Politicised Flapjacks

With a parental state visit occurring last week, we were prepping hard to pretend that we live like human beings. We did the hoovering, watered the houseplants, wiped and/or dusted all surfaces, and the plants on the balcony were either replaced or pruned to within an inch of their lives. The flat was sparkling but I wasn’t finished- what about food? My dad’s a coeliac, which means he can’t eat wheat. Now here’s where I get political: the government has decided to stop funding the special bread that my dad and countless others get on prescription from the pharmacy.

In praise of the Baked Apple

Without fail around late autumn our neighbours give us a bucket of Bramley apples harvested from a tree in their garden. I was always jealous of this tree as a child and sometimes vaulted the fence to nick an apple or two; in our garden we had (and still possess) a gnarled, glorified stump of a pear tree that supports a tree house. No fruit has ever fallen from this tree apart from one year when it was clearly trying to die, dropping onto the vegetable patch all of four small, stumpy pears which were promptly scoffed by crows and the dog. Once a year with my bucket of cookers I’d set out to try a range of new, exciting, crumble, chutney or pie recipes I’d been hoarding since the summer but the baked apple only featured once in my repertoire. This was because the few I made were cooked in the microwave and were understandably disgusting. I mean look at them, they’re like the Elephant Man of desserts.