Wednesday, November 21, 2012

The rose and pumpkin beads don't fit the string

It looks like Monster 2 is making me a bracelet.

In unrelated news, the Monsters are off on a jolly this weekend, leaving the husb. and I to our devices.  One of those will be the beater.  Step back people and take a deep cooling breath.  I refer to the beater to make a proprodigious amount of cream - breathe again - to construct a black forest cake to feed 20 people.

The last such creation, packed ready for picnicking.
You see, my lovely Grasshoppery friend is having a birthday picnic.  And frankly, if you must picnic under a tree in Spring, possibly drinking a glass of champagne, cake is quite essential.

It was her 40th several years ago and so I made cake for 30-odd people.  I probably made cake for 40 and boy oh boy, was she happy with a take-home wodge of cherry deliciousity.  She is a talented cake eker and made it last for days.

Meanwhile, I was biting my fingernails at the thought that cream that had already been on a picnic was being stretched to its bio-hazard limit.  Nobody wants to poison someone for their birthday.  Well, maybe terminal spousal relationships and people with really annoying children.  But then you would have to clean the vomit off the sheets and that way madness lies.  Best not to poison people.  Moving on.

On a related topic, I was speaking to my mother and she told me she had just had some quince jelly for lunch.  My quince jelly.  I have not made quince jelly for about 2 1/2 years.  If I could work out a way to make preserves spontaneously combust after a year, I would.  Not a big explosion that would blacked the cupboard and wipe out the biscuits.  A burn that would leave a small heap of ash in the jar, possibly with just enough heat to combust the label as well, because those labels are a cow to get off.

I do tell people not to keep things for more than a year.  I date the jars.  Preserves are not a suicide sport, people.