My gentleman this morning brought me a somewhat unusual gift – a couple of pounds of cooking apples. This inspired me to get baking – something which happens very rarely and, if I’m honest, produces an expression that is a mix of resignation and trepidation on the faces of my children.
I am an enthusiastic baker. Cooking leaves me cold – I like to eat, but I prefer my meals to arrive in front of me with very little interference on my part. But baking, I like. It stems back to early memories of spending Saturday nights with my great-grandmother. Saturday night was Cards Night – but Sunday morning was Baking Day. She would make apple pie, baked egg custard and biscuits. I would have a piece of pastry to make jam tarts, an apple turnover and a small grey unidentifiable object from the remaining scraps, which my Uncle John would always eat with every sign of enjoyment. Gawd bless ‘im.
So, in my adult life, getting the apron on and throwing around enough flour to make the kitchen resemble the ski slopes at Aspen brings back happy memories. Today I made apple crumble; which puzzled me because despite following the recipe to the letter I still ended up with about an inch of apple covered by approximately a cubic foot of crumble.
Also, I made shortbread. Unfortunately one of my stumbling blocks when it comes to doing anything is my terrible tendency to wander off halfway through. So the shortbread, which needed 15-20 mins cooking, stayed in the oven for… ooh, about an hour.
If anyone out there finds themselves in need of a roofing tile, I have something that would fit the bill admirably!