It’s that time of the week again! I share how fucking terribly this weekend’s bakes went!

As you will know if you have read my previous posts, the last weekend of the month means I bake something from a foreign country/culture (foreign to England, that is)

So, I frenched it up on the bank holiday Monday and made some profiteroles! This was upon the request of the most amazing trainee solicitor, the defender of the good, the prosecutor of the evil: Philippa ‘don’tfuckwithcharities’ Whitehead *take a bow*. Delicious goodness. I thought it was time for me to give Delia Smith a chance to redeem herself (refer back to the Lemon Meringue Pie), so I used her recipe, against a random youtube video from a channel called Scoff.

I was fucking nervous about this bake, I’ve seen choux pastry being made on the GBBO before and more often than not it all goes tits up.

But I am starting to consider myself a bit of a baking god, so I am grabbing the profiteroles by the balls and diving head first into their creamy goodness.


Delia Smith

flourNow I was pretty bloody hesitant to give Delia another go, but I am a fair God so I was prepared to offer forgiveness. I gathered all the ingredients I needed for the pastry….a grand total of 4 of them: caster sugar, ‘strong’ white flour, water, and eggs. Annoyingly, I had to sieve the flour onto a folded piece of baking paper so I could tip it all in at once without making a mess. Fucking inconvenient and also a fire hazard to have the paper that close to the pan. Tbh though if I burned the ktichen down at least I would have an excuse to melt2push for a nice new shiny one. Anyway. It’s actually quite an easy recipe so I don’t know why those dickheads on GBBO fuck it up so often. Heat the butter in the water until it’s melted, then ‘shoot’ in the flour, simultaenously beating the mixture vigorously. Now, I am not a fucking octopus so this was all a bit of a floury blur but I did end up with a mix that was coming away from the sides of the pan like it should have. I then added the beaten eggs….and then the mix turned a bit gloopy. It was at gloop1this point that I started to lose some confidence. I battled on nonetheless. After the mix was well combined, I used a tea spoon to dollop the mix onto a well greased baking tray. Things certainly looked more runny than I was expecting, so the little pools of batter spread outwards. Not good when I was meant to be leaving a good bit of space in between each profiterole.

I threw the tray into the incinerator (like always, on a slightly cooler temperature than the recipe asks for, due to the fiery nature of the fucker), and set the timer so I could check on them 5 mins before.

dots 1


I returned to the kitchen after a quick sit down and opened the oven door…

….and was yet again greeted by a face full of fucking smoke. I think this weekend, I’m going to give the oven a good scrub as I don’t think it’s been properly cleaned in the last year. If I don’t post next week, just assumed I’ve fucking died from the cleaning fumes and grime.

result 1

Once the black fog had cleared and I silences the fire alarms, I had a good look at the result of my efforts. What did I see? Black balls of charcoal. I am so fucking done with that oven you have no idea. IT WAS ON A LOWER FUCKING TEMPERATURE AND I CHECKED THEM EARLY. I know I give my incinerator a lot of shit, but this could well be Delia’s fault. The recipe called for me to pierce the profiteroles and put them back in the oven….and that wasn’t happening. I pierced them and popped them on a wire rack to cool. I turned the incinerator down a fair bit so it had time to cool before the next lot went in.

fil1Once the fireballs had cooled off, I made the cream. Pretty simple shit. Like always, I added a pinch of skimmed milk powder to help stabilize it, so it wouldn’t all melt and leave me with soggy pastry puffs of sadness come Tuesday. Delia then asked me to split the profiteroles in half? Like when the fuck have you, yes you, the reader, ever eaten a profiterole that was split in half like a sandwich? I did so anyway, filled each of them with a dollop of cream, and squished them back together.

I then got on with the chocolate sauce, and again it was pretty sandwich1simple but the result looked a bit grainy and weird, certainly not the thin and glossy mix I was expecting. Disappointing as fuck. In fact, it was nearly to thick to pour so I ended up dipping the profiteroles into it. I kinda felt that this might happen as she asked me to melt the chocolate with water, and those two things never really go hand in hand. Trust me on this, my fat arse has had enough chocolate fondue to induce a heart attack.

After I dipped them, I put them back onto the wire rack to cool completely, and I cracked on with the youtube recipe.


gather2This recipe was pretty damn similar…I mean how the fuck else are you going to make choux pastry? This recipe was different in that it only asked for regular white flour, not that strong bollocks. Which was fucking annoying as the smallest bag of strong flour that Sainsbury’s carries is 1kg, so now I have that sitting in my cupboard that I imagine will barely be melted mix1used. This recipe also didn’t ask for me to shoot the bloody flour in so I stopped trying to grow another 3 arms to accommodate everything. Once the butter had melted, I chucked in the flour straight from the bowl and started beating with my wooden spoon. Why do all recipes require a wooden bloody spoon? What’s wrong with metal? This pastry also came together as it should have, so once I let it cool pastry1I added the eggs slowly and mixed. This pastry obviously became more liquid, but certainly not to the extent of Delia’s shit. This looked far more fucking promising, I thought. I then spooned the mix onto not one, not two, but three baking trays (well, one tray and two cake tins). I did go a bit smaller with these spoons after seeing how big Delia’s balls were. I did forget to take a picture of this because fuck doing things right.

Into the oven they were hurled, and I set the timer so I could yet again check how they were doing 5 mins before they should be done.

I retired to the lounge and yet another fucking documentary on Princess Diana was on. There seems to be a lot of it on atm for some reason*

After letting out a big sigh of depression at yet more footage of the funeral, I returned to result2the kitchen. I opened the incinerator door. And no smoke?? What? And the profiteroles actually looked decent! Fucking yes! I pierced them and returned them to the oven, and when the timer was up I found they were perfect. Golden, crispy, nuggets of happiness. (Shove those balls up your arse, Delia.)

After these profiteroles cooled, I made another cream (again, nothing too different to normal). This time round, I didn’t have to split them. And quite frankly I wouldn’t have even if the recipe asked me to, these looked good and I wasn’t about to jeopardize them. So instead I had to use a piping bag. This was the first result2.1time I have ever used a piping bag, and I had no idea where to get one from when I went looking it. Sainsbury’s actually sell boxes of 10 disposable bags, but the nozzles weren’t fucking included so I went into Oxford to search for them. Still nothing and the only good cake supply shop was closed. Selfish cunts, closing on a bank holiday.

Anyway, I had to go back to Sainsbury’s to get more eggs in, and I was just about to give up looking for nozzles…when I saw a blue box at the very back of the lowest shelf. The last box. A battered looking thing with 4 nozzles. I get the feeling a member of staff may have hidden them there, but they didn’t know how determined I am to get this baking shit done properly. I prepared my bag. I filled my bag. I twisted my bag. And I plunged the nozzle into the hole I had previously made when piercing the pastry, and squeezed. There will never be a more satisfying feeling when baking than that of feeling a profiterole filling in your hand. Almost sexual.


