Pastry Porn

It's Bake-off Day!

Tonight the 2nd episode in the 4th (?) series of The Great British Bake-off will air on BBC 2.*

Pirate and I are properly addicted.  I even applied to be on the 2nd season, and very nearly made it.  They phoned me up the very day I submitted my application and spent almost an hour asking me questions.  (Now whenever I watch it I think, I coulda been... a contender.)

Did you read yesterday's post, about Pirate baking sourdough bread?  Well, in honor of Bake-off day, here is a photo of the bread.

 

Eat yer heart out, Mary Berry.

*I think it's on BBC2, I'm not really sure.  I watch it on iPlayer.

Small Pirate pictures! Yay!

There be mischief in those eyes, yarrh...

The Gerber baby can kiss my nappy!

My mom, my fuzzy beagle... What more could I want?

Yay! Also, Oops.

I've done it; I've started Kingfisher Cakes. The website will be online shortly. (I hope.)

I'm extremely excited about this. I began this with the view that it would just be a little cottage industry, something to help me earn a little pin money. But looking at the way the website is shaping up (I'm making it in MS Publisher), it looks ruddy professional. Now I'm thinking, the sky's the limit. Who knows how far this could go? How far do I want to take it? I don't even know, but I'm open to much bigger possibilities that I was a few months ago.

I've also just realized that in telling y'all the name of the business you'll be able to go to my website and find the real me. Now all you cyber-crazies can find me in meat-space. Oops. Oh well. I'll have to take my chances. It never occured to me when I began discussing this with you that I was crossing over my real and virtual personalities. Now you know. Too late.

And for your edification and delight, here are some photos of cakes I have made recently:

First up is a double-chocolate, 10-inch square layer cake with chocolate buttercream frosting, decorated in a solar-system theme with hand-piped buttercream.

Next is this awesome R2-D2 cake. Fully 18" across, the sponge is chocolate, covered with white buttercram frosting and decorated with hand-piped buttercream and silver sugar balls (which you can't really see in the photo but looked great in person).

Lastly is my own wedding cake. Two tiers of lemon drizzle layer cake, 2 tiers of carrot layer cake, all covered with cream cheese frosting and decorated with real pansies and rose petals which had been crystallized by hand by yours truly, and all of which were completely edible.

So whadda ya think? Would you pay money for one of my cakes? (Oh, and I have learned how to do marzipan and sugarpaste, so if that's the look you're going for, I can does that, too.)

I can has family?

Here he is! Isn't he handsome?

(If a bit scary.)

Hello, small predator!

Aww, look at his widdle white socks!

Now the question is what to name him. The options are:

1. Fred. This is the name the shelter gave him and, though not terribly original, I was thinking of him as "Fred" in my mind for the whole week before we actually brought him home, so we're already kind of used to it. Also, it's pleasant and domestic and kind of suits him. (He's a cuddle slut.)

2. Pai Mei. This dude. He's the bad-ass martial arts guru from Kill Bill. The Furball is not a badass, but he kind of looks it with his narrow eyes and white goatee. We'd probably call him "Pie" on a day-to-day basis, and that has pleasant pudding conotations. Also it kind of ties in with "Pirate." He'd be the Pai-cat. A Pi-rat and a Pai-cat! Brilliant! (I may have just talked myself into this one.)

3. Clawdius. You can't really see it in these photos, but he has white toes with brown outlines that form these little Roman arches across his feet. Like little aquaducts. So we thought a Roman name might be appropriate. Pirate thought of the pun with the spelling.

4. Toast. He looks like badly burnt toast. 'Nuff said.

5. Thornton. Because he's chocolate brown and Hershey and Nestle are totally unorigina. Ditto Cadbury. And Lindt is just too posh.


Go vote. We won't pay the slightest bit of attention to the results, mind. Your opinions are purely for my amusement.

The Point At Which I Thew Up. The First Time.

