Fire and cake

I have long maintained that the North does a lot of things far better than the South. Two of these things are undoubtedly fire and cake: fire is always more welcome when you're freezing cold to begin with; cake involves stodge and fat, two Northern staples.

It is for this reason that I decided to spend Guy Fawkes' Night in the North. Standing near a bonfire in nearly-always-sweltering, always-orange-skyed London didn't seem that much fun, and so I headed up alongside some friends to a private bonfire we regularly used to politely gate-crash as teenagers.

My friend Lyndsey (her flickr stream is here) took some funky pictures:

 

My Dad, who has long refused to associate himself with anything with a hyperlink, made some parkin. I have never seen parkin in the south, and my Hampshireian boyfriend still has trouble pronouncing it's name or beleiving it exists. Parkin is basically an edible bonfire. It should be sweet, deep orange, spicy and stodgy. You should eat it outside in the freezing cold whilst you try and peer through the inevitable Northern drizzle at the fireworks. Basically it's the consolation for the bits of the bonfire where you're wholly wet and uncomfortable and not drunk yet. 

The recipe my Dad started with is here. He then doubled everything and, from what I can discern, poured in any left over treacle.

The stuff to the left is far too neat looking to be proper Parkin. It shouldn't be spongy, it should be so dense that when you swallow you can feel large blocks thumping into the bottom of your stomach. Consume with lots of very alcholic ginger beer.