Breakfast pancakes.
Flowery gifts.
A delicious late lunch with perfectly chilled Prosecco, courtesy of the kitchen pixies who also washed up and tidied the kitchen afterwards.
Lounging with the papers, the latest novel and a box of chocolate gingers.
As my dad used to say, peel me another grape.
In answer to the question at the end of the previous post, yes, it could. And it did. Sort of.
Yesterday was the mister's birthday so, after he'd walked some of the dogs at the RSPCA shelter and opened his cards and presents, we popped up the road to Stokesley for a wander round and coffee stop. I'd forgotten it was market day so we stocked up on fruit (I bought Seville oranges with the maybe overly ambitious aim of having a go at marmalade making), veg and flowers. We took the scenic route back, through Great Ayton where the river was partially iced over and it was far too cold for an ice cream. The day finished with the three of us going out for celebratory pizzas, the birthday boy's supper of choice, and then home for cake (Nigella's buttermilk birthday cake).
Oh, I almost forgot. I also got red hair. How exciting is that?
When I was growing up, New Year's Eve night was spent, along with a couple of cousins, at my grandma and Aunty M's little house, waiting for my mum and dad and other relatives to return from their celebrations in the cocktail lounge at a hotel in town. One of my uncles, a railway porter and the only dark haired family member, was always first footer, after which the Christmas cake would be cut, served always with white Stilton cheese and accompanied by glasses of whisky for the men and sherry for the ladies. Then everyone trooped out to let in the new year at my aunts' houses in the same terraced street as grandma's, often by way of a conga, which we kids just loved.
I remember one New Year's Eve when I was about six, everyone congregated on the nearby marketplace, all facing the parish church. As the clock struck midnight, a figure dressed in a white robe appeared at the top of the church, between the two steeples, waving to the crowd. I learned many years later he was a returning missionary. On the night itself I was convinced we'd seen God!
Tonight will be just the three of us and a bottle of the fizzy stuff. (We had this particularly yummy one last night as the Girlie is returning home to Manchester today and no, we haven't won the lottery!)
As 2011 trickles away, I'd like to raise my virtual glass and wish you all a happy and healthy New Year. See you in 2012.
It seems to have taken no time at all for a shy little boy, lacking in self confidence,
to turn into a right clever clogs!
After being presented with the piece of paper that confirms he
we celebrated with pizzas all round.
***********
Two years ago on this day I had radical surgery following a diagnosis of a gynaecological malignant melanoma.
Two years.
Whilst that may be a milestone of sorts, there's no room for complacency as this is a cancer that has a nasty habit of coming back, anywhere, and, for that reason, I still have at least 3 monthly checks at the hospital.
In some ways, this "after" part is even harder, with every twinge and ache, every lump and bump, anything which might constitute "a change" becoming significant.
It's been described by others as being akin to driving whilst continuously looking in the rear view mirror.
I know what they mean.
But I'm trying really hard to live with the fear, to eat well, to walk more, to enjoy each day as it comes.
Today is Aunty M's birthday and this is her cake. It's a basic Victoria chocolate sponge with a ganache frosting, topped off with sugar flowers and a sprinkling of glitter.
Aunty is my (late) mother's sister, with a twenty year gap (and seven other siblings) between them. She's the unmarried one, the one who remained at home with my gran, the one who taught me to knit and embroider, the one who always made the picnics on family day trips, the one who always bought unusual birthday and Christmas presents, the one who worked in my parents' shop two nights every week to give them some free time, the one who took me to "the pictures" on Friday nights, the one I stayed with after my gran died, the one I was, and still am, very close to.
Aunty was an extremely skilful dressmaker (she did this for a living for many years) and made the most beautiful clothes without patterns. This came in very handy when I was in my teens and all of the latest fashions were only available in London and the other big cities. We'd spot an outfit on television or I'd show her what I wanted in a magazine (usually Petticoat), I'd then choose the fabric and she'd produce it very quickly. She made me skirts, dresses, jackets, coats (one being a spectacular long velvet number). I was often asked where I'd bought whatever it was I was wearing.
She still has her cabinet style sewing machine, which her parents and brothers and sisters clubbed together to buy for her 21st birthday, which was always stuffed full of the most gorgeous fabrics, buttons, zips and reels of cotton, and on which she created those fab outfits. Sadly, it hasn't been used for years and is now just a piece of furniture used to display family photographs.
Aunty is now the one I share memories of my original family and childhood with and we often indulge in those "Do you remember.....?" conversations when I visit each week. Here's to lots more reminiscing, birthdays and cake.
Thank you very much for your birthday messages.
The birthday cake.
