One MIA baker...

'where did she go?'

A brief hiatus from whisking and folding this week.  After handing in the first two of three big essays last Friday I rusticated myself from sweet Bloomsbury, armed with a suitcase of books, highlighter pens and MacBook to spend some much-needed quality time with my Mamacita here on the Canarian island of Lanzarote. 'Tough life' you sniff, and I concur. The sound of the waves crashing in and the smell of intensely saline ocean spray is indeed restorative after the cacophany of my little urban bayleywick back in London, not to mention the gaggle of noisy undergrads in the library. Yes, I'm the archetypal grumpy grad student, irascible and easily ired with the bright young things of today...

Anyway, after twenty years of coming to this place, rather uncharitably referred to by some Brits as 'Lanzagrotty', it constantly surprises me how invigorating the island is. Must be something about the volcanic nature of it. The air is dry like the desert, and the water's crystal clear - if you have hunter-gatherer inclinations the ocean's replete with bream, bass and other aquatic wonders. Just wish I knew how to catch them (note to self - next time bring a fishing rod.) Seriously, my parents have a house here and it feels more like home than anywhere else. Free of distractions, noise and fanfare, I wouldn't dream of trading in this place for the Greek Islands or any of the other trendy Mediterranean hotspots. There is something unvarnished and really down-to-earth about Lanzarote, which is why some people love it and others don't really get it and choose to spend their holidays in Bermuda.

But enough quatsch.  One fat law essay on geographical indications awaits, so tally ho and all that. After this essay nonsense is over, a big chocolate Guinness cake is in the offing. Think baking with booze could be a theme for summer 2009's scandilicious baking experiments...