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desperanceOne of the things I completely forgot to do yesterday was to bake a cake: specifically a plum cake, as cited, "the size of a moderate cartwheel". After dithering for an hour or two this morning, I've decided to go ahead and damn the torpedoes, and if it's not ready before everyone leaves, well, hey. Cartwheels always come in handy.
And it's not at all a Christmas cake, but it does call for half a cup of brandy in the mix; and apparently I only ever cook with brandy at Christmas, according to my sensorium. I find this hard to believe, but I sloshed in the amber liquor and gave it a stir and a heady scent arose and yup: that is totally Christmas to me. Like walking out of a brightly-lit shop into a shivery twilight at about half-past three in the afternoon. Seasons pack themselves into moments of memory.
One of the ways in which it is not at all a Christmas cake is that it's yeasted, much more like a rich sweet fruited bread than any other notion of a cake. Which means I currently have three yeasted doughs rising in the kitchen: the cake, and the sesame seed buns for the barbie (oh, c'mon: buttermilk buns with meat in? Jack would've loved them), and the sourdough that I forgot all about last night so discovered oozing all over the block this morning, hey-ho. I have knocked it thoroughly back and wrapped it in linen and set it in its proving-basket, where it can prove either that it still has another rise in it or else that it is totally exhausted, thanks, and thinks it's done now.
I realised, about an hour back, as I whipped egg-whites for the cake: I am having a thoroughly lovely Sunday, thank you. I am hoping to hang on to that, as the stress builds.
[In other news, my wife is a genius. Of course we should take a copy of Desdaemona to the interview. I wrote it, and it's dedicated to her. What more proof could they possibly require?]
And it's not at all a Christmas cake, but it does call for half a cup of brandy in the mix; and apparently I only ever cook with brandy at Christmas, according to my sensorium. I find this hard to believe, but I sloshed in the amber liquor and gave it a stir and a heady scent arose and yup: that is totally Christmas to me. Like walking out of a brightly-lit shop into a shivery twilight at about half-past three in the afternoon. Seasons pack themselves into moments of memory.
One of the ways in which it is not at all a Christmas cake is that it's yeasted, much more like a rich sweet fruited bread than any other notion of a cake. Which means I currently have three yeasted doughs rising in the kitchen: the cake, and the sesame seed buns for the barbie (oh, c'mon: buttermilk buns with meat in? Jack would've loved them), and the sourdough that I forgot all about last night so discovered oozing all over the block this morning, hey-ho. I have knocked it thoroughly back and wrapped it in linen and set it in its proving-basket, where it can prove either that it still has another rise in it or else that it is totally exhausted, thanks, and thinks it's done now.
I realised, about an hour back, as I whipped egg-whites for the cake: I am having a thoroughly lovely Sunday, thank you. I am hoping to hang on to that, as the stress builds.
[In other news, my wife is a genius. Of course we should take a copy of Desdaemona to the interview. I wrote it, and it's dedicated to her. What more proof could they possibly require?]