Commitment Issues

Dear Herman,

I’m sorry it has to end this way – before its even started really – but I just don’t think this is going to work.  I know there was that weekend away at our mutual friends’ country place in Wiltshire where I flirted with you a bit and brought you back to my place in London.  I got swept up in your cinnamony, appley, moist, cakey goodness, I guess, but this really can’t be a long term thing.

Its me, not you.

I think it stems from the late ’80’s when Mum brought home that jar of Friendship Muffin starter.  They were great at first – big plumpy, fruit-filled muffins.  But then, the muffins never ended.  Ever.  Friendship Muffin starter took over and soon there were large wooden bowls of the stuff, lounging about under teatowels and bubbling away happily in its own sour pong in every warm corner of the house.  I can’t remember who eventually moved out first – us or him?

I guess I was emotionally scarred by that experience and although I’ll always wonder what you and I could have achieved in our baking partnership, I guess I just can’t commit.

Also, I’ve read about you online.  Like any modern girl, I Googled you after the first encounter and I found out what you were called.  I know all about you now.  Back in the ’70’s you were really popular and women passed you from kitchen to kitchen, where they fed you and cared for you.  But you can’t fool me – nowadays you’re not cool anymore and the only place you’re talked about is in naff places like Mumsnet.com and The Daily Mail.  They say that before you’re baked, you smell of old socks and that you take days to get ready.  Ten days in fact.  I just don’t have the time for you; I have a life to get on with and frankly, I don’t think my friends would like you.  You smell.

Someone explained you to a five year old recently.  She just frowned and shrugged, and then declared “That’s silly. Why don’t we just make a proper cake?  Then we can eat it today.”

Indeed.

So goodbye, Herman the German Friendship Cake.  I hope that you may continue to happily gurgle and bubble across the world for decades to come.  Really, I wish you well.  Just not in my kitchen.

With kindest regards

Mrs Harris

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