Stepping into a story book

I went home, once again, this past weekend to attend a hen party. Luckily, I managed to get a couple of days off work so I got a chance to see some friends and have some time to actually go out for a day in my fine home county. After the intensity of the city, I needed some country prettiness so on Friday morning my Mum and I headed for the Cotswolds.

The Cotswolds is full of precious little towns and villages, most consisting of light stone houses and tiny, overpriced fudge shops. The biggest and most popular are probably Bourton-on-the-Water, Stow-on-the-Wold (they like hyphens in the Cotswolds) and Chipping Campden. Much like London they are, however, overflowing with tourists. I wanted somewhere a little more low-key that still kept that Cotswold charm. Mum had heard that Lower Slaughter (yes, that is its name, there is also an Upper Slaughter) was home to a good tearoom so off we drove, merrily singing along to James Taylor.

Lower Slaughter is as darling as expected – more, perhaps. It is a chocolate box village to be sure, but not so sickeningly quaint that I felt the need to scrub the twee off myself. A stream runs through the heart of the village and is crossed by a couple of stone bridges. I half expected some extremely small trolls to be waiting under them. The cottages alongside the stream are perfect. I mean it, log piles neatly stacked, windows and doors all painted the same uniform shade of blue or green, gates without a scrap of rust on them. Mum and I agreed that there must be a rigorous neighbourhood upkeep programme to keep it looking so picturesque, so while living there looks like it might be wonderful, it would be more hassle than it’s worth.

There’s not much in the village, just a church, a town hall and an old mill which houses a tiny museum, a leather shop and the tearoom. The mill reminded me of the one from Beauty and the beast – from any fairy tale, really, where the plucky miller’s daughter goes on an adventure and ends up marrying the prince. There is a craft shop in an outbuilding which sells all sorts of vintage and old-world odds and ends. You have to go through the narrow shop to get to the tearoom, which is in a small converted barn. It has been decorated nicely and appropriately for the space – spotted plates and cups in the same sable green as the tables and even as the houses outside. The café does the usual fair, sandwiches, soup, cakes, coffee etc. I had a jacket potato with beans and cheese, an underrated yet entirely delicious autumnal lunch, especially as it was quite cold outside. 

We sat upstairs at a narrow table which was a little cramped with all our plates and cutlery. It got even more cramped when more and more people started to arrive and decided that sitting upstairs was also a good thing to do. Fortunately, we were finished by that point so we wrapped up, dodged the child waiters (ok, maybe not but there were very young!) and went outside. Some crazy people were eating outside and while it was a beautiful setting, I’m not willing to sacrifice my extremities to gaze at a river while I eat.

Lower Slaughter is a bit like a film set. The only people around the streets seemed to be people like us who were visiting. Perhaps it was just the time of day but it seemed to me that there was no sort of village life. No dog walkers, no old men sitting on a bench and taking in the world, no screaming kids. It seemed to me a beautiful, empty village, one that you visit but no one actually lives in. I mean, people must live there but there was no evidence. It was, in some ways, a stepford village. That isn’t a criticism. It is adorable, it is brimming with cuteness and charm. I want to go there at Christmas and sip mulled wine as snowflakes flutter against my cheeks. I want to sit by the river in the summer and read Brideshead Revisited. I want to make apple crumble in my cosy cottage kitchen as I watch children play outside in the fallen autumn leaves. It makes me want an idyllic life, goshdarnit.

I’m just not sure the life the village promises actually exists.

Taste the rainbow

I have always wanted to make a grand cake, in the show stopping Great British Bake Off style. And my Dad’s 70^th birthday last weekend seemed like the perfect occasion to give it a go. The thing is, while I’m a tolerable baker I’m not particularly artsy (toddler drawing stick men comes to mind) and therefore not very good at decorating. I’ve tried before, oh, how I have tried. Every time I try I think – this is it, this is the cake where I suddenly ‘get it’. It’s never the cake. I once saw a teapot cake online and thought ‘I could make that’. Easy, right? Big mistake. Not only did I have none of the correct tins, I also had very little experience in making a cake in any shape other that the pre-designed round ones. It ended up a normal round shape with extra pieces of cake sticking out at all angles and held on with cocktail sticks. Oh yes, and with bright blue icing with crumbs sticking on it to add to your mental picture. Luckily, the one photo taken with my grainy phone camera (this was pre-iphone) has been lost to the history books. It tasted good, though.

