My husband and I decided to go to the university sports centre this week for some rock climbing. It was his first time, and we didn’t want to wait for the next intro class, so we had a private class with one of their climbing instructors.
I appreciated the review — I’ve only climbed once recently and felt a little rusty — and I got to climb repeatedly while my husband practiced belaying. I went slowly as the instructor chanted, “Vee, to the knee, one, two, three …” with each belaying motion. It was delightful to scamper up the wall, and I had to hold back to avoid launching myself off the top (rappelling is the best part!).
As the hour ended I reluctantly took off my climbing harness and we went with the instructor to fill out the paperwork declaring us safe to climb on our own. We have a number of nearby climbing walls to explore, and I’m suddenly excited at the prospect of a new active hobby that we can do together. (Because despite loving tango more than anything, it’s hard to go weeks between each fix and have to drive hours to find a good milonga.)
A couple nights later, I rewarded myself for all that exercise with a night of baking. I have been eying a recipe for swiss cake rolls (my favorite guilty pleasure when I visit the US) but only recently got all the necessary equipment — I had gotten rid of my baking sheet in Germany because it didn’t fit in our comically small oven, and I finally got a new one. (Thanks, Mom!)
I can now empathize with all those bakers on the Great British Bake Off whose swiss rolls just wouldn’t … roll. The cake seems so soft and pliable, but as you start rolling it seems to have a tantrum and either breaks or refuses to do more than a single loop. That said, even the monstrous-looking cakes tasted heavenly, and I already regret sending half of them with my husband to work.