Since not being able to run, I have taken up baking. Mainly on Fridays, but occasionally a cake or a batch of biscuits sneaks through on other days as well. It all started when I got Paul Hollywood’s How To Bake for christmas, possibly from the lean and hungry Dr Pockless with an eye to future holiday rental cottages in the Peak District. While it has been agreed that that man (Mr Hollywood, not The Doctor) has creepy eyes, his baking recipes are enticing.
I commenced at once to make loaves of bread, which on the whole the residents of Casa Uborka found to be mostly edible. I have, to date, made ordinary loaves of white and wholemeal, soda bread, seedy bread, dinner rolls, chapatis, victoria sponge, banana muffins, flour tortillas, cholla, many many pitta breads, ciabatta (with excessive quantities of olive oil) and ficelles. Last week, while we still had copious leftovers of chocolate birthday cake, I made a malt loaf and a batch of scones. At this point, someone mentioned that I may have done too much baking.
At one point, realising I didn’t have a packet of biscuits for that night’s antenatal class, I made a chocolate cake instead. I see that I now completely embody the cliche. Perhaps it really is too late.
There’s no such thing as too much baking. Particularly if you’re enjoying it.
He *does* have creepy eyes. And you can always freeze things – we are always feast or famine here, baking-wise: you are either feeling it or not.
There is no such thing as too much baking. However, there is such a thing as eating too much bread. Particularly if you are a goldfish.