February is here already. I had barely got my head around January when they go and change it. Without warning. To be fair, February is generally to be found marked on calendars nowadays, so perhaps it shouldn't have been such a surprise. But I can't be expected to remember everything.
I baked a cake last weekend. I don't, as a rule, do much baking, preferring to focus my culinary efforts on more practical dishes for lunch or dinner rather than cakes and biscuits, which are hardly essential for the sustenance of life, nor even particularly well-suited for maintaining an acceptable body mass index, and are anyway readily available in shops and supermarkets, where they tend to taste better than anything I could ever concoct. But last weekend I had a go at a lemon drizzle cake, just for the fun of it. As the name suggests, this cake is meant to taste of lemons, and drizzle. I followed the recipe faithfully: even bought all the correct ingredients, rather than substitute likely looking alternatives from the back of the cupboard. But somehow – I don't know – it didn't turn out all that well. You could tell it was a cake – it even tasted of lemons – but it was lacking something: it was lacking heart. And no amount of drizzle can make up for that.
I found it in a tin this morning. It had hardly got any smaller since when I first made it. It didn't taste any better.
It is no longer there.
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