The other night at about eleven, exhausted beyond all possible belief, I wanted something sweet. I am not sure I know anyone with a tooth as sweet as mine, or who gets such whole-body sugar cravings. Oh processed sugar. You are my crack cocaine.
So I made toast, and chocolate icing.
It makes a thick skin and cracks again when you pick the toast up. And I made cocoa so thick you could stand a spoon in it. And ye Gods, there is nothing better than sticky sweet pure sugar.
There has been a general move towards cookery of late.
I cooked dinner for fourteen people on Saturday (cue smug utilization of two cookers.)
I love the smell of caramelising onions, the surging panic of guests being due, the mad dash leap to get it all finished. I like feeding people. I suppose it is a more socially acceptable means of showing love than nuzzling them all the time. I enjoy nothing more than full, happy people chatting around a table. Well, I say I enjoy nothing more … I am also partial to walks through disembodied Cambridge Gloom, where such deep sea monsters as these lurk:
I was late for formal catching swans with my poor photographical skills. But Robinson grounds melt into a felted paradise of strange shapes at night, and although not well captured were too good to pass by: