Delia Smith is an Evil Cow

It's night time, it's been snowing like a bastard and it's freezing.  The shops are like war torn Russia and have had all of their stock dessimated by starving Leithers (people from Leith, the area of Edinburgh where I don't live*) thinking that Armageddon is coming and the only thing to ward it off will be a fridge full of milk and a cupboard full of bread and cake.

The whole of Edinburgh resembled a zombie invasion today with people staring at their feet walking as though they had shit themselves, although trying desperately to stay upright and look cool.

I, on the other hand, slipped and skidded my way down Leith Walk like Bambi on acid saying 'bollocks', 'shit' and 'any need?' most of the way home.  Did I care that I looked like a complete trog cos my hair resembled Catweasels under my hat (which incidentally matched my handbag and nail polish - a happy accident I can assure you) no, I did not.  I just wanted to get home after what had turned out to be a fairly mammoth day with a big decision made.

Anyway, back to the point of the blog.  I fancied a bit of cake for tea and, having started my detox and been without sugar or Haribo all day, I thought I should reward myself.  Of course, the aforementioned shops were shut but even if they were open I am sure none of them would have had cake.  Decent cake.

So, I decided I would just bake one.  Fuck it, that's what Delia would do.

In fact, when I was married, I often would don a pinny and bake a cake for the teachers at hubby's school - I quite liked doing it and I thought it's what wives were supposed to do.  I'd make soup from scratch (as I'm sure I've mentioned in an earlier blog) in fact, this one time (at band camp) his family turned up 2 hours early for the rugby and a) I wasn't dressed yet (in the figure hugging lycra tops my husband used to make me wear with my jeans - the kind of tops that you can't sit down in cos your REAL shape will be revealed) b) my hair was still wet and c) horror of horrors, I hadn't bothered to make them a pot of soup and they had come ALL the way from St Andrews. Whoop de fucking doo!

I ended up standing in the kitchen peeling carrots, in a lycra abomination, with frizzy hair and half a face of make up, making soup and sandwiches for his family and pals whilst listening to choruses of 'you knew we were coming, you should have been organised', 'I can't BELIEVE you haven't started the soup yet'.  The pressure to be a domestic goddess was so great that I am amazed I did not plunge into heroin heaven.

Anyway, I digress.  

Tonight, I decided I fancied a bit of cake and with all the streets resembling the aftermath of a disaster of apocalyptic proportions (no headless horsemen yet so, phew!) I decided that baking one myself would be the sure fire way of getting what I wanted this evening.

I went to 'Delia Online' and typed in 'Victoria Sponge Cake'.  For the astute readers, you will already have appreciated my error.

I thought there was something odd about the recipe.  I didn't recognise it but Delia can't be wrong and I'd already mixed the butter and sugar wondering why it felt weird not just chucking it all in with the eggs and flour and just whisking the shit out of it.  It didn't dawn on me that I had printed out the wrong thing and that I should really have searched for 'sponge cake that any knob head with half an ounce of common sense can make with their eyes closed and one arm tied behind their back whilst riding a unicycle'.  Apparently Victoria Sponge is the hardest thing to 'get right'.  I hate you Delia.

Alas.  A proper Victoria Sponge it was to be...I'd started so I was bloody well gonna finish.

The butter and sugar had to be mixed in one bowl.  The eggs had to be beaten together in a separate bowl (not medium ones, large ones - the eggs, not the bowl).  The flour had to be placed in a sieve then placed on a plate.  Fuck sake - think of the washing up Deels, we don't all have minions you know.

Apparently, you have to add the beaten egg to the butter and sugar mixture a TEASPOON AT A TIME! Fuck off. Who has that amount of spare time?

I whacked in the egg and whisked the shit out of it.

I then had to 'sieve the flour from a great height to let the air in'.  Fuck sake, there is more flour on the kitchen floor than in the sodding bowl and it doesn't matter how small your sieve is, the bowl is never big enough to catch all the flour!  Not only that but you can only do a quarter at a time.  Then you have to 'fold' the flour in. Not stir, not beat, not whisk, fold!  What the fuck is that?  You fold paper.  You fold washing.  How do you fold a fucking liquid mix.  I did what I thought 'folding' was. 4 times.

I placed the lotion in the basket...sorry brainfart - Haribo prize if you guess the film though!

I placed the mixture into 2 individual cake tins (the size of which turned out to be wrong) - surely a cake tin is a cake tin?  A tin for cake?  Fuck a duck, the whole cake tin arena is a mine field, apparently.

It is clear now, as I have 'turned out my cakes' onto a 'cooling rack' (my trivet** cos my grill pan rack still has pork chop remnants on it from last week) I had the wrong size tin.  My oven has also incorrectly cooked the cakes and my electric whisk is shit.  These are the only reasons I can think of as to why my Victoria Sponge is more like Fiona Flapjack.

Now my 'cake' has cooled, it actually has the consistency of a biscuit.  I whipped the cream and slathered on the jam, but at the end of the day all I've really done is make a giant custard cream/jammy dodger hybrid.

Fuck sake.  No wonder my husband divorced me.

Delia Smith, yer a cow!

* in case you're a stalker

** metal thing with slats you put pans on so you don't burn the worktop

 Delias link if you want to try fart arsing about.