Cake of the Week - a chocolate Barca cake (in away colours)

Of course, my cake of the week just HAD to be Monkey's birthday cake. The origins of this cake go back a whole year actually, and I like to think comparing these two cakes will give you an idea of where I have gone with baking over the last year and also displays how great tutorials and recipes from other bloggers can really make a difference.

So, last year, when Monkey turned 6, we took him to Barcelona for the weekend as husband was running his first marathon and he had asked to go. Whilst we were there, we took him to see Barcelona play and I took him to the museum during the morning of the marathon, once husband had run past where we were staying and before we went to see him cross the finish line.

His birthday wasn't until just after we came back so I had time to make him a cake and I came up with the idea of turning into a Barcelona cake like this:

Which at the time, I was pretty impressed with. All I did was buy some ready to roll icing and the blue and red seemed to be close to Barcelona home colours and then of course, cut out the 6 from yellow icing, adding an offcut that looks mysteriously NOT like a football. Monkey loved it, especially as he had no idea I was making it and it was a bit of a spur of the moment late night decision which I basically winged my way through. 

At the time, we teased Monkey that if he'd been a year older, he could have had a David Villa cake as his squad number was 7. This is because when we were out there, he chose an away shirt with David Villa's name on the back as a present. You can see him in it here. 

Fast forward a year, and when I asked Monkey what kind of cake he wanted, his answer was unequivocal: a David Villa cake, in the away colours of his shirt, which is now so last season. Hey ho. So, this is how I did it, with links to recipes or instructions that I used. 

First, I made a chocolate cake. My go to recipe at the moment is on The Pink Whisk by the lovely Ruth. Yes, the recipe is for chocolate muffins but Ruth says you can use the same quantities to split between two 20cm/8 inch sandwich tins. I actually make it in a single tin, cook it for about an hour. I allow it to cool in the tin, so that I can shave the top level, then slice it in two, admittedly not very straight. 

Then, I referred again to Ruth's blog to follow instructions for covering the cake with sugarpaste. This can be summarised by saying having levelled and sliced it, I sandwiched the cakes with chocolate buttercream, chilled the cake, topped it with icing and spread it around the sides then chilled it again. Having bought the same pack of ready to roll icing, I realised my mistake in that there was far too little green for the job, but I ran out to the supermarket and bought some white sugarpaste and kneaded about half of it into the green and very quickly, it became evenly coloured. It probably was about right as the green needed to be lighter than the stuff in the packet. I rolled it out, and learned that I need to keep turning it or it sticks very easily, even if you have lightly dusted your workspace! Placing it on the cake is always a nervy moment but I get there and it's never as perfect as Ruth's final result but it will do. 

Next, I needed to do the red and blue flash that was on the front. For this, Monkey had given me his shirt for me to work from which was actually quite handy. I rolled out the red icing into an oblong shape, then trimmed it to the width I wanted and cutting it to the desired angle on the right hand side. I rolled out the blue icing and again trimmed it to the width I needed, overlapped it onto the red icing so I made sure when I cut that side, it was at the same angle. Then I fixed them both to the bottom third of the cake, using a few dabs of water from a clean paintbrush, another trick I learned from Ruth. I made sure they lined up against each other. 

For the lettering, I had thought ahead enough to go and buy number and letter cutters from Dunelm Mill a few days before, so I rolled out the rest of the blue icing, cut out the lettering I needed, and again fixed them to the cake with a bit of water. This was the nerviest part, making sure I got the spacing about right and I wished that I'd made a bigger cake at this point! 

Once it was done, I was ready to go for a lie down. 

And here it is, with candles on Monkey's big day.

And do take a look at Cake of the Week, over on Helen's blog.

The Gallery - A celebration

This week's prompt for Week 27 of the Gallery was "A celebration". It was in honour of the 40th birthday of Garry from The Blog Up North which was last Friday. His Gallery post is a summary of his celebrations.

