Again in the sense that I am having a deep sense of déjà vu writing this cos I have already written it. On my iPhone. Except that the blogpress application crashed on me and took with it my whole post.
So I have dug out my iPad and am writing the post on here and will have to wait to publish it til I get home.
So I’m on a train to London because numpty here, despite her resolve to simplify 2011 and take it easy in light of the pretty much horrendous and traumatic 2010, have been asked by the Great British Bake Off crew to bring along some baking samples to an audition.
A few weeks back, probably mid January, I sent in an email application for Season 2 of The Great British Bake Off. No agenda at all, just this overwhelming notion that I’d be plagued with ‘what ifs’ had I not. The questions were quite thorough, and highlighted LOTS of my shortcoming as I discovered that I do bugger all of pastry or pies or tarts. They also asked questions like What is Your Greatest Achievement, to which answered 37 yrs old, midwifery training, 7 children, home educating and I still have hair and all my teeth. I also declared that one of the reasons why Slaveboy and I are still together is because I make a damn fine baked American vanilla cheesecake.
So you get the gist here. I really didn’t rehearse my answers.
The day after I submitted my application, I received a phone call from the Production Company asking to do a phone interview.
A week or so later, in the midst of crazy planning and baking for the Brighton Tattoo Convention, whilst shopping for a table cloth, I get a phone call saying that I was through to the next round and can I please turn up at their London’s office in a week’s time with some samples of my baking. One sweet. One savoury.
So the whole Brighton Tattoo Convention weekend was spent stewing over what I would bake, that and kissing various Hell’s Angels (Slaveboy understands this proclivity of mine) and swatting women in the boobs (very animated arm gestures when nervous or having consumed too much sugar).
By around Wednesday, I had pretty much decided. You might presume that I would have arrived to the sweet decision first but I didn’t. I decided on caramelised pear & Stinking Bishop cheese individual tarts. I think I made in once before, like two and a half years ago.
The sweet was going to a fondant decorated lemon cake. Until I wobbled and thought that the cake would give the wrong impression. The cake was going to be scrummy but I worried that would be overshadowed by the fact that it would have been White chocolate ganached, fondant covered with handmade White chocolate plastique roses. It just didn’t sound like baking to me. *In retrospect this might have been a better option but I was too shattered from my Brighton Tattoo Convention weekend to gauge properly*.
So I switched to my crowd pleaser – cinnamon rolls. This involved scalding milk, proving, kneading, rolling, chilling and making a frosting. Unlike the tarts which were made the day before, I woke up at 6:20 on the itself to get the already rolled dough out so I could bake them as near to leaving time as possible (8:30am).
Twenty minutes later, having left the 7th wonder in bed with Daddy Slaveboy fast asleep, I get a phone all from him with 7th Wonder wailing in the background. The question was simple, can he bring her downstairs?
So, there Slaveboy stood, jiggling a growling baby as I frantically mix the maple frosting that is to go on top of the rolls.
And in true comedic fashion, midway jiggling the baby, Slaveboy’s sarong fell to the floor.
And I tell you this, it’s not only Scotsmen in kilts who go commando.
Once I finished rolling around on the floor laughing, thinking that what would properly complete the scene was our hermit neighbour walking past our non-screened off kitchen window, I took the 7th wonder off of him so he could regain his dignity, if not decency.
It amazes me how surprised I am by how crazily hectic trying to bake with a young baby is. At the same as breastfeeding the 7th wonder, I was applying make-up, pulling on tights and fending off requests for DVD viewing from the shouty one.
There really isn’t much more I can say about the experience as I’ve signed some doo dah saying won’t say anything until the show is aired but office to say, I didn’t get in although they did compliment me on the cinnamon rolls, saying they were delicious and my tart cases felt and looked right (I fear caramelised pea in tarts is still an acquired taste). Just as well really since upon arrival at the audition, I developed a hives on my ore head and by halfway through, my right eye was watering and stinging so much that I would have looked like someone with a nervous tick had I been asked for screen test. That’s happens when you poke yourself in the eye with your mascara wand.
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