It’s only been a day, but already I’m kind of missing Herman – funny how someone can be part of your life for just a short time, in this case ten days, but really make an impression.
Herman came to stay just over a week ago. My friend Tracey turned up with a small plastic pot, filled with what looked rather like pancake batter, and accompanied by a sheet of instructions for a “sourdough cake”.
“You don’t have to do it,” was the first thing she said, looking as though she expected to be shown the door, but I was rather excited. I’d read about Herman the friendship cake, and it was quite nice to be asked to be part of it.
Herman has been on the go for years – he might be Amish originally, or maybe German (depending on the Wikipedia entry you read). The idea is that you have a “starter” – the batter-like substance – which you then “feed” over a ten-day period. On day nine you divide up the resulting mix into four, giving three portions to friends (the “friendship” part) and, on the following day, baking a cake. In theory, this can go on forever, spreading delicious cakey-ness over the miles and years. It’s an age-old process but has gained some popularity in the UK recently, possibly because its fame has spread on social networking sites. And now it’s reached my small village.
I actually have some misgivings about this sort of thing – after all, I despise chain letters and won’t even participate in apparently innocent things like email recipe trees. But I was tempted; what could be the harm? And it would lead to cake!
So there began the relationship. Herman was transferred out of his plastic tub and, as instructed, poured into a large bowl, covered loosely with a tea-towel. Days one, two and three were easy enough – all I had to do was stir and re-cover. Soon the dining room took on a yeasty aroma – not unpleasant, but a definite presence; a bit like parts of Edinburgh depending on how the wind is blowing.
With day four came the first “feed”, which involved stirring in some flour, sugar and milk. Herman seemed grateful for the sustenance: at least he bubbled and swelled quite happily.
Days five and six brought their own pressures. I had to go away for a conference, leaving Herman to the tender mercies of my husband. I wouldn’t have worried – after all, it only involved a bit of stirring (and he’s good at that), but always at the back of my mind was the stark warning on the bit of paper: “If it stops bubbling, it’s dead.”
Phone calls home were predictable: “How are the dogs?” “Fine”. “Chickens?” “Fine.” “Herman?” “Yes I’ve bloody stirred him, I mean ‘it’.”
When I got back home Herman was making himself felt even more – and my feelings started to change slightly. Yes, I still felt responsible for this creature in my care, relying on me for life itself; I still chatted away as I stirred. But then I thought about Doctor Who. Herman would actually make the perfect vehicle for aliens – imagine, an apparently friendly cake-mix, innocently making his way into people’s homes and affections, until one night the order came for him to leave the bowl and take over the house and all its occupants and thereafter the world. I started eyeing him warily.
Nevertheless, I gave him his final feed on day nine, then divided him up prepared to share his offspring with friends. The easy part – or so I thought. My lovely next-door neighbour, a super baker, seemed the obvious first port of call. Smilingly I proffered my small tub of starter as he backed away. “Oh no, I’ve done one of these – too much of a faff and took ages to bake.” Fortunately the reception elsewhere was more gratifying and all three were successfully distributed.
After all that, baking the cake (involving adding chopped apple, cinnamon, sultanas and some boring things) seemed a bit of an anti-climax. Warned by my neighbour’s experience, I baked it in a roasting tray, rather than a cake tin, and, although it took longer than the advertised 45 minutes, within an hour it was glistening and ready. I was slightly worried in case I burned it – after the fuss I’d made about keeping the starter alive, I’d have felt a bit daft.
So now instead of a yeasty Edinburgh brewery smell, the house is gorgeously cinnamon-y – but what to do with a cake which was made from a friend? Reader, I ate it – I think it’s what Herman would have wanted – and it was, indeed, delicious, in a clootie dumpling kind of way.
Just to show there were no hard feelings I even gave some to my refusnik neighbour. Apart from anything else, I understand his point. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but if anyone else comes a-knocking with a tub of Herman, I think I’ll be hiding behind the sofa.
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