After I squeezed the last bit of cream out and gave it a good shake, I dipped the profiteroles into the chocolate ganache that I had prepared. I looked back at my creation, and this was the first bake that actually, truly, represented something you would buy in a store or at a restaurant. The sky above me opened, a light shone down. A heavenly chorus could be heard and I felt myself lift towards the pearly gates to shake the hand of ressult3the Baking Gods. But then I crashed back to earth and was sucked into the fiery pits of hell instead. Apparently finding the filling of profiteroles sexual is a sin. Well, if it’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.

I presented my plates to our resident taste-tester: Lee.

*I know why there are lots of Diana documentaries on at the moment and yes I think it’s sad etc etc

The Comparison

Right off the bat, Lee knew which ball belonged to who. I think the memory of Delia’s Lemon Meringue Pie has mentally scarred him. I’m with you on that, Lee.


On the right of the plate, you can see Delia’s mess. On the left, Scoff’s deliciousness.

Upon taste, his opinion didn’t change. He said Delia’s pastry was softer than Scoff’s, but there was a good amount of cream-to-pastry ratio in them. He thought both of the chocolate mixes were similar and just average. Overall, he obviously preferred Scoff’s.

I took Scoff’s balls into work on Tuesday and everyone that tried one were definitely impressed, apart from my main girl Emma who is gluten intolerant and looks like she could stab me with her pen when I bring in treats she cant eat. But I vow that I will find a gluten-free recipe for you Emma! (and if anyone reading has any good suggestions, let me know)

The Ratings

Delia Smith

  • Difficulty: 7/10 – like I said, am no a fucking octopus ya reprobate
  • Presentation: 1/10 – they looked like a cancerous tumor one might have removed from their bowels.
  • Taste: 4/10 – if you could ignore the taste of charcoal, the cream and chocolate were alright.


  • Difficulty: 4/10 – most of the difficulty came from preparing the piping bag
  • Presentation: 10/10 – could not have turned out better
  • Taste:  10/10 – I know I’m blowing my own horn here but I genuinely wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between these ones and shop bought ones.

The Final Word

If you want to join my lynch mob to go and find Delia, drop me an email. We’ll shove a piping bag up her arse and fill her with cream.


Lemon Drizzle Cake

Good afternoon to my 7 readers (an increase from last week’s three)

Last week I asked my colleagues what they wanted to appear in the work kitchen come Monday, and the legend that is Jessica Smith suggested the humble Lemon Drizzle Cake. Hell yes, Jess, hell yes.

Mary Berry had a lemon drizzle cake recipe but I only tested one of other bakes a couple of weeks ago, so I chose Raymond Blanc’s recipe. I compared this to a recipe I found on a blog called ‘The Londoner’. The bitch that writes this blog proper slagged Starbucks off so I was down with her. Fucking overpriced bullshit.

After acquiring my ingredients, and pretending I didn’t read the bit where old Ray said I needed a cooking thermometer (times are hard, economy isn’t great), I set out to bake the citrus goodness.

Excuse the poor quality of this picture, my phone decided to throw a strop

Raymond Blanc

gather1I started with the pro recipe as I read that this motherfucking cake was going to take nearly AN HOUR in the oven. Christ. I weighed and sorted all the ingredients I needed and realised that, like last week, I had to figure out what the fuck a pinch of salt meant. A couple of shakes ought to do it (aye aye sailor).

The first step was to grease a loaf tin. I couldn’t believe my luck when I opened the cupboard to find we had not just one, but TWO loaf tins. Fucking winner. If you have read my greasedprevious posts, you will have seen that releasing my bakes from their moulds has proven difficult, until Mary Berry taught me that greasing the tin, lining it with baking paper, and greasing again was the way forward. Now, I know I’m meant to follow these recipes exactly, otherwise what the fuck is the point, but I am going to be greasing my tins like this from now on so the fuckers don’t fall apart and we can actually eat them.

mix 1After I greased and lined this tin, I cracked on with the mix. I had to zest a few lemons, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything else when baking, it’s zesting fruit. It is a nightmare. I don’t know if zesting tools actually exist so I can give my poor cheese grater a break, but I might start searching for one. After saying goodbye to the skin on my fingers, I made the rest of the cake mix. This was….actually pretty simple. Bordering boring. Essentially beat all the fucking ingredients together, then add the sifted flour and eggs. filled 1FIVE MOTHERFUCKING EGGS. This blog is going to bankrupt me. After doing so and ending up with a lovely lemony mix, I started ‘spooning’ it into the tin. That was taking far too bloody long so I just poured the stuff in. I also realised at this point that perhaps the tin was a touch too small, as it was nearly overflowing. In any case, I flung it into the oven and set my timer for 45 mins, so the incinerator wouldn’t have a chance to burn it to a crisp. (On that note, I did turn the temperature down 20 degrees as not only is it a fan oven and Frenchie didn’t give me a fan oven temperature, but also because this cunt of an oven will absolutely ruin food if you don’t check on it 10-15mins prior to taking it out.

In the meantime, I joined Lee and watched Chelsea V Spurs (1. Go fuck yourself, Spurs. 2. That was an extremely tense game. 3. Go fuck yourself, Spurs.) He screamed so loudly at Chelsea’s second goal I nearly shat myself (and I mean literally, I had seafood the night before.)

burnt 1

When my timer went off, I returned to the kitchen and took a peek into the oven. That cake looked near on perfect. I took it out to insert a skewer into the middle to make sure it was done….and the inside was fucking liquid. I mean it was barely warm. Now, because I am a culinary genius, I know that when this is the case it’s best to wrap the top in tinfoil and return it to the oven. I did so, and thought that 10mins was a good amount of time. 10mins later, I opened the incinerator door and I was greeted by a face full of fucking smoke. That cake was cooked alright, and the top was black. Great.


I lifted it out of the tin and peeled away the paper (barely a crumb stuck to it) and placed it on the wire rack to cool. Once it had ample time to do so, I took my knife and carved away the fucking charcoal. It wasn’t too bad of an attempt and the thing didn’t actually fall apart whilst I was doing so. I was placing a large amount of faith on the glaze and drizzle being able to hide the mess.


I then heated the apricot jam (fucking disgusting stuff) and brushed it over the cake whilst both were still warm, and afterwards started on the drizzle. 4 tablespoons of lemon juice to a shit tonne of icing sugar. I mixed it over a low heat and things were looking good. I dumped it on the cake and placed the whole thing back onto a baking tray to sit in the oven glazed1for a few minutes. I didn’t think this drizzle was going to dry but Frenchie McFrenchFace knew what he was talking about, as when I took the cake out it looked relatively normal. I placed it on a plate on the side to completely cool whilst I started the next cake.

before oven1

out of oven

The Londoner


This recipe was all of 5 sentences long. I mean, you could put some fucking effort into your blogs like I do. 5 bloody sentences, what fucking cheek. Again, a pretty simple process – beat the life out of the ingredients, pour into well greased tin, bake. I had to zest yet more fucking lemon, any skin that remained on my fingers was now well and truly gone.

mix2.1        The cooking time on this cake was 30-35mins, so again, I checked on it at 25mins. Again, the cake was baked on the outside and fluid inside. I just cant fucking win with that oven. I wrapped the top in tinfoil and threw it back in for 5mins (hoping this time it wouldn’t catch fire like the other cake seemed to). When I went to check, it seemed halfway done so I left it in there for another 5mins. When it was time, I took it out. Praying that the cake would be ok. Ultimately, there were a few crispy bitsresult2 on the corners but honestly that’s to be expected. The rest of the cake looked good, so I turned it out and started on the drizzle. The recipe called for the juice of two whole lemons, which I thought was a bit much. And boy was I right. That amount of juice did not thicken at all when I added the powdered sugar. I knew it wasn’t going to end well, but I closed my eyes and drenched the cake. I hurled it back into the oven drizzle2for 5mins in the hope that it would dry out, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. At least the drizzle would taste sour, I thought. I love lemon juice to a point where I drink it straight, which would cause heartburn in most people but I don’t actually have a heart and my soul is bitter as fuck anyway.


