This time last year I was gloating about making my own birthday cake. Well, this year, at the peril of having no cake, I refused to make it at all. And no, I have not gone ‘paleo’.
Like all the experiences of self-discovery (read: disasters) that make it onto this blog, this one was a dessert promised for a family dinner. This time however, the dessert never even made it out the door. Having some perfect apples from a trip to Wagga Wagga, my perverse mind made the jump straight to Tarte Tatin (I mean, who would want to eat a perfect apple raw?). The apples were cooking in their caramel and my attention was elsewhere when Mr G. entered the kitchen to inquire about the changed atmospheric conditions in our apartment - a thin cloud cover had begun to accumulate. By then it was too late - the sugar had slipped past even the most lenient definition of ‘caramel’ and was rapidly becoming a bubbling blackness that made the eruption of Mount Vesuvius look like a burst pimple.Read More