It is the school cake sale again and with it comes the usual baking request. I shudder at the thought, given baking is low down on my skill base. I blame it on my school domestic science teacher who sent me packing from her class for a “shameful” white sauce.
With the baking deadline looming, I turn my attention to the cake. I pass the three-year-old and the baby into the capable hands of Big Cook Little Cook and begin turning to my reliable Lemon Drizzle recipe that requires minimum equipment and effort. I realise I am out of eggs and quickly dash out to the hen house to find Hilda sitting on her nest. “Hurry up,” I say wondering what speeds the egg laying process up. A little later she comes up trumps and produces a very small warm egg but needs must.
The baby is now screaming so I strap him to my front in the faithful papoose. I continue with my baking jiggling up and down to calm him down. Whilst singing Rock-a-Bye-Baby I realise I have added plain rather than self-raising flour. Oh well flour is flour after all. It will still taste good I think to myself. I wait by the Aga knowing full well that with my post-natal memory loss I am bound to forget about the sponge until 5am tomorrow. Then the phone rings. It is a friend who wants to chat through some crucial lift sharing arrangements. Just as my call ends the doorbell rings. A cheery man hands me the Border Terrorist who he spotted taking herself for a walk down the road.
Then I suddenly remember the Lemon Drizzle. I dash to the Aga and pull out my cake tin. Inside is a rather limp slice of dark brown sponge. It certainly lacks its self-raising status and resembles a piece of over cooked toast. With no more egg-laying hens and a screaming baby I decide to sprinkle it with sugar, wrap it in cellophane and slap a label on using my neatest handwriting. I wonder whether I should rename it “Lemon Biscuit Cake.”
At the cake sale I notice my Lemon Drizzle sitting in prime position in the centre of the table. I wonder whether to buy it myself but opt for the very fluffy looking coffee cake beside it. Before I leave I go back to the stall and discover the table empty apart from a few jam tarts and - a lonely Lemon Drizzle. My daughter says loudly, “Mummy, your cake is still there.” I’m ready to head for the door. Thankfully I hear later that the Lemon Drizzle was finally sold – to my faithful friend, Capable Karen who has come to my rescue once again.
