially as I leave it on for longer than suggested on the principle that longer must be better.

My unleavened bread turned out quite well though, the oven-cooked variety turning out better-looking than the griddled one.

Yum yum - I think ...

As it's half-term the community cafe is open again, and I'm helping in the kitchen there today. I've made a carrot cake to take with me and, before you say it, I know it looks more like a yellow chilli-pepper cake but that was because I didn't have any orange food colouring. My cake decorating skills go from bad to worse.

I'm only one step away from marmite-topped cake. (If you saw the Vicar of Dibley repeat on Sunday evening, you'll know what I mean.)

xxx

Happy St. George's Day

... and a belated happy birthday to Tim O.

My talent for cake decorating continues to amaze me.

I hope there's no glass in this

Lest you think I am a complete disaster as a cook, let me show you this.

Yesterday was the birthday of one of what I think of as 'my boys' - lads from church who help me out and who live a long way from home. Because his mummy was far away I made him a birthday cake. Just look at the artistry in this:

Do you think I should consider a new career in cake decorating?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Daughter's dog, Holly, is at the vet's today for 'the op'. Daughter is in a state; I am fretting about both.

If you have a thought or a prayer to spare today, please direct it Devonwards.

The leaning cake of Sketty

Does this cake look to you as if it's leaning? You can't see it very well in the photo but it has a definite tilt to it compared to the other side. I wonder if it's something to do with the 14 tablespoons of brandy I added.

Now that's what I call a cake!

Thanks to Robyn - here's the link and the photo of the cake I mention in the previous post:

http://littlemisshomepage.blogspot.com/

Nicole is one very talented lady!

Out with the old

A very happy New Year to everyone!

With the bug's effects receding, we were all able to enjoy the celebrations. Husband was toying with a bad tum but, a braveheart till the end, he manfully beat it back with felafels and wine.

He and I visited Daughter and Son-in-law in Silverton, Devon. Elder Son and Fiancee stayed in the cottage with them so we bedded down at the local hostelry, The Three Tuns (actually one of the small village's three pubs). A Grade II listed coaching inn dating from 1496, the accommodation was built on at the back and lacked the charm of old age and tradition, but was clean and comfy.

The main reason that I'm mentioning it is that it smelled of my cousin's house.

My cousin, Sue, has been dead now for - gosh, I can't remember - a good many years and I have rarely been inside her house since she died. (Her husband still lives there in case you think I'm knocking on the door of strange people and asking to be let in.) I wondered if the same polish had been used but our room was furnished with white melamine; alternatively it could have been - I don't know what. It wasn't unpleasant, just very distinctive. Not a disinfectant or cleanser or room freshener smell. 'Shake and vac?' Husband suggested. I don't think so.

But it reminded me again how evocative a scent can be.

Husband's sense of smell isn't particularly good; mine makes up for my poor hearing (who said that?). An aroma can transport me anywhere. Mostly back in my memory I suppose. Days long gone. People also long gone.

That makes me sound ancient! I'm not, honest, but yesterday, in the car travelling to Devon, I was contemplating - as one is wont to do at this time of the year - times gone past.

I lived, as a child, with my mother, grandparents and great-grandmother. She, Maggie, had eight children who all, with their offspring, gathered at Christmas and new year at our home, Albert House. Pubs in those days opened on Christmas Day and in the evening the grown-ups would go to the Park Inn before returning for supper, when the women would cook and serve the meal to the men before sitting down themselves to eat. When the table had been cleared, the fun would start. Or rather the singing would begin.

Uncle Woodie sang with Dunvant Male Voice Choir; my gran had a beautiful contralto voice; Sue was a trained soprano. And those were just the acknowledged voices. Everyone else crowded in the small living-room joined in too.

Except me. I tried my best to blend into the wall.

The cousins had their own groupings. I was in the middle group that consisted of Sue, Spencer, Howard, Lynne (all older than me by months or a couple of years) and John (younger). That's Howard and me in the photo.

Sue was old enough to go to the pub; Spencer and Howard were brought along later; Lynne, John and I were put to bed in Albert House and then got up again when everyone returned from the pub. I would rather have stayed in bed.

Better that than the ritual of saying goodnight. Being passed around, let's say, merry, uncles and aunties, to kiss good-night and be told 'what a lovely girl she is'. And knowing - okay, believing - that they didn't really mean it but that they much preferred my six-month-older-than-me cousin Lynne.

And yet I look back on those days with fondness and a wish to recreate them, even though I know it's impossible. Most of aunties and uncles are long dead as are Sue, Spencer and Howard (all three, much too young, to vile cancer).

I suppose it's that dream of the ideal, the one that could never be true, not really true or real, but that seems so desirable and allusive.

When I look at photos today of Uncle Bun (real name Hobart Pasha Honey) I think he looked a lot like a short Clark Gable. He's on the right with Auntie Eva and their children, Carol and Peter.

Uncle Bun enjoyed parties. He liked a drink; he liked to sing; he like to tell stories. He didn't like to go home. He was married to Auntie Eva. Much as she enjoyed all the same things she knew when it was time to go home. That was when she'd try to get Uncle Bun's coat on.

Now Uncle Bun was the only person who'd drink my mum's home-made carrot whiskey. He'd drink anything else as well and Uncle Horace, who loved to tease, would make sure he always had a full glass in his hand, particularly when Auntie Eva was trying to get him into his coat.

