I’m not going to give you a pink fluffy story about how baking is part of my heritage, with butter icing and family receipes running through every generation of my loopy family, no quite the opposite, my amazing mum could burn an apple crumble even when followed the receipe word for word and even with the confession that she has a huge aversion to the feeling of flour and butter under her nails!
Skip a generation and jump to the other side of the family and yes there was a touch of Mrs Beeton in the form of Granny, Joan Bell Hancox, fond memories of her very British Aga baking, with a very mini-me stood on a chair at the kitchen counter, wearing an oversized ‘pinney’, getting sore arms using an ancient whurley hand-whisk that made my palms red raw, to get the egg whites fluffy for a melt in the mouth meringue.
Unfortunately a memory blank of Granny's cakes but I’m definitely putting her on that pedalstall all the same. I’m pretty convinced that at some point Granny was where I am now, very much in the trial and error stage of baking, with a cloud of icing sugar, a passion for pretty sugary treats, a bit of time to kill and a huge addiction for putting a smile on people’s faces.
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