Rhubarb, rhubarb

Today I learnt the fundamental lesson. Not only am I not a sweet tooth - in fact, I can't imagine a day when I'd ever pick cake over salami or cheese - but I also, therefore, am a totally cack-handed baker. I can follow a recipe with clockmaker's precision, I can rub shortbread pastry until my fingers are raw and read macaroon and cupcake blogs until they're are coming out my ears. I will never, ever, be able to bake a truly successful cake.

As demonstrated today as I tried to recreate the yummy rhubarb tart I had a couple of weeks ago at Pâtisserie Paul.

I channelled every ounce of Frenchness I could muster, massaged my rhubarb like a rich lady in a beauty spa, whispered sweet nothings into the dough as I kneaded my pate brisée and it still went balls up. And I know its not the recipe I followed that was the problem. But never a to do. The gods of baking look unfavourably upon me.

Still, burnt crust aside, what I salvaged was at least edible. If a tad watery. Oh rhubarb, I love you so, why oh why will you not be nice to me in a tart!!!

Thank heavens I get to drown my sorrows over a plate of duck rillettes and a good Riesling at La Trouvaille.