Moody

Suburbia.
6:30-something in the morning.
It was dark, dreary, windy, and I was listening to Debussy…

You’d think that in a setting like this one might, as my partner so eloquently put it, “suddenly want to wear a beret and talk about Sartre in a French accent.”

I’d probably be up for it on any other day. Who doesn’t want to play the starring role in a sultry French movie? This morning though… this morning was a fitting background for how I was feeling over the previous night’s baking debacle.

See, yesterday I craved a particular set of flavours and textures – I wanted coffee cake. Preferably with cinnamon streusel. I flipped through my collection of recipes, and nope – no recipe on file. Flicked through the stack of magazines I’ve collected. Nothing. Still craving. So I went online, narrowed down options, found one that appealed and decided – why not?

I can laugh about it now, but this morning I had the answers to the why not question, and was seriously wondering why I’d thought I would take up baking again. For one, the amount of time it took the bake the cake was double what was posted. It came out way drier than I expected. Also heavier than I expected – pound cake heavy. I gave it a 2 out of 5 and seriously wanted to toss it out.

Tonight I found out it went quite well with a light slathering of apricot jam.