Breakfast At Trinity's
Just spent a charming week in Falmouth.
Sun, sea, sand, watching people swim, walking, hills, old friends, new friends, ice cream, clotted cream, sun cream, magazines, shades, chips, seagulls, sleeping, rattler and lesser forms of cider, flips, flops, swans, shops, shorts, scarves, shoes, girls, boys, bonnie tyler on the A30, Jane Eyre, spots, breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, smackerels, mackerels, art, coffee, cafes, eating, mainly eating.
Posted by Holly at 08:18 No comments:
Labels: Banana, Falmouth, Honey, Peanut Butter, Toast
As a distraction from the football and to assert my capabilities (and I am not, I would like to clarify, perpetuating an age-old gender stereotype), I baked a flourless chocolate cake, dusted with icing sugar and garnished generously with blueberries and raspberries.
The result was better than the match (ha!) but still somewhat disappointing- moist, but perhaps too moist; sweet, but perhaps too sickly; rich, but perhaps too decadent. On the whole I give it a seven.
The consumption of said dessert, accompanied by Lady Grey tea and dribbles of double cream, marks the end of five days of oestrogen rule in our household. Resident chaps and chapette have been somewhere in a field in Southern Pembrokeshire since Monday: in their absence the house has been detoxed (or dettoxed, depending on how you feel about that pun), the budgie has been re-named and the nice recycling men will find a hefty crate of wine bottles next Thursday morning.
Incidentally, Lidl Typos. You can now purchase a 200g bar of 'Finest Fark Chocolate'.
Fark knows what that is.
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