Hadn't baked a cake in years. Three at a guess. Which, actually thinking about it, is possibly the minimum feasible amount of time to justify using the term 'in years'. Carrot cake it was – with that lovely white topping that's like a cross between cream, cheese and icing. 'Creesing' perhaps?
The quandary always posed with cake making is whether one should lick the mixing bowl out? It's got raw egg in it. According to the Daily Mail, raw egg can cause wrist burn and, in some eggxamples, induce a rare form of coma in which the victim dreams of Big Bird from Sesame Street for four weeks solid. Thing is, I'd rather trust my mum than the Daily Mail and when I was eight my mum would always let me lick the bowl out. There again eggs in the seventies were probably safer, as chickens had a lot more space and the air wasn't so full of aerosols and haemorrhoids.
I checked where my eggs were from. Good news! They were laid by chickens roaming freely on Silbury Hill, cared for by Hendoos - a religious order concerned only with the good health of feathered cluckers, and not to be confused with Hindus or women on a frenzied night out in Blackpool.
No comments:
Post a Comment