'Horace, you bugger!' That's Eva.

'It's just one for the road.'

'You are a gentleman, Horace.' That's Bun.

Eva takes the drink out of her husband's hand and sticks his right arm into the sleeve of his coat. Bun picks the drink up in his other hand.

Eva takes it off him and slips his left arm into his sleeve. Meanwhile Bun takes his right arm out of his sleeve and picks up his drink again.

Eva goes back round to his right side and prepares to start again. As she takes the drink away from her husband, she says, 'Will some bugger help me here?'

But everyone is enjoying the performance too much. Round and round like jolly little Christmas spinning tops they go.

And here are some of the family doing what they do best (singing, though drinking was another possibility) in the Park Inn under the watchful eye of the publican, Ronnie Jenkins.

Mixed memories.

Also in the car yesterday it suddenly struck me that one day I would be as old as old people in old people's homes. I've always disassociated old people from anything else. I've grown older with people I know who are now in their eighties so I don't think of them in the same way, not strictly as being old, even though I know they are. And one day I will be. I said to Husband, 'What will we have to tell our grandchildren about? Grandma (his mum) was a chorus-girl; grandad (his dad) was shot at by Germans. What interesting things will we have to tell our grandchildren?'

I began to panic. 'Don't worry,' Husband said. 'we can make something up.'

I raised the topic again yesterday evening. 'What have I done with my life that could be considered useful?'

Elder Son coughed and patted himself.

'Oh, yes, I've brought up - with a lot of help from Husband - three lovely children. Thank you for reminding me.'

I am so glad that they - our children - consider that a valuable use of a life. I do love them so.

And before I go, (yes, I am going, don't worry)you may remember the New Year cake that I mentioned a post or so ago. The Bug stopped me doing anything on it until New Year's Eve morning - just before we left for Devon - so this was the best I could come up with: 'Happy Birthday to 07'

Blog-browsing the other day I came across a site - and I cannot for the life of me remember whose it was - and the owner had created the most fantastic wedding cake for friends. It was three-tier and based on a beach theme with waves and fish and all very glorious. If I could remember I would link to it but it's probably just as well that I don't, having just shown you my cake-decorating skills.

Now I'm off to watch the last-ever episode of The Vicar of Dibley. A young friend is taking romantic advice from me and the Vicar of Dibley. With such an infallible pairing I can already hear the wedding bells.

Like an egg without salt

Come February, Daughter will have been married four years (give or take a year - I'm never sure).

I made their wedding cake (but left the icing to a professional) and, as is traditional, kept one of the layers to use for the first christening. As the chance of that day coming anytime in the near future is as likely as England winning the 2007 rugby world cup, I decided it was time to make some space in the freezer and turn it into a Christmas cake.

Unfortunately, time being as elusive as it is, it's now going to be a New Year cake. I've removed the old icing and marzipan and replaced it with fresh marzipan and will do the icing tomorrow. And as Husband is the only person who likes Christmas/wedding cake, it will last long enough to double up as an Easter Cake too.

By the way, when I say, 'do the icing', I mean roll out the shop-bought fondant icing and lay it over the cake. I might see if I can find 2007 in candles - or something equally artistic and understated!

* * * * * * * * * *

Seeing Elsie's post, with the photo of her husband wearing the beard he grew at her request, reminded me that Husband has forgotten his intention/threat (depending on where you stand) to shave off his moustache over the Christmas holiday.

In the 32 years I've known him he's only once been without facial hair. That was over a Christmas and I said then, and I reminded him this time, that if he did it again I would divorce him.

There's an old Spanish proverb that says that kissing a man without a moustache is like eating an egg without salt. Guy de Maupassant describes it thus in The Mustache.

... he has shaved off his mustache. You cannot imagine, my dear Lucy, how it changes him! I no longer recognize him-by day or at night. If he did not let it grow again I think I should no longer love him; he looks so horrid like this.
In fact, a man without a mustache is no longer a man. I do not care much for a beard; it almost always makes a man look untidy. But a mustache, oh, a mustache is indispensable to a manly face. No, you would never believe how these little hair bristles on the upper lip are a relief to the eye and good in other ways. I have thought over the matter a great deal but hardly dare to write my thoughts. Words look so different on paper and the subject is so difficult, so delicate, so dangerous that it requires infinite skill to tackle it.
Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, I understood at once that I never could fall in love with a strolling actor nor a preacher, even if it were Father Didon, the most charming of all! Later when I was alone with him (my husband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucy, never let yourself be kissed by a man without a mustache; their kisses have no flavor, none whatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and the snap- yes, the snap--of a real kiss. The mustache is the spice.
Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry--or moist--parchment. That is the kiss of the man without a mustache. It is not worth while.
Whence comes this charm of the mustache, will you tell me? Do I know myself? It tickles your face, you feel it approaching your mouth and it sends a little shiver through you down to the tips of your toes.
And on your neck! Have you ever felt a mustache on your neck? It intoxicates you, makes you feel creepy, goes to the tips of your fingers. You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss back your head. You wish to get away and at the same time to remain there; it is delightful, but irritating. But how good it is!
A lip without a mustache is like a body without clothing; and one must wear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing.

There's no need for me to say anything else.