Who wants to eat a millionaire's?

The phrase sweet tooth doesn't really wash with me. Perhaps I'm an anomaly but I'd stick my neck out to say I have a number of very sweet teeth. My long-term greatest vice in cake is the queen of tea room cakes, the three layered delight Twix wishes it was every day...the humble but brilliant caramel shortbread.

Caramel (or millionaire's) shortbread is the equivalent of a  steak sandwich for my dad: if it's on the menu, no daily special will compare.I have to have it. About five years ago, this choice became a challenge and now I'm living the Mystic Pizza equivalent of finding the perfect Margharita: the hunt for the best caramel shortbread.

My good friend Westie, amateur pastry chef extroadinnaire, delighted me with a tray of the good stuff for my 27th birthday earlier this year. It turns out I'm not the only one unable to resist its charms. Feeling guilty, rather than generous, I left the tray (and the beacon of light surrounding it) on the 'cake cupboards' in the office. An hour later, all that was left to see was the teflon coating. I grieved the loss for days - a feeling which should give Westie a marvellous feeling of smugness: the shortbread had made the grade and most certainly, my top 5...

The final countdown:

5. The aforementioned Westie's caramel delight: (ssshh...apparently it's the Nigella recipe)

4. The here's-one-i-made-earlier, heavy on the condensed milk Blue Peter recipe from 198_..something. (One day I'll locate and post the fountain pen scrawl in my mum's recipe scrapbook)

3. Jade tea rooms, Newtown Linford, Leicestershire. Feeling guilty? Chase the gorgeous deer in neighbouring Bradgate Park - if you're lucky, you might burn off a thirty-eighth of your slice.

2. Boston Tea Party, namely - Bath branch. As this is a chain, every time I buy a slice I'm filled with a feeling that I'll be disappointed; that the recipe will have changed and, of course, that there's no way I'll be able to finish it. I'm always wrong about both of these - it's a pure delight.

1. Anne of Cleves tea rooms, Totnes. Yes, it's from my hometown, but don't let that mist your eyes. This wins hands down and is the yardstick by which all other millionaire's should be measured. 

Nx

I can't poach an egg

Not one to indulge in a big breakfast too often, this morning was an exception. Following a hard Friday at work I hit the red wine and on my wander home had an unusual forward thinking epiphany and bought the ingredients for a morning fry up.

In my vain attempt at legitimising my inevitable satfat intake I chose to grill the meat then piled on the mushrooms and tomatoes (two of my five-a-day by breakfast? McKeith would be proud). About to take the sensible option; whisking and scrambling the egg, I heard another Dr Gillian whisper in my ear. Foolishly, I listened and went for the grown-up option; the healthy option: the yummy mummy poached egg. Only, I can't poach an egg. Rookie mistake.

Realising my disadvantage I chose wisely (i thought) the River Cottage Family cookbook. A compilation of basics aimed at both children and their parents I imagined I couldn't go far wrong. Well Huge Furry - it did go wrong.

So what happened? I boiled the water 'til it was 'rolling' with bubbles, stirred it round and round with a wooden spoon, plopped a lovely free range egg in the centre, covered the pan with a nice tight lid and turned off the heat. 

No fluffy egg cloud for me. Instead, swirling in my pan was an ugly mess of white ectoplasm (or egg-toplasm) with a small orange furry blob lost in the middle.I can hear Sophie Dahl sniggering over her rooibos tea already...

I'm now left with two choices. A - Try, try again. Experiment with vinegar levels, freshness of eggs, vigorousness of swirl. Or, B- buy an egg poacher. They're quite nice things really, in all shapes and sizes - hearts, flowers, bunnies. But I wonder whether amazon sell one shaped like a dunce hat...

A final word. I'd like to apologise to the chicken whose egg I wasted. Please don't take it personally.

Nx