make & do friday: hot chocolate

Nigella Lawson's quadruple chocolate cake

I haven't made this cake in an age, which is a shame; a dense yet soft sponge of bitter cocoa with dark chocolate fragments, sticky, sweet mocha syrup and, if you can bear it, flakes of chocolate on top. It is also one of those marvelous creations made in the food processor .. a few pulses of the button and perfect chocolate batter appears as if by magic. It appeals to my perversity that it is finished with boiling water (or substitute a freshly made expresso for super excess).




Flour, sugar, eggs, a little sour cream, vanilla essence, butter: pulse together, then, with motor running, freshly boiled water is slowly added to make a silky custard. Chocolate shrapnel (milk or plain is your choice) is added, and the mix ladled into a loaf tin.

One hour later (although five minutes less will keep the cake extravegantly moist) and the cake is puffed and crisply crusted, with bubbles of molten chocolate oozing outwards.










Meanwhile boil water, cocoa and sugar rapidly (i added a little Tia Maria for the coffee aroma) for a good 5 minutes to make an unctuous syrup. Pour over the hot cake, punching tiny holes with a cake tester to encourage rivulets of syrup into the middle of the loaf. A crumbled Flake bar or chocolate shavings will stick to the syrup, if you dare.


I baked myself out of a rage yesterday. I am new to freelancing, and have been shielded from corporation greed for a long time. Meanwhile, Gigi and i are making out, alot.

seething

Am being butt fucked - but not in the way i enjoy. Here is a pretty picture which in no way represents the mood i am in right now.

the anesthesia of touch

A small sleepy boy blundered into the bathroom this morning, just as i was lowering myself into the healing embrace of a scalding bath.

"why are you having a bath mummy?" he asked, tugging at his obsolete nappy (3 nights in his big bed and he has been perfectly dry), fluffy-haired and smudgy-voiced. I know he smells as if he has slept in clean, sweet straw.

"Are you dirty mummy?"

"yes baby" i said, sinking further to let hot water fill my ears, my body collapsing into the luxurious depth. My knees drop, hips opening to allow swirling weight across bruised flesh, a shocking brand over a tender pussy, numbing heat clamping on the bruising stretches of my thighs.

"Mummy is very dirty."

blackout

normal(ish) service will resume in about 24 hours, or so.

Apologies to SW England for any power blips.

waiting

for the postman.

Lent

I am giving up dating.

I have had a succession of so-far-from-the-mark Proper dates that i have lost faith in my own judgement and the veracity of Doms.

I am metaphorically putting myself on the Time Out step with a few good books to read, and one of these.












Improper dates, of course, are very welcome.

turn around

I have grown a dislike of saturdays, intense dislike. And sundays too. On the few occasions that i get out of the house for some vital ingredient, or, as it was today, for a new duvet and linen set for the significant passage of youngest child from cot to bed, i invariably find myself in places full of families.

Couples everywhere; daddies pushing buggies, holding their little girls by the hand, queuing with mummy while she shops. In the supermarket, filling up trolleys with tv snacks for the week ahead, bouncing on the mattresses in John Lewis' bed department.

Was i ever part of one of these foreign ideals? I don't remember the mechanics, nor do i understand the mystery glue that keeps families together.

I find i am increasingly burrowing into obscurity. If i had an invisibility cloak, i would use it, wraithlike through the bustling crowds. I feel a world apart from them, yet i don't want to be seen to be disconnected, prefer not to be seen at all.




It was a small haunch of venison - less than 2 kg - and, being from a wild beast, it might have been dry so i wrapped it in bacon. Roasted at 210ºC for 30 minutes, then left to rest in the off oven it emerged barely pink, but very tender - i could have been briefer.

The red cabbage had been cooking all morning; an onion sliced and softened in butter, with 2 tablespoons of brown sugar stirred through until golden brown and scented so sweet. 2 small heads of red cabbage, de-cored and thinly sliced, a russet apple, unpeeled but chopped, with 3 tablespoons of red wine vinegar added and covered, cooked gently for 15 minutes. Then, finally, 300 ml of beef stock, and left over a low heat for 2 hours.

The plates of food looked almost garish - purple cabbage, orange carrots, the bright yellow of polenta dusted roasted potatoes, redcurrent jelly as a shimmer of crimson, with slices of blushing meat.

I stripped the cot, then cleared out the small fitted sheets and blankets from the airing cupboard to pack away, piles of creamy white cotton washed to a skin-soothing softness after 9 years of almost constant use. The bunk beds were also stripped and shifted for a thorough clean, before remade with ceremony for the the grand occasion. Teddies transported and put into new bedtime places.

