Carole’s lost her voice.
Losing your voice is not a symptom of the coronavirus. I’ve checked. Because it’s incredibly easy to check these days as you can’t look anywhere without something flashing all the facts and some of the not facts of the disease into your face.
She’s really lost it though. It’s gone. Proper gone.
I’m not sure spending a day in Eden Camp in the freezing cold was the best thing for her to do, in the circumstances, but she’s a stubborn one is that Carole. It wasn’t with me, though, it was with her friend. I’m not good enough to go to Eden Camp.
Instead I had to stay inside, in the warm. And enjoy the warmth.
And cook a rhubarb and custard blondie which has, again, not really worked out how it should and I have no real idea why but I have thought that I can make it again but put it in muffin cases and make something quite sexy with it.
I just can’t get my middle to cook properly. As in cook with any sort of structure to it. Which is disappointing. But on a plus side, it’s absolutely bloody gorgeous flomped into a bowl with some ice cream. So I’ve done well there.
I made it the other week and it was in a tray that was too big, so it was too thin, but it still didn’t set properly. And this week I think the tray might be slightly on the small side so it’s maybe too thick and the middle didn’t set. I feel like Goldilocks does Great British Bake Off.
I am, though, a dab hand at making rhubarb coulis/jam. I am amazing at that. Honesty. Some of the best rhubarb work I’ve ever seen.
It’s just the blondie bit that’s letting me down.
Maybe I should just blame the oven.
Yeah I’ll do that. I’ll go into the kitchen in a minute and call it a bastard.
And then get a bowl, stick some of the blondie in it and having it with a generous dollop of ice cream. You know, comfort eat away my failed cookery blues.