Thursday was Traf Night on the base. Yes, I know that Tuesday was actually the anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar, but they didn't celebrate until Thursday. It was a personnel-only night, so I couldn't go and join in the reindeer games. Instead I had a neighbor 'round for tea. (How very English of me.)

Pirate came back at quarter past one in the morning and announced that we were spending the weekend on a yacht with a bloke from work, his bird, and some other people he'd not met.

I have never been on a yacht. My most recent memory of being on a boat that was powered by something other people was a fishing trip my parents took me on when I was 10 out on to Lake Michigan. My dad and I spent the whole time trowing up, and we didn't catch a single fish.

I agreed to go on the grounds that I'd never done it before, and as a rule I like to try new things. I was apprehensive, however, as this seemed to me the kind of activity that was highly dependent upon 2 things:

The quality of the company, and
The quality of the weather.

If the company was lively and the weather calm, it was sure to be a good time.
If the company was dull and the weather lively, it had disaster written all over it.

It started out well enough. The dawn broke radiantly over Rame Penninsula.

Red sky in the morning; Sailor, take warning!

(That was the actual view out our bedroom window on the morning of the excursion.)

We tootled in to Plymouth where we met the crew at the marina and went aboard.

All aboard the HMS Upchuck!

Our skipper had recently passed his Master Yachtsman qualifications, so we were in good hands. All seemed to be going well, and I started to get excited. (Not that way, you filthy sots.)

We got through the lock and out of the marina with no trouble, and set a course to take us around Plymouth breakwater on the west side, then head east for Shag Rock and up the River Yealm, where we moor in the harbor, have dinner in a charming pub in the charming village of Newton Ferrers, sleep on the boat, and return home Sunday morning. It seemed like a good plan. Essentially camping, but on the water. This sounded good to me.

Initially, it was all going very well.

Pirate, relaxing.

Then it all started to go horribly, horribly wrong.

As soon as we got past the breakwater the water got really, really rough, and so did the rest of us. Pirate, despite being an experienced sea-farer, has no sea legs. He was the first to go green. He went below deck to lie down, but that was a mistake. As soon as he got down the steps he lost his stomach, but managed (rather heroically) to hold it in his mouth until he could get back up to the cockpit and spit it over the side.

(Is this all getting a bit too disgusting? Deal. Reading this isn't a fraction as bad as living it, and I survived. You will, too.)

For a while I was doing OK. I stayed up in the cockpit, keeping in the fresh air and my eyes on the horizon. It worked, too, for about 20 minutes. And then I committed a fatal error. Getting bored with looking at nothing but an empty horizon, I just happened to glance down at the water at the side of the boat. The waves were swelling and undulating seductively beneath me. I instantly threw up.

I had no warning. One second I was fine, and the next I was spewing that morning's sausage and spetzle into the wind, spraying the two women who were sitting aft of me.

And then I did it again. And again. And again.

I spent the next 10 minutes heaving over the side of the boat in rapid succession. It was too winding for much of it to actually reach the water. Mostly it just blew all over the place.

I didn't know it at the time, but one of the other guys was on the opposite side of the boat, doing the same thing. The remaining few were standing in the cockpit between us, desperately trying to dodge flying chunks.

Having offered the entire contents of my stomach to the fish, I got a bucket and doused down the deck, then settled in to endure the rest of journey. As we reached the mouth of the River Yealm I saw the calm water on the leeward side of the land and began counting down the seconds until we reached it.

We finally got ourselves bouyed in what might well be the prettiest little harbor village in the British Isles.


I'd really like to go back and spend some more time in the village. It was a really lovely place to be. But next time, I'll take a FUCKING BUS.

After we were securely moored they let me play around in the dinghy, and that was the best part of the whole trip. I really like that bit.

Conclusion: the only boats worth being in are the ones you power yourself.

