The return of the DG

If you're into Shakespeare, you may recall a line from Macbeth, when the drunken night-watchman, dragged from sleep to open the castle gates, mutters "I'll devil-porter it no longer". Well after this afternoon's activities I'm appropriating that remark for myself: I'll domestic-goddess it no longer!

The day began really well because church felt real and like community and Mr PB and I found that our little Taizé piece at the Communion went down with people to such an extent that I was quite overcome by the reaction. We came home for coffee, followed swiftly by tea and a bacon roll for lunch. I might normally then have drifted into a doze over the Observer, but instead I made the Christmas cake. I took the largest of these photos in the collage to show my antique Moulinex electric beater, which dates from the early 1970s and the early days of our marriage and is still going strong. I had an annoying interlude when I discovered that out of my vast collection of herbs and spices I had managed not to buy any more mixed spice (it's not as if it's always running out). For a moment I pondered dropping everything to hop into the car and go looking for some, but the rain was coming down in stair rods so instead I googled "mixed spice", found a recipe, and managed to assemble all I needed to create my own. I even ground the 47 year old cloves and slightly younger mace, and grated a 20 year old nutmeg - scoff if you will, but they smelled wonderful when they were ready. I managed not to grate my fingertips or chop off any bits with the grinder, so now I have some left in a jar for another time.

It is likely that the "other time" won't be for another year, for this afternoon I fair sickened myself with baking: I had to make a white loaf for breakfast and start some sourdough off to bake in the morning. As you can see, I have one worktop in a pretty tiny kitchen, and it got out of hand once I started - basically flour everywhere. And then it was time to make the dinner ... and the kitchen hadn't got any bigger ... and I had to line not one but two tins with baking parchment so's they wouldn't' stick ...scissors, bits left lying ... confit duck leg fat joining the scattered flour ...and suddenly I realised I was sticking my lower jaw out like Mussolini and had a tension headache spreading up my neck ...

The cake looks and smells good. It should, after 47 years  - but remind me never again to make it when I have to make bread. A video I posted on Insta of my sourdough starter rising and falling in its jar seems to have amazed my followers, but I still have that loaf to make. 

And don't let me forget I have that mixed spice?