Early finish Friday. I'm about to go out for a 10 miler and need to know there's some grub to come back to.
The kitchen is not my strong point although I am an old hand at seeking out the stashed biscuits and choc. But after failing to sniff out any 'energy' food, I began to shake and dribble uncontrollably. Pavlovs Dogs saw this and left the room, muttering.
There was nothing else for it and before I knew it, I was up to my oxters in flour, sugar and eggs. There was some sort of ceremonial method set out within the recipe book involving needing, folding and whisking, but these were treated with contempt, being jettisoned as I cranked up the electric mixer to warp factor 7. The mixer ground to a groaning halt when I poured in a good bowlful of sultanas, raisins and almond flakes.
I poured the mix into a cake tin before remembering I'd forgot to add the butter, so out it came again and I mixed in a slab of Lurpak with a metal fork. Just the job.
Auntie Aggie fancies herself as a dab hand in the baking stakes. She'd been admiring her new dentures in the gazebo but caught sight of my reflection in the mirror in a haze of flour, sensed cake making activity and couldn't help herself. Sauntering into the kitchen in her pinny, she watched for a minute, then wandered past the bench with a slow air of menace like an invigilator during exam time. I was busy licking the cake mix off the fork and my fingers. I knew she was there, I could hear the slipper-shuffle and detected the pungent funk of moths balls, last Christmas's eau de toliette and peppermint creams. She coolly whispered the word 'buffoon' in my ear as she drifted past and out the room.
The cakes are in and whatever size and shape they come out of the oven they'll keep me going over the next few days.
Meanwhile I thought this picture of the eggs that were spared a death worse than cake (Dundee Cake, that is) look like some baldy martians setting off for a roller coaster ride in Blackpool.