Whisked Away to Fantasy Land

They were always rolled out on special occasions. We otherwise rarely saw them anywhere, even on the wells stocked shelves at the local supermarket. We knew about them from glimpsing the delicacies on a wheeled trolley in a posh tea rooms or behind the shiny glass of the chiller cabinet in a restaurant. Of course, we were looking on them from afar through the open door if we passed by on the street or sneaked a quick, envious look through the window before being chided by the waiting staff in a silent, scornful stare. Sometimes when visiting relatives in a far off town we would be treated to a dessert which was partly made out of that elusive stuff but well concealed by cream, strawberry sauce or my favourite of sticky toffee. At Christmas there would appear in the food cupboard a brightly coloured cardboard packaging on which we would be given express instructions not to touch or even go near. I was not able to resist a peek into the box in the weeks preceding the festivities. A clear and brittle plastic moulded tray housed the perfectly round, ice white nest-like confectionery. They would soon be unpacked and the central recess filled with fruit, jelly and whipped topping. Our Gran was skilled at producing her own versions. Perfectly dome shaped with a pointed crest swept up like a Teddy Boy's quiff. The texture was matt surfaced and in a certain light there would be a crystalline type sheen which glistened enticingly. They had been formed and baked on a greaseproofed covered tray so as to have a smooth and glossy base with no fissures or flaws whatsoever. We were never party to their actual creation in the kitchen in Gran's bungalow. It was a mystery to us as young children how any form of ingredients could combine to create something so special. In the few seconds when everyone was distracted by the presentation of the finished product in the dining room of the through lounge I slipped away into the kitchen in search of, well I was not really sure, but some evidence of alchemy, strange forces or even a portal into another world. All I could find in the pedal bin was a lot of broken egg shells and a tightly twisted empty bag of caster sugar. In the sink was a large Pyrex mixing bowl with a whisk and traces of a stiffened conglomeration of indeterminate form. At the sound of "oohs" and "aahhs" in the other room I suspended my inquisitiveness and dashed through so as not to miss out on the giving out of the treat. Carefully arranged on a silver platter there were, I counted, enough for one each and one over. Two halves had been adhered together by a thick application of a luscious cream filling. I grasped mine with both hands and out of sight of the others savoured the touch, smell and taste not wanting to actually eat it and lose that magical experience. I did of course eat it adopting the method of smashing the sugared halves and picking over the sweet shards. They made my teeth ache. The sticky, partly set inside was chewy and such a contrast to the crumbly and powdery shell. It was over much too quickly and I always, never got to eat the spare one on the platter. Such was my lifelong love of meringues. Imagine my delight and astonishment at finding the monster meringue shown below just today. I cannot imagine anything as pleasurable for just £2 on a thursday dinner time.

For the purposes of scale the meringue is on the bonnet of my car........................................