Spanking new spring-release tin, dodgy oven, lime green borrowed bowl and recipe book littered with patchy daubs of cakemix gone by. An hour for me, myself, and Good Housekeeping. Labrador-on-walkies levels of contentment.
Rushing and intermingling of the many various little grains, course and fine, bleached, bright and broodingly dusky. Crack and slap of egg and curd, where’s the wooden spoon, don’t forget to get the bits round the sides. Humming and stirring, a distant radio, a clatter fades upstairs. I lean against the sink meditatively, spoon to bowl, bowl to hip, spilt corn flour a shadow on my jeans, and a carefully tuned ear confirms my suspicions. Its Hugo’s room the Mcfly is coming from.
¾’s of a Gossip Girl episode and 1 pensively savoured Milkybar later, and the oven is swelling with lemony warmth. A giant coin of golden cream, a speckling Demerara blush skims the depths of glowing pudding. The buttery biscuit base holds its own, despite me having boshed the digestives in a Tesco bag after the whisk did a runner. A proud fork prod confirms it: shareable. It even looks a bit like the picture.