Sniffy Advent: Day, the nineteenth

This time next week...
It'll all be over. In a week's time, yet another Christmas will have passed. Another will be confined to memory, along with all the others.

Up until then, though, there's still stuff to do.

1. Ice cake - check!
2. Lose 2st in weight - some fucking chance.
   
3. Write Christmas cards - I can't be arsed, do I have to?
4. Buy some crappy presents for people I forgot about - bollocks.
5. Take Mother to Trafford fucking Centre because she hasn't bought her presents yet - for fuck's sake!
6. Buy stuff for Boxing Day running buffet - it's a fine line this one, what with the expected panic buying for sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, bread rolls, pork pies and vol au vents that will no doubt occur one day this week. But without adequate freezer space for storage of all the perishables, when should this be done? Bugger!

So yes, the cake has been iced and a suitably festive snow-scene is now dancing on its surface. The icing did not go without argument with Connie: "You only need marzipan on the top."

"But I put it round the sides last year."

"Oh well, I don't know."

"But I'm telling you, I put it on the sides as well."

"Well, I never did when I was allowed to make the cake, in my own home!"

"You ALWAYS put marzipan round the sides as well."

"Oh well, I don't know."

"For fuck's sake!"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, Mother, do what you like. Yes, Mrs Levinson..."

So the cake only had marzipan on its top. I knew this would spell disaster. Well it wasn't a disaster, but the icing was soooo thick that it kind of started to pull bits of the cake away and crumbs were getting mixed in with my lovely white royal icing. Of course, being a sensible grown up, I let Mum take over: "Oh you've fucking RUINED it! You and your Marzipan only on top stupid ideas. It looks like there's reindeer droppings there now." Stomp, stomp, stomp.

But it looks OK, I suppose, or it will once we get a ribbon round the sides to hide the huge gaps in the icing.

Making icing is a doddle and it leaves you with a broken whisk and a reggyoke. What to do with a spare egg yoke? Make zabaglione of course! This is like an Italian custard that contains lashings of Marsala wine. Of course, I couldn't have any, but Dad really appreciated my slaving with a whisk over a steaming bain marie for half an hour:

"It's too sweet".

"Oh fuck you then, you miserable bastard!"

The Sniffy Christmas - Keeping it real.