After a long walk along the coast and dinner in the Pub, Pirate and I couldn't face going back to Plymouth the same way we'd come, so we phoned a cab and went home by car. Last night we got a peaceful night's sleep in our own beds. Today the weather is shit. I can't imagine what the rest of the crew are going through to get home.

And people do this for fun????


Update: The skipper and his gf came by today to drop off our bags. Apparently it was a rough night on the boat, with lots of wind blowing it about the harbor, and people got little, if any, sleep. We totally made the right call. Boo-yeah.

You waited long enough, so here they are!

I'm really torn as to how to present these. My instinct is to do it chronologically, which seems more factually documentaric. But it won't be the most dramatic. No, I want to give them to you with the big splash at the end. So this is going to be a bit random, but I'm sure you can cope with that.

All the photos with the little watermark in the corner were taken by Hamish Roots, owner of Light Over Water Photography. He is the shiznit.

The others were taken by my parents' friend, Joanie.

The Infamous Cake

My dress
(And no, this shot wasn't posed. I didn't even know it was being taken. I always stand that straight.)

Me and Pirate leaving the church

The Wedding Party (from left to right): The Cake, Vi, Miss Mellville, Me, Pirate, and some dudes.

Dancing with my Daddy

Dancing with the Pirate

Sharing a giggle after all the photos have been taken
(Isn't Hamish an awesome photographer???)

Walking across to the hotel for the reception
(I love the way you can see the movement of my dress in this shot.)

There's drama, and then there's drama.

Eat yer heart out, Julie Andrews/Princess Di/any other Royal
(Poised, but not posed. This one is candid.)

Pirate's Awesome Match at Lord's

Pirate played a cricket match at Lord's recently. It was quite the red letter day. (For the Yanks who don't know, Lord's is the most prestigious cricket ground in England.)

He opened the bowling and took 2 wickets, more than anyone else on his side, but not until the opposition had racked up 165 runs with their opening partnership. Ouch.
During lunch the crowd (yes, there was a crowd of about 3,500 people. We were all seated in the Grand Stand, where I took these photos from, so looking across the pitch all you see are empty seats, but that's because all the spectators were behind me) was entertained by a very good band.


At teatime the players were introduced to Princess Anne (that's her in the yellow dress. I was too lazy to paste an arrow in for you). I asked Pirate what he said to her and he told me that she enquired about his job, which he described for her. Then she went on to feign interest in the next player.

Finally Pirate got to bat. When he came on to the pitch it was looking dire for his side, as they had lost a lot of wickets quite quickly and gotten few runs. The team and the crowd were getting despondent. Then he came out and smashed a 4 off the first ball and the crowd cheered. He continued hitting 4s until he had taken the team from a position of almost certain defeat to a likely draw. At one point the crowd was even chanting his name! Pi-rat! Pi-rat! Pi-rat!
When he was eventually bowled they put his photo up on all the big scoreboards. He is even awesomer than I am. The end.

My Awesome 80-mile* bike ride

I thought my little diversions about burning piers and silly memes would keep you distracted while I put this pots together, but apparently not. It seems some of you are paying attention.

And no, you can't have a lollipop. Because I said so.

After cleaning and re-oiling the gears on my bike, tightening and re-balancing the brakes, I set off yesterday morning at 10:40. It was a beautiful day, and already hot. I followed National Cycle Route 4 from Bristol to Bath, and then on to Devizes via Bradford-on-Avon along the Kennet and Avon Canal. I kept to the minimum allowable clothing, a sports bra and bike shorts. (Sorry, not photo of that.) Here is a series of pictures I took to document my journey.


Along the Avon Valley Antique Railway I spotted this gem of sarcastic graffiti:

As I was crossing over the River Avon (and stopping to eat some malt loaf), I saw this lovely red canal barge pass under the bridge. This is a bit of the Avon I know well, as it's part of the stretch of water where I scull. I've been under this bridge hundreds of times myself!

