.. I don’t know how to do it. I don’t own a polka dot pinny or a ‘keep calm and carry on’ poster or anything remotely connected with cupcakes. I prefer not to have much to do with eggs because of that mucus that trails out when you crack them open. I’m good at stir fries and curries and things on the hob but I tend to avoid the oven. Last week, I managed to plunge my finger into a ready-made shepherd’s pie that was so burnt that its plastic tray had disintegrated. I don’t watch the UK’s Next Top Master Baker. I don’t spend days in a kitchen bathed in sunlight and daffodils, helping my child to make fairy cakes (thankfully, Tom does get to do baking with his Nan and Aunties.)
I can’t bake and if I’m honest, I sometimes feel a bit left out because it looks as though all mums are supposed to. No one teaches you how to bake cupcakes in antenatal classes. (Actually, I didn’t go to those – maybe they do.)
I can’t bake. But I can buy a Morrisons tray bake, shower it in brown sugar and sculpt stuff out of icing to plonk on the top. And I’m bloody proud of that.