MY neighbour Carol gave me a Herman a couple of weeks ago.
This is not as painful as it sounds, as a Herman is not a form of Teutonic torture, but the culinary equivalent of a chain letter.
A Herman is a cake or, to be more precise, a yeasty cake mixture. He arrived in a margarine carton with a dire warning (“Do not put me in the fridge or I will die”) and 10-day instructions that Heston Blumenthal would have ben proud of.
Although my mum was a keen baker, I never inherited the cake gene and have managed to live quite happily for over half a century without ever having made one.
I was a bit reluctant to take this one on, but Carol was so enthusiastic, I hadn’t the heart to turn her down. The cake, originating from an Amish tradition, is a sign of friendship.
Herman bubbled away happily for over a week on the kitchen counter. He grew on Day 4 when I added sugar, flour and milk. Everything was going swimmingly until Day 9 – the big day for adding all the ingredients – that I realised I didn’t have half of them.
Undeterred, I did what Hester would have done and improvised. Apples and olive oil were replaced by a half bottle of cocktail cherries foraged from the fridge, half a pint of milk and an orange for good measure.
I divided the creative mixture into four, gave three lots away and baked the remainder. Not possessing a baking tin, I tipped everything into the chicken roasting tin and stuck it in the oven for 45 minutes.
It was enormous when it came out and there was no sign of all the fruit I had put it. I decided to give it the ultimate taste test and took it in to the Examiner office for my colleagues to give a fair and balanced review.
“Well, it looks like a cake” said Andy Jackson. “Wow!” said Louise Cooper when she saw it, I’m not sure why. Then finally, the ultimate accolade: “Not bad,” said Andy Hirst.
I’m still savouring the sweet taste of success.
PS: All the fruit sank to the bottom, but thankfully my colleagues are not too fussy.
