I am going to cook the hell out of this blog.

Another cooking blog. Groan, just what the fucking world needs. More people going on and on about how awesome they are at cooking or how you can feed your kid some macrobiotic thingo stuff that will make them happy and smart or how you can make meals in 42 seconds.

Nope. No. That's not me. I cook full fat, I cook with chocolate and butter and lots of sugar. And I make mistakes all the time!

But I love baking, and as Jefferson Starship say, nothings gonna stop us now. Or rather me. I don't know what the fuck you're up to.

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Let me Rock you

I am making Rock Cakes tonight, they are helping me to calm down from a big fight with the kid. We don't fight much, Gabe and I, we are generally in tune with each other. But not tonight. we were so out of tune that the band leader would have thrown his baton to the floor and stomped from the room. Or I would have, Or I did. Whatever. Solid and dependable, strong like man muscle. I want an alcoholic beverage and I want it now. I can't drink though because I am meant to be writing. Ah... yes now you understand why two blog posts in the same day. Avoiding. I am in the process of avoiding. Anyway, it's all temporary - I have to write and because I have to write I can't drink. I can't drink because I am a hopeless drinker. One drink and I'm blearily slow dancing to a song off the Jukebox and then laughing and crying and laughing again. I am basically a Joni Mitchell song when I drink. Spell checker tried to convince me that I wanted juicebox then, not jukebox.

Birthday Requests

Initially Gabe's fifth birthday cake was to be a volcano. We enthused about it for quite a few months. I researched how to best tackle the cake and then how to make it ACTUALLY EXPLODE, in a way that would not take out the eyes of every small child in a 50 metre radius. Plus it had to be edible afterwards. The natives ran and screamed.. I had taught Gabe the phrase "pyroclastic flow" in readiness, so that other parents would be impressed with my child's precocious use of language and when told about it I would blithely answer "Oh did he? Oh well he does love to read!". An then I would have laughed my patented carefree parent laugh. It is a light sounding laugh, slightly distracted and adorably unselfconscious. I haven't really had much call to use it yet. Anyway after all that research and time and energy and sourcing a tin that would be a good mountain shape and discussing a plan of attack with my good friend Sue - and then getting her excited a

Ba-na-na-naaaaaa Bread.

There's comes a time in a woman's life when she looks in her "freezer" and sees all the "bananas" piling up in there and she knows that she has to do "something". Everything in the quotes is literally true, but they add something don't they, a sort of mystery. Too many bananas. That's what always prompts banana bread round here. I buy bananas with excellent intentions - they are filled with potassium and a nutritious snack for a child. I tenderly lay them in their own bowl on the bench so that their weird ripening gas doesn't make everything else age prematurely (what exactly is the banana's plan there by the way? Is it to make all other fruit appear so old and wrinkly that they are only attractive option? If that is it then I respect them all the more). And no one eats them. Or everyone does, in one day. We are either crazy for banana's in my house or we HATE them. And those hated banana's go on to be frozen. They get a

Cooking 9/10ths of the time

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