Yes, take a look. My lovingly made meringue. A once perfect pavlova – well slightly brown, but crisp on the outside and soft in the middle.
This pudding is waiting to be filled with whipped cream and strawberries from the garden and it is left for barely ten minutes on the kitchen table.
It is a big mistake. Because I have not bargained on the naughty Norfolk being able to find a way of getting up there.
Dogs, who’d have ‘em?! We have folk coming round for a barbecue. And this is meant to be the piece de resistance of the meal.
Except it is now not. I am in a rage. Bennie runs for cover. The MacGregor hears my shriek and nervously enters the room.
Pudding problem
Looking for a solution to the pudding problem he suggests breaking what is left into little pieces and mixing it with cream and fruit. Rather like an Eton Mess.
But the thing is, I cannot guarantee that Bennie has not slathered over what is left. Or worse.
I try to think of happier things. Like the Lakeland Book of the Year event I attended earlier in the week
This annual Cumbrian fest has been running for thirty-eight years. It was started by author and columnist Hunter Davies who himself has written more than a hundred books.
I have been a judge for the last ten years – and this time there are more entries than usual.
Brilliant books
Folk have certainly been busy during lockdown. There are art books and outdoor guides. There are novels, poetry paperbacks and local history books.
The overall winner, however, has been written by a local journalist. ‘Panic as Man Burns Crumpets’ is an intriguing title, and it suggests what can make a regional headline on a quiet news day.
I loved it. Then as a journalist, why wouldn’t I?
Because local news really matters. It is so important that we know what is going on in our communities. And it is worrying to see the gradual decline of the regional press.
So, keep buying this paper. Which is one of the best there is.
Naughty Bennie
Back at home, meanwhile, Bennie is getting one of the worst LIKs.
Lecture in Kitchen. Except no amount of finger-wagging will do any good. And if I keep on like this, he will begin to think that his real name is ‘Bad Dog.’ Or worse still, ‘Very Bad Dog.’
No, it is my fault. The pavlova should not have been left on top of the kitchen table.
Which reminds me, my mother once put a pudding under the dining room table.
It was some sort of trifle and because there was no room in the fridge, she found somewhere cool to store it Then the Labrador sniffed it out and all his Christmases came at once.
I digress. Because I am now dithering over this dessert. Do I salvage what is left of my dog chewed meringue?
No, I do not. At least there is some ice cream in the freezer…
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