Now, no-one is going to believe me when I say that I already thought of making my post about a 40th birthday. Not mine, however - I was 32 weeks pregnant and I am not even sure if or where any photos of that event might be. The most memorable things were a midwife appointment on the day, a pub lunch, a weekend away with dinner not 15 feet from Kenny Dalglish, and Carlisle flooded. No, anyway -  in April, my husband turned 40 and he wanted to go where we always go - Barcelona. We have an ongoing love affair with that city and return frequently so it's weaved through the fabric of our lives.

The trip had been planned for months and then the ash cloud debacle started. For a few days, it looked like we wouldn't be going, and I emailed or rang a few places to see if we could get anywhere closer to home that didn't involve flying. (Answer - No.). I needn't have worried as things were pretty much back to normal by the time we flew on the Friday and everything went without a hitch - apart from an hour long wait to check in and a dash to the plane.

We stayed in a beautiful place that was new to us called The Patio. We'd found it on Tripadvisor and it came highly rated. It's basically in a private courtyard behind an apartment block and is bounded by buildings on all sides so there is hardly any noise. It was hard to believe there was a city outside - the most obvious sign was hearing the Metro rumbling underneath not far away.

The lady that runs The Patio is English and she recommended various places for us to go. When she heard we wanted somewhere special to go for a birthday, she recommended Asador de Aranda for a celebration meal. She booked a table for us for Saturday lunch - as we had a prior engagement with FC Barcelona at the Nou Camp in the evening.

As the restaurant was out of the city centre a bit, we set off late morning to get the metro out to Avenue Tibidabo and then walked up the hill, trying to keep in the shade as it had got hot very quickly. As we walked, we noticed this lovely sign and it was decreed that a photo was called for. (The husband would like me to point out that this is not a label.)

We walked into the restaurant which is on several floors and were amazed. It was beautiful.

(It was empty, because we arrived as it opened and the Spanish tend to lunch late - the place was packed within half an hour.)

You can see a bit more here. We ordered the Menu Asador on the recommendation of the lady from The Patio which came with just about everything. The one thing we didn't take a picture of was the starters - it was a plate of morcilla, chorizo, minced meat, red peppers and chargrilled asparagus. The morcilla (spanish black pudding basically) was spectacular and we wished we'd had more of it.

Then the main event arrived.

Roast baby lamb cooked in a wood oven. It was the most delicious lamb I've ever tasted and it melted in your mouth. (Whoops, sorry, my boobs appear to have got into that picture!).

Then we were brought orujo and rosquillas.

Orujo is the liqueur which tasted of aniseed and the rosquillas are little doughnut shaped biscuits. We dunked them into the liqueur! Then, we had dessert - chocolate mousse, which was nice, but nothing like as special as the rest of the meal.

It was an amazing experience. I can't remember the exact price but I think it worked out under £30 per head which included wine, a glass of cava, water and a coffee afterwards as well as the food. If you ever get the chance to go to one of these places, do so but you might want to make sure you book as they get very busy.

As I mentioned earlier in this post, we had an evening appointment with FC Barcelona at the Nou Camp. They were playing Xeres and we'd bought tickets as soon as we could after arriving. A Barca match falling ON the day of your 40th birthday is not to be missed. We couldn't get cheap tickets and even these ones were a row apart, but when we got inside, we were able to swop so we sat together but we were in full sun for most of the game, and it was hot, despite it being early evening.

(You might have seen that hat before - it was bought that afternoon to keep the sun off. I apologise for it now. I think it's because it clashes with the tangerine orange of the shirt.)

Barca did their bit, and won 3-1 to round the celebrations off nicely. Apparently, the match was on Sky and the children, having stayed at home with Granny and Granddad, tried to spot us - in a crowd of 100,000. Unsurprisingly, they didn't see us but we rang them briefly from the ground. 

All in all, quite a memorable birthday. We've already booked our next trip to Barcelona - we're taking Monkey in March; both for his birthday and also for the Barcelona marathon, which the husband is training for. I can't wait, so I might start saving now for another fantastic meal.

