I have a confession to make. I'm not faithful to baking. I have been known to become smitten by the heady spicy aromas of an Indian curry and prance at the prospect of roasting a chicken with 40 cloves of garlic. Don't get me wrong the sugar high of making a beautiful cake is a splendid feeling indeed however the magnificent sense of accomplishment of serving said cake at the end of a successful diner party gives me a reason to live (ok so that might be a bit dramatic but you get the idea).
As a dear friend so tactfully once put it : my name is Ms Cupcake and I'm a catering whore.
My dinner parties are usually based on my latest obsession that I, being an impressionable lass, have picked up from a book, TV show or movie I have recently enjoyed . I once devoted a month of my life to learning to cook the perfect turkey because I had watched a movie about some thanksgiving dinner (brining the resplendent beast for at least 2 days is the secret!). More often than not the theme of my cooking is French cuisine. I have a romantic ideal of all things French installed by the extravagant impracticality of it being the only non English language taught in my school. I care little of modern day France with it's strident unionism and badly behaved President.
I long for the elegance and warmth of the France presented to me in my year 9 textbooks. In those books supermarkets didn't exist. Every item of ones groceries were bought at separate and fantastical shops like une boulangerie, un patisserie and une