It seemed like a good idea at the time. As Mrs Bubbles Champagne-Charlie sank her teeth into a rum baba at an Edinburgh restaurant, she made the most dreadful face.
'This,' she said, in between grimacing, looking like Delia Smith with constipation, 'is not what a rum baba should taste like.'
So as we toured around the Scottish capital in an open-topped bus with the Putters, the Champagne-Charlies and Mrs Bancroft, the Enchanted Village Rum Baba Contest was duly launched.
And here we are now, at Mrs Bancroft's, with a raft of rum babas to test. I haven't entered the competition because my competitiveness is such that I won't enter anything I don't stand a chance of winning. So I've done pears in cider instead.
At our blind tasting, the fragrant Mrs Putter's rum babas stand head and shoulders above the rest, as far as looks go. We have a nibble on Pelly Sheepwash's entry and then try the ones made by Bubbles.
He is crowned the Rum Baba King and then we all settle down to watch Homeland and I resist letting slip the ending, having succumbed to reading the plot synopsis on the internet. Only six more episodes to go. And a rum baba with each one.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
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