After leaving them both to cool and making dinner, it was time for the taste test.

The Comparison

Yet again, Lee is doing the blind taste test. Yet again, couldn’t find the fucking mask. The first sample I gave him was the the Frog’s cake. Firstly, he said it was ‘good’. That doesn’t make for an interesting blog post, so after forcing him to tell me more and he had a few more bites, he decided that actually it was pretty fucking amazing. Nice and moist, with a delicious glaze. He couldn’t tell there was apricot jam on it so I thought I might give it a try as well, and he was right, I could barely taste it. The lemon drizzle wasn’t particularly sour but there was enough sharpness in it. He also couldn’t really tell from taste that the incinerator had worked it’s fiery magic on it. Overall, a good fucking cake.


When he took a bite of The Londoner’s cake, he said it was ‘good’. I did nearly hit him but in this day and age women can actually get in trouble for dishing out some domestic abuse, so I thought better of it. I forced what little information I could out of him, and he finally said something useful – this cake was more fluffy and the drizzle was certainly more lemony. Not a huge shock seeing as that drizzle was 80% fresh lemon juice.

He guessed which cake was which correctly (always annoying) and his opinion didn’t change when he opened his eyes. He did comment on how the Garlic Lover’s cake did look a bit singed but quite frankly if he doesn’t like the fucking look of the bakes then he doesn’t have to eat them.


I took 60% of each cake into work on Monday and the entire fucking lot was gone in about 30 mins (greedy bastards). The most important audience was, of course, Miss Jess Smith…and she fucking approved! Thumbs up, Jess, thumbs up. I will indeed be taking more suggestions for her as I think this bake has been the most successful so far. I will also be taking suggestions for what I should bake this week (if anyone really fucking cares that much), but remember that as it’s the last weekend of the month, it will have to be a dessert from a foreign culture.

The Ratings

Raymond Blanc

  • Difficulty: 4/10 – the only true difficulty I found was being able to crack 5 fucking eggs without getting shell in the mix.
  • Presentation: 7/10 – if you could ignore the remaining charcoal
  • Taste: 9.5/10 – Perfect, again if hadn’t been burnt

The Londoner

  • Difficulty: 1/10 – I mean, seriously, who puts that little effort into a recipe
  • Presentation: 8/10 – Same with the burnt edges, and the drizzle didn’t really look like a drizzle
  • Taste: 8/10 – could have been better, blame the drizzle issue

The Final Word

The world may feel disdain for you, you snail-eating-surrender-monkeys, but you have finally actively contributed to (and won) a war. The war of the bakes.

Salted Caramel Brownies

Good afternoon

This is the third post where I make no apology for not posting about what I’m going to bake but quite fucking frankly I cant be arsed with it anymore after seeing that only 2 people read the last one I did.

This week I thought I’d not be as lazy as I was with the banoffee pie and actually used the oven. I figured something chocolatey would be good as chocolate is my cocaine. Fuck it, brownies. Not just brownies, but salted motherfucking caramel brownies because I am a classy bitch.

The first recipe I used came from the man I had the biggest crush on growing up, Jamie Oliver. And that was the only reason I went with him.


The other recipe I used came from the Guardian website. The bitch who posted it claimed the brownies are ‘perfect’. Well, we’ll see about that. I sourced all my ingredients and didn’t take a picture of them like normal because my head wasn’t in the game but whatever it’s not like you care.

[imagine a picture of ingredients set against the background of the two canvas pictures we have hanging in the kitchen]

Jamie Oliver

I started with who I imagine would be the perfect husband. AND NO I DON’T FUCKING CARE THAT HE GOT RID OF TURKEY TWIZZLERS IT’S BEEN LIKE 10 YEARS GET OVER IT. Though in fairness, if your parents didn’t love you enough to make a packed lunch for you, maybe turkey twizzlers were the only thing that gave you hope that life was worth living.

I set out my ingredients and heart skipped a beat when I looked at how much butter was being used. Literally. My heart is so clogged with cholesterol from this baking every weekend.

ingres 1


The first instruction was to make an odd vanilla-cream mixture. I poured the cream into a bowl and added the butter. I then had to add a vanilla pod. Now, I had a good old wander around the baking aisle last week to get a good idea of what my local supermarket stocks, and I specifically remember seeing vanilla pods because I recall gasping in horror at the price. I also remember there being at least 39439 bottles of vanillavanilla essence.
I walked into Sainsbury’s to obtain the pod…and there was not a fucking hint of pod nor essence. The aisle was completely derelict of these products. HOW MANY PEOPLE IN WANTAGE COULD POSSIBLY BE USING VANILLA POD AND ESSENCE OVER THE WEEKEND?? So, I had to buy the the motherfucker you see to your right. Vanilla paste. EXPENSIVE vanilla paste, and a fair amount of it. Everything I bake for the next 2 months are going to be recipes that require vanilla. The bottle told me that 15ml was the equivalent to one pod, which I thought was pretty cream 2good to know…but completely useless if you don’t own a measuring tube that measures tiny quantities, like you’d find in a science lab. I guessed. I mixed the whole lot together and ended up with a runny substance that smelled delicious. Too delicious. Some may have ended up in my mouth but that is neither here nor fucking there. I’ll be judged at hell’s gates.

I popped it to the side and attempted to scrape all of this sticky vanilla shit off of my spoon.


The next step was to concoct the salted caramel. Essentially, melt the sugar with the golden syrup. At first I thought there was nowhere near enough syrup and I was getting pissed of that I couldn’t stir the mix but eventually everything conformed, without burning or sticking to the pan.

After it had melted into what looked like caramel, and had burned the top layer of my pinchtongue off when I was stupid enough to taste it, I had to add a pinch of salt. A PINCH???? Wtf is a pinch when it’s at home? What if you abnormally large hands? To be honest, I couldn’t be fucked to google it so I just threw it what I thought was probably ok.

I swirled it all together and things looked pretty good- it actually looked reminiscent of the caramel you would find in a bar of Dairy Milk, caramel 3which we know is the god of all chocolate. Hershey’s can go fuck itself. Bloody Americans ruin everything.

I mixed both the cream and caramel mixtures together on a low heat, then took the pan off the hob. Whilst it was cooling slightly, I lined a small tin with wet baking paper? Wet? Yeah, like that wasn’t a fucking nightmare. We all know what happens when paper gets wet, and I did end up with a soggy and ripped mess, but I trust Jamie Oliver. I know he’d treat me right. I poured the caramel in and whacked the tin into the fridge.

