I've reached that point in heartbreak where you're simultaneously excited about the possibilities that the future holds and genuinely sad about what you're now missing out on, on a daily basis. To that end, I was determined to have a good weekend; I was forced into feeling happy and I can't help but get hugely excited about what may lie just around the corner.
On Saturday evening my dear friend Olivia and I cooked a healthy dinner of roast vege salad with lots of feta, which we devoured whilst downing a couple of bottles of red. After some good yarns about punctuation and politics with my flatmate, over (another) delicious bottle of red she'd been saving, we retired to my room to sass ourselves up. What ensued was a 2-person dance party which involved Bailey's irish cream and singing loudly to Wilco wearing ridiculous headbands.
We then headed to town.
Olivia and I met years ago working in a restaurant and bar, and both still frequent it reasonably often. A friend was having relatively quiet leaving drinks there, and up we rocked, both dolled up and hyped up. We had shots, we talked rubbish, we laughed and then I made the mistake of challenging someone to a jager-bomb race.
That was basically my downfall, as far as I can remember. I did go out for some "fresh air" but I do have visions of the barman handing me a champagne bucket...before my friends kindly escorted me home. I woke up fully clothed with a sore hip (?) and spent Sunday morning wallowing in bed with a litre of chocolate milk wondering how anyone would ever love me again. God, don't you get smug when you're coupled up? Yes, you!
At least at midday I was probably still drunk and therefore in a good mood, although my patience really was tested when I went down to the Sunday market. I began to struggle, particularly when getting mowed down by women with their obnoxious pushchairs. The sun was out, and despite being back to my bitter and cynical self, the sunshine helped - Sundays are generally the most depressing for singles I've swiftly discovered. Especially if you spent the night in the gutter.
Anyway, cupcakes. Now, I try not to be one to jump on the latest food fad or bandwagon, but cupcakes appear to have cemented themselves in recent food-pop-culture. See for example here or here. I think it's easy to get cupcake-fatigue, plus they're pretty girly as far as baked goods go, however if you get them right I think anyone would struggle to go past these tasty and cute little one-bite gems. Feeling extremely guilty about my descent into being yet another binge drinking cliche I decided cupcakes were in order for the bar staff. I had the ingredients, I busted out the Edmond's bible and whipped up a batch to say sorry for being such a menace. Deliciously light with a very simple passionfruit icing, I was told by the barman they were totally unnecessary (he was stoked though), but they definitely made me feel better. The fact I dropped them off on Sunday evening while having a beer with 2 of my favourite friends also perked me up no end. I left feeling better about my newly acquired single status and about life in general. Watch out!
Cupcakes a la Edmond's
125g butter, softened
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup caster sugar
1 cup standard plain flour
2 tsps baking powder
1/4 cup milk
Cream butter, sugar and vanilla until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Sift flour and baking powder together. Fold into creamed mixture. Stir in milk. Place 18 paper patty cases in patty tins (I used 2 mini muffin pans and ended up with 24. Smaller and cuter.) Spoon mixture in. Bake at 190*C for 15 minutes, until golden and springy. Transfer to a wire rack and ice when cool. (Icing comprised of icing sugar, passiofruit syrup, a knob of butter and boiling water). If you're impatient like I am when hungover, just ice as soon as possible and watch the icing dribble down the sides. Mmmm mmmm.