Dances with Werewolves (oh, all right then, Mary) writes: My son handed my a recipe this morning. "It's Albert's Mum's Gedeckter Apfelkuchen," he said. "Albert's very fond of it." "Can he...er...still eat it?" I asked with some apprehension. Broad-minded as I am, I don't fancy the idea of an ectoplasmic manifestation at my tea table. "Of course not!" answered James with scorn at my dim-wittedness. "But he likes the smell. It helps him think." Mmm....sugar-crusted apple pie. I scanned the recipe, written in German in James' wobbly handwriting on the back of a Shreddies packet. It looked very tasty, and not hard to make. Cinnamon, flour, sugar, butter, apples, fine. Vinegar? Mmm. Is a TL a teaspoon or a tablespoon? And what's an EL? Well, I'll figure it out. If I get desperate I can always e-mail Lieserl and ask her, in between remarks about physics and flirting in Swiss German.
"Mmphg!" I grunted (see, I can speak Neanderthal too). "Well, I might make it for the cake stall at the Church tomorrow." I'd promised the Vicar that I'd bake a cake for St. Copernicus' Autumn Bazaar, and I've had complaints about my Victoria Sponge. I've never actually attended a service at the church, but as long as I bake cakes for the coffee mornings I can stay on good terms with her. A good cook can get away with a lot in the Church of England.
I think I'll take James to the Bazaar with me. He's grounded so he technically should stay at home, but he hates going to the church so much it'll be part of his punishment.
