With hands all muddy from the garden, I though it would be an excellent time to make a cake!
Actually, it was because Grant was heading in the opposite direction, leaving me free to take over the kitchen.
Which I intended to do yesterday, but one of my planned ingredients was given the Grant seal of banishment.
He’s from Africa. He eats bread and cheese with mold. Nothing wrong with that, considering it’s where penicillin comes from.
But you get the point. Grant seldom banishes foodstuff.
Last year, when we were preparing for Armageddon, Grant bought several boxes of mango slices. I am vegetarian, so fruit is a large part of my diet.
But the stock of frozen mango never ran out and that’s what I prefer. So there were these containers of fruit on my shelf and it was time to do something with them. Cake.
The sell by date was still good, but of course I tasted the mango to be sure it hadn’t turned horrible. Personally, I didn’t think it was that awful.
Grant made a face and that was the end of mango loaf.
Also the end of my enthusiasm for the project.
Yes, making a cake is a project for me. Isn’t that sad?
Grant was wailing that he couldn’t find chocolate cake to comfort him after his second Covid shot. Just an excuse, of course. I don’t think he suffered much from this one.
But, I decided that next time he went off shopping, I’d concoct one. Only problem is, we have no chocolate. At least not the kind you need for a cake.
Improvisation required. “Always been good at that”, I says to myself:
It was never going to be a proper cake, you understand, with layers and cream and frosting. Grant doesn’t like frosting anyway. He doesn’t really care what shape cake is. Generally he’ll eat anything you tell him is cake.
What could possibly go wrong with so few expectations?
This time, I even remembered the correct order of assembly, cream the butter with the sugar. This was a slight problem because, not being domestic in any way, I don’t have a mixer.
We have a whisk but I rejected it when it kept “eating” all the butter and wasting time. A good old fork would do. That’s what Mum used, and this was to be a very basic cake.
Well that was fine, in principle. Only I have a sore right shoulder, due to my new exercise routine…Grant’s famous “good sore”.
Switching to my left hand was not an option because I wanted the cake to get made some time this week.
So I settled for doing the best I could. At this point, there were feline comments from on top of the cupboard:
“Are you making that for my father?” asked Dee Dee
“Hm” she said.
…and went to insert herself in the newest hidey-box.
Nothing like cat disapproval to encourage one.
As I said, we have no cake chocolate and I planned to improvise, but this is where I think I made a fatal error.
Going back to basics had me following all the steps I learned in mother’s kitchen, centuries ago, including tasting the uncooked mix. My nose wrinkled. Too sweet.
Grant is finally going to be confronted with a cake he can’t eat. It’s going to follow the mango slices into the compost.
He was in Hannaford’s, so I texted him to bring “squirty cream” and then had to try to explain what I meant. I told him I had developed a craving and it’s the sort of thing I’m apt to do, so the cake will still be a surprise.
Just not a very nice one…
On the other hand.
He still didn’t ask what I used in lieu of chocolate.
A combination of Milo and Nesquik Cocoa Mix.