Last weekend the oldest of the Brunt sister clan was married to her love on a perfect English summer’s day at a tiny church on the banks of the River Stour in Constable country.
She asked around a dozen of us to each make a cake so having decided to make the majority of it the night before at my London flat (smoothed along by a steady flow of gin and tonics provided by the masterful Christopher Eames), I thought I’d assemble it at the scene of the wedding itself. Little did I know, this is an extremely ill advised approach to cake making. Despite James furiously hulling strawberries as I beat cream in a bowl in the middle of a field on a makeshift table, my father continuously paced around repeatedly telling us – only 5 minutes into the job in hand – that we “really needed to get going” and was I nearly done. I watched my father morph into Torode and Wallace, kind of amusing in hindsight, pretty terrifying at the time (check out my expression in the picture below, it’s not exactly relaxed is it)? The good news is though it turned out alright in the end and the cake made it to the reception where it was promptly decimated (in a good way)…
