The British Bake Off did not disappoint last night. I'm addicted to that show. The sweetness both of the sugary doughs and the contestants, the complete honesty of the judges, the picky-ickyness of it all. "You put the sugar in all three layers, didn't you?"
"Yes. I did." (The shame. Oh. The shame.)
The tent the bake off is held in, the beautiful little kitchen stations each baker has for his or her own. No slamming about of industrial strength stainless steel racks and screaming, "I need the deep fryer! Who's got the smoker? Who turned this fucking oven off?"
No profanity. Why this charms me, I do not know. I adore profanity but somehow, it would be so WRONG to curse in front of Mary Berry or Paul Hollywood although I feel sure that either one of them could swear a blue streak to put me to shame.
But who could swear in front of sweet, darling, talented, seventeen-year old Martha?
Not me, that's for sure.
Well, anyway, I am sitting here wasting time. I've got a whole house to clean or at least try to make look like it hasn't been abandoned. Oh, we have moved so far from Shabby Chic to simply shabby and are now entering the territory of Miss Havisham. Why do I not see all the chicken shit on the little kitchen porch until people are coming to visit? I swear to you, some people paint their house more often than I clean mine. Thank god I'm a good cook or I'd never get away with this housewife gig.
So. On we go! Let us shoulder our toilet scrubbers and mops and fill our pockets with rags and furniture polish! Let us mix vinegar and Fabuloso without fear and try to create order where there is none.
Let me get off my ass and get started.