Read The Baking Life of Amelie Day for Free Online

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