The cake is dry. What do I do with a dry cake, a dry fruit cake even? It’s not really a question I expect answered as I know fine what to do with a dry fruit cake, after I have recovered from the mild tantrum (well, a couple of mild tantrums) the remorse at the waste of raisins that said they were sultanas on the packet and the sultanas that were sultanas…so a LOT of sultanas to feel remorse for. Add to that all the other bits that went in, the time it took and, worst of all that argument with my new whizzer which cackles like an old witch with loose bones so that I have to stand well back in case she breaks her moorings and takes me out.
I googled my question. It doesn’t matter how stupid my question is, somebody has asked it before, because the internet has an answer. This is both alarming – I fear the world is slowly losing any purchase on Common Sense – and, reassuring, at least momentarily.
Syrup, they told me, warmed and drizzled in small amounts over a period of time. Well, I rarely have one of them anymore so I poured over half a slightly warmed can and it sits there still, sticky enough to keep everyone away and even more unuseable than it was before. So, I put the lid back on, bash it down (as punishment) and shall ignore it until the storm abates and I get over myself.
But, it got me thinking. You see, the cake, through the oven doors and outside of them looked perfect. Lightly bronzed on top and decorated with a festoonery of almonds, it promised moist mouthfuls of yummy rich fruit captured and held in a sensitive cakely hug. We would all love it, because of how it looked.
Some people are one thing on the outside and dried up prunes on the inside. Some of us actually believe that if we look right, we will be right, but what is more frightening and always was to me, is that we can open doors by presenting an acceptable outside. We are believed, credible, trustworthy, one of the Right Sort of People.
I love to turn up in the wrong trousers, because I must challenge this worldly nonsense. People should look into eyes, not take a mental picture of clothing, one that tells them just who they think I am.
At 60 I can do what I like, wear what I like, but I still can find myself lost in the dark folds of various items of clothing, just to get it right for the occasion. In the past, I have gotten myself upset enough to stay at home, for fear of being judged, pidgeon-holed, typecast, rejected.
Nowadays, if I see someone, anywhere, who arrives in the wrong trousers, then I just know we are both the full fruit cake, with no need of any syrup at all, and, that I am going to love them.