Six degrees of Kevin Baking (oh god did I just go there)

Still recovering from the turkish-delight-making joys and perils of the weekend just passed, I stick to fairly low key baking adventures this time: a repeat of a simple wholemeal loaf not worth a photo but satisfying for my ability to make it with only a quick glance at the recipe, and a trio of Nigel Slater delights – including a remake of those meringues with the blessing of an electric mixer – for dinner with dear friends (who devotedly stay with us for an evening of good food and merriment and a night of futon-sleeping squeezed between sofa, desk, television and dining table – plus side, it’s the warmest kind of camping you’ll get in November). I also whip up a batch of gluten-free chocolate and almond cookies for their Saturday teatime arrival, proud and disconcerted in equal measure by my newfound tendency to insist on homebaked treats and to use the term “whip up” to describe my making of them.

You might think that my lack of baking this weekend is all for the sake of getting more work done that I managed to fit around last week’s bakeathon. It’s more for the sake of catching up on missed episodes of exceptionally funny Fresh Meat and often-disappointing-but-worth-it-for-the-delight-of-Romola-Garai-sparring-with-Dominic-West The Hour. And, of course, to go out and buy a pair of DMs for the first time since I was 13. “DMs?” asks one friend on a facebook status I have posted to garner support for the sense of queer / pre-queer nostalgia I am feeling post-purchase: “Surely you don’t mean Daily Mails?” I once bough one for the sake of a free bar of chocolate and felt rather sick afterwards (not from the chocolate). Doctor Martens are worth the extra expense. Another friend gently berates me: “Ok I can just about take it on you, but I do wish undergrads would stick to uggs, it’s like teaching my teenage self”, she says. These dark red beauties, classic enough to boast the customary yellow stitching around the sole but with a heel and an edge of elegance, are far removed from the bright purple boots of my adolescence. I justify the purchase by calling them my “queer conference shoes.”

With two further sets of dinner guests planned for the week ahead I spend Monday preparing menus. Specifications: a) if a cake just needs to be made (and how could it not be) use a loaf tin because the square tin is 200 miles down south; b) try to double up on ingredients for the sake of at least a semblance of economy. It starts to look like a game of 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon but with food. I’ve been meaning to make rye bread for a while and settle on a recipe from Dan Lepard’s Short and Sweet. Rye: Dan Lepard also has a rye apple cake which looks delicious. To count as a desert cake must be served with cream. Cream: Nigel Slater’s Spiced pumpkin soup with bacon looks great for dinner #1. You’ll find nothing in common between that dish and the one I’ve chosen for dinner #2 (linguine alla vongole) but the fact that they’re just pages apart in my favourite cookery book, The Kitchen Diaries.

Monday’s plunge into the working week demands a lunchtime treat: a bacon sarnie with portobello mushrooms and rosemary. To ease my guilt about the third helping of bacon in as many days – if it’s in the name of research it’s justifiable – I insist on a working lunch. And now I have a brown mushroomy bacon stain on my copy of Epistemology of the Closet and I’m no closer to the day’s word-count goal. On Tuesday, I delight in the 30 minutes of bubbling time the rye bread mixture requires before proving and baking – this kind of cooking might just be a way to atone for my adolescent aversion to science – and on Wednesday, no nearer to Monday’s work goal, I spread this sweet-salty pumpernickel-like loaf with soft irish goats cheese for a quick pre-supervision lunch. The apple cake has come out of the oven and promises to be a tasty accompaniment to an evening of lesbian film watching with my (not lesbian) friend who knows the names of more lesbian films than I do and whose recent completion of a PhD on food begs for a co-written paper on lesbians and food. Sounds like a guest blog post in the making.

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A bake for every occasion – including another night in front of the box.

Two loaves of bread this weekend. I get home on Friday night, library-ed out and cold and wet from a dark rainy cycle home, and all I want to do is bake. As the loaf, my second ever, bakes in the oven, we have some Friday night viewing to get on with. First Fresh Meat to catch up on. Which reminds me. Earlier in the day, I am in the swimming pool. Following a hip injury I’m not supposed to run but I’ve been told that running through water isn’t as harsh on the joints and looks pretty nifty too. Mid-way through this Monty-Python-worthy length, still wearing the goggles and swimcap I have neglected to deposit at the side of the pool, I look up and notice that the lifeguard is watching me suspiciously. He is the spitting image of Jack Whitehall and I’m now convinced he’s making unbearably clever wisecracks at my expense as I prance.

Roll forward to the evening again and, with another dose of Fresh Meat‘s hilarious and exceptionally accurate portrayal of student life (anyone beg to differ?) come and gone, we’re back to complaining that LOVEFiLM has failed to deliver our weekly dose of The Wire (we’re about to start season 3. Yes, we’re a few years late but it’s still thrilling and utterly brilliant). We have yet another lesbian film. When I recall, the next morning, the merits of Kyss Mig (Alexandra-Therese Keining, 2011), I am reminded that my enthusiasm is somewhat heightened by the film’s recent sexually oriented companions. Since starting my PhD I have, in the name of research, put my girlfriend through all of the delights that LOVEFiLM’s list of lesbian films has to offer. And a lot of them are really, really bad. But this one is special. It has a cast that replicates many a Scandinavian drama (or so I’m told. I refuse to watch anything whose title promises The Killing), and that includes the jumpers.

This Friday night’s baking masterpiece is supposed to resemble the “cottage loaf” that Paul Hollywood boasts in his section on so-called “basic breads”. Mine looks more like a dishevelled snowman with a head too small for his body. Tastes good though, and is ready at 10pm in time for the next morning’s breakfast, after which it’s time to make loaf number two, a simple (or should be) wholemeal loaf which fails miserably to rise and drops like a brick out of the tin when I lift it out of the oven. To overcome the disappointment I am taken on a jaunt around town to purchase an amusingly odd selection of items. An iPad mini for my girlfriend (even more pointless than its larger predecessor…except it’s not. It’s beautiful, and I decide almost immediately, and whiningly, that I want one too); a new recipe book (the last one before Christmas, I promise, and anyway I can be forgiven because it’s all in the name of making treats for other people’s presents. And if it gets me two more Waterstone’s – apostrophe intact – loyalty card stamps then it doesn’t really cost so much to begin with); a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, which I buy merely for the purpose of understanding the intellectual properties of the phenomenon (and for the sexy bits); and ingredients from a Chinese supermarket for prawn and chilli dumplings. Credit goes to my sister for making the wanton wonton joke first. The dumplings, inspired by (if not 100% copied from) Nigel Slater’s delightful Simple Treats are shallow fried and served with a sticky sweet dipping sauce. Much more worthy of a photograph than the bread, and really fun to make. My friends can expect to prepare their votes of thanks for these yummy impressive-looking-but-easy-to-make (sshh don’t tell anyone) starters at dinner parties to come.

And a few other things worth noting. a) I’m writing this as I sit on the sofa of my very Small House and look out the wall-that-is-all-window and watch the fireworks. b) I feel a bit sick to my stomach about what might happen in the States tomorrow. For any of you who aren’t already convinced to NOT VOTE ROMNEY, Joss Whedon’s warning of a ZOMNEY future might give you the kick you need.

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