I am sad that he isn't here to witness the delight of a big bed, the joy of being a big boy under a cloud of blue with trucks; it wasn't meant to be like this.

make & do friday: a packet of feta

You are at home with just a few roots vegetables and some feta in the fridge; do not despair. This is a favourite dish of mine and beautifully simple to put together, even while chatting enthusiastically with a friend. Just remember to switch on the oven if you want lunch to be on time ..

Peter Gordon's potato, celeriac and leek gratin with sage and feta. It uses the excellent celeriac root, which i love for its delicate aniseed flavour, and the whole dish is cooked to succulent, salty, creamy goodness with just the addition of a little boiling water - no heavy cream overload.

If, however, you have forgotten to turn the oven on .. try Peter Gordon's curried pumpkin and swede soup with feta and caramelized red onion (also from his book Vegetables) instead for a quick alternative, or for supper later. I have been eating bowlfuls, and varieties of, all week, and can't get enough of the cheerful heat and comforting silky texture.

If i am in a hurry i forgo the garnish (try a spritz of balsamic vinegar instead) and blitz to a puree rather than letting the vegetables disintegrate to a melting softness. In extremis, (like tonight, arriving home cold and tired to a half-full tureen) i added a spoonful of cottage cheese instead of feta. Bloody lovely.

Tonight will, most probably, be the last night that a child of mine will sleep in the wooden cot upstairs. My youngest is suddenly too long, his toes absurdly tucked into the end of the bed with the blankets. Tomorrow i must move him to the bottom bunk under his brother; a nursery no longer.

HNT/upside down

My view is of a pair of legs, long and strong, paleness emphasised by the mulberry pink nail varnish on bent toes, ankles raised and pressed girlishly together.

On either side of those naked columns are the distinctive masculine counterparts; dark suited legs, shiny patent shoes with toes pointed outwards. His trouser legs shimmer slightly with the movement of his hips.

His trousers suddenly collapse around his legs, puddling over his shoes. The pressure behind me does not ease up, my arms quivering with the effort of keeping my bottom up in the air and my head off the carpet. I raise my heels higher to receive him deeper and the limbs in front of my face shiver at the impact.

In haste: More bent toes and pink nail varnish, outlined with fishnets. Happy HNT x

A brief date (with E-)

Let us never, ever, speak of this again.

(part 4)

With the ankle shackles in place, an unfamiliar collar pressed against my throat and leather bound wrists i am highlighted by stripes, strangely clothed despite my nakedness. He manoeuvres me to a chair; the hobble at my feet illuminating my restriction. I sit primly, confidently, knees together, while he opens my arms, finds a C clip in his pocket, fixes my hands at shoulder height.

He is dissatisfied with the little movement of my hands, and adds a spreader bar high across my chest, attached to my neck collar, and readjusts my wrists.

He then takes one ankle, moves my leg to the edge of the wide seat, clips my stance securely, and repeats. My body is unfolded, slowly, while i watch in heated fascination.

I am finally open in front of him.

He takes a step backwards, finishes stripping off his disheveled clothes, and stands in front of me, stroking his erection. I have eyes only for his slowly moving hand, and i can only imagine what he was looking at.

The chair i am strapped to is a huge leather settle, roomy and strong. He straddles my open lap, his knees cradling my hips, and raises himself to my open mouth, slowly sinks his cock between my lips. I stretch my jaw wider, my tongue pushed to the bottom of my mouth, my chin twisting so to capture his bell end in my cheek. He rocks into my face. His belly smells sweet against my nose, he is satisfyingly broad between my guarded teeth.

He retreats, my tongue following, and settles himself between my spread knees.

His fingertips trickle chills over my revealed pussy, dipping into fluid heat. He looks up at me.

"Velvety" he murmurs.

"You have a beautiful cunt" he says,

"I could fuck you, here and now."

a brief pause from smut

Am i fanciful, or does my breakfast resemble Cupid's heart speared by chocolate cake?

A post party post. Hair of the dog involves eating up food remnants, which pleasingly involves creamed smoked salmon on fruity, seeded crumbly gluten free bread and a slice of the beetroot chocolate mousse cake, with a little pulsed mango.



The key to this cake is the silkily smooth and sweetly mild flavour of roasted beets (not a hint of vinegar), pulsed to a thick mousse with silken tofu, a little sugar and then combined with good dark chocolate. The fuchsia pink is stunning, and pervades subtly through to the baked cake.