Football rivalries: not in front of the children!

I'm not from Preston, so I never understood why I must "hate" Blackpool FC . In this house, hating Blackpool is not good for marital / family harmony, as my husband is from Blackpool and Monkey has been to Wembley with him. Nor does my husband "hate" PNE either. It generates a bit of banter, but that's it. We are reunited in a greater dislike of another Lancashire (Burnley) but truly, I don't "hate" them.

Football rivalries are usually logical. They're local - look across the city or down the road, find the nearest team and there you go. Instant hatred. Hence , in Lancashire, there's Burnley and Blackburn "hating" in one corner and Preston and Blackpool in the other, even tho Preston and Blackburn are closest together. There is rivalry but not in an "all-police-leave-cancelled-and-away-supporters-must-arrive-on-coaches" way.

Rivalries also develop through "familiarity breeds contempt"- you don't play your rivals as you're in different divisions so the next local team you play regularly does instead. Hence my dislike of Burnley although Francis Stanley Ternent has a lot to answer for (Look him up if you must; try a recording of his voice .... *winces*).

Some are less easy to fathom. One of my regular readers won't like this, but I could cheerfully never attend a match involving Gillingham ever again. For many years, whenever PNE changed division, Gillingham came with us. Matches involving the teams were turgid affairs and Gillingham were responsible for my two worst football moments. The first was a play-off semi final defeat at Priestfield in 1999 where I shouted myself hoarse in frustration for 90 minutes. The second was the first game of the 2001-2002 season - you know, the one where hope springs eternal. We got thrashed 5-0. I left at 4-0, and I got sunburn for good measure. In the UK, many such rivalries are rooted in the bad days of hooliganism.

In Spain, they have their own word for the passion generated by rivalries. Morbo. It doesn't translate into English well, although Phil Ball in his brilliant book "Morbo: The Story of Spanish Football" tries. The rivalries to beat all rivalries in Spain is between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid; huge rivals as well as two of the biggest teams in the world. The basis of their rivalry goes way beyond football - FC Barcelona is often seen as the flagship of the Catalan people who want independence from Spain, whereas Real is seen to represent the Spanish state and, in Franco's days, the Generalisimo's team. God help anyone that leaves one club for the other. The last one that did, Luis Figo, had half a pig's head (how?) and several mobile phones (why?) thrown at him at the Nou Camp when the teams met for the first time after his transfer.

I guess these rivalries make football interesting for the neutral and important for the passionate fan. But I have a problem with them. It is that these rivalries foster incredible hatred. "Hate" is a word I try not to use these days now that I have small children with pin-sharp selective hearing and an ability to copy more finely honed than Xerox. As an adult, you can use the word to other adults and know it won't get taken the wrong way. As a mother with children learning the ways of the world, hate is too emotive a term. I may not be perfect at it, but I try not to say it. It doesn't stop them using the word from time to time - Monkey, in his mock teenager stroppy moments when tired after school, has been known to shout "I hate you" at me from the back of the car when I have dared to refuse his myriad demands. He gets reminded that you say "I don't like you" - and then I tell him I don't like him much sometimes, but everyone has moments like that.

I'm sure many parents do the same sort of thing. I'm sure parents who are football fans do too. But when it comes to rivalries in football, people often seem to lose their sense of proportion. It seems like children of some fans are raised to "hate" their rivals. They learn to hate someone because of the team they support or the town (or country - let it not be forgotten that many England fans still hate Germany, some of which stems back to a war won 65 years ago) where they were born or reside. It's localised xenophobia, as random as hating someone because of the colour of their skin, the religion they follow or their sexuality, all of which are illegal. Surely, this is no better? But it goes on, all over the world, all the time. We think the days of mindless football violence have gone but only last August, there was mass violence at the first match between West Ham and Millwall for 5 years and a supporter got stabbed. Why is that right? And don't think our kids don't see it. They do. Children can be subjected to bad language and hatred at any game as Julia bemoaned in her post last week. The picture on her post says it all - a small child, making an obscene gesture clearly aimed at rival supporters, dressed in a replica kit.

