On not Being a Domestic Goddess

I decided to bake a cheesecake yesterday.

This is such an unusual occurrence in our household that not only did I have to go out and buy all the ingredients, but I had to also buy a cake tin, and please, can someone shout down from on high STOP YOU CRAZY FOOL in the style of BA Baracus from the A Team next time I get a bright idea? I am supposed to be saving money *she wails* especially if I do these life coaching thingummys, but there I go, good intentions in one ear and out the other, blissfully thinking that a £10 cake tin is such a bargain, when I don’t actually cook. The next time this cake tin will be pulled out is when I give it away to John’s mum.

But in the meantime there I was, using a recipe printed from Delia Smith online, and covering the kitchen in biscuit crumbs. The first hurdle was the 50g of butter. I have no scales, so whacked off a chunk, melted it and poured it into the biscuit crumbs. It disappeared, so I repeated the process. A lot. This seemed to work, although it was surely over 50g now. Mmm a nice buttery cheesecake, I thought happily.

The next hurdle was the actual cheese – I should’ve bought two tubs of Philadelphia. Oh well, I thought, it just won’t be a deep cheesecake. It will be a buttery thin type of cheesecake. Into the oven it went, and I felt well proud of myself. “I cooked a surprise!” I told John gleefully. “Great,” he replied, warily. We both looked in the oven. “Is it some sort of biscuit?” he asked.

There endeth my Domestic Goddess career.