On the other side of Bath it was a bit quieter (just a bit, mind) but this wee faun didn't seem to mind all the families out enjoying the sunday sunshine:

An aquaduck! It's hard to tell from this photo (I couldn't get a higher vantage point), but this aquaduct on the K&A canal crosses over the River Avon, which is about 60 feet below. (That's my bright green bike in the foreground.)

A typical stretch of canal: peaceful and shady. Looooooooovely.

My dream home:

Thistles and lustrife in a cottage garden so charming Miss Marple herself would barf a rainbow at the sight.

*Proof! At this point I am 11 miles past Bath, which is 17 miles from Bristol, and I still have 10 to go. (I realize that doesn't quite add up to 40, but it's close. Work with me here.)

There's not much in this photo. I just liked the banding effect of the blue sky, ripe wheat, and green aquatic grass thingys.

An obliging heron:

Haystacks! Eat your heart out, Claude.

Yellow water lilies behind pink things. What do I look like, a botanist? Oh, yeah. *slinks away*

The Caen Hill Locks. This photo doesn't do them justice. This is one fucking spectacular piece of Victorian engineering. Absolutely astounding.

I wanna uh I wanna uh I wanna uh I wanna uh I wanna really really really really wanna Zig-a-Zig ah! (and Himself.)
We had a delightful time. Ziggi and Himself came to pick me up at the Devizes sports center, which was an easy landmark, right off the canal, and I know it because Pirate has played cricket there on several occasions. They took me back to their house and Ziggi made a very yummy lunch with chicken and potato salad and rolls. I was offered copious quantities of happy-making beverages (and I must say that the strawberry wine was especially scrummy), we sat by the pond-fountain-waterfeaturewithfish thing and talked all afternoon about life, politics, what have you. There were creature comforts in the forms of Fern, Suze, the Fredster, the rabbits, and Dolce the cat (who left large quantities of fluffitude on my shirt). What a great day!


On the way back I snapped this photo of the Locks from the top looking down. You can't see the series of locks well from this angle, but the sky is pretty.

That's a little better. (And yes, I had to ride all the way up that hill on the path to the left to reach this point. This at the end of a near 40-mile journey! Going back down again was fucking great, I can tell you.)

My favorite photo of the day: the pub beside the Bradford-on-Avon marina, with a hot air balloon. (If you click the bigness you will see the balloon is doing a burn, too!)

Close-up of the balloon. Hang on, what the fuck's that on the side? It's the porn balloon!

Another aquaduck. Even though I had a fairly high vantage point for this, you still don't get the sense of the valley that bridge is spanning.

Ah, that's better. I took this photo standing in the middle of the above aquaduct, looking off to the left. See what I mean now?

How stunning is this light? It was raining when I took this at about 9:30 in the evening. I was still east of Bath, and had about 20 miles to go to get home. My legs were fine. For the time being.

Just before getting in to Bath I spotted this unconventional, hippie-occupied canal boat. The chap who lived in was very friendly (and very attractive if I'm being honest. In another life, I totally would have.)

He has cool, homemade sculpture on the front of his boat. It reminded me of the water creature in The Abyss.

A field of asters

Entering Bath. This photo really doesn't capture the twinkliness of the city in the twilight.

Bath Abby. No, I did not steal this photo from their website. I took this myself, last night, with my fully automated little digital camera. Not bad for a total amateur, huh? (except you can see the handles of my bike in the foreground. whoops.)

After that it was too dark for much photography. I got home at about 11. It took me 3 hours and 40 minutes on the way out, and 4 hours coming back. By the time I was 10 miles from Bristol my legs were starting to shake. Fortunately the last few miles are the easiest.

Today I am fine. The only evidence of my journey, besides the photos, are
--> the blister on my ass
--> my incredibly tight right hamstring
--> the layers and layers of dust and filth caked on to my bike, which was sparkling clean at the outset.

It was a brilliant trip, and I will definitely take more pedal-powered roadtrips in the future.