Everything was quiet indoors, only the crack of the fire every so often, and the click-click of the knitting needles, and my sighs. My sighs, you say? Well, yes, my sighs. Because I wasn't happy. I'd fallen into remembering, and that's a bad habit for a woman of fifty. I'd got a warm fire, a roof over my head and a cooked dinner inside of me, but was I content? Not I. So there I sat sighing over my gray sock, while the rain kept coming. After a time I got up to fetch a slice of plum cake from the pantry, nice and mature, fed with brandy. Cheered me up no end. →[More:]
mmmm. I read this passage today, and now I long to be cheered up no end by plum cake fed with brandy. Does anyone have a proper recipe for such a thing?
From a minor character in The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield; great book!