Jamie told me to go relax for a bit so I went to relax and certainly didn’t spend too much chocolate mix 1 with eggtime thinking of that picture of him. Just before the caramel was ready, I had to make the brownie mixture. A simple procedure – melt butter in pan, add the 95% of chocolate you have left after eating a few squares, ’cause u a fat biatch, then whisk in the eggs and fold in the flour. I was a bit worried when I added the eggs, as things started to look a bit…gloopy. I mean, I know eggs are gloopy…but most cake mixes are more creamy. I added the flour lined tray 1and the the mix turned into more of what I expected, a normal looking and amazing tasting bowl of happiness. I poured into a WELL greased tin. You all know that I can’t release a cake from its tin without the thing falling apart, but I have even worse luck with brownies for some reason. I greased the pan, added the baking paper, greased the paper, and very carefully spread the mix in. After doing so, I retrieved the caramel from the fridge and swirl 1spooned dollops of the golden greatness on top of the mix and gave it a swirl. I could have eaten that whole tray in it’s raw state but what with the recent egg crisis I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be a great idea. Edwina Currie would be impressed with me.

Easily the most beautiful thing in that kitchen was this mix.

I hurled it into the oven and went back to relax in the lounge, where Lee had fallen asleep in  a hungover stupor. I don’t know what the fuck he was drinking on Saturday night but the result was not pretty. He did briefly stir from his slumber to tell me he was hungry but fell back to unconsciousness pretty quickly. What a fucking state.

swirl result

I checked on the mix 5mins early so the incinerator had less chance of burning my brownies to a crisp, and discovered they were indeed ready to come out in all their glory. It didn’t look as attractive as when it went in the oven but that was to be expected. After they had a good time to cool, it was time to release them. I held my breath, grabbed the edges of the paper, and lifted…and like a baby during a natural birth (absolutely disgusting, as you’ll know if you’ve ever watched one down the business end), it shot out of it’s cave. Even the paper peeled away easily. I was fucking impressed with this, so I think from now on I am going to use the grease-paper-grease algorithm for everything I bake. I cut them into squares and placed them in an attractive presentation (again, classy bitch.) I then washed the pile of dishes I had created and set out to make the next batch.

The Guardian

sugar melt 2Like with my Jamie’s recipe, the first step was to make a caramel. The big difference I noticed here was that I wasn’t instructed to add any liquid to the melting sugar so I did wonder whether it was going to dissolve or just burn to the pan. I tried it none the less and my faith wavered…the sugar remained solid. Until the 12th swirl of the pan, when everything suddenly melted and I had a nice looking caramel coloured sludge. After I got to that stage, I had to add the butter, cream, and salt. Gave it a stir. Standard. Again, thebutter next step was the same as the previous recipe- pour it into a lined baking tray. I actually tried the wet paper technique with this one as well, as it did actually work with Jamie’s recipe. I catapulted the tray into the fridge and went to sit down and google more images of Jamie Oliver. I don’t even care that his tongue is too big for his mouth.

Shortly after saving 34 photos to my phone, I got up to make the brownie batter. I melted the chocolate in the microwave (a fucking beautiful sight) and completely ignored the instruction of toasting the nuts. Because I omitted the nuts (the nuts were indeed optional in this recipe.) I knew that, providing both recipes went well, I would be taking the large melted chocolatemajority of the brownies into work because fuck eating that many brownies. I mean, I could easily and happily do it, but I’m meant to be on a diet. I work for a ‘leading UK law firm’ and if someone went into anaphylaxis because they ate a nut, I imagine I would be sued to fuck and quite frankly a bitch aint got the money for any defense if I went to court. So yeah, no nuts.

Anyway. Whilst the chocolate was cooling off, I beat the sugar and butter together. For some reason, my electric whisks didn’t cope too well with this which I thought was strange, but that’s probably the whisks’ fault, not the mixture’s.

chocolate mix 1

I ‘gradually’ added each egg. I don’t wtf the point of that was, because I had to continue to beat the mixture for another 5mins and if the eggs aren’t incorporated at that point then maybe the Guardian has to sort their shit out. After it a silky sheen had appeared on the mix, I folded in the chocolate and other dry ingredients. This took time. I hate folding, every time the spatula turns over a new pocket of flour opens up. I carried on regardless and ended up with a nice tasting looking batter. Into the tin it went and I dolloped the caramel on top of it and gave it a swirl. I flung it into the incinerator (again, on a slightly lower spread in tray 1temperature and a timer set 5mins early) and went to load the dishwasher with all the dirty bowls. I honestly don’t know how these recipes produce so many dirty dishes, considering I reuse the bowls. I mean, luckily, we have about 230 bowls/dishes/plates in the cupboards so I don’t run short, but I really cannot be fucked with dirty cutlery after I spend 4 hours baking.

After they were done (and not burned to a fucking crisp) I took them out of the oven and, once cooled, released them from the tin. Like with the previous removed 1recipe, these brownies came out a treat and didn’t stick to the paper. I cut these brownies up and placed them neatly on a plate. As I said, I’m a classy baking bitch now. As you can see, there were minimal casualties upon peeling. In face, the larger chunk you can see on the left was a part I had cut off due to it being slightly singed. Success.


The Comparison

comparison 1
The Guardian’s to the left, Jamie’s to the right
There really is fuck all difference let’s be honest

As per fucking usual, Legend Lee Perkins was the taste tester (he truly is fucking loving this). This week, we blindfolded him so presentation didn’t influence what he thought. I thought this might not be the best week to start doing that, partially because our blindfold was somewhere under the bed, and because both batches looked pretty much identical.

When it came to taste, he preferred the Guardian’s brownies. He said he could certainly taste more of the salted caramel. He didn’t dislike the other batch, but he did claim Jamie’s were slightly dry. Fine by me. He wont be laughing when I leave him for the Naked Chef.

All in all, I preferred Jamie’s, I promise it wasn’t because I fancy him a bit too much. Unlike Lee, I had a centre piece brownie which was much more gooey. Once Lee had a centre piece as well, he agreed that they were not as dry as he first thought.

The Ratings

Jamie’s Recipe:

  • Difficulty: 5/10 (making the caramel was the most difficult part and even that wasn’t too complex)
  • Presentation: 8/10 (ultimately, brownies are brownies, no matter how you present them)
  • Taste: 10/10 (just the same as Jamie’s lip, I’d like to believe)

The Guardian’s Recipe:

  • Difficulty: 5/10 (same as above)
  • Presentation: 7/10 (they were slightly more cracked on top than Jamie’s)
  • Taste: 8/10 (not enough salted caramel)

The Final Word


I don’t know, Jamie, but I would say yes if you were the pasta.

Banoffee Pie

Good afternoon!

Again, no apology for not posting on Thursday about what I’d be baking, I was too busy doing overtime at work #bitchneedthedolla

This weekend I thought to myself ‘fuck it, I cannot be arsed with the oven’, and searched for a recipe that didn’t require too much energy. Also I was being nagged by a work colleague to make it: the humble banoffee pie. Like last week with the black forest gateau, I am not a fan of banoffee pie at all. I despise bananas with every inch of me being- and again, it’s not just because it’s fruit. I hate banana tasting anything. I would not even eat one covered in chocolate sauce and ice cream. 20644069_10209995280580076_937415525_n

Let me just tell you now that I was hungover as fuck and not feeling up to the mere smell of a banana.

