Christmas cake therapy

The few weeks since I last blogged have been a game of two halves (bugger, I've accidentally picked up a footballing term by osmosis). On one hand, I'm steaming ahead with my novel and have started researching agents (eek). On the other, there have been a number of times this month when I've had to make a stand for a variety of reasons. Now, I can see off a cold caller in less than five seconds and will rip the head off anyone who hurts my kids, yet if someone close upsets me I have an annoying habit of just absorbing it rather than telling them (yeah, no wonder I comfort eat...). But the worm has turned. It's quite liberating, though I'm a little intrigued as to what's changed suddenly.

Anyway, because I won't blog about things that involve others, and to take my mind off it all, let's talk Christmas cake. For some it's too early to think about Christmas, but I love the run up more than the day so it can't start soon enough for me. And as the cake needs to mature, like some of the people in my life, I usually make it around now.

We've all got our favourite recipe. I've used the same one for the last 20 years (thanks, Delia) and I thoroughly enjoy the whole process: soaking fruit overnight in a vat of brandy, weighing out the ingredients, Blue Peter-esque cutting of the greaseproof paper liner, chopping nuts and glace cherries, zesting oranges and lemons, beating, sifting and leveling. It's all so soothing.

Here are some pics (with apologies for the darkness - my kitchen is a black hole and I don't have a flash on my phone).

I took one very old, very loved and very sticky recipe...

..and some very old and very loved accompaniment... 

...I mixed this lot...

...with this lot...

...and ended up with this...

 

...then I put a little hat on to protect it...

...and shoved it in the oven before tackling the devastation...

 

No picture of it in the oven as it needs cleaning. *blush*

While it cooks, the house is full of what I thought until yesterday was the essence of Christmas. Apparently I was wrong. DD1 and I were in Tesco and she tried on a scarf. She snuggled into it and inhaled deeply. "Wow!" she said, "this smells just like Christmas!"
I sniffed it. "It smells like dust."
"Exactly. Our stockings always smell of dust".
So, there we have it. Never mind the cake, the mince pies or pine scented pot pourri, all I need do to give my girls a perfect Christmas is not clean for a month.

*Drums fingers impatiently for cake to finish and looks around for new distraction*  

Hark, the herald oven timer sings.
Ta daaaaa....

Take a bow, little cake.