A post on Caked Crusader has led my mind to dwell on the subject of husbands and cake. I have been married to my husband for a long time, and we have been a couple for 35 years.
One event in particular sticks out in my mind, on the subject of husband and cake.
Very early on, when we bought our first house together, we were quite naive and romantic. We bought an old stone house which looked very like the Bronte's parsonage in Haworth. The house was in a suburb of Leeds which was very unfashionable then, and had structural problems, which is why we got it quite cheap.
One of the problems was that it was absolutely freezing cold. It had no loft insulation, and no central heating. There were also mice. Even our house was warmer for the mice than a hilltop between Leeds and Bradford in winter.
The first year we were there, I went to some considerable trouble to make a Christmas cake. I was quite proud of this, not being a particularly domesticated young woman in those days. (I remember scoffing when I first read Shirley Conran's book "Superwoman", that this book was" all about housework", and I did not intend to do any!)
Husband, looking for anything near to hand to put into a mousetrap he was constructing, broke off a corner of the beautiful untouched cake I had made, thus ruining it for icing.
It took about twenty years for me to get over this and these days, I do not make a Christmas cake. He does, or we don't have one.