In my search for two recipes, I only found a few that didn’t call for dulce de leche in the ingredients. I knew in my bones that the Sainsbury’s near me just would not stock it, and sure enough when I got there to source everything else, there was not a tin in sight.

20668680_10209995280780081_1658746259_nI found the Hairy Biker’s recipe, ‘Best Ever Banoffee Pie’. 10/10 for alliteration, lads, you’d pass a lower tier English GCSE no problem. The other recipe came from the BBC Food Website.

Below is a picture of all the ingredients needed (imagine there’s more bananas and a pack of light brown sugar). Not a lot, thank god.


The Hairy Bikers

I started with the recipe from the two sexual predators themselves, the Hairy Bikers. How hairy do you think they actually are underneath it all? I know it makes my own hair stand on end to think about it.

This recipe called for ‘oaty’ chocolate biscuits. Sainsbury’s basics chocolate digestives should do the trick. Like with any buttery biscuit base, it’s a simple case of pulverizing the living fucking daylight out of the biscuits and mixing melted butter into the remains. As you probably know, the most common way of doing this is by bashing them in with a rolling pin….but I had a perfectly good blender sat next to me and I don’t like to fuck around.

I feel the kitchen counter tops appreciated me using the blender, I don’t think they could20731406_10209995281740105_1872007793_n handle being beaten like a 50’s housewife. After mixing it all together, I smushed it into my loose-based pie tin and hurled it into the fridge to firm up for 30mins. Personally, I think I did an amazing job of getting a well distributed base- the sides were a bit sparse but as long as the bottom held up then we were all good.

In the mean time, I sorted the toffee filling out. This was easy- melt the butter, add the sugar, mix until dissolved, and add the condensed milk (yuck). I mixed it as I brought it to a boil, and after 5mins of that I took it off of the heat to cool down. Boy did it need it, that mixture was hot enough to melt your skin off. I went to sit down for 20668818_10209995282740130_1228322396_n15mins in the hope that my nausea and headache would settle down. There’s nothing like a wine hangover.

After the room stopped spinning and I felt I could walk back to the kitchen without projectile vomiting all over the cat, who had just gotten over the fear of me throwing black forest gateau all over it, I went to the fridge and retrieved the pie crust. Obviously, fuck all had changed other than that it was now cold and firm. At this point, I would not have been surprised if it had self destructed- every time I bake a dessert, something has to go wrong. I poured the now lukewarm toffee mix into the base and was pleasantly surprised at how it was just the right amount of filling. The recipe called for me to 20668174_10209995280140065_1813881575_nquickly smooth the top, but it was already flat and shiny so I didn’t exert the effort. Back into the fridge it flew, and I went to find some paracetamol. Whilst it was chilling, I nipped to Sainsbury’s to get some dinner in, and had to hurry back to get a stream of BT sport up so we could watch the Chelsea v Arsenal match. Thibaut Courtois can go suck a goal post.

After I raged about Chelsea allowing Courtois not only being allowed to take a penalty, but to be the 2nd player to do son, I stomped back into the kitchen and began making the cream. This was nothing fancy, a proper basic bitch cream. I whipped the double cream and added a spoon of skimmed milk powder to stabilise it. I sliced up the bananas and placed them on top of the toffee filling in an ‘attractive arrangement’ and loaded the cream on top. A few edges of biscuit base were lost in the process, but you can’t win a war without a few casualties. On that note, go watch Dunkirk (out in cinemas near you), it’s awesome. Don’t waste your money on seeing 47 meters down, that was shite. Anyway. I drowned some more sliced banana in lemon juice so they wouldn’t brown in the light of day (unlike me, I burn bright fucking scarlet), and threw them on top of the cream. I finished it off with some roughly chopped dark chocolate. Looked pretty fucking good compared to some of my other bakes. I put the whole thing back in the fridge and started on the BBC Food pie.

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BBC Food

I wasn’t holding my breath for this pie- having already read through the recipe and finding out I needed to add chopped pecans to the biscuit base, I figured it wasn’t going to hold together too well. And I was fucking right, as per normal. Without the nuts, the base would have been fine, but the addition of the fuckers meant it was a lumpy mess that was too dry. The only loose-bottomed pie tin I have was being occupied by the Hairy Biker’s bananas, so I had to improvise and use an oval dish, similar to what you’d put an apple crumble in. But I thought this was for the best, there was no way that nutty cement was going to hold its shape once it came out of a pie tin. After barely squishing the stuff in, I catapulted it into the fridge and sat back down in the living room where I found Lee burning his Chelsea shirts and scribbling out Courtois on a team picture. Once I settled him down I realised it was time to make the toffee filling….and I was a bit concerned that t20668775_10209995286060213_157995440_nhis recipe asked for regular caster sugar, NOT brown sugar. This mix looked less like toffee and more like a pale and gloopy disappointment. Unfuckingbelievably, I dropped not only TWO spoons into the pan, but also my phone. Luckily it’s new and bulletproof so some toffee didn’t kill it but I blame the BBC. Anyway, the mix tasted alright but we all know that looks are more important. I whacked the mix into the fridge. I then had to scrub the pan out because the BBC had me making a friggin caramel sauce?

Who the actual fuck sits down to a banoffee pie and demands a caramel sauce to go with 20668557_10209995287380246_282545111_nit? We’re British for fucks sake.

The sauce was actually pretty easy to be honest, melt some butter with sugar and coconut milk. The recipe said it was meant to thicken but it stayed pretty watery for the 10mins I spent heating it, I would have added some cornflour but I need to stay true to the recipes. After spending 34mins scraping the sludge off of the bottom of the pan, I poured it into a jug and into the fridge it went. This fridge is getting more action than me I swear to god.

20707481_10209995287180241_198555584_nAfter that ordeal was over, all that was left was to slice more banana and mix it into the toffee mixture, pour it into the base, and top the thing with cream. So that I did. I couldn’t be fucked to top the cream with more banana as it took me longer to do that with the other pie than it takes me to do my nails. Which are now caked in banana and caramel shit. Instead I just sprinkled the leftover nuts onto the cream and some more roughly chopped chocolate.

I threw it back into…you guessed it…the fucking fridge. I made us our dinner, which I could just about keep down, and relaxed.

The Comparison


This weeks taste tester is, yet again, Legend Lee Perkins. (I have to call him that, it’s part of the contract.)

Upon presentation, he was right in thinking the round pie was the Hairy Bikers and the other was a BBC recipe, but when tasting it his opinion changed. This was due to the round pie tasted just….average. Nothing special. But the other had more depth to it with the nuts. I was surprised by this but took his word for it because there’s more chance of you catching me drinking my own piss than eating banana. Overall, his favourite was the BBC pie, especially due to it coming with its own pretentious caramel sauce. Fine by me, I can take the round one into work which will be much easier without carrying a fucking jug of sauce with me.

