"What is a weekend?"

Another weekend draws to a halt, ushering in the dreaded working week. I spend my Sunday’s in some wistful contemplation of what I have so enjoyed of my previous day of freedom and what I so wholly wish to avoid in my upcoming return to the office. Such is the irony of life, you spend a day of freedom thinking about work.

My Sunday solace is that I spend it doing those domestic chores I so enjoy. Namely in my kitchen, or in my designated cookbook chair, a wing backed chair by my bookcase where I contemplate those future meals I so love.

I went out on Friday night. Thing that annoyed me number 1 of a night out socialising? Other people. Namely an old “friend” ignoring me openly all night, when I cannot for the life of me understand why that would happen. And secondly, people who are just horrible full stop. I am talking about a guy in a pub who is clearly in his mid thirties, who is dating a lad in his early 20’s and decides to act like a lairy student type to impress his too-young beau. Ultimately this is none of my business, but what goaded me was that he was taking the Mick out of a lot of people to get a reaction, and started jumping up and down in my face at one point. I wanted to tell him that he was more than a touch sleazy, and was beyond delusional if he thought the age difference had any longevity in it when it was obvious the object of his affection was a university student but alas it is none of my business. I decided the whole thing was a life lesson as to why I don’t go out that often any more.

The ultimate reason I don’t go out? The next morning. I woke up feeling fine, but the vodka effects are a cruel mistress. I felt it wash over me as the day progressed, an empty laziness, a disaffectedness. I could not be bothered to leave the house. I found myself staring at the television, unable to change the channel, contemplating watching all of Flubber. I broke the laziness just after midday, and ran to the kitchen, and grabbed my Magnolia Bakery book. I had no idea what I fancied, so I thought about an old Ina episode where she made chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting. I thought I could start there. I began with a devils food cake cupcake mix. 200 and odd grams of plain flour sounded reasonable, 100 odd of butter. I didn’t question any of these amounts. 300ml of buttermilk. I should really have thought hang on there. 3 eggs- why didn’t I pick up on this. I was just creaming the batter unquestioning, mixing, sifting happily, listening to a Mary Portas interview. I then looked at the recipe again. I read down. I looked at the note about frosting etc, and saw a bold, green line that almost made me cry. “Makes30-35 cupcakes, depending on Us/Uk standard size cupcake liners”. I had made 35 cupcakes. In a two person household. When hungover and therefore liable to eat them. Why am I a fool?

I then noticed I only had one half eaten jar of peanut butter, so the frosting amounts were restricted. But my goodness it’s good stuff. It’s a mix of butter, peanut butter, sifted. Icing sugar, vanilla extract and cream. And it produces a smooth, glossy pure peanut light frosting. It’s to die for. And that’s good, I may die the quantities we have in our home. After I had a little overly emotional moment in light of my cake crisis, I made dinner whilst listening to Valentine Warner chatting to Dermot O’Leary. Lovely Val. However Anne and I once decided that she should marry Val. We read some of his What to Eat book and then looked in an article about his mum, named Lady Simone, and we decided this was the sort of posh set up she was born for. Hunter wellies, a padded Barbour coat, a nice bit of soft knit, a Labrador and a bottle of Sancerre permanently on the go. Always one to say “could I get you a small Sherry, Lady Simone?” that’s Anne. Always one to answer the question of what’s for lunch “we have a chicken liver parfait, then Val’s doing rabbit”. I can still see it now. So when I hear him talking about his wife, I irrationally say things like “bloody idiot”, or “yeah yeah yeah, her”. Totally irrational. I’m sure they, as a couple, predated our conversation in Harvey Nicks bar in Bristol where we decided this arrangement without any Warner family input. I’m sure they are desperately happy. But in my head I’ve married them off, and I’m already mocking them about Anne’s ginger gene for the babies. I’m going to have to go to plan B. Anne marrying Tom Aikens.

Today was a bumper cook off. 8 mile run to start the day, followed by moules mariniere in front of Steps Reunion. Ultimate comfort food, and so cheap to make. I returned to the kitchen for round two. A Walnut Loaf and a plain loaf, followed by a roast chicken dinner and three jars of strawberry jam. That’s how I roll. And I must blow my own trumpet, the kids done good!

It’s been a funny old day. I’ve been unable to settle. I feel that way generally. I had a good week this week, making a friends 3 year old a birthday cake. It was a red velvet cake, covered in sugarpaste and decorated with home made sugar paste decoration.

The brief was Spider-Man and Superman and Pirates. Well, executive decision was to go Spider-Man with a superman influence/undertone. And essence of Pirate. Which I internalized. The result?

There you go. Boom.

The moral of the cautionary tale? Be careful what you wish for. I wanted this career and worked hard to get here. Now I work towards every weekend. Can’t get over how funny life is. But hey ho. Want sunshine? Want the rainbow? Put up with the rain kids.

And on that bit of Dolly-inspired wisdom, I bid y’all goodnight.

Blog later lovely people xxxx

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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