Vanilla

There are times when control of the remote is removed from general use at The Towers.  Right now there’s a new series of the Paul Hollywood & Mary Berry show running, and there’s also the latest episodes of WDYTYA demanding attention.  No discussion.

The genealogy team took their show to Glasgow last weekend, though a late reduction down to two days with the cancellation of the Sunday schedule was unexpected.  Still, it kept Herself busy for a day, with stalls and presentations, lectures and old friends.  On the home front all it meant was that Girl Urchin had to choose, after drama class, between pie and bovril down at Greenock for the first legue game for the season, or granny’s fresh-made pancakes.  So, just two for bovril then.

Anyway, during a recent episode of the family tree mystery, an enjoyable one unlike the miserable recent black & tan episode which was more history than family tree research, we were treated to ice cream, and Glasgow’s Italian community.  Tamzin Outhwaite it was whose ancestry saw us following the trail from Italy to Glasgow, and making a fine vanilla the old fashioned way.

We’ve discussed the rich local ice cream heritage in the past.  Knowing  where the nearest quality single nougat can be find is a fine way to plot a route through the city, and the wider region.  WDYTYA took us to Jaconelli’s, a fine period parlour in Maryhill, often seen on old epsiodes of Taggart.  I’ll be along that way in the next few days, for Kinetics, the outlet that provided and looks after a certain under-used bicycle just happens to have relocated to those parts of town.  And I need to drop in and have a chat with Ben on bike matters, so a Jaconelli cone seems like it would be hard to resist.

There’s been the odd dollop of vanilla on the table too lately, though not quite Italian standard.  It went very well with a magnificent chocolate & caramel cake that was produced earlier in the week.  Ganache was even mentioned, which I put down to that man Hollywood or even Monsieur Roux and his Masterchef chaps.  One has piercing blue eyes (is there another type I often ask), and the other has that accent, the one that makes, ze ice melt, apparently.

Cakes, they come thick and fast at times.  Girl Urchin had her choice a couple of weeks ago.  I was offered a choice but anything involving coffee, mocha, Irish whiskey, or preferably all three, was firmly rejected anyway, so I took what I was given, and damned good it was too.  There’s a slice or two left, but you’ll have to be quick; very.

A fortnight after the last candles were extinguished there will be another pyre on the table, and I need to rummage through the recipes, for it’s my turn to produce the goodies.  I’m half of a mind to for Tamasin’s Irish Whiskey Chocolate Mocha, but it might not be a prudent move.  Plan B, that’s the in phrase around here, apparently, and I have one, which I’ll talk about after the event; the negotiating position of choice.

Cakes and candles, yes there’s been another of those days, the ones where goodies are plentiful.  So The Bedside Table is groaning once again, and there are vouchers that can only be spent in certain shops.  Good days out lie ahead.  The Biggar Little Festival is next month, after Wigtown this month.  And I might have to tell you about some reading matters, if I can ever find the time for reading these days.

Then before we know it there’s another cake to get attention.  Christmas is coming apparently; but I’m beginning to doubt that my September cake deadline may not be met this time round.  Oh the busy social whirl.

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