The Ratings

The Hairy Bikers

  • Difficulty: 4/10 – no fucking sauce
  • Taste: 6/10
  • Presentation – 9/10

BBC Food

  • Difficulty: 7/10
  • Taste: 10/10
  • Presentation: 7/10 – would have been better if it was in a pie tin

The Final Word

Not shocked that Courtois has offered himself up to Real Madrid. Shocked that the Hairy Bikers gave me an average cream pie.



Black Forest Gateau

Guten Tag!

I make no apology for not making my usual Thursday evening post in which I inform all 5 of my followers as to what I will be attempting to bake the following Sunday. Bitches be busy like damn.

Anyhow, yesterday I attempted the Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte – Black Forest Gateau. Originating in Spain*, confectioner Josef Keller claimed to have invented it in 1915 (according to wikipedia, fuck knows if it’s actually true. Probs not.) I have decided at the end of every month, I will be making something from a foreign country, hence this dark German delight. Personally, I fucking hate cherries so far less of the cake actually made it into my mouth, unlike last week.

One side of this showdown is the baddest bitch in the UK, weighing in at 80lb, you do not want to mess with her – Mary ‘mothafucka’ Berry, using this recipe.

Mary Berry is taking on a recipe from a website called I thought that this week I wouldn’t use a youtube video, as the last time I did that I was faced with the horror of Titli. Here she is, if you don’t remember her:

In any case, let’s do it.

*If you believed that, even for a second, you need to board a plane headed for the sun.

A picture of the ingredients needed:


Mary ‘Mothafucka’ Berry

prep1I started with Mary Berry’s recipe because quite frankly she deserves the fucking respect of being picked first. I got all my ingredients together before I started, as I am quickly become a culinary genius. I thought it all looked pretty basic, but I dare not say such a thing out loud, for fear of the wrath of the Berry.

The first order of business was to mix the sugar and eggs together until light and fluffy (which is how Mary Berry appears on the outside, but you don’t know the fiery pits of rage that burn within her. This mix didn’t just become light a fluffy, but it tripled in size as well. The recipe told me to mix until a ‘trail’ is left when you pull out the whisk…but what the actual fuck does that mean, Berry? A trail??? Upon googling, it seemed that I was looking for something called the ‘ribbon stage’. Which I thought looked eggmix1relatively close to what I had in front of me. I mean, what could go wrong with beating eggs? (If you don’t know, scroll back and find my lemon meringue pie post.) After whisking the egg/sugar mix, I had to fold in the flour and cacao powder – a delicate business. You can’t just stir this mix, or Mary Berry will unleash 7 different types of torture upon you for not having more respect. So, I carefully folded in the powders…and christ, it was more effort than I initially expected. Every time I flipped the mixture over itself, a new pocket of fucking flour would open up. This process went on for at least 5 minutes, and I could feel the urge to fling the mix across the kitchen and onto the cat. completemix2However, the cat that feels the need to take residence in our home isn’t actually ours, and I feel the owners would not have appreciated a sticky cat with PTSD returning to them. I gritted my teeth and got on with it. Eyeing up the cat all the while.

Once that was mixed, I poured them into the cake molds. Now, if you read last weeks post, you will know that I am not the most proficient at getting cakes back out of a mould once they’re cooked; and despite lathering the moulds with butter like I would massage vanilla oil into Justin Timberlake, the fucking things still fell apart. Mary Berry told me to not only butter these moulds, but to also line the base with baking paper, and this tins1bitch knows what she’s about so I followed her instruction. Into the incinerator (again, read previous posts) they went for 25mins. Things were actually going pretty well, so the cat relaxed a bit. In the mean time, I cracked on with the cherry filling.

As mentioned, I despise cherries with every inch of my being. I’m not just being picky, it’s not the fact that it’s a fruit…I just hate the taste. Cherry drops make me want to vomit. I’d rather drink my own piss than take a sip of Cherry Coke. I’ll even pass up a cupcake if choppedthere is a cherry on top. So this process did make my hairs stand on end and my stomach churn a bit. Some say I’m being dramatic. I say go fuck yourself. Cherries are the work of the Devil.

I had to roughly chop the tinned cherries into quarters….not the easiest task. Those little red bastards were slippery, and every time I cut into them, juice squirted out in the same manner as an arterial bleed. Gagging, I managed to finish chopping them. I reserved the juice from the tins, so whilst chopping the cherries, I was heating the juice and the cornflour in a pan until thickened. And boy did that shit thicken. Without much warning. After salvaging what wasn’t burnt juiceto the bottom of my pan, I added the chopped cherries and flung the bowl into the fridge to thicken. Thank fuck for that.

After this, I took the cakes out and placed them on the side to cool. I was shocked that the incinerator hadn’t burned these cakes to a crisp (however I did reduce the temperature by 10 degrees)I left the kitchen in search of a bottle of rosé.


After contemplating what life was like before I started this blog and actually had some time to relax on a Sunday, I returned to the kitchen to turn the cakes out. This was the moment of truth- does Mary Berry hold the secret to removing cakes from their moulds without them disintegrating? Does that one piece of baking paper make a difference??





Look at that. PERFECTION. Mary Berry, you are a god. Never have I ever turned out a cake that well.

Whilst they were cooling some more, I melted the chocolate and dried off the fresh covered cherriescherries. I dipped 12 into the white and 12 into the dark, then put them in the fridge to harden. This was not the neatest of dunking but I have no love for cherries, so I couldn’t care less. I also started to whip the cream. Sainsbury’s had absolutely ZERO pots of whipping cream left, and I refuse to believe that every last person in Wantage needed whipped cream of a Sunday. Get your fucking act together, Sainsbury’s. Instead, I used double cream, but that is what Mary Berry called for anyway. The only deviation is that I added some skimmed milk crea,1powder to stabilize the cream, so it wouldn’t melt off the cake. I did think that perhaps I had whipped it too much, but I’d still lick it off of Colin Firth’s lips so whatever. And then the unthinkable happened. I read my next instruction: Cut each cake into two layers. NO. I really should read these fucking recipes before actually attempting them. If there is one thing that I will never master, it is cutting cakes into layers. I picked up the knife. The cat froze on the spot. I took a deep breath in, and I sliced. And god damn, Mary would be proud. I cut that bitch like she insulted my Mother. I truly am the embodiment of all that is good in the world. You can see a singed edge on the top layer, but that’s nothing I can’t hide with cream.layers


I filled each layer with both the cherry slop and the half of the creamy goodness, and slapped on the remaining half to the outside of the cake….and started to realise that this cream definitely was too thick and there wasn’t as much as I needed for good coverage, but Pinterest has been telling me that ‘naked cakes’ are the next new trend in cakes. If you’re a hipster piece of shit. But yeah, there’s not a lot of difference between my cake and one of those, so I was happy I could pass it off like I intended for it to look this way.



I put it in the fridge to chill with the cherries and trees (you’ll see what I mean), and moved onto the next cake.

prep2I could tell pretty much instantly that Mary Berry was going to make this cake her bitch. Firstly, ingredients did not include any flour, so I knew it wasn’t going to come out amazing…if at all. I persevered nonetheless, and set up the ingredients and wash my whisk (if you know what I mean). Firstly I had to separate the 6 fucking eggs (again, not something I’m wonderful at). SIX. SEEMS TO BE A TAD EXCESSIVE.

