Victoria Sponge – how hard can it possibly be?

Sometimes there are days when everything works out, and occasionally there are days when everything goes wrong. This was one of those days – the later sort.

A box of duck eggs had been sitting on the counter for a couple of days, just asking to be used. Then I remember a comment by neighbour’s husband, ‘they make a wonderful Victoria Sponge’. After a quick phone call to my mum to get her recipe, I set about making my sponge. First problem – how many duck eggs are equal to 4 hen eggs?

Visiting my neighbour to ask her opinion resulted in me leaving with a fresh goose egg to use instead (and apparently 3 duck eggs = 4 hen eggs). Goose eggs were even more unfamiliar to me, but the prospect of cooking with one was quite exciting! Armed with the knowledge that a goose egg is equal to 3 hen eggs and the advice that I would really need to whack the shell to get it to break, I hurried back to the kitchen.

If 1 goose egg = 3 hen eggs, then by my calculations I would need a hen egg too. In my haste to get started, I mixed the beaten egg with the butter. This was the source of my second problem. I should have creamed the butter and sugar, not the egg, I must have written it down wrongly. Luckily, I saw the magimix at this stage so the egg, butter and sugar, were duly blitzed. The third problem, was slightly more serious: an absence of self-raising flour. OK, this should have been easily remedied, I just needed some plain flour and baking powder, easy when you’ve got plain flour (how could I possibly be this disorganised?). A root-around in the cupboard and I found some local stone-ground flour - great! After sifting the flour to remove some of the coarse bits and adding the baking powder, I was back on-track. Making a cake really shouldn’t have been this difficult. The mixture rose wonderfully, but then I couldn’t get the sponge out of the tins, why had I even started baking this morning? I’d greased them thoroughly, but next time I’ll use greaseproof paper in the bottom.

The stone-ground flour gave the sponge a coarser texture than usual and I felt the sponge was a little too dry and crumbly (I think I may have cooked it for a few minutes too long). The result was certainly not the prettiest of cakes I’ve ever made, but it tasted good. With the number of things which wrong, I couldn’t really have ask for anything more – especially as most of my problems were brought on by me, and me alone! (You’ll be glad to know I’ve now stocked-up on both plain and self-raising flour).

Apart from the sugar, all of the ingredients turned out to be Cumbrian: the butter and the damson cheese were bought from local producers at Damson Day, the eggs were from the hens and geese behind the house and the flour was from a local mill. This wasn’t the original aim of making the cake, but it was a wonderful side-product of my comedy of errors!

Ingredients

8oz butter (at room temperature)

8oz sugar

8oz self-raising flour

4 hen eggs (or one goose egg + one hen egg)

2oz butter (at room temperature)

4oz icing sugar

a few tbsp of jam

Method (this is what I should have done – thanks mum!)

1. Preheat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius.
2. Cream the butter and sugar together, add half the egg and a tablespoon of flour.
3. Then fold in the flour, this is important as it keeps the sponge fluffy.
4. Split the mixture between two sponge tins (lined with greaseproof paper) and put in the oven until risen and firm to touch, about 20-25 mins.
5. Turn out onto a wire rack and allow to cool.
6. Make the butter icing by mixing the remaining butter and the icing sugar.
7. Smooth the butter icing onto one half of the sponge, spread the jam on top of the icing, and then place the second half of the sponge on top. Dust with a pinch of icing sugar.
8. Enjoy with a cup of tea.

An addition to the family…

Number of days until submission of PhD: 7

Stress levels: On a sugar thermometer, about, ‘hard ball’ and rising. I think my posts may well begin to dry-up over the next week.

But anyway, we’ve been looking after a cat who belongs/ed to the sister of a friend. In theory it was just supposed to be for January while she was away. But time has gone on and we’ve become quite attached to him.

She has since decided that her circumstances at the moment are not ideal for a cat. As we live in open countryside where he can come and go as he pleases, she’s asked if we would keep him. Of course we will!

The only problem throughout his whole stay with us has been his name.

Apparently he was originally called ‘Madame Butterfly’ – then they found out he was a boy.

He came to us being called Noodle. But this has been changed, shortened (and lengthened) numerous times to: apple strudel, poodle, pooh (this is what I call him), knoodle, noo, even google, smut (this is what our neighbour calls him because of his ‘dirty’ black nose), doodle, chicken noodle, Mr P. Noodle (as in Pot) and Casper. Casper was the name of our cat who went missing and was sadly found dead last year. Sometimes old habits linger. Noodle will never replace Casper, but he has certainly made a place for himself in our hearts already.

Welcome Pooh! I hope you enjoy your life with us! 

Keep it in the family, or amongst friends

I was asked what I plan to do with my rhubarb this year. Well, the short answer is: nothing.

The longer version is that when we decided to move over to Cumbria one of my first concerns was the rhubarb, “How can I leave that here?”. The simple answer was that I had to take it with us. So, I duly dug up the rhubarb last January, popped as much as I could into pots and brought it over to Cumbria. The previous autumn I had split it, so I was a bit wary about transporting it and leaving in it pots indefinitely, so soon after. To spread the risk I also gave some to a friend who has promised to give me some back when we finally settle.

Last year it really didn’t do well in pots and was at least a quarter of the size it usually is (that may have had something to do with my forgetting to water it). I hadn’t expected it to still be in pots now, or for us to still be in a rented house for that matter. For the time being at least it seems happier this year, but I don’t want to rock-the-boat and risk weakening it again two years in a row. So it will continue to sit by the backdoor in the courtyard and be much admired this year, so long as the cat leaves it alone. Unless of course it grows strongly and then rhubarb crumble will be on the menu!

I really should explain why I’m quite so worried about my rhubarb. This rhubarb is a little bit like a family heirloom to me. Some families pass down the family silver, but the rhubarb has been passed down on my mum’s side of the family for about a century.

It originated in my great-grandfather's vegetable plot, then moved onto my grandfather’s two successive homes, then onto my mother’s garden, and now some has come to me. My mum forgot to take some with her when she moved, so some of mine went to her new home where it now thrives.

With that legacy behind it, maybe I shouldn’t worry whether it is a survivor; like me, it seems to thrive on change wherever it is placed.

The primary function of growing vegetables is usually to create food; and at the moment with the current economic climate the practice is increasingly being heralded as a way of saving money, which is not a bad thing! But vegetables (and growing them) can also be associated with other things such as memories or family, or they may just bring out a smile on a rainy day. Surely that’s just as important?