love those cupcakes

Wake up and smell the cake

I love coffee. 

I love walnuts. 

I love cake. 

Put them all together and what do you get?

Well, obviously, a coffee and walnut cake. 

A perfect, 'made for each other' flavour combination (remember those coffee walnut whips, the ones with half a walnut on top and another inside?) in a soft, buttery sponge.

Unless, of course, you don't like coffee.  Or walnuts.  Or, heaven forbid, cake.

It happens to be one of my all-time favourite bakes.   (My mother preferred to marry dates with the walnuts in her cakes.)

I'm in good company.

This one was based on Mary Berry's recipe for an easy (and not overloaded with buttercream) traybake, a basic Victoria mixture with a couple of additions. 

Like Nigel, I always use instant granules and hot water for the coffee flavouring in both the cake and the buttercream. (Mary's recipe includes coffee essence which I assume means a bottle of Camp).

 

It went down a treat.

But then it always does.

 

Garden goings on

Returning home after the first walk of the day, the mister discovered an obviously stunned though apparently otherwise unhurt fledgling (a Great Tit?) on the paved area near the kitchen door. 

It was clearly unable to fly and so, with no parent bird in evidence and two cats showing some interest from inside the house, he moved it to a place of safety, namely the summerhouse roof. 

For a couple of hours or so, the casualty seemed to be sleeping.  Eventually, a couple of adult birds appeared and, when we next checked, the fledgling had disappeared

Unlike her sparring partner, Buzz, who can often be spotted executing impressive acrobatic moves up some tree or other, nosing in neighbouring front gardens or sauntering down the road, Bea doesn't stray far from home, much preferring to watch the world go by from the comfort of a sun warmed border or under a shrub.

All of the fish (four big ones, six little ones) in our pond  survived the winter.  A lot of the time they're hidden from view but feeding time can be quite lively.

Few of the new plants in the borders have escaped the attention of the abundance of snails we have here.  It probably doesn't help that I've chosen the sorts of plants which are vulnerable to attack - hostas, dahlias, miniature poppies, lupins - but some have been decimated.  I realise slugs, snails and other pests are part and parcel of gardening but do they have to be quite so greedy? 

At least the roses have fared a little better.  This is the first to flower and is deliciously fragrant though I haven't a clue about the variety.  Pink?  (Reminds me of the time my mother was telling my dad that one of her friends had bought a really flashy new car. 'What sort?' asked my motoring enthusiast dad.  'A red one'.)

And Boo?  Well, his balls just keep getting bigger.

 

And it's only Tuesday

• A surprise parcel in the post for the mister.

What could be inside, he wondered?

Surely not his favourite, cheese?

Aaaaaah!

• An evening with Kathy Lette in the central library as part of the town's literary festival.  

I'd only just discovered there was such a thing.  I mean, this is one of the most deprived areas in the country with very low levels of literacy in some parts so maybe not the most obvious setting for a week or so of literature and writing related events.  Whilst waiting for chatty Kathy to appear I realised the last time I was in this particular library was when I was 16 and meeting up with my best friend, who had a Saturday job there, in her lunch hour. (After leaving school she went on to be a proper librarian and we lost touch.) Funny how it seemed so much bigger back then.

• A couple of baked treats.  First out of the oven was a blueberry cake using this recipe but adding just a small punnet of blueberries and topped with a drizzle of lemon icing instead of sugar. Tasted mid morning with mugs of strong coffee.
  

Next, a batch of perfectly round cherry, chocolate and almond cookies, another variation of the oats based recipe (see below) which seems to go down well in this house. 

• A long lunch here with a friend where we caught up on each other's news and came up with a cure for the ills of the NHS.  Next month:  how to stop global warming.

 *   *   * 

 

Cherry, chocolate and almond cookies (amended from here)

Makes 12-14 decent sized cookies. 

1 cup plain flour (add a pinch of salt if using unsalted butter)

1/2 tsp bicarb of soda

1/2 cup soft butter

Scant 1/3 cup caster sugar

Scant 1/2 cup soft brown sugar

1 egg at room temperature

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 tsp almond extract (you could up this to 1tsp if you prefer a stronger almond flavour)

1 cup porridge oats

1/4 cup dark chocolate chips

Small packet (75g) dried cherries

Small handful of flaked almonds

Preheat oven to 180C/160C fan/gas mark 4 .

Sift together the flour and baking soda and set aside.

Cream together the butter and sugars until smooth.

Beat in the egg and both extracts.

Add the flour mixture in two batches and mix until fully incorporated.

Stir in the oats, cherries, chocolate and flaked almonds.  You should end up with quite a  stiff mixture.

Scoop rounded tablespoons of dough (I used an ice cream scoop) onto 2 parchment lined baking trays, placing well apart to allow for spreading. Bake for 10 minutes, switch sheets (alternate top/bottom and back/front) and bake for 6 more minutes or until the cookies are golden in colour.

Remove from the oven and immediately press the top of each cookie lightly with a metal food slice.  Leave for 2 mins then transfer to a cooling rack.

 

'I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise it won't be boring'.*

Resisting temptation, I didn't buy one of these yesterday. 

I'd travelled by rail from here in the north east to London for the day, to visit the David Bowie is exhibition at the V&A.

It didn't make up for never having seen him perform live (coulda, woulda, shoulda).

But it was probably the next best thing.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. 

Maybe a visual timeline of a remarkable career.

Which it is.

Yet it's so much more.

Yes, there's a big focus on Bowie's considerable creative output.

But there's also a strong sense of someone always concerned with the detail, of someone who always manages to retain control.

The exhibition, not unexpectedly, starts at the beginning, with Bowie's childhood, the defining influences (family members, music, literature, art, theatre) of those early days and the striving to just stand out. 

But then chronology goes out the window and we're taken all over the place.

So many of the exhibits are from the man himself. Clearly, decluttering hasn't featured much along the way and, fortunately for us, he's hung on to so much.

There are the iconic outfits (to fit the 26 and a half inch waist) for whichever persona.

There are the handwritten on sheets of lined notepaper song lyrics.

There are the ideas boards for album covers, for set designs, for a stage musical of 1984 (which apparently failed in getting the nod from Orwell's widow).

There are the paintings from his Berlin days and recovery from those times when cocaine was his fuel of choice.

There are the theatre and film clips (including that personal favourite, Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence).

There's the spectacular floor to roof wall of videos of some memorable performances (and the much missed Mick Ronson) surrounded by the actual costumes.

And always, courtesy of the nifty Sennheiser headsets, that unmistakeable voice and the music, such memory evoking music. 

If you do go to see the exhibition, expect to be in the company of large numbers of others (one big negative) as you experience each section and allow yourself much more than the V&A's suggested 90 minutes