Thumb in all the pies

thumb jam buns

I am always a bit surprised when I produce something edible. This also comes an immense relief when periodically, dear companions are subjected to my culinary enterprises. Admittedly I don’t help myself in such matters, as with occasional lofty ambitions of originality, I will scour cookery books and serve up dishes never before attempted by my fair hand, sometimes with a quirky take (having added an extra spice or seasoning depending on what fell out of the cupboard) if I’m feeling particularly debonair.

I am pleased to announce however, that this past week’s programme of social engagements, whereby I was personally responsible for all food preparation and delivery, were an resoundingly unnerving success. I even managed to pull off a sunken flourless chocolate cake with a liberal administration of icing and Malteasers, and the pesto chicken was actually ok, despite having singed the accompanying thyme on a scented decorative tealight, lit to mask the smell of my artisan rolls, char-grilled to perfection.

The ultimate triumph, if one might be so bold, was the lemony pud taken home by our guests, to serve as ‘pregnant lady’ breakfast food, along with some jammy thumb buns (as pictured). Sadly it turns out that the size of my thumb was not proportionally equal to the amount of jam administered, so baking produced a volcanic effect, but I have to admit to being rather taken by their ‘oozing wound’ appearance. Indeed I seem to have an unintentional knack of making food that looks like other things.

This is why my butterfly cakes are only served in adult company.

May Day

blossom

honey bee

sun on field

beer

May Day. Cherry blossom, honey bees, the orangey glow of the sun setting on pastures green. Morris Men dancing in the arrival of summer.

With me as their subject.

I was this year’s Kennet Morris Men‘s ‘Valentine’ – the subject of a ritual performed about me for reasons of fertility and well being. So the crops will grow. I like to do my bit.

When the dance was over, the Morris Men hoisted me into the air and carried me aloft back to my picnic bench, (unfortunately wet grass meant I was also dropped rather unceremoniously), where I was thus shielded by handkerchiefs to protect my modesty, and presented with this exclusive pin for my troubles:

I've been tossed by the Kennet Morris Men

May your radishes be fecund and your barley be strong and good!

Have I always stood like a duck?

Why did no one tell me?

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