The cakes are baked. Cinnamon cake. Apple cake. Carrot cake. More biscuits (cookies) And my brother-in-law says he wants the biscuits for the restaurant too. Groan. I said no more for a week. I am on strike. Finished. Kaput.
And there is no more room to stack tins anyway. The cinnamon cake........ well, people, I used a tin which turned out to be not quite big enough. It took forever to cook, ballooned over the side, and generally looks a mess. Tastes divine though. So it will be one of those cakes better eaten with the eyes closed. Oh well. One disaster out of all of the cooking is not the end of the world. But when it is a recipe you have made countless times it is a trifle galling. But the cinnamon smell still lingers in the house. And as I said before, no-one will starve. Some of the goodies are gifts, and some are for the restaurant, and some, the remainder, will be for the family. That should take care of January, and possibly February. Hahhaha. Actually, there are house guests for Christmas too, Peter's niece and her family, so it will all be eaten.
The photos of the house can wait till tomorrow, I think. One is creaking.
Today, I tried to get everything I needed to do done. Wrapping presents, discarding custard powder from the parcels already wrapped and re-wrapping them. Oh, I didn't mention the custard powder here, did I? Well, because it is not something I thought was readily available here, I popped a tin (with vacuum seal and all) in the suitcase, and off we set. I needed it to make the Custies (Norwegian Kisses). When we arrived the lovely ladies who pushed the wheelchairs hauled the case off the belt and said *Oh there is some snow on your luggage."
That "snow" did not melt, and there is every chance we were trailing white powder through the airport, but thankfully, no-one noticed, because I DO NOT WANT TO THINK what I would have said had we been stopped. But when we got here, I opened the case, and oh my word. You have never seen anything like it. The custard powder had exploded in the case. Now let me just say that custard powder is a sort of powder used to make vanilla sauce. It is a mixture of sugar, cornflour and dried egg powder, so you will recognise how fine it is. It was in and on everything. EVERYTHING. I was unamused. At the time. Now it is hilarious. I happened to notice that "snow" was on quite a few suitcases on the airport belt, by the way. Heaven knows what their owners thought. All because I wanted to bake my biscuits.
My life is quite exciting, isn't it.
I absolutely refuse to take that case back with me, because there are sniffer dogs at the airport, and so help me, they will probably come and lick my case to death, and I really do not want to have to explain why they are doing that. Please. Just what I need. My sister's dog thinks custard powder is the best. He was trying to lick the case as I nearly blew up her new vacuum cleaner getting as much of the wretched stuff out as I could. It is super fine. Such a helpful and good start to the holiday.
I mentioned wheelchairs. I bit the bullet, and ordered assistance for the trip. I can't walk the miles required at the airport, and neither can Mum. And the endless queues nearly finish me off. I am too proud usually to say I need help, but not this time. Mum refused to go in one when I first suggested it, so I said I was going to use one and she could run alongside if she liked. I am such a perfect daughter. And she is SO independent.
So I booked us both assistance. What a wonderful idea. We arrived, hopped into wheelchairs clutching our hand luggage and my leki pole, and whizzed past all the queues. Bliss. We discovered parts of the airport never seen before, and were the last to board, and the entire front row had been reserved for us. Perfect. AND the lovely air hostess had kept locker space too. And when we got here, the wheelchair and a super little motorised cart were waiting. I got into that one, and we whizzed past every one. I want one. Passport queues? Pah! Just hand the passports to the ladies and the man waved us through. Easy. Stress free. And I didn't feel like death, like I usually do after pretending I am "fine". This is the way I will be travelling from now, believe me. Who needs pride.
It would all have been perfect.
If I hadn't packed the custard powder.
And the ultimate irony? My brother-in-law had a massive tin of the stuff here.