My current ‘to do’ list rivals most normal person’s telephone directory. Updating the blog unfortunately sits somewhere at the bottom between sleep and hoovering the car, with sleep winning every time. I will endeavour to get better but in the meantime here’s a wee treat for you.
Unless you’ve been in a cake induced coma for the past month you could not have helped but notice all the fuss over the ‘Fifty Shades’ trilogy. Fortunately for me, a gifted and talented journalist friend of mine penned ‘Fifty Shades of Cake’ and sent it to me for a giggle. Here it is, I hope it makes you smile in the same way she makes smile in every humorous and witty act of kindness she performs.
She shall remain anonymous unless she chooses not to but I hope she knows she is loved, admired and appreciated by all my fifty plus cake inspired trucking shades.
Fifty Shades of Cake
By Kay Keaton
I smoothed my hands down over my apron, which I’d tied snugly round my trim waist. I saw, in my reflection in the gleaming oven door, that my hands had left two floury trails, leading suggestively over my hips to the unfolding lily at the centre of the Cath Kidston print. I laughed sexily and tossed my hair, conker-shiny from my Babyliss Big Hair, back from my sloping shoulders. I’d used the product placement fee from Babyliss Big Hair to have a really good blow-dry that morning, and when your hair is that silky, you toss it a lot.
Nigel appeared in the kitchen doorway, his six-foot-six frame lean and lithe and clad elegantly in a dark three-piece suit, with a shirt so gleaming white and crisply starched I knew it wasn’t one I’d washed or ironed. There’s just something indefinably attractive about a man in a really smart shirt whose laundering you’ve had nothing to do with. A tiny smile played on my lightly-glossed lips, but I continued my work.
“Still at it?” Nigel moved behind me and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “You’re always at it, aren’t you?”
“Still baking, if that’s what you mean. Two lemon drizzles and twenty-four cupcakes for the tearooms, and three private order birthday cakes, all to be ready for delivery by five, so I have my hands full.”
My buzzer started to go off as Nigel’s fingers crept down my chest.
“So have I,” he murmured. “Shall I help you weigh those eggs?”
“No thank you, darling,” I replied swiftly, turning off the buzzer just in time to hear the doorbell. “Why not answer the door?”
He loped off, only to reappear a minute later.
“Do you want to investigate this package? It’s such a thick, warm package, so full of promise. I think it will be in your interest to unwrap it.”
By now I was bent double, my jeans stretched over the rounded contours of my bottom, as I rummaged in the cupboard under the oven.
“Oh, you do it. I’m looking for my paddle attachment.”
There was a strange grunt from behind me, and as I backed out of the cupboard Nigel grabbed me by the hips.
“It was a box of brownies,” he muttered. “From that Scottish bird who does them by post.”
“Oh, you’ve already – “ But he silenced me with a hand over my mouth.
“Yes, I have.” His stern voice was gravelly. “And now I think we’ve heard quite enough from you.” His gravelly voice was stern. “Let’s give your mouth something else to do, eh?”
And before I knew what was happening he’d forced my jaw open and thrust into it a great, solid chunk of brownie. I couldn’t speak. I was breathless, alarmed but excited. It was more brownie than I could handle. Or was it? I was alarmed, but excited, breathless. He turned me round and bent me over the kitchen table, pressing his hips into the twin globes of my bottom. A crumb of brownie had actually gone into my windpipe and I was trying to cough, but I think he thought I was panting with pleasure. Funny, this close up, I could see streak marks on the oilcloth, and that Bolognese stain from Friday. If I could think of a really good product for cleaning oilcloth I’d write to them about product placement.
“You want it, don’t you?” Nigel’s breath was hot in my ear as he struggled with the button on my jeans, and if I’m to come completely clean, it had been a bit of a struggle getting it done up in the first place, so good luck with that, I thought.
I bucked against him, but he had me easily pinned down under his powerful body. Nigel likes to take the lead. In fact, once he actually tied my hands behind my back with the dog’s lead, but he had to untie me because our dog has a terrible drooling problem and to be honest the lead was a bit manky and neither of us really fancied it.
I’d managed to swallow a bit of the brownie now, and not without effort was able to cough the last chunk out across the table.
“Christ, Nigel,” I gasped, elbowing him in the ribs and getting off the table. “You have no fecking respect for those brownies. They’re far too rich and moist to eat in one go. And I always like a cup of tea to wash them down. You know that.”
Nigel ran his fingers seductively through his hair.
“Rich, like me,” he pointed out, slowly licking a speck of brownie off his middle finger, “and moist, like – “
But I had an eye on the clock and was fixing the paddle attachment to my electric mixer.
Nigel seized me roughly round the waist. “I prefer the hand-held paddle myself. Or sometimes I find the whisk remarkably effective.”
“My orders won’t fill themselves,” I pointed out, pulling away and snapping the lid on the mixer.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, if they… filled themselves…?”
“I’m not sure, it just sounded dirty.”
I flicked my hair over my shoulder again, and unfortunately one gleaming lock whipped Nigel right across one contact lens.
“Jesus, watch it!” He felt gingerly for the lens, which seemed to be still in place. “That really fucking hurt.”
“You’re no fun today, anyway.”
I kissed his injured eye and as I pulled away I noticed how beautifully shaped his cheekbones were, how closely shaven his face. A subtle hint of Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet rose from his warm skin. Suddenly, my insides felt like a lemon drizzle cake with slightly too much drizzle, and it was far from unpleasant.
“Sorry,” I said again. “Look – I still have to make the buttercream. Help me. You like buttercream, don’t you? So silky, so creamy. We have to beat it, you know. Whip it. Till it’s all mixed up, and creamier than ever. Then you can dip your finger into it, and taste how creamy it is. You can eat as much as you want.”
He brightened visibly. I kissed him again, on the lips this time. It’s always worth giving time to a really good kiss. We broke apart slowly.
“Tell me again how rich you are,” I suggested in a soft voice. “I mean, really break it down this time. Assets. Savings and current accounts. Credits, debits. In, out. In, out. In. Well, you get the gist. And while you’re talking I’ll let you operate the Kitchen Aid paddle attachment. There are variable speeds. Each gives a slightly different result.” I loosened the bow of my apron. “I think you know where the power button is.”