I spent yesterday baking: brownies, Malteser muffins and a new kid on the block - the large, in charge, pimped-up homemade American classic...Oreo cookie. I have loved them so long - the equal part top/middle/bottom layer, the almost salty black cookies that contain that whiter than white, kinda wrong in a right way vanilla creme. They would make my whole mouth black but I'd get so lost in the reverie that to attend to the carnage would ruin it all.
Not quite sure how to fully replicate these noir/blanc icons I did my usual and made them way too big: too wide, too thick...so too much filling and...well, what transpired was a rather gulp-inducing proposition. But, as Mickey Rourke would say, 'If they ain't got the balls then f*** 'em'.
Luckily the crowd at Bazaart weren't daunted and saw off the G.Os quick smart - along with endless rum hot chocolates (it was chilly under that railway arch) and brownie fudge sundaes. There was something of the festival vibe about last night in fact; as my buddy Jemma remarked, full of kids with so many distinguishing features it wasn't only the art on the walls that had you gawping.
I'd left the house earlier with hardly any warm clothes, imagining somehow that it really was summer, and Jimmy had had a rupture en route, so as we departed the party there was a kind of vibration-off between us; me gently, subtly and easing off with each notch that I jacked up the heating. Jimmy meanwhile chuntered through the City like an out of work tractor looking for a field...I await the new part with baited breath.