FRITTELLE - ITALIAN FRIED DOUGH BALLS

I firmly believe that one of the frequently asked questions at interviews for skilled and highly valued jobs like say, sommeliers should be: if you were a cake-like thing, what would you be. It is probably for the best however that that’s not the case, as I myself would stare at the interviewer in sheer panic and spend the following about five days going through a mental list of all cakes and sweets and treats known to man, then opt for eternal unemployment and spend my days making videos of cats and die shortly after from asthma, or scratched to death. But if I really had to answer the question in utmost seriousness, my immediate reaction would have been to identify myself with some seriously sugary out-of-the-strong-came-forth-sweetness-style sticky Bundt cake, or a spotty-face-inducing chocolatey fridge treat preferably to be consumed over the sink, or some inexplicably underrated pumpkin cake all drenched in sweet syrup, or again something containing worrying amounts of sugar and apparently chocolatey but not, because I can be peculiar like that. But then it so happened that introspective times at the hairdresser’s via the strip catered for thoughts of Venetian masquerade balls that never came into being, and brought back memories of Italian Carnival and warm kitchens and mid-week late afternoons and greasy paper bags filled with fresh frittelle and sugar all over your mouth and your nose and your hair and your Latin homework; and this may or may not be me saying that’s my final answer, but if you think it’s a coincidence that each of these little bites of deep-fried sugar-coated deliciousness rhymes with my name, and don’t give in to sweetness too, and as per my very own Carnival tradition, glory in one frittella too many: you’re crazy.

GOLDEN BERRY & COCOA NIB OAT COOKIES

I did think for half a moment, I will admit, that the after-effects of Disgrace wouldn't involve much more than binge holiday-booking and a mildly emotional farewell to avocado on toast and snuslessness and the occasional life-wrecker text message gone m.i.a.; however, running out of book every half a week and forgetting, as one does, to leave the house for just under fifty-eight hours in a row and a surplus of coffee in my Lavazza tin and of exotic tea in my cupboard did eventually set off this little alarm bell in my head, as well as this tiny voice going, what’s it going to be then, eh; and as it turns out, what it's going to be for right now is a fair amount of waiting; for trips to happen, for books and parcels and books inside parcels, for cat-ction shots to get developed, and for the inspiration to face-the-outside-world-every-now-and-then-if-strictly-necessary to come find me; so if you see any adventures around, please do send them my way: I’ve got cookies.

OREO CRUMB CRÊPES

The time to celebrate comes when, never mind the death anniversaries, the sweetest blitzkriegs succeed against all allergies and odds and fluffy hair, and the longest week with a survival budget of four pounds and thirteen pence (may I have six tins of soup and a pack of biscuits please, and some self-respect) almost gets you wishing some real horrorshow like punishment upon fellow human beings, but then it doesn’t (because, rewards of basketball sized falafel), and when your longest-anticipated return to the self-proclaimed best travel destination of all time approaches slowly but surely on the back of a life-size mechanical elephant and you better have your emergency rice cakes ready.

The time to celebrate also comes when there’s warm vegan Oreo crêpes and biscuits and ice cream on a peaceful, lazy Saturday morning at the Orphanage, and you won’t even need to hold a penny in your hand and a pan in the other – you’ll know for sure it’ll be a great Crêpe Day this one.

FIFTEENS - NORTHERN IRISH FRIDGE CAKE

Like in my head the winter wind carries me along riversides and across bridges and lifts me up, in-between the tall shiny buildings of the City and I can almost touch them, and what’s left of good-Bye’s summons elusive ghosts on the icy streets, and bills and books and papers turn into trees and tombstones and a hill looking down on a Dear Green Place; in this same way, symphonies from the North fill rooms with warmth and tea-time treats for travel companions; and blue maps of far-away islands on a scaredy child’s bedroom wall make space for grown-up plans, and fluffy cakes; and quiet nights in this country, and another, let the sunrise in and salute it with hearty crêpes and cream and fruit for breakfast.

