I could taste the second picture and it’s giving me severe flashbacks. Don’t get me wrong, English breakfast is great, just not for 6 consecutive days! And the coins are heavy, but I liked having them around. Skipping down the street as they jiggled and clattered in my pockets was as if bells decorated an otherwise silent day.

I lift the makeshift cornstarch puff and jiggle it over the plastic mat. A gentle blanket of powder floats down to form a thin dry layer. It reminds me of snow. I press a finger down and leave an imprint, the lines of my index glaringly imperfect - like a shoe print in fresh clean snow. Still musing, the puff is jiggled repeatedly till the surface is lined with wafer layers of cornstarch. The oblong block of fondant feels sticky and cold in my palms. I knead it quite unnecessarily vigorously. I enjoy the elasticity of the sugary dough, the way it stretches and tears, pliable and ever changing. Once manageable, the fondant gets wiped with lines of maroon food colouring. I pretend I'm bleeding out while kneading out three hues, each darker than the last. The true fun begins with shaping the first bud. A tiny ball rolled between palms extends into a cone. A petal is gently furled and angled over the cone, ends tucked in to mimic a closed rose bud. The edible petals are thinned and curled, more fragile than real flowers. They're laid in line, imperfect and perfect at the same time. There is a deep sense of accomplishment when the roses are finished. I have gotten cornstarch and scraps of paste on myself and the table. It is a wonderful mess, a beautiful chaos. #amberlicakes