The flavour alternates intriguingly between the key ingredients, neither too bitter from the chocolate, or too earthy from the roots, but utterly, utterly delicious, whether last thing at night or first thing in the morning.

My head throbs, but more from sleeplessness than alcohol. It has been a full week, and my ears, nose and throat feel congested with excess. A few more hours and i must pack bags for the children, and wave goodbye for a couple of nights. It is a mixed blessing.

xxx

HNT/not just black and white (part 3)

"You didn't tie me very well" he observed and stood up, dragging his bound hands over the back of the chair and launching himself at me, still sprawling, relaxed, on the floor.

He moves fast, straddling my chest, his groin in my face. The shackles on his wrists don't last long either - he is obviously experienced at unclipping them blind.

It is a slow, silent battle, punctured only by my exhaled breathe as he finally transfers the shackles to my ankles, one leather strap at a time, and clips them together. He is testing my strength, and i his; his weight thrills me, and his speed. I stretch sideways to reach for a chair leg, and he lifts himself off to give me leeway. I roll over absurdly, and find myself flipped onto my belly, squashed flat and speechless.

Next there is the neck collar, wide enough to lift my chin. The tilting pressure on my neck is strangely compelling, so i let him take my wrists, a muffled moan in to the carpet as he pulled my shoulder inward, folding my wrists across each other to hold me tight while he contemplated the possibilities.

A week of snowfall and missed school has caught up with me .. i have work projects outstanding and commitments failing, and a party to plan. Something had to go, so this week it has to be an HNT outtake.

Happy HNT to you all xx

something i see (part 2)

He is strapped to the chair; his arms disappearing behind his back reduce his profile to emphasize his spread thighs. His trousers looks very tight, constraining.

I am on the floor, still molten from my orgasm, hungry for touch. On my knees i lift myself into his lap, my weight on his legs, my hot mouth hovering. I undo his belt, a button, a zipper, release his cock from the tightness of his clothes, slowly reveal his length.

A caress with my fingers, and one long, leisurely lick across the glistening head and i lift my mouth to his, let him taste his precum on my lips, then i close his fly, get off my knees, stand up, step away.

He grimaces.

"Damn you" he says.

tear me down

Neither of us can decide who was feeling the most submissive, so we had agreed to take turns.

I put him on a tall-backed wooden chair, still dressed in his heavy cord trousers, a wide leather belt, buttoned-up shirt. He obliges, sits still while i shackle his hands behind the back of the chair with the leather restraints taken from the coffee table. His fists hang loose and relaxed. I take my time, enjoying the procedure, confident with buckles and straps however unfamiliar the apparatus.

I lean over him, bending at the waist to kiss him on the lips, fingers in his hair. His face tips up to mine. My tongue played with the corner of his mouth, flicking at the hot opening of his lips. Then my hand moved to his chest, squeezing his left nipple; i sense him groan against my teeth. I leave him, his mouth still open, showing his tongue.

I undress in front of him, but facing away, slowly lifting the hem of my long skirt to show him how i remove white lacy knickers, peeling them away from the hot junction of my thighs. I drop the scrap of white on the floor at his feet, then remove the buttoned cardigan, and finally my skirt.

I want him to see me sit on my cone. First i show him what she does; every single pulse, and all the variations of speed and variety.

"One day" i told him, "i shall spend all day in bed, and make myself cum on every singe cycle."

He watches me, smiling.

I am on the floor at his feet, on my haunches, the pink toy sturdy under my bowed body as i dip hips to meet the purring point. I have set her to the lowest possible speed, unsure of how long i can contain myself.

It is hugely erotic, crouching naked on the floor in front of a man bound to a chair, on the verge of an orgasm for my own pleasure, untouched by him, a spectacle at arm's length. He is shifting uncomfortably, unable to adjust his clothing as his cock strains at the fabric.

"You forgot to tie my ankles" he says, and lifts one foot to my breast, pressing his toes into my flesh.

I groan, look up at him and peak, a rictus of pleasure framing my face, my body a spinning top, a twisted sheaf, flexing at the rapid, exploding sensation radiating from that precarious point of balance. A moment frozen in time, passion shared, an infusion of intimacy.

I slowly collapse forwards, curling up at his feet, humming in contentment as he laughs with delight.

"Your eyes.." he said,

"your pupils flared black".

restorative fayre

Beef brisket is not the most inspiring of dishes, but my children like the texture - cooked long and slow it is soft to chew but still distinctly meaty. Last week i made Pot au Feu; this time i tried the italian version - delightfully phrased as boiled meat.

