Cake - Baked With Love

“This morning I resolved to bake

A Mary Berry drizzle cake.

Down your way the sun may sizzle,

Round here there is heavy drizzle.”

 
                                                         Pam Ayres, from Twitter

 

We have eaten the last crumbs of my home made Simnel cake. It lasted surprisingly long, for any cake in our house, but we were also working our way through an abundant supply of hot cross buns. They were on special offer of two packs for half price or something like that and we couldn’t resist. The thing is, there are only the two of us living here and a limited time to eat them. Actually, no one else in the family likes anything with fruit in, so we weren’t obliged to share. For visiting family, I made some plain buns with icing on top, which my grandchildren call ‘Nanna cake’ and enjoy devouring.

My Nanna Hetty made the best currant cake I’ve ever known. She had it in a tin in her yellow kitchen and always gave me a piece after I’d eaten all my tea. She passed away when I was eight. My memories of her are precious. I loved spending school holidays at her bungalow and she enjoyed looking after me. My currant buns are good, but not a patch on her delicious recipe.

We were so lucky to have the generous gift of a perfect wedding cake. Three tiers of dark, rich fruit cake baked and decorated by my friend’s mother.  It was a beautiful work of art and tasted divine.

Last year, on the run up to Hallowe’en, I was given some home-grown pumpkins and looked for something to make instead of pumpkin pie and pumpkin soup. I discovered a recipe for pumpkin loaf, a sweet, dessert bread which was equally good plain or buttered and with or without dried fruit.

Home-made cake is the best. I have made Victoria Sponge birthday cakes for my children and now I make them for my grandchildren. I tell them that I put lots of love into the mixture to make them extra special. I hope I’m also baking happy memories, like my Nanna Hetty did.

 

I found this poem,

 

Cakes in the Staffroom by Brian Moses

 

Nothing gets teachers more excited
than cakes in the staffroom at break time.
Nothing gets them more delighted
than the sight of plates
piled high with jammy doughnuts
or chocolate cake

It’s an absolute stampede
as the word gets round quickly,

And it’s “Oooh” these are really delicious
and “Aaah” these doughnuts are ace.

And you hear them say, “I really shouldn’t”
or “Just a tiny bit, I’m on a diet.”

Really, it’s the only time they’re quiet
when they’re cramming cakes into their mouths,
when they’re wearing a creamy moustache
or the jam squirts out like blood,
or they’re licking chocolate
from their fingers.

You can tell when they’ve been scoffing,
they get lazy in literacy,
sleepy in silent reading,
nonsensical in numeracy,
look guilty in assembly.

But nothing gets teachers more excited
than cakes in the staffroom at break time,
unless of course,
it’s wine in the staffroom at lunchtime!

 

© 2005, Brian Moses

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Call me Dr Phil

Endorphins are the body's own opiates.  They are released during prolonged exercise, periods of relaxation or after overexposure to light.  Subjecting onself to intense pain or pleasure will also bring this happy substance into the blood stream.

The word endorphin comes from endo, which means within, and morphine, which has its root in the Greek Morpheus - the god of dreams.  So endorphins could be said to create a dreamlike state of bliss.  

Did you ever have a pain that felt like it could be fixed by inserting a needle into the ache (this blogger is not advocating the insertion of needles into flesh)?  That'd be a way of intensifying the pain to release endorphins and deaden the pain signals.  Likewise, did you ever eat a massive cake when your heart ached (this blogger absolutely advocates the insertion of massive cakes into mouths)?  That'd be a way of intensifying the pleasure to release endorphins and hug your heart with pure, snuggly, saturated fat.  Mmmm.

 

Emily Dickinson, the reclusive poet, experienced prolonged periods of melancholia.  Many of her poems explored themes of pain and death.  The poem below encapsulates, I think, the idea of a surge of endorphins, flooding the body and mind, numbing the poet into a safe 'swoon', a sanctuary of dreaming.  

The next time someone rubs your neck or spanks your thighs, consider this.  You are buying into a dream-state.  Willfully, persistently, habitually.  Are you aware whether the pain which you are trying to dispel still exists?

There is a pain - so utter-

Emily Dickinson

There is a pain -- so utter --
It swallows substance up --
Then covers the Abyss with Trance --
So Memory can step
Around -- across -- upon it --
As one within a Swoon --
Goes safely -- where an open eye --
Would drop Him -- Bone by Bone.

With just a jump to the left...Tonight the Dead Good Bloggers find out whether this blog is an award-winning blog.  Whether the dream streams are induced by pain or pleasure matters not.  What is important is that we're diving in and having a splash. 


And then a step to the right...Tonight is also the Red Tent event at the New Continental in Preston.  Seven of the North West's most entertaining female poets will be strutting their stuff in a celebration of all things womanly.  As I was saying, what is important is that we're all getting wet. 

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Spring has Sprung

Today is the vernal equinox. Finally we can say goodbye to winter. Goodbye to knitted hats and adult mittens. Goodbye to the SAD lights and vitamin d tablets. Goodbye to big coats and multiple layers. Goodbye to moody mornings and nippy nights. We can say goodbye to warring with winter because spring has started to push its bright colours into our days; fresh blue, budding green and beaming yellow break me from the grey. I start to feel alive again. Like I want to skip, do something impulsive, take a road trip, make a picnic, feed some ducks, play Frisbee, build a sandcastle, wear festival wellies on a sunny day, go open water swimming in the Lake District, drive with all the windows open, dive into a massive ball pool, hire a bouncy castle, buy a DSLR camera, start a photography course, send poetry out into the big bad world, laugh instead of getting scared, rebel, refuse to conform...

