The Baking Life of Amelie Day (5 page)

I tell them that I feel the same things as everybody else – happiness, sadness, pain (although maybe more of that than your average kid), excitement, boredom, hunger (on a good day). On a day-to-day basis I guess I pretty much feel the same things in the same way as the other teenagers in my class.

‘But what’s it like not knowing if you’re going to reach adulthood?’ some people say. ‘What about making plans and stuff? And university.’

I look them in the eye.

‘Most of the kids in my class don’t have a clue what they want to do when they leave school,’ I say. ‘And actually, I do know. I want to bake.’

I can see by their doubtful expressions that they don’t believe this, but I need to sound strong and positive about everything or else I’d curl up under my duvet and never come out again.

I sigh and sit up. It’s obviously going to be one of those nights where thoughts whirl around in my head and stop me from sleeping.

The thought of whirling leads me to think about Viennese whirls. I scribble a few ideas down onto a pad. Classic strawberry jam-filled whirls, I reckon. Made with really good flour and country butter, home-made jam from my cupboard and dusted with icing sugar. Or maybe I might experiment with chocolate whirls instead, sandwiched together with smooth, sweet chocolate buttercream and dipped in hot dark melting chocolate so that half the biscuit is plain and half dipped.

Then I remember my blog. I reach under the sofa and slide out my laptop to log on.

There are another six replies to my first posting!

Five of them are from people offering biscuit recipes. The sixth is from some girl wishing me good luck with the competition.

I scan down the recipes and my mind starts to buzz with chocolate drops and vanilla essence and great luscious big chunks of fudge.

I feel all inspired so I click on the menu bar on my blog and select ‘new post’. Then I tuck my legs up under my duvet and balance the laptop on my knees. This is what I write:

Hi, it’s Amelie here – the girl who bakes. Wow – I’m really amazed to come on and find these brilliant biscuit recipes. I promise I will try them all out when I’ve got the time and energy. That’s not supposed to sound wet. The thing is, I kind of suffer from an illness and it saps a lot of my strength. That’s why I bake – because I am supposed to try and fatten myself up as much as possible in order to stay alive. Plus I just love baking – it’s my favourite thing in life, other than Harry (boyfriend) and my BF Gemma. Anyway, you know I wrote last time about that competition in London? The one I’ve been selected for? The thing is – I’m too sick to go. Or at least my Mum reckons I am. So I’m drowning not just in mucus (sorry, TMI!) but in disappointment at the moment. But anyway, please carry on sending me your recipes. Any good, sticky cake recipes with a twist would be good. Have any of you ever attempted a chocolate fondant? If not, go and look it up and try to make it. Post a photo online if you can. It’s kind of a challenge to get the middle bit runny and not too firm. So I’m signing off now, but I’ll post an update of what’s happening in my ever-changing life soon. Amelie x

For the first time all week I feel the prick of something resembling appetite.

I lurch up and stagger into the kitchen.

The clank of pans and me banging into cupboards brings Mum downstairs all prepared to be cross, but when she sees me stirring a pan of rich scrambled eggs and frying up crispy bacon to scatter over the top, she grabs a plate and sits down.

‘Ages since I had a midnight snack,’ she says. ‘It will sit on my hips all night, but who cares?’

She’s grinning. I can see that she’s relieved that I’m starting to want to eat savoury stuff again. It’s usually a good sign.

‘Mum?’ I say, spooning the creamy eggs onto her plate and sprinkling the salty shreds of bacon on top. I grind black pepper onto my egg before I add the bacon. Then I put a strong pot of tea in the middle of the table and pour full-fat milk into cups. ‘If I get better this week, could we talk about London again?’

Mum puts down her fork.

‘Amelie,’ she says, ‘I’ve discussed this with your father. We really don’t think that any time spent in London is going to be any good for your health at all, and your health is our priority.’

I pull a sulky face and shovel in forkfuls of bright yellow egg. The free-range ones are always this sunshine-yellow colour, like the chickens have spent many happy hours pecking about in sun-lit grass. The bacon is a brilliant contrast – sharp, salty and with a nice fatty aftertaste. I’ve served the bacon and eggs on soft home-made brown bread with loads of butter. Dad says that my cooked breakfasts are the best in the world and I reckon he might just be right.

‘Can’t we see how I am in a couple of weeks and make a decision then?’ I wheedle, pouring Mum a steaming hot cup of tea. ‘We don’t have to decide now, do we?’

Mum screws her mouth up. I know she finds it really hard to say no to me. I can almost see the two different sides of her head arguing with each other – the one who wants to encourage me to follow my dream versus the one who promised Dad and the doctors to look after me and make sure I didn’t get worse.

‘Look,’ I say, stuffing down more eggs and bacon. ‘Appetite back. See? And I feel loads more energetic!’

That’s a complete lie. My chest feels heavy and sore and I’m exhausted.

Mum yawns and stands up.

‘Well, I don’t,’ she says. ‘It’s one o’clock. I suggest we both try and get some sleep. You said you wanted to go back to school in the morning. But I’m sorry – as far as London goes, my decision still has to stay the same.’

My heart sinks towards the blue tiled floor.

‘That’s right, leave me with all the washing up,’ I mutter, but not loud enough for her to hear me. My mess – I need to clear it up. That’s one of the many rules in this house.

‘I hate you, CF,’ I say to my illness as I haul myself up the stairs to reunite with my bed. ‘Why do you always have to spoil everything?’

I haven’t even done my lung clearing yet.

