Wednesday, 10 April 2013
Yesterday afternoon my dearly beloved announced that she was going to make one of her famous carrot cakes. Now I ought to make clear at this juncture that Anna is a bona fide cordon bleu cook, albeit one with her own take on recipes. Anyway, there was the usual flurry of pots and pans, and pretty soon the cake was in the oven. A while later there was a loud thud as she upended the tin and the very solid contents hit the cooling rack with all the grace of a house brick. This, I thought, does not bode well at all. When the brick had cooled sufficiently, she sawed herself a thin slice and took a tentative bite. "Oh dear," she said, "Something seems to have gone wrong. It doesn't taste right at all. Would you like to try some?" Declining her kind offer, I turned my attentions back to the fire I was trying to get going in the grate, from which only the merest whisper of smoke was emanating. Moments later came the second loud thud of the day as Anna unceremoniously bunged her cake brick on top of the smouldering wood. I was just about to remonstrate when I saw a slip of flame curl out from underneath the base of her offering. Two hours later it was still burning nicely. I think she may have inadvertently invented a new form of solid fuel.