Run, skip and hop

Contrary to what you might think, i.e. I have abandoned this blog, I am actually about and cooking and baking. I'm just not finding the time to do any blogging.
Spiker and I have agreed to undertake the task of providing lunch for the week long summer workshop at a local home educating establishment, on top of running two cookery workshops for the week and also baking some extra cakes for them. I am amazed that the first day, which was Monday went as well as it did considering how little time we had to prepare for it. Both Spiker and I were busy doing mummy stuff on Saturday, taking the kids tona Wonky Teapot workshop. We were much entertained by the mothers who seemed hellbent to make the items for their child, rather than just letting them get on with it. Nevertheless, our usual 2pm stupor was much relieved by the eye-candy-ness of the potter artist (potter I said, not potty).
The whole of Sunday was spent between figuring out how to diplomatically ask my sister in law to clear he hall for my son's party, to which she had agreed and also the stark realisation that it was not going to happen as news of her son's fiancé going into labor hit my inbox. Much plans about which of my kids should be despatched to adopt the role of boot sargeant and motivate the rest of my sister in law's family to carry on with the abandoned task.
So anyway, Sunday night, and yes, I do mean ALL of the evening was spent baking this rhubarb cake for the Monday. The bloody thing took ages to cook, much longer than I remembered it taking the first time round.
Now there is always a catch with baking cakes for this home ed establishment, for every cake I bake them, I also bake one for my family. The same cake but substituting the goat's products with normal moo cow ones. Which basically means double the amount of work. Funny how they get eaten at half the time though. Funny that fractioning and doubling up lark, isn't it?
So bla bla bla, the day went well. They loved the cakes. I didn't take any pictures but I do have a picture of a rather impressively long sheet of freshly rolled pasta. And it was magenta in colour.
Nothing much more happened. Except my usual of getting shirty with slaveboy for failing to pick me up from Spiker's like he promised because his mobile phone was out of range hence him not receiving the call from me asking him to come pick me up.
Take away the verbal slanging match and the peppering of cuss words, I reckon we got through the day alright. As long as noone gets me started about the comment he made about how what work I did for the day was just 'a little bit of work'. Pffftttt, says the man who doesn't understand housework. I tell you, I read all these baking blogs and there are these women who tell us about these perfect men they are married to - I reckon they are either prison inmates or nuns on bedrest.
Me bitter? Nahhh, I just need a holiday.
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