Boston Cream Pie

I have a stressful job. I may not run a hedge fund or be an Olympic skier, I'm not a humanitarian navigating ungoverned spaces to deliver vital medicines, nor am I a postman (not stressful? My postman knocked on my door last week with blood streaming down his right leg after a particularly vicious bite from a resident dog). But still, my work has peaks of stress and this last peak has gone on for so freakin' long - 8 weeks and counting - that it is turning alarmingly into a very high plateau. Not helped of course by the daily low level stress associated with commuting on overstuffed underground trains etc etc. OK end of moan. Everyone has their way of dealing with peaks of stress - alcohol, long hot baths, whatever. No prizes for guessing my rescue remedy. It is not at all unusual for me to come in through the door, drop my bag by the stairs, head to the kitchen still in my work clothes, grab an apron and some flour and be elbow deep in bread dough within minutes. No question, this is my way of taking back control from a working day that has spiralled up and up, so many people involved in the busyness that I am limited in my means to bring it back within manageable perspective. But baking a loaf of bread? That is all about perspective. Pop it in the oven and serenity is restored. This last week or two though, even the bread hasn't quite done it. Without thinking about it, my baking has got increasingly, well, gooey. I've edged closer and closer to puddingy comfort, without really being conscious of it. And recently, I hit comfort baking gold. A particularly wearing day saw me head to the kitchen ready to make a nice dinner. But instead of taking out the ingredients, something clicked in my brain and I pulled out milk, flour, cornflour, butter, chocolate and cream. I stirred and combined and mixed and folded. I made the most heavenly smelling custard - light and yellowy white and smooth and utterly beautiful. I had to wait for it to cool and during that 20 minutes I just stood over the custard, staring at it and stirring it, before finally covering it with clingfilm and setting it aside. I made a milky, buttery, robust sponge and when it was out of the oven, I sliced it carefully in half, horizontally. And piled the custard on one half, and placed the other half on top. And then I combined double cream and dark chocolate and stirred, carefully, mesmerised by the consistency. It was so smooth and glossy I could practically see my face in it. When it was done, I poured it over the top of the cake. Ta-da. One Boston cream pie for dessert.  Baked potatoes and salad for dinner - pretty much all there was time left to make (thank goodness for potatoes and microwave ovens).  And when we got to dessert it was demolished in seconds by my jaw dropped family. I didn't eat it. I didn't really need to. I just wanted to make it. The actions required to achieve each stage of the creation of something so wonderfully comforting restored all of my equanimity, beyond what any glass of Rioja could do. Though the glass I had with the potato was very nice, thanks.