Rinse and then salt the piece of beef on all surfaces. Add to a tall, narrow stock pot of boiling salted water (enough to cover meat by 2 inches), along with a peeled potato, a peeled carrot sliced lengthwise, a peeled onion, half a red pepper, a stick of celery, 3 bay leaves, a good grating of nutmeg, several peppercorns. Bring back to the boil, and allow to simmer at the lowest possible setting .. an almost imperceptible bubble and pop .. for 3 hours.

Remove the meat, slice and serve with mashed potato and swede, gherkins, maybe some french tinned peas (mild and sweet), and horseradish, or mustard. If you are saving the meat for later cover with a little broth to store.

Discard the vegetables from the stock pot and pour the broth through a fine sieve. Allow to cool - the fat will lie on the surface and be easy to remove with a spoon.

The broth is glorious .. clear, fragrant, savoury. Freeze in small pots for adding flavour to any dish (bar fish risottos). Today i heated a bowlful, added the reminding small piece of beef in thin slithers, a few slices of fresh ginger, a tablespoon of tamari, a splash of chinese vinegar, a chilli and let it simmer while a bundle of rice noodles softened in boiling water. Beef and noodle soup for a winter's day.








He says that there isn't a day that he doesn't think about leaving home to be with us. I think about it too, but the consequential grief is too much to equate. He would lose everything, and perhaps i would lose too .. the ground i have gained, for one.

busy making whoopee

Thank you, everyone, for your messages yesterday. As someone once said: keep calm, keep going. I am in a funk, with an absolutely rotten belly ache, but it will pass.

HNT/spoon

Just going through the motions. No levity, no lightness of being, no nothing.

whiteout

Yesterday's snow melted through the morning, but flakes are falling again. Early on I walked though the fields, my ears burning in the chill. By the time i get home my thighs were flushed pink, cold and numb, despite layers of clothes.

There is no smut here today. Instead i am finishing reading Disgrace, by Coetzee.

oh, i forgot ..

the book keeps opening on this page.

'Have you always felt this way, David?'
'No, not always. Sometimes i have felt just the opposite. That desire is a burden we could well do without.'


yeh, i get that too.

nub

Every time i sat down - in the bath, stretching out with relief in hot water; in the car, upright in the driving position; at the table, relaxing into the curve of the wooden, tall backed chair - i felt the pulse of discomfort low across my back, a blossoming bruise throbbing dull and deep across bone and muscle.

The situation had arisen that, somehow, we ended up face to face on the hard floor, the weight of our cojoined bodies focused on the pivoting rocker of my spine, my hips cupped to contain his, my shoulders lifted to his chest as his breath expelled sharply into my ear. My body a cradle, the lullaby of lust the tune that we sang.

I lightly rub myself against the leather sofa to feel the expanding pain, relishing the unseen mark of an abandoned moment.


My favourite biscuits, made late at night as a worthwhile displacement activity: Nigella Lawson's Spanish Macaroons

Add together 425g ground almonds, 250g icing sugar (sieved), zest of 2 oranges, 1/2 teaspoon almond essence, 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon. Beat one large whole egg with 3 large egg whites. Make a well in centre of dry ingredients and add egg, stirring thoroughly. The fine, gravelly mix will be very sticky.




Form walnut-sized balls by rolling little pieces of dough and place on a baking sheet. Keep your hands wet with cold water while you roll, which will stop your fingers becoming thick and sticky. I like to add a smooth and pale blanched almond to the top of each biscuit.

Cook for 20 minutes at 180ºC, by which time the macaroons will be tinged with gold but still tender to the bite. They cool quickly, and freeze superbly, defrosting in about 15 minutes for urgent snacking.

winter fare

A piece of brisket, and as many vegetables as i can fit into the pot. It is barely a pot au feu (which should have marrow, tongue, perhaps a chicken as well) but the principle is the same - and i am feeding myself and 2 small children, not a dozen farmers.

Cover the piece of meat with water, bring very slowly to a simmer, scoping out any scum that raises to the surface. It will take a good 10 minutes, but eventually there is only a thin white froth, which will disperse. Add whole peeled onions, large peeled carrots, parsnips, leeks, half a fennel bulb, a bunch of parsley, a bay leaf (whatever you wish, really). Half cover the pot with a lid, and allow to bubble very, very slightly for 3.5 hours.

I served the sliced brisket with the soft (but still flavourful) vegetables and some boiled potatoes, a spoonful of the bouillon for lubrication. The following day i made brown rice and green pilaf with the bouillon - again, not traditional, but i'm not the kind of girl.