As the sophisticated doyenne of all things domestic, it goes without saying that I never make mistakes. I don’t burn things, forget things, slip over things or find myself locked in the laundry room in my nightie. And I never, ever, ever tell lies.
So never mind that for every cake I bake there is one that goes in the bin. That Mark is learning to love charcoal toast, and that Finley only tells me my food is stinky once or twice a week now…
Like I said I am Domestic Goddess.
And so it was that I found myself with somewhat of a baking crisis on my hands the other day. You see I wanted to make a Gateau Breton ala Nigella, which having baked it before, I know to be a mighty fine impression of all that is buttery and more-ish.
The ingredients of which are:
225g Plain Flour.
250g Caster Sugar.
250g Unsalted Butter (cubed)
6 Large Egg Yolks.
And so into the baking cupboard I went. Oops only 175g of plain flour left, so I’m going have to substitute it with 50g of ground almonds. Hell’s bells, not enough caster sugar and so I’m going to have to half and half with some light brown sugar (Call myself organised??) and would you look at this- only five eggs left. And oh goodness was that a whole egg that just slipped in there? Ok so in my world six egg yolks means four egg yolks and one whole egg, whites and all. And heck why not add a spoonful of that yummy vanilla essence for good measure?
So I did. And into the oven it went. Twenty minutes on 190, and then twenty minutes on 170.
And when it came out it looked, as my concoctions are often prone too:- a teeny bit strange. But never one to be put off, I let it cool to kind of warm, and then presented it on a plate with a cup of good coffee to my nearest and dearest.
Who took one bite and declared it disgusting. And pretended to choke and looked a bit sorry for me as if to say "Well never mind sweetie, God loves a tryer".
So I retreated back into the safety of the kitchen, lined a scrumptious vintage tin with greaseproof paper and laid my efforts inside. And then I put it away and forgot about it until this morning, when I opened the tin to find all but one slice left. All of it ate by mice. Or a great big Spur’s supporting Rat. A great big rat who informed me upon questioning, that said disgusting cake had matured really rather well.
So I took out the last piece , sprinkled it with icing sugar, arranged it fetchingly on a pretty plate, and ate a little piece of heaven.
And the moral of this long and over winded tale? If you are as good as you make them, then I might not be Nigella, but without a doubt I’m a happy accident.