I then whisked these until they were stiff, rinsed the whisks, and beat the yolks and sugar together until they were light and fluffy. I added the cacao powder to the yolk mix, folded it in (again, another twat of a job.) I then had to fold the yolk mix into the white mix….but in the 11 seconds it took for me to rinse of my spatula, it had stiffened like a nipple in the wind. I could barely get a spoonful of this mix out, let alone incorporate it into the egg whites.

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My patience wore thin, but the cat was nowhere to be seen so I had no target to aim for. Eventually, the mix conformed. And it did not look good. I threw in the chopped chocolate, but I knew this wasn’t going to turn out well, but I poured it into the well buttered cake moulds and catapulted them into the incinerator.

Whilst it was baking for it’s 18 minutes, I decorated Mary’s cake with the chocolate covered cherries and the little trees that I had to pipe. I put it all back in the fridge, removed2chugged the other half of my bottle of rosé, did some washing up, and retrieved the cake from the oven. After they cooled, I flipped them out, and was pleasantly surprised that there was only minor damage to the edges. I left them to cool, and make another batch of whipped cream.

This recipe did not call for me to make any cherry awfulness, but rather to spread cherry jam and kirsch all over the cakes, add some tinned cherries, a layer of cream, and splat them together. No slicing cakes into layers. No chocolate coated fruit. No spreading cream over the entire fucking thing. So I fillings1was pretty happy with that.

I put did top the cake with some left over cherries from Mary’s recipe as I couldn’t fit all 24 onto it, so that spiced this basic bitch cake up a little. Back into the fridge it went so everything could firm up a little. I made our dinners (sweet chili crispy chicken, fucking delicious), and grabbed the cakes back out of the fridge…and…shit. Goodtoknow’s cake

looked as if it was sloping down as much as Theresa’s May’s election campaign did. So much so that the cherries had fallen off of it…much like tory MP’s falling from the constituency map. I figured I could hide it from Lee, who was once more, the taste tester.




The Ratings

As you can see from the pictures, Mary Berry’s recipe held up. And why the fuck wouldn’t it, she is the boss of the baking world. You wouldn’t run through her field of wheat, she’d stab you with a butter knife and cook your remains into a cheesecake.

Goodtoknow’s cake wasn’t great, but had the thing not collapsed on one edge, it wouldn’t have looked like the effort of a 6 year old.


You can see the chocolate mess that is the trees on the side of Mary Berry’s cake. To be honest, I only did them because I fear Mary Berry more than I fear Titli.

As far as Lee was concerned, he knew pretty much instantly which cake was which by presentation alone. He’s a clever man, he knows to insult Mary Berry is to have his balls chopped off and turned into profiteroles.

However, when it came to taste, he actually preferred the GoodToKnow cake- as the cherry taste was more strong. I imagine this was due to using good quality cherry conserve rather than homemade jam made from tinned cherry juice.

He did ask me how I managed to fuck that cake up so much. I’m beginning to think that he believes I am the problem when things go wrong, so in turn I am going to spike the next bake with paprika and possibly a dead mouse.cross section

I took the GoodToKnow cake into work, and it was actually eaten up pretty quickly and I overheard comments on how it did taste pretty nice. I was careful not to mention to anyone eating it that I had made it, in case they only said it was nice out of politeness. All in all, it was more of a success than initially thought.

I didn’t buy a Sainsbury’s cake this time round because there weren’t any that were immediately obvious to me in the ready made cake section and I could not be fucked to travel to the refrigerated desserts. I am a busy woman, I have things to do; like painting my nails, brushing my hair, and plotting the destruction of the patriarchy.

All in all, the GoodToKnow cake was easier to make, and if I had another go at it I imagine I would do better with the presentation and hopefully avoid the collapsing.

Mary Berry

  • Difficulty: 8/10, bitch had me boiling cherry juice
  • Taste: 7/10
  • Presentation: 6/10


  • Difficulty: 5/10
  • Taste: 7/10
  • Presentation: 2/10

The Final Word

Paul Hollywood will go to hell for his treason, and I hope he chokes on a baguette, the treacherous cunt.

Chocolate Fudge Cake

Happy Monday!

As promised, yesterday I set out to bake two chocolate fudge cakes. One was from the worlds most sexual food writer: Nigella. She describes her chocolate fudge cake as being something you’d eat the entirety of after a break up. Personally, I skip the cake and go straight to slashing the tyres…

The other recipe I used came from this crazy bitch:

Tell me this isn’t the stuff of nightmares

TitilisBusyKitchen is, like with the lemon meringue pie last week, just the first youtube channel that came up when I searched the title of the dessert.

And of course, I bought a Sainsbury’s ready-made cake as well, for a whopping £2

Compared with last week, the amount of ingredients needed for these cakes was ridiculous. Sour cream? Ground almonds? CORN OIL? Unbelievably, I managed to forget the fucking chocolate on my first run to the shops. For my CHOCOLATE fudge cake. Sometimes I think it would be best for humanity if I just crawled into a cave to die.


Nigella’s Recipe

For no reason at all, I started with Nigella’s recipe. And I’m glad I did, because this bitch took NEAR ON AN HOUR in the oven. Betty Crocker is out there somewhere, laughing- use her mixes and you only wait 40mins most.

This week I thought I would be clever and actually prepare the ingredients before I started- last weekend I was stuck with 2349023049 dirty dishes/bowls/cutlery and things prep1got a bit hectic as I hastily tried to weigh flour and sugar and butter as I went.

As I prepared everything I couldn’t help but notice the amount of sugar and butter going into this thing…I knew my arteries wouldn’t be thanking me for this.

You can see what causes a myocardial infarction.

I proceeded to throw everything into my large mixing bowl and gave it a good old mix with my odd looking wooden spatula thing. In another bowl I whisked the eggs and sour cream together…a rather gross looking concoction. I added the wet mess into my beautiful sandy desert that was my dry ingredients and hoped for the best.

I breathed a sigh of relief at what now looked like a normal cake mix…and immediately ate a spoonful. No restraint whatsoever. I’m not proud.

I started pouring the mix into my two well greases silicon cake moulds. I figured these tins1would be the best as I am not the most skilled and retrieving the cake back out of the tin after it is baked. I absolutely drowned these fuckers in butter to make sure the cake would come out in one piece.

I did, however, quickly realise that perhaps these moulds might not be big enough. I mean, we all know that size doesn’t matter….but this did take the piss a bit. Fuck it, I thought, I’ve come this far- I’m going to get every last drop of this mix in.

I failed. Miserably. I was left with a good amount of cake mix left, so obviously that had to go into my mouth the food bin.

I slung them into the oven, ignoring the sizzling sound of cake mix dripping onto the oven floor, and prayed.

No amount of smoke was going to ruin this friggin chocolate cake. Who doesn’t love smoked cake?

Now, as mentioned, I don’t have the best of luck when it comes to removing cakes from their tins. However, I buttered these things like I was applying oil to Channing Tatum; my hands were all up in there.