So when I saw pictures of rainbow cakes on Pinterest, I had to reign myself in. Hold up Becky, I told myself sternly, you know how this usually ends. But the idea persisted and I found a recipe online that looked manageable and was step-by-step (this one here). Instead of making do with what I had, I very carefully read which tools I needed and specially ordered them in. I got a Sugarflair rainbow icing kit, which are highly concentrated gel pastes, from Ebay for about £12. Pricey, but a little goes a long way and I’ll definitely get price per use out of them. I also bought a cake leveller from Dunelm and an offset spatula for the icing.

I got to Mum and Dad’s on Thursday and set about to making the sponge that evening. The sponge was relatively simple to make and I had use of my Mum’s ancient but still amazing Kenwood mixer. I blasted Taylor Swift (Taylor Swift is the ultimate baking music. Don’t believe me? Try it yourself and then you’ll see!) and danced and sang about as I cracked eggs and mixed sugar. I divided the mixture as evenly as possibly into six bowls and used about 1/6-of a teaspoon - or the very end of the handle – to add my colouring gel. The gel needs quite a bit of vigorous stirring to fully integrate the colour but once it’s done it looks very effective. The gel also goes everywhere, all over my hands and the spoon, so I had to wash my hands and the spoon after each go to make sure it didn’t stain or cross-contaminate the colours.  

I originally was going to bake in a bigger tin so the cake was wider rather than taller but there wasn’t enough of each mixture for that. In fact, there was barely enough mixture for my very smallest tin. It only covered just covered the tin and was no more a centimetre high. I baked them two at a time, for around 12 minutes each. Because the mixture was so thin, it didn’t need much longer or it would have burned. I only had two tins to I had to turn them out quickly, fan them to cool and then line the tins again before adding the next colours. It was a bit of a hassle, but who has six tins the same?

The cakes turned out just a little uneven though generally not too bad, but looked rather flat. This was a good thing, I realised, because if they had risen like a normal sponge the cake would be far too high and topple over! The recipe deliberately made the sponges dense so they would layer more easily. Once they were cool, I wrapped them in cling film and popped them in the freezer. There they lay in their frosty prison until Friday evening when I transferred them to the fridge to thaw.

On Saturday, the real work began.

I was a bit afraid that if I used the cake leveller that I’d break the sponge so I got my more experienced older sister to do it instead. I made a simple buttercream icing and layered the first three levels (purple, blue and green). I then put that bit in the fridge to chill and harden for around 30 minutes. I then did the same for the next three layers and the top. I also did a crumb coat, which is a thin base layer on all sides of the cake that is meant to sweep up all the crumbs and make the cake smooth for the real icing. Like a base coat for a wall or your nails.

The now rather high cake went into the fridge for an hour. Before you think how simple and lovely this all sounds, let me stop you right there. There was yelling. There was sniping. There was accidentally putting the layers on in the wrong order and then having to peel, re-ice and try again. All the while a million other things going on in the kitchen in preparation for that evening’s barbecue. It was not a relaxing process.

Because I can’t seem to ever make life simple for myself I decided not to cover the cake in buttercream but instead with Swiss meringue icing. Had I ever made it before? No. Did I decide this very stressful day was the perfect time to try it out? Yes, because I’m an idiot.  

