I’ve remembered why I don’t bake very often.
It is not because I am rubbish at it. I am competent enough, especially if there is little to be done on the decorative front.
It is because, unless the baking is being done purely for someone else’s consumption, it means a massive calorific overdose which I can, frankly, do without.
On Valentine’s Day, in addition to giving a place-setting full of gummy and chocolate treats (and receiving a box of Maltesers which is traditional gift fare for me – and always welcome, I might add), I thought I would show my wifely skills in an unaccustomed burst of culinary creativity.
One of the small miracles of this, was that I had not only saved a recipe from a recent magazine, but had also succeeded in purchasing the necessary ingredients and – amazingly – remembered where I had secreted the relevant page from the magazine!
Ninety minutes later I had seven rather beautiful banana-choc turnovers. Almost professional-looking, although just sufficiently misshapen enough to pass as my own.
I rather belatedly read the advice that these were best served hot, straight from the oven. There are only the two of us locked down together here – so I valiantly managed to eat four of these myself during the course of the afternoon, admittedly not all whilst they were still warm.
I am informed today that they are actually nicer cold – and fortunately the final pair have disappeared between breakfast and lunch, so the tyranny of eating them all up has gone away.
I’m not sure which emotion has won. Pride and satisfaction at achieving something practical, or annoyance at my greed and over-indulgence. Honours even, I suppose and today is a new day when I can stomp around the park a bit more to try and atone for the latter.