Am I Bakewell Tart? Now that some none-English people are reading this, I guess I should say that Bakewell tart is a northern English traditional, stodgy desert.
E and I hooked up with J and A for a late lunch in Bakewell; it was hard to decide between the Bakewell Tart and the Bakewell Pudding. We had two of each between us. Stodgy? Nah. Scrumpious? Truly.
When I was at school, my domestic science teacher, Miss Sidebottom - who insisted we called her Miss Sid-ee-both-um - taught us to make this local northern delicacy. But I cocked it up... I put the jam in the bottom of the pie case, but forgot the almonds, so I scraped it out and remixed it and put it back in the flan. Mine didn't look quite so perfect as my classmates, and when I took it home, it was rock hard and you couldn't even cut it with a knife. We knew one family with a dog - lots of Jewish people are scared of dogs, because of the pogroms, apparently - so I took it up the road to Shirley and Jeffrey, and their dog, famously, wouldn't eat it. So that's the family history on my baking skills.
I've improved since then; tonight I improvised Thai green curry - currently the house, or at least my house, dish - though it turned out red. With wild/basmati rice, followeed by vodka drenched melon. E is moving to Jersey and has brought the entire contents of her drinks cabinet with her, which we are working our way through. It's Monday, it must be vodka. Though every day is a vodka day for me.
Tomorrow: the Tissington Trail. Or, possibly, more vodka.
Oh, and I wrote 2,000 words today. The spell is broken.
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