The bunting, tablecloth, rug and cake band were made from sheets of icing (so all edible) which I used for the first time. The table was fashioned from rice crispie cakes, so similarly edible. As for the little figure, I couldn't find one with blonde hair, a fringe and black tights so you'll have to use your imagination.
As well as eating cake, there were cards (there's a picture of the largest below), flowers, gifts (including one of those Tiffany blue boxes), champagne, a visit to the beach, a ride in the reconditioned funicular, and lunch and dinner in our favourite local restaurants.
All I'm saying about this is, you shouldn't believe everything you read!
Transformation (hopefully) of the (very neglected) garden has (finally) started though it's undoubtedly going to be a case of getting worse (yet another tree has had to be chopped down) before looking better.
Apparently, it's my birthday tomorrow. (I'm trying hard not to focus too much on the number involved).
Cake will be expected.
Now I can't get that number out of my head.
A hundred and eleventy something or other.
Blimey.
Need.
Cake.
Now.
We helped the Boy celebrate his birthday (a little early, it's actually on Tuesday but the Girlie and her Betrothed were here for the weekend). It started with a meal at one of our favourite vegetarian restaurants last night. I forgot to take my camera so no pictures. For starters we shared lemony hummus, mushroom, cashew and basil pate and warm Moroccan mash, all with homemade bread. Then I had the restaurant's own butternut squash and sunblush tomato sausages (which had been trialled recently at Glastonbury) served with mash, buttered cabbage and a white wine liquor, followed by a deliciously sticky marmalade Bakewell tart and ice cream.
Today the candles and sparklers were lit and we had the cake.
I used Nigella's buttermilk birthday cake recipe (which I strongly recommend for flavour and moistness) and lemon curd buttercream frosting (coloured a subtle blue). Of course, there was a liberal sprinkling of glitter which probably wasn't to the soon-to-be Birthday Boy's taste but hey, what's a birthday cake without the sparkly stuff? I also added some giant silver balls which, I must say, took some crunching. Probably no bad thing, then, that I have a dental check-up tomorrow.
When I was born my mother had already decided I was going to be called Elaine, for no reason other than she liked the name. She learned I was Elizabeth four days later when my dad presented her with my birth certificate after an unaccompanied visit to the Registry Office.
He told me years later that he always regretted not adding my mother's name (Jane) as a middle one for me. Whilst I've always quite liked the name Elizabeth, my original surname was similarly lengthy with 10 letters and 3 syllables, and saying my name when I was younger always seemed a bit of a gobful. I certainly didn't miss a middle name.
Although my mother's name was Jane, most people (but not my dad) called her Jennie. My dad was James Henry but, originally as a mark of respect for an uncle who was killed in the war shortly after he (my dad, that is) was born, he was Harry to everyone thereafter. Apart from the bloke in the garage where he bought all his cars and had them serviced who for some reason always called him Les. My dad never corrected him. He used to say he would answer to anything as long as it wasn't a swear word.
My name was shortened to Liz when I was at grammar school although my teachers never referred to me as anything other than Elizabeth. In the second year there we went through a phase in my group of friends of calling each other by our reverse names. (Did anyone else do the same or were we just daft?) This worked better for some, like my friend Irene who thus became, and remained, Eneri. Whenever she came to our house, though, my parents insisted on calling her Henry. Needless to say my own Htebazile didn't last long and I don't remember my mum and dad ever going along with it.
I morphed into Lizzy when I went to the local college of further education to do my A levels. It seemed to fit the image at the time and is the name the mister (whose own first name was his mother's maiden name) got to know me as. I was always Lizzy to my brother and I have friends from those days who still call me that. Now, I mostly switch between Liz and Elizabeth, answering to either. Occasionally, I decide which one I'm going to be. Like the other day when we had to introduce ourselves at an exam board. I just said "Today, I'm Elizabeth". Keeps people on their toes.
Choosing a name for our Girlie was no easy matter, even with the book, but we agreed on the Russian spelling of an ancient Greek name. When number two child was about to be born, I loved and championed the name Araminta but was overruled. It turned out to be no bad thing as baby turned out to be of the blue variety. We decided to give him a moniker with rather more festive connections.
If I had to choose a name for myself I'm not sure which one I'd pick.
I'd probably stick with the one I've got.
What about you? Given the choice, would you switch or stick?
I was only half heartedly interested in The Wedding shenanigans but found myself being drawn in on the day itself. I loved the dress, cried at the music and relished the pomp and spectacle.
Our young neighbours were keen to organise a street party and we felt obliged to contribute, hanging bunting from the trees and baking for the buffet. I wasn't sure about joining in but we've had a brilliant time, sharing food and drink and getting to know the people who live nearby. A right royal day.