The FA's Respect campaign aims to address all unacceptable behaviour, on and off the pitch, at all levels of the game and the hatred that these rivalries stir up is part of the football culture that is unpalatable to most (I hope!). It deserves to succeed so our children can enjoy the game that many of us love without encountering unnecessary hatred like this.

Football is, by its very nature, a tribal and passionate game, whether it is played at the local park or at Wembley. Let's keep the passion, lose the hatred and hope our children enjoy healthy rivalries in football that are tolerant and yes, respectful.

(The link to Morbo on Amazon is not an affiliate link; I just think the book is a brilliant read.)

My day in reality

It mostly worked. :)

I wake up feeling fairly odd for reasons that don't concern this blog. I hear Monkey moving around about 6.30 going to the toilet but he doesn't come in until nearly 8, which was good. I stay in bed for a while whilst the men of the house went downstairs but eventually drag myself out and into gym gear.

The plan was leisurely breakfast, workout, shower. As it turns out, I eat my breakfast and before I know it, Monkey's turning on the Wii and handing me the stuff I need to do my EASA workout, about 10 minutes after my breakfast hit my stomach (Slave driver, much?!). Probably not the best idea, but actually, the porridge lump in my stomach distracts me from the pain of doing the exercises. Urgh. But I survive and complete another 30 day challenge, my second and this one on the hard setting.

So, onto the football. Monkey is beside himself, and puts on his Barca top specially for the occasion. (A PNE top for him might be a step too far for some in the family). He puts one of my caps on and despite being only 5, finds it fit with only a minor adjustment. He has a big head. I know, the trouble he caused me a birth is another story for another day.

After packing his fave snack (cheese and raisins) and some juice in an unfortunately orange bottle, we set off. Now, the rear seatbelt on my car is not working so I have a child car seat on the passenger seat so Monkey sits in the front. I never realised that he's such a blimmin' backseat driver. He tells me to get in the right lane so we could leave the M6, albeit a junction earlier than I normally do and when we approach the next junction, he's there waving his arms across to direct me left.

After a quick trip to the pub for sparkling water, (me) fruit shoot, (him) and sausage and chips (shared) we set off for the ground. It's a lovely day and I feel overdressed just wearing a top and a light coat. We walk up to the Splash statue. where I take a photo of Monkey beside and tweet it. There are more people hanging around here and there's more of an atmosphere. We wander around to our turnstile and I stop to get a cup of tea to take on (the tea in the ground is foul) whereupon I bump into some people I haven't seen in years. Monkey just wants to go in. He takes his own ticket and wanders up to the turnstile himself bold as brass.

Having found our seats, we settle in with Monkey's eyes now as wide as saucers. In front of us is the archetypal bloke you find at footie matches - large build, large voice, likely to block your view and pollute your ears. But this is the family stand so let's hope he keeps it clean.

The players come out and everyone claps. Monkey keeps looking around but seems to take everything in and  learns quite quickly. He sits crosslegged on the seat as the game begins, listening to the football coverage on my DAB radio with random comments like "Mummy! Hull have got 1-0.... " . He asks random questions, like whose keeper is that, who are the white team playing for (err.........),  and why is the ref's shirt so bright. The game settles into a pattern I don't like - we're doing all the defending, Scunny have all the chances. I'm just about to tweet something along those lines and we nearly score! The ground is quiet, too quiet, unless there is some action. The attendance is poor.

Finally, coming up to the half hour, we score after a poor clearance falls kindly. I'd had my tweet planned on this one "Beeeeeast! 1-0" for it is Jon Parkin who gets his name on the scoresheet and he's known as "the Beast". We jump up and cheer, along with everyone else. Monkey is being unusually well behaved. Let's hope it lasts, I think.

