cake of macabre magnificence

On the strength of the fabulous cake we made for Friday's birthday (no apologies for the brag), a good friend asked us to make her a birthday cake this weekend.
She has a taste for the macabre does our Janine, and requested something a little twisted. We were happy to oblige ...

This was our first time making a themed cake for someone outside of our immediate family and I have to admit it was a teeny bit stressful - I don't think I could ever do this for money, or to a strict brief. It's fun to have an idea and then just go with it, never sure quite how it'll work out.

But as with the birthday cakes we've made for our daughters, the best part was thinking fondly of the recipient as we made it, chortling at how much she'd love it. As weird as it may be to imbue a blood-splattered cake with warmth and love, this one was splattered with both.
Happy birthday Janine!

And some notes for those interested ... the 3 tiers were standard Victoria sponge (double mixture), sandwiched in this case with strawberry jam and iced (by my husband the master icer) with white buttercream. The edible blood was a bit of a coup - after researching many recipes online (most of which called for cup of corn syrup - eeeuwww), we made our own by modifying a chocolate glaze recipe which we've used often before, this time using just a little bit of cocoa powder and lots of red and green food colouring.
Artfully applied with a basting brush, the glaze harden beautifully, looked super gory and tasted delicious!

portents & dreams

On the morning of my wedding, a fish eagle flew over my parent's house, calling and calling and wishing me well.
My most precious childhood memories, long summer holidays dirty and free on the banks of the Botriver Vlei, are always accompanied by the cry of the fish eagles which roosted there.
Weeks ago, the first time we stopped outside the house we're hoping to buy, we heard one overhead.

We bought our current house 9 years ago, from an elderly man who'd lived here for over 30 years. The house was filled with net curtains and knick-knacks, potted African Violets and lots of polished brass.
The house we're hoping to buy is owned by an elderly lady, who's lived there for over 30 years. It's currently filled with knick-knacks, many many potted African Violets, and lots of polished brass.

Today is my birthday. Driving home through the rain under gloomy skies, we saw a magnificent and bold rainbow, arcing over our car. One foot, zinging with colour, seemed to trail just behind us, and seeking out the other I found it over the lake, hovering right over the house we hope will become our next home.

Our dreams have been strange these last few weeks. Our days, filled with estate agents and banks and hopes and fears, filled with packing and sorting and tidying our home, are processed nightly through our dreams.

Husband dreams of closed doors, of boats and objects just beyond his reach.

I dream of flooded gardens, the inability to express myself. I wander through dreams in a cheap white wedding dress, sensing my partner's frustration at waiting, unfurling his palm to discover a sliver of soap I recognise from our bathroom, 'Where must I put it?' he pleads with me, 'I can't find anywhere to put it.'

This state of flux makes us restless, and tired. We hope for a quick resolution. We try to believe in the future without getting unduly excited.
We hope our portents don't become dreams, hope our dreams remain firmly in our heads.

so happy together

Growing up in a small coastal town as I did, life was for the most part all about surfing. Who did, who didn't, where, how (regular or goofy foot / boatman or doormat) etc.
After my parents gave up driving me round the coast to a nice English-speaking private primary school every day, I finished my junior school days in our small verkrampt village school and finally, joyfully, moved on to the High School in the next town, a mythical place swarming with gorgeous surfers and the tantalising promise of a real teenage life (real = Beverley Hills 90210, of course).

We already knew, on our first terrifyingly intimidating day, to look out for 3 big boys in particular. The creme of the surfer crop whose reputations as bad boy surfer party dudes had preceded them down the coast to our little school.
I think, and hope, I'll never forget that moment, queuing up outside our new year room, all outsized school blazers and knobbly knees, when a whisper spread down the row: 'Here they come! Here they come!' Girls and boys alike turned to watch in awe as the 3 of them strode past, achingly cool with their nonchalance and flippy hair. Two blondes and a brunette, they were the closest to celebrity most of us had ever come, and right there on that spot I had an epiphany: the dark-haired one, he would be mine.

And get this: he is.

We may have celebrated our 8 year wedding anniversary earlier this month, but today is the big one: 
20 years together.

Twenty.
Years.
!

8 years ago

We did this.

I'm so glad we did.