After admitting in my last post that I am nervous of cows, today I throw my hands up in the air and confess…. I do not bake cakes.
Now if I could eat them and stay slim I would embrace the emblem of farming life, the Victoria sponge, wholeheartedly. But alas, over winter the pounds piled on, and it has just taken me three months of Slimming World classes to get rid of my ill-gotten gains.
Luckily I have managed to get back into the posh fuchsia pink taffeta dress I bought last year for my daughter’s wedding with six weeks to spare before the Big Day, when I will have to strut my stuff in Mother of the Bride finery. But this mammoth struggle has only been accomplished by something approaching complete cake abstinence.
I have had to stop baking because if I make cakes, I eat them- the possibility of producing them without eating them is a concept my brain cannot comprehend. So I don’t plan to bake any more of those fat, seductive, mouth-wateringly wicked sponges. Other ladies have stepped in to give my husband a taste of lemon drizzle or bakewell tart, and I have turned a blind eye to his ‘bit on the side’, as long as he does it discreetly. He can sin to his heart’s content in the shed, or keep his tasty treats hidden in the dairy.
So if you happen to drop by, don’t expect a typical farmhouse welcome with a plateful of scones and a jar of jam. You might be lucky and get a Jaffa cake…unless Pete shares his secret stash.