I’m not entirely sure if my current mindset is anything to do with it being the first day of spring, or whether it is in fact a result of today also being my birthday. I have a hunch that it might be the latter.

I find, as I get older, that birthdays are less appealing. That I’d rather avoid than acknowledge I’m becoming a year older. They have a similar effect to New Year; they prompt you into thinking, making promises and changes, and wishing the next year of your life will be successful, fruitful, happy. When I was four, closing my eyes tight and blowing out the candles was easy. When you’re young you believe you know what will make you happy, but as you grow up, becoming more aware, you realise that it is far more complicated than roller skates or pierced ears

Two paragraphs earlier I said that spring (my birthday?) makes me want to rebel and refuse to conform, and this post is taking a miniature step towards doing that. It is off-topic and disconnected from the theme – because I felt that daffodils were more important than gods...

Thank you for reading,

Lara 

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Why you came

You arrive at a party. It's only a small gathering but you've spent some time over your attire and you smell at least 10% less sweaty than earlier. Your hair is a little less shabby and you practiced your smile in the bathroom before you left home. You've made an effort. The party is at the house of an acquaintance. They greet you at the door. Your £3.99 bottle of wine disappears to the kitchen and you are shoved unceremoniously into the living room which smells of vinegar and cheese flavouring.

As the newcomer to the room, all eyes turn towards you. You recognise 4 human beings who all appear eager to talk to you, having reached the limits of tolerance with each other. On the small sofa directly to your left is Bonnie. She is terribly nice but tends towards the trite and although her utterances are packaged very neatly, you are frequently left with the impression that they lacked actual content.

Standing by the mantelpiece with an empty glass is Barrie. He, you remember, has a knack for throwing obscure references into the conversation and passages from books which you haven't read. Once he starts talking he doesn't know when to stop and the last time you conversed a small amount of drool escaped your mouth.

Huddled beneath a massive yukka plant is Bella. Wow, she's kookie. Isn't she though? Isn't she just so mad? She must be, she tells you so every time she opens her mouth. You'd better believe her. It'd be good if you started the conversation by reminding her how crazy she is, that way she might go easy on you.

But wait. There's Buddy. Slumped in the corner, tears streaming down his pearly cheeks. Aww. Poor Buddy. Look at the pain in his eyes. Life's too much for this fella. Don't you just want to sit next to him and let him tell you how incredibly tortuous it is to exist from day to day? No?

You consider backing away, cutting your losses. Nobody would blame you. The door is right behind you.

Too late. Bonnie has taken your hand and has pulled you down beside her. Was your sigh as loud as you imagined? Bonnie has begun to divulge her observations to you, softly, quietly. Before your mind begins to wander you are caught by a flirty snippet of rhyme, a saucy metaphor. She proceeds through a series of robust plosive verbs and you are ensnared. There's a nugget of disgust cradled in a web of tight, careful sounds. She's exploring new territory, stabbing at precious, large-eyed values and wringing the blood from shy concepts with a greed that's as unavoidable as streakers, attractive as arrogance. Bonnie's face contorts as life spills from her eyes and her mouth and she laps up your reaction to feed her channel of sound so that you are as much a part of this as she. Without you, this wouldn't be happening. A little of her, a little of you and the meeting. That's why you came. That's why you continue to go to parties.

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A bag by any other name

Would you like an empty bag? Are you sure? It's quite a good one actually. It's a bag for life. This bag comes from an upmarket shop where the staff don't so much walk as stalk between shelves of shiny objects with insincere price tags. Clean bags are awfully important aren't they? There's nothing worse than a shitty bag. Well this bag is brand new. No egg, ice lolly or potato dirt has spoiled its interior. No cigarette ash corrupts the tasteful logo which puts you in mind of fresh air and humming. The handles are soft and wide, they fit neatly into your palm. Designers in Paris created the pattern which enhances the seams, engineers in Berlin worked through the night to produce a bag which is reliable, strong, smart.

Or

Would you like a bag full of cakes? It's a shitty bag. I found it in the bottom of a drawer. I don't know what I used it for last time but there's a small cluster of gooey nuggets in the bottom. Oh, there's a slight tear in this bag and the handles cut into your flesh if you put heavy objects in it. It'll hurt you if you overload it. But cake's OK. Cake never hurt anyone. This bag is white and slightly transparent. It has a funny smell. It cost less than a penny to produce and it's probably only got one more use left in it. The cakes are safe. They're wrapped in clingfilm. The cream is fresh, the icing made with cream cheese. It's not a bag for diabetics.

...

Pub in Clitheroe. Three weeks ago. I was standing at the bar at lunchtime on a Monday. In my hand I had a small box containing a new pair of earrings which were quite expensive and a gift. I didn't want to put them away because I was a little bit in love with the earrings at that time. My partner kissed the back of my neck, sneakily, and its message went straight where he intended it. Good for us eh? A woman of late middle age was bundled up in a wheelchair at a table behind us. She was alone, drinking a large glass of wine at lunchtime on Monday. She said loudly 'I saw that'. We turned and smiled, a little embarrassed. She said 'Enjoy those kisses, you'll miss them when they're gone.' Awkward silence while I tried to think of either a witty response or an honest one that didn't make me sound like a twat. She beat me: 'I miss them.'

There. Job done. I now know more about her than most of my extended family. The moral? Introductions suck, be yourself. Speak your mind. Like what I have done. See?

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