If I wake up one day and will have desisted living by dreams and day-dreams and songs and stories, I’ll give myself a slap on the wrist, and I would be crazy not to; and as for this town of smoke and trouble – I’m already there; and the most delicious marshmallowy treats is what I’ll give, this time, in return for so much.

BERRIES & CREAM TARTLETS

Wet, penurious, snusless Januaries can do funny things to your head (that or, people) and with a little career advice from this volatile entity called hope, plus good books with a nice cover and a worryingly long list of flight confirmations, your mind also hands in a resignation letter, and moves on to a more senior position in this fictitious place and time where no one objects if all you do is stroll down the Rye and on through pretty streets, and stop for vegan chocolate and then on again to parks and cemeteries, and take photos; and where soya condensed milk hasn’t disappeared from the face of the earth; and also where wool jumpers are a mandatory part of the dress code; and in this place and time you would hang out with your lad friends and they would always have your back because never mind the hair bows and pink outfits, they know you’re secretly one of them. But jobs at pharmaceutical firms aside, and even though your dressed-up self still hangs out on twelfth floors of corporate buildings with a view, and vegan condensed milk takes five years on the hob to make, and there’s no chocolate adventures in sight for right now, private lad parties are sometimes still included in your job description, and you better be ready to make celebratory fruity cream tartlets for the occasion, just in case someone opts for a free-from cake diet, and in fact it could well be a wet, penurious and snusless day, but there’s birthday treats; and I wouldn’t change my mind in a thousand years: berries & cream tartlet treats bright up the darkest day.

HJÓNABANDSSÆLA - ICELANDIC OAT & RHUBARB CAKE

I wonder what it is exactly with me and holidays and wedding-themed cakes when I’m more of a babies-on-spikes kind of person and getting married feels like something that only exists in a galaxy far far away; however, there has been lots of planning and mis-planning and hard-effing-working around this Land of Ice lately, and it turns out that its inhabitants have this amazing thing that goes under the name of Happy Marriage Cake (that and arctic foxes, and little horses), and never mind the weddings, I could be unhappier, and I do have my chums (!) providing for videos of monkey cats, lifts through foggy towns at night, cake appreciation, moral support during IT crises, moral support during life crises, and emergency holidays, and I tend to cherish irony, and choose to believe in blessings in disguise (however: this weekend only, as an exception), and also look forward to seeing what my life-rebuilding session today will bring, and I hope a selected few of my allies will stick around for it; so here’s my own real delicious vegan version of the Icelandic oat and rhubarb Happy Marriage Cake, and for your reference, I may or may not end up legally marrying the thing.

LEMON & CHAMOMILE CAKE

So this is the new year and in new years people have resolutions; and if people with resolutions had a baking blog they would write about them there, in something that I believe would be titled - '2016 - An Introduction', and it would be something very pragmatic and possibly involving detox diets or buying a house or life rebuilding, or something.
I will blame my lack of vitamin B(1)2 that, Wikipedia informs me, caters for paleness and neurological issues, and having watched one Rob Zombie film too many over the holidays, and chocolate overdoses, and being not invisible for once, or twice, and hamster cheeks; but I'm afraid I have no resolution. What I do have, is a recipe for a lemon & chamomile cake that is as oh so pretty & oh so nice as a hairdresser named Manuel from a posh town in Northern Italy; bless his heart; as well as this worrying feeling at the back of my head that this year is going to be an absolute duckin' mess just like its younger brother, and in fact all its siblings; but did I mention I have a recipe for cake; and that means that I may or may not be willing to spend a stupid amount of euros on a toothbrush or mindlessly start humming a song that goes, if a body catch a body comin' through the Rye If a body kiss a body, need a body cry on my way back to the Orphanage and book flights to actual Iceland this time and even glimpse several different futures ahead, in the distance, or find myself looking up and hoping for the best; because did I mention, lemon chamomile cake. I think I did, therefore, hi 2016, and Happy New Year everyone; everything will be fine.