Have your cake
I was stood at the kitchen table, wearing one of Beanie's aprons, when
the treacle tin exploded. I had warmed the treacle in the oven's bottom
shelf, as instructed, so it would mix more easily into the flour,
sugar, fat, spices and fruit. Unfortunately, after putting the treacle
inside the oven, I forgot all about it and left it too long. By the
time we needed treacle, the tin was so hot I had to use gloves to
remove it from the oven. I carried it over to the table and put it
down. It was then I made my big mistake; using a fork I prised the lid
open. Hot, black gloop spurted out like lava from a volcano, bubbling
up uncontrollably over the oven gloves, the table and the cake mixture.
The explosion left a layer of caramelised tarmac over the recipe,
preserving it like a relic from the Cretaceous Period. A sticky, sweet-smelling relic.
Despite this set-back, making the Christmas cake (well, two of them,
actually, as we made an extra one for Granny) was a delight; the flat
was filled all weekend with that evocative smell of baking fruit,
nutmeg and cinnamon. The cakes are now packed away tightly in tins,
wrapped in layers of grease-proof paper to marinate for three months.
The plan is to feed them with brandy at intervals before December 25,
dripping alcohol in via holes made by knitting needles. Cake-making: an
honourable exception to the evil of premature Christmas preparations,
worth braving exploding treacle tins for any day.
Posted
05 October 2009 10:34