Today is International Sponge Cake Day. Who’d have thought!
Perhaps my ignorance is due to the fact that aside from the goodly ooze of jam and cream, I find sponges about the most boring cakes around. They taste like fluff – or what I imagine fluff would taste like. (Herb eats fluff quite often. I don’t.)
Whether I don’t like them because I haven’t mastered the art of cooking them is another question, but to be fair to myself, I don’t think that’s it. I only tried once, and it wasn’t a complete failure. Not a rock-cake-as-sponge disaster, just not up to Royal Easter Show standards, which in reality few people are. So there was no shame in it and I could have persevered, but why bother when I wasn’t really interested in the finished product?
I am, however, a right whizz at things like buttermilk plum cake, orange cake, gingerbread (the cake variety, not the biscuit) and my melting moments are to die for. Or perhaps I should say ‘I was’ and ‘they were’, since the chances of my rousing my lazy self to cook any of it ever again are about nil.
The other oozy thing I used to cook was pikelets. For lunch on wet Sundays. The kids would line up at the kitchen bench and I’d hoick the pikelets out of the pan four at a time (four kids) to be consumed dripping with butter in time for the next round.
Now I must go downstairs and hang out the washing. Last time I went down to hang out the washing I slid on the stairs and twisted my back something fierce, but I was carrying the rubbish and the recycling as well as the basket of wet clothes. This time I’ll only take the recycling.