Muscovado sugar

I have multiple sugars in my cupboard. Demerara. Soft brown sugar. Castor sugar. Splenda diabetic sugar replacement (yuk). Granulated sugar, icing sugar, soft dark sugar, and the Gladiator of all sugars, muscovado. Light and dark, large packs of each. Muscovado packs a mean punch. I use it to make chocolate puddings, or it makes a fabulous crust on, well, pretty much anything - I have tried it round the outside of bread dough, I have coated stewed fruit in it, I used it to inject some personality into a generic chocolate mousse (no. It didn't work one bit. But it was fun trying). Today I used it to make a chocolate and banana loaf. The addition of muscovado has turned the sweetness into something treacly and wicked, and by wicked I do not mean calories. It is a Two-Fingers-Up-At-You sugar, and after my encounter at my local gym, this was the baking attitude I was after. I am a regular gym goer, even a bit obsessive - I go five times a week, of which I will swim once, take a boxing class once, do an abs class once, do an hour of cardio...you see what I mean. When it comes to gyms, I have been going for so long and so often, there isn't much equipment I haven't given a try. TRX. WTF? I know, but they work your glutes like no bosu ball ever will. Any idea what I'm talking about? No? Join a gym and you'll find out. It is a whole new world, and frankly, even the most inviting suburban affairs can be horribly intimidating. What is an overweight, blobby person meant to make of kettlebells, powerplates or electronic skipping ropes? But gym jargon is not the most intimidating factor. It's the people. There is this slightly inevitable culture in gyms, that you only go if you already look fabulous. This makes no logical sense of course but since when were gyms about logic?  I am in training at the moment for a charity run, something I need to take care over with my permanently damaged knee and newly mobile rebuilt foot, but I regard these as challenges to manage rather than obstacles to live with, something which elicits a weary sigh from my orthopaedic surgeon whenever I see him. But I am not stupid, and I don't run, I just jog, and I phase it, and today I decide to mix it up with an abs class that I spot is just about to start when I pitch up, fresh from a 15 minute stop/starter round the park. I walk in, join the group, and get going. It's a fast class, run by an unfeasibly young looking guy whose abs appear to be made of steel. Mine are too, it's just that they are protected by several layers of squishy cotton wool. My stamina at this class is good, I just sure as hell don't look the part. This becomes painfully obvious when the instructor asks us to pair off for the last set. There are 13 of us so we look at each other slightly warily. Immediately I clock that I appear to be the only woman there with a behind you can see, or indeed, boobs that move when I do. And everyone else there clocks it at the same time. The women on my left and right abruptly turn to their neighbour, and lo, Miss Fatty is left to do her set with the instructor. I get an excellent 1 to 1 set at which I work hard so it's a win win. But it makes me angry. It shouldn't, but find me someone who has been through the hell of teenage PE rejection, whose humiliating memories are not stirred up by this story. It doesn't make me want to tear up my membership or write angry letters to anyone. I am not rude to the women next to me who have chosen a stick insect clone to be their workout partner. I am just depressed that years later, the same snap judgements are alive and well at the one place where you should be able to build your confidence, not run a risk of having it flattened. I jog back home after the class, making a mental note to bring my Friends With Boobs to the next abs class I go to. And when I get home and I'm showered and ready to bake, well, you can see why I reached for the muscovado. Other people write complaint letters. I channel it into a damn fine banana bread.