YOU JUST CAN’T BLOODY WIN. (for real though, if anyone knows whatever the fucking secret is that the cake god’s are holding from me on how to remove cakes, without them disintegrating, that’d be cool to know.)

And I knew I shouldn’t have ignored that sizzling noise, as I was also greeted to this abomination:


I put the 75% of cake I was left with to the side to cool, and cracked on with the icing.

I beat the butter with the sugar and melted chocolate…and that was it? Really, Nigella? icing2You have me putting sour cream in a cake but your creativity falls short of a decent fudge icing? Screw you.

That, my friends, looks like a buttercream icing to me.

Nigella, it doesn’t matter how attracted to you I am, you have let me down. In fact, you’ve let yourself down. At least Titli had me make a proper fudging fuck fucking fudge.

Anyhow, I slathered this bowl of dissappointment onto the cakes, trying to patch up the craters of crater2missing sponge, and threw it into the fridge to firm up a bit.

I then cracked on with Titli’s recipe, horrified that the gates of hell might open up and she’d suck me down into the fiery pits of torture. Her face really is a scary one.


The first thing this crazy bitch wanted me to do was make the fudge icing. Pretty simple, actually- melt AN ENTIRE BLOCK OF BUTTER, add in the chocolate and sugar, and mix icing 1away. As I stirred, I tried not to think about how painful a heart attack might be…I’m probably tough enough for a triple bypass? I did stub my toe without screaming once, so you could say that I’m pretty badass.

I was going to upload the video I took of it all mixing together but apparently I’m not paying enough to the host of this blog to be allowed ‘video support’, and I am more likely to shit gold than to pay out for anything more to do with this blog. You would have seen that it actually took a fair while to get everything to melt together, but once it did, it was like a pot of heaven. A fudgey mixture of tooth decay, obesity, and stretchmarks. Delicious.

wholemixI then had to put that into the fridge to cool, so in the mean time I cracked on with the cake. This was more or less the same process, only subtract the sour cream and add ground almonds. I can’t think of one person that likes almonds, so this is only backing up my theory that Titli is the devil.

Now, because of the previous issues with cake-from-tin extraction, I upped the greasing of these moulds. By not using grease at all, and instead dumping enough flour into each of them for a good coating. My kitchen was starting to look like Charlie Sheen’s bedside table.

I poured the mix in, happy that this time there would be no overflow problems, and hurled them into the incinerator (which is what I am going to call the oven from now on, because fuck me does that oven cremate anything that goes into it)

Luckily, this cake only took 35mins. I checked it at 30mins…to find the fucking things were burned on top. I don’t know why my ‘incinerator’ hates me, but it does.

I’m no stranger to burned cakes, so I’m relatively proficient at leveling cakes off and removing the charcoal. So I left them to cool and did as such.


After chugging half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc (after all, I had been in the kitchen for 3 hours at this point), I went to see how the fudge icing was doing…

Shit. That is the only answer to how that fudge was doing. In the bottom of the bowl it seemed that the mixture was thickening, but up top there were two layers- one of sludge, the other of butter. I rammed a spoon into it and gave it a whirl, hoping it would be enough, and left in the fridge for another half an hour. When I returned, it seemed to be more of what I was expecting.

I dumped it on the cakes and added a flourish here and there onto both Nigella’s and Titli’s, and opened up the Sainsbury’s cake. It was at this point I realised that I had forgotten to make our dinner and that Lee was wasting away, so I made some of the shittest fajitas I have ever produced. He still ate them so in my eyes, they were a success.

Anyway, I then presented the cakes to this weeks taste tester: Legend Lee Perkins. I think it is safe to assume that it is going to be him nearly every weekend. He’s pretty happy about that, I feel.

On the left is Nigella’s cake (see how it certainly doesn’t look that fudgey) and on the right is Titli’s. You can see I decorated with ferrero rocher and kinder bueno, because I am a fancy bitch who don’t need no plain cake. Mary Berry would be proud. Nadiya Hussain, move aside.

Below is a comparison of all three cakes, this weeks basic bitch cake from Sainsbury’s is in the middle, obviously.

compare 3

Lee was spot on when it came to guessing which cake was which upon presentation alone. Annoyingly. His opinion didn’t change upon taste either.

He reported that Titli’s was indeed very fudgey and rich, but perhaps too rich for his palate. He also could taste some of the burned edges, but that’s the incinerators fault. He didn’t dislike the Sainsbury’s cake, but found it was pretty basic. Nothing special. Nigella’s was his favourite out of the three, and then proceeded to eat another slice, covered in cream.

Personally, I actually thought that the youtube cake was the best. This is probably due to me having a crazy sweet tooth- I fucking love rich chocolate desserts. And kinder bueno is the boss of all confectionery.

The Ratings

Like last week, just buying the cake was easier- but it was pretty damn small, plain, and not amazing in taste. It was certainly not as beautiful as Nigella(s cakes).

As far as the other two cakes went, Nigella’s was probably the easiest as I didn’t have to fuck around with making fudge and the cake mix was pretty simple.

All in all, I think it really depends on how rich you like your cakes to be- for me, Titli is the winner (so hopefully she wont swallow my soul now), however Lee was passionate about Nigella (could just be because she’s got big tits)


  • Difficulty: 6/10
  • Taste: 8.5/10
  • Presentation: 7/10


  • Difficluty: 8/10
  • Taste: 9/10
  • Presentation: 7/10


  • Difficulty: 1/10 (I had to walk to the fucking shops AGAIN)
  • Taste: 5/10 (not bad, could have been much better)
  • Presentation: 5/10

The Final Word

Looks aren’t everything. Titli looks like she’s escaped from an asylum but her cake was rich and fudgey…

…whereas Nigella makes me question my sexuality, but her cake was just another chocolate cake with buttercream icing.

Don’t judge a bitch by her face, but by her cakes.


Fudge me, baby

cakeGood afternoon to all of my 3 followers!

I think my work colleagues will be please to know that this weekend, I will be tackling the decadent mistress that is the Chocolate Fudge Cake. Sexual. Due to cake being less squishy than a lemon meringue pie, I imagine it will be easy to bring into work. I just hope that everyone knows they will have to eat at least two slices each, and report their findings back to me.

The Professional Recipe is from Nigella, off of her own website. This recipe calls for soured cream and ‘corn oil’…whatever the fuck that is. That sounds like the kind of thing I’ll need to venture into Waitrose for, unfortunately.

The other recipe comes from another Youtube channel: Titlis Busy Kitchen. This, like with last weeks Youtube recipe, was just the first video that came up when I searched the term ‘chocolate fudge cake’. I wish it wasn’t, because this video is easily the most annoying video I have ever watched- and I’ve seen Friday, by Rebecca Black. The woman who presents it is also absolutely horrifying; I imagine she’ll be visiting me in my nightmares.

And, if I have anything left in my bank account, this is the cake I shall buy for the ready-made comparison. I have purchased this a few times before, and it is pretty delicious so we’ll see how Nigella…and ‘Titli’…hold up against it.


So, who’s better? Nigella, or Titli? What sort of a fucking name is Titli??
Well, there’s only one way to find out….