Given my daughter’s demand she have cake for breakfast, having read the Very Hungry Caterpillar and taken her cue from him, I made little Victoria sponge cupcakes. (Reader, keep your hair on, I didn’t jump straight into the kitchen and bake as soon as she started mewing, nor did I spoon cupcakes into her open, baby-bird-like cakehole for breakfast.)
I don’t often bake, nor do I keep confectionary, cakes or biscuits in the house as I don’t do restraint. However, it doesn’t take too much persuasion to get me cracking a few eggs and donning a pinny (ok, I don’t wear an apron.) My mother didn’t cook and I learned jam-making, pastry-making and generally 1950s housewifery from my gran (including stressing about “my windows” and assorted hen-pecking). Mixing eggs and flour, for batter, cakes or pastry never fails to send me back to the autumn-hues of her Midlands kitchen, where I stirred and filled cases and flicked through her big grey cookery compendium, fascinated by the elaborate recipes, alien to my upbringing. And so baking, in the sense of eggs and flour mixing, instills with me warmth and sadness. Recipe books fascinated me then and still do (or did, pre Monkey-face.) I hope to pass on cookery and recipe books to her as my gran did to me.
I enjoyed my half an hour of domestic goddessness/ goddestry/ goddessing. I enjoyed the Monkey-face’s hilarious expression even more.
There was a very tenuous link to this post to reading. But, in my life, I’m constantly surprised to find just how much is indeed linked to my love of books
For gran, with love and forgiveness