One baking blog calls the Swiss meringue the fool proof meringue. Lies! If it’s not fool proof it’s definitely Becky proof. The process involves whisking egg whites and granulated sugar over simmering water (making sure the bowl is metal not glass and that it doesn’t touch the water) until it reaches around 60 degrees Celsius. I didn’t have a food thermometer so I had to use the method where you rub your fingers together in the mixture and if you don’t feel grain, then take it off the heat. By my account it should have been done so I took it off the heat and kept whisking until it formed peaks. Easy peasy, right? Or so I thought. As soon as I put the meringue on the cake it began running down the sides, not keeping the nice stiff texture like the recipe assure me it would. I whisked some more but the same happened. I started to freak out – it looked terrible. My sister told me to add some icing sugar which I did but it made the icing sweeter than intended! I mean, it tasted very good but what good is taste when it’s not staying on the cake? I kept adding more sugar until the icing vaguely held its shape and then I shoved it into the fridge, hoping desperately it would not run.

  

It did set, luckily, but the icing wasn’t smooth and beautiful like I’d hoped. In vain, I used some jagged edged smoothers to give it a bit more oomph but it didn’t work. Defeated, I threw on some confetti sprinkles and hoped that at least it would taste ok. When it was time to put out the desserts at the barbecue I was a little nervous but also quite proud of my tower cake. I cut a slice out of it to show the colours and – woomph. There it was, not quite a show stopper but fairly impressive. The inside, while it wasn’t perfect, did look rather striking. I nudged it to the front so everyone would get the full effect.

People told me it tasted good. I don’t know if they were just being nice, though. I think it tasted quite nice but because of the buttercream and outer icing, and because one slice was so big it was so very sweet. Like, I can't eat any more or I might be sick sweet. Next time I'll make a less sweet icing, I think. Or maybe just a smaller cake! 

The green, green grass of home

A week ago I made the impulsive decision to go back home for a few days. I had originally planned on going home mid-September, for my Dad's birthday, and I was a little apprehensive about going back so soon. It had, after all, only been a little over two weeks and it felt like I hadn't given myself enough time to settle in. But with my housemates all gone, the prospect of being alone in the flat for two whole weeks seeming rather daunting and no interviews lined up for that week, I impetuously bought a bus ticket and by late Tuesday morning I was back in Gloucestershire.

I felt like I'd been in London a lot longer that two weeks - more like two months - but when the bus pulled into Gloucester station, a rush of nostalgia and familiarity washed over me and it just felt - right. It felt like I'd never been away. It felt like home.

I was lucky enough to come back on a day that Mum babysits my niece Indie, so I spent a good chunk of the day playing with her. I love being an auntie! It was a little strange to be home at first. My bedroom had been redecorated, re-arranged and christened the 'spare room' - that was a wake up call that I no longer lived there! It was a beautiful sunny day so I kicked off my shoes and headed out to the garden which was bursting with colour and foliage. Living in a flat means lack of a garden and while there are parks, there's nothing quite like eating lunch outside in your own space. My eldest brother Pete and his girlfriend were around too so we all had an impromptu barbecue the first night.

Our apple tree was laden and the bushes were starting to produce blackberries and even though it is still summer all I could think about was baking, country walks and cosy autumn evenings. The Great British Bake Off started on Wednesday too, which fueled my desire to make cakes and all sorts of seasonal goodies.

The best thing about being at home is the little luxuries you don't get when you're a broke twenty-something living as frugally as possible. A well stocked fridge. A hot bath. Sky tv. Sofas that are somehow that little bit more comfortable. I haven't been sleeping too well in my new bed so I slept like a baby back in my old one, single bed though it was.

I spent the next day hanging out with my friend Michelle which was a complete joy. I'd started feeling a little bit doubtful and apprehensive about my move to London and Michelle gave me some wise, much-needed perspective on the matter. I unfortunately didn't get to hang out with too many other friends because it was such a last-minute and quick visit but I did get to see my friend Beth on the last evening. Much of my time was just spent hanging out with family (and my cat).

It's funny how your hometown goes from dull to interesting when you miss it. Something in me just needed to go and take a picture of the beautiful cathedral and have tea and cake in the adorable Comfy Pew tearoom.

Going home felt so safe, so comfortable but it also made me realise that I came out to London for a reason. It would have been easy to continue my life back in Gloucester which was, admittedly, pretty good. But I needed a change of scenery, I needed to experience the big city for a while. Things generally don't happen in life unless you want them to. Whether that means physically moving away or just being ready for different opportunities that come your way, you have to be open to change or you'll stay stuck where you are.

So while job hunting is tough and constant rejection is even tougher, I came back to London with a fresh perspective. This is right, this is good and I will make it.

The unexpected lure of Zone 9

I have now called London home for a grand total of two weeks, which is basically just a holiday to most people. However, it somehow feels like I've been living here far, far longer than that. It's amazing how things like the tube and walking everywhere quickly become routine.

Since the weather has been so nice recently, my housemate Becca and I declared that we were going to take advantage of this by going to a lido. London has a good number of them dotted all over the place but we calculated that the quickest one to get to wasn't in London at all, but out in the far reaches of Zone 9. I didn't even know there was a Zone 9! Harrow is in Zone 5 on the Metropolitan line so instead of taking the usual tube east into the city, we ventured the other way - all the way out of London. The urban sprawl soon thinned out and within fifteen minutes we had views of beautiful countryside. Trees! Fields! Rolling hills! Seeing these on a tube train of all places! My little country girl soul breathed a huge sigh of relief of seeing all the green and open space.

It took about half an hour to get out to Chesham, which is a small market town in Buckinghamshire, near High Wycombe and only cost £1.80. And though it may be on a tube line, Toto, we were not in Kansas anymore. Being a Thursday afternoon, it was quiet and peaceful and hardly anyone was around. It was a pleasant fifteen minute walk from the tube station to the outdoor pool and the sun had started to shine. The lido was just a small outdoor pool, a gym full of guys lifting weights and a changing room. I managed to sneakily get a student price ticket (£2.80) because Becca had her student card. There were a number of families with kids at the pool but it wasn't crowded by any means. The pool was heated - not bath warm but nice enough on the vaguely-warm-but-not-actually-that-warm day (I should be a weather lady). It was so lovely and relaxing to be in an outdoor pool on in the late afternoon while it's still summer. We ate our late lunch by the side of the pool and swam a little more but second time round the pool felt quite a bit colder, so we decided to head home.

The tube weaved through woodland and past winding country lanes. The fields that stretched as far as the eye could see became buildings and the hush of the town became the buzz of the city once again. Even though I haven't been in the city very long, part of me still craves the open space and I feel refreshed when I'm out there. The other part, however, is glad to have shops and amenities within a 5 minute radius. Country girl, city girl indeed. 

The complicated matter of leaving

I long for adventure. My worst fear is living a beige life, a life without fun or meaning or unexpected delights. But when adventure comes, I find change is not as easy as I hope it will be. 

I live in my imagination. And often, sadly, I live in my (idealised) vision of the future. The places I will go, the people I will meet, the adventures I will have. One of my dreams has always been to live in London. Now I'm here...

...and I'm a little bit scared.

I'm not scared of London. Not at all! I adore the city - the buzz, the business, the culture, the wealth of opportunities. I think I am a bit scared of failing. Of not finding a job or good friends. Of finding that my dream of London doesn't match up to what I've envisioned. I'm scared that I might hate it. 

I know this is right. I know, I know, I know. But it doesn't mean that I'm not going to miss what I've left behind. For so many years I just wanted to flee my hometown and get busy living in London. Yet I've made a life for myself in Gloucester. I have friends I love, a great church, my family is there and I've had the joy of seeing my niece regularly. I have a bit of FOMO (fear of missing out, for those unaccustomed to internet acronyms) to be honest. Seeing all the pictures of my friends having fun and feeling I'm missing out, feeling like I'm drifting away from them. 

But on the other hand, a whole world of 'what if' awaits. I don't know where this journey is going to take me, but it's exciting. The unknown is scary but my overriding feeling about all this is anticipation - the possibility that my life might change wonderfully (how? That is just one more unanswered question). 

I am ready for the new, it's just a bittersweet goodbye to the old. 

P.S. Let me say this once and for all: I am not going to become a 'Londoner'. Once a county bumpkin from the Shire, always one!