I take a good snort of my special steroid inhaler to help with lung inflammation and to relieve tightness in my chest. Then I have to do my physio. When I was little Mum had to do the physio on me every single day, whacking me on the back and shoulders and tapping me on the sides in a special way so that all the gunk would come out of my lungs. Now that I’m older I do my own physio by doing special controlled breathing exercises, but I still get a lot of chest infections and I’ve missed loads of time at school because I can’t stop coughing and feeling out of breath.

I do forty minutes of tedious exercises and then I lie in bed feeling sad a while longer and then the next thing I know it’s morning and Harry has just texted to say he’ll walk me to school if I’m going in.

Harry.

Thank goodness for kind, sweet, handsome romantic Harry.

He’s kind of my salvation.

Totally Moreish Cheese Straws

To make 12, you will need:

A little bit of butter or margarine
100g (3 ½ oz) plain flour
A pinch of salt
A pinch of cayenne pepper or mustard powder
50g (1 ½ oz) butter straight from the fridge, chopped into little bits
1 egg yolk
50g (1 ½ oz) strong cheddar cheese, grated (the larger the flakes of grated cheese, the better)
Some iced water
1 tablespoon of grated Parmesan (optional)
A pinch of dried sage or rosemary (optional)

First you need to heat up the oven to 200°C (390°F/gas mark 6). Grease a baking tray with some butter or margarine.

Sieve the flour, cayenne/mustard powder and salt into a bowl. If you’re into herbs you could sprinkle in some dried sage or rosemary at this stage too. Add the cubes of butter and rub it all in with your fingertips, until you are left with a bowl of what looks like breadcrumbs.

With a spoon, mix in the egg yolk and the grated cheddar cheese and add a small amount of the iced water (you can chill it in the freezer in a bottle just before you need it). With your hands, knead the mix into a smooth ball of dough. Put this in some cling film and leave it in the fridge for about 10 or 15 minutes.

Put some flour on a board or work surface and also on your rolling pin. Roll out your dough into a rectangle which is about 4 or 5 millimetres thick. Then get a sharp knife and divide the rectangle into 12 long equal pieces.

Put them on the baking tray and into the hot oven for about 12 minutes until golden and slightly puffed up. You can sprinkle them with Parmesan if you like (I don’t) and then put them on a wire rack to cool down. Or you can scoff them straight from the oven, like I do. And be warned – once you’ve eaten one, you will have to eat another! That’s because they are so moreish. IF you manage to resist, you can store them in an airtight tin or jar for a couple of days.

Chapter Six

‘Ow,’ I say. I rub at the sore area on my chest where you can just see the outline of my portacath beneath the skin. The portacath was put in over a year ago. It lives under my skin on my chest and it makes it easier for the nurses to get treatments into a tube and pumped fast into my body.

I’m at the special CF centre. It’s a bit like a hospital, but it’s only for people with CF. There’s a whole team of people here to help people like me. As I got diagnosed when I was a tiny baby, I’ve been coming here forever and know everybody in the building. There’s Mr Rogers, the consultant who’s in charge of my health. Then there’s Trisha, the nurse. She does things like pump antibiotics into my portacath when I’ve got a chest infection and she takes special swab samples from me every few weeks to check that I’m not getting a new infection. People with CF get loads of colds and coughs, same as everybody else, but if I get one it can turn into something nastier and make my lungs even more rubbish than they already are. So if I even get the slightest trace of a sniffle, Mum whips me into the CF centre and gets Trisha to take a sample. If the results come back that I’ve got an infection, I’m pumped full of extra strong antibiotics, sometimes for many months. Trish also comes to our house if I’m feeling really ill. Mum and Trish are more like friends now, she’s been part of our lives for so long.

I also see quite a lot of Diane. She’s the dietician who advises me what to eat and when. There’s Fiona, the social worker who helps Mum with school issues and tells her how to claim the special allowance she’s entitled to for looking after me. And then there’s Tom, the physiotherapist. He taught Mum how to treat me at home with her hands to help loosen all the stubborn mucus in my chest. Two years ago he taught me how to do something called autogenic drainage which I can do on my own at home so that Mum doesn’t need to get so involved with my physio any more. For this I have to lie on my back on my bed and do three special sorts of breathing: unsticking, collecting and evacuating the mucus out of my battered lungs. The noises I make while I am doing it are not pretty. I’m supposed to do it twice a day but I always fall out with Mum because I tend to, erm, forget. Or life gets in the way. Or I don’t really want Gemma coming round in the middle of it, even though she’s really good about the whole CF thing.

Or worst of all, I might have a batch of muffins to take out of the oven.

Flour Power!

***

So I’m at hospital having my portacath flushed through. I have to have this done every month to make sure that it doesn’t get clogged or else my antibiotics can’t get into my system. It feels a bit uncomfortable but the main issue is that I just get so bored waiting for it all to be finished.

I’m in a room of my own. People with CF have to be very careful not to infect one another. That sucks. It’s bad enough being in hospital so often without being able to speak to people your own age who might just understand what you’re going through.

I’ve got a pile of food magazines on my lap and I’m leafing through the latest recipes by Jamie, Nigella and Gordon, whilst trying not to notice what’s going on in my chest.

‘She’s been more poorly this month than she’s been for years,’ Mum is saying to the consultant who’s just come into the room. I’ve known Mr Rogers for years, ever since I was about six. I still don’t really understand why the consultants here are called ‘Mr’ and not ‘Doctor’ even though they ARE doctors, but I’ve got used to it now.