Today my cake was ready to be sliced and devoured. Well, a wedge of it anyway. It’s far too dense for more than a slice to be devoured at any single sitting. Actually, I released it a bit early as the icing wasn’t quite hard enough. But the temptation of it sitting on the kitchen counter was too great. So it was dished up accordingly.
Not only Christmas cake was eaten out of time tonight. I also roasted a chicken. It seems that I am bucking a very old tradition started around the time of Henry VII. The Sunday Roast has been a ‘thing’ since at least 1485.
I admit it was unprecedented. The only thing I can say in my defence is that I just fancied a roast chicken for dinner. And I have it on good authority that Henry preferred Yorkshire pudding with his roast beef.
Speaking of fat enhanced batter, I didn’t make any of the traditional trimmings. In fact, I coated it in Persian herbs and spices and stuffed it with little lemons so it wasn’t really a traditional roast.
To really justify it, what I actually did was use an oven to cook a chicken and served it with spring greens, courgette and some sautéed carrot. So, basically, not a roast. As such.
Apart from shopping and working on a few SGW soldiers, I did housework. Now that my right leg has finally returned to its normal state of abnormality, I can climb the ladder to the loft as well go up and down the stairs. So the house is gradually returning to normal.
Not so poor Emma who has the permanent woebegone look of a cockerpoo in season plastered over her face.
Not only does she have the indignity of having towels slid under her trouser area at any given moment but she also has to be picked up whenever other dogs approach. She’s not a happy puppy at the moment.
Freya, on the other hand, is her normal, cheerful, fearful self.
The Hot Border, where Freya is standing, has been topped with the soil removed from the soon to be raised bed which is why it looks fresh.
And that was yet another mild winter’s day in Farnham.