Half time 1-0. I get distracted by my phone at half time but we eventually take a trip to the toilets, whereupon Monkey leaves my DAB in a cubicle. Mind you, we've left it so late, the toilets are empty and it gets retrieved. There's not even a queue for pies but Monkey has changed his mind yet again and doesn't want one so I don't bother. The food part of this post is fast heading west.

We settle down for the second half and I decide to nab the DAB - see what I did there? - to listen to the Grand National. This becomes a Very Bad Idea as I'm half distracted by the race and all of a sudden, we're 1-1 after a shoddy backpass. Still, it would seem bad form not to tweet again so send my missive then hand the radio back to Monkey. He's getting more into now, egged on by the "Come On Preston" shouts from the woman behind me and aforementioned loud big man. Thankfully, his worst expletive is "sodding" and the only reaction his shouting gets from Monkey is hysterical giggles which makes everyone look round. A year ago, he'd have been pleading with me to leave because of the noise. He seems to clap in all the right places and kind of joins in with the singing.

A few minutes later, and the day takes a turn for the worse. Another apparent screw up and we're 2-1 down. Sit and think "this is it, we're getting relegated finally" and start to forget I'm with a 5yo boy so start to shout like the rest of the frustrated crowd. Monkey starts to shout randomly too.

The clock ticks down. 5 minutes to go. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a goal to us - the ball ends up in the box, and on the second attempt, we score with a header. 86 mins. 4 to go plus time added on. Shall I get him out whilst I can? Relief. Surely a point will help our quest to stay up? Can we get the extra two points?

They announce the time added on and the crowd roars the team on again. I ask Monkey if he wants to go now. He says "no, I want to stay to see if they win" so I give in as the crowd is not huge. The ball moves forward at the feet of the recently announced man of the match. Out of nowhere, he curls a shot - straight into the top left hand corner. We jump up, we shout - no, we scream! - we cheer, we clap. Just a few more seconds to hang on (when you're a footy fan, you soon learn to become a pessimist about your team's ability to hold a lead).

A few seconds later and it's all over. I worried about getting him out in the crush but needn't have - it's not too bad and he happily gets himself out without getting tipped over or booted. He wants to ring his granddad straight away but as he is a Blackpool fan, I decide it might be more diplomatic to wait a bit.

As we walk back to the car, Monkey decides he wants "tea" and so I buy a jumbo hot dog for him. He proceeds to devour this before we reach the car a few minutes walk away. As we set off home in the car, he says "It wasn't a good day for Scunthorpe, was it?". I laugh. We go home. He's been a little star today, my Monkey, and he's had a ball. As soon as we get home, Missy Woo rings to say hello - tho manages not to talk to me - and Monkey spends 5 minutes telling Granddad all about it, his first football match. He wants to go again but I don't think Granddad will take him to the last match of the season.

So, no pie. That's the food part of the blog stuffed for today. Or is it? I head out to Asda for supplies after getting back and make the world's quickest chilli which I stuff on top of tortillas, grate cheese over and grill to make nachos. I put avocado on top of mine to make it vaguely healthy as my veg content has been sorely lacking today. And to make matters worse, I pour myself a glass of wine. Healthy eating, it is not.

9pm comes around and it's THE game of the day. I write this post and watch El Clasico at the same time. Half an hour in and Messi takes a pass on his chest, gets the ball under the defender and past Casillas for the first goal. Madrid have some good chances but don't look like scoring so the first half ends 1-0 to Barca. Ten minutes into the second half, Xavi passes the ball forward to Pedro who coolly slots home. 2-0. Game over really. Madrid get the ball in the net but it gets disallowed. Not their day. They never look totally like scoring. The game ends and Barca go top of La Liga once more.

That was my day. A lot closer to the original plan than I thought possible. Not every day goes this well in the kateab household, believe me. We're all happy. 3 important points for each of my favourite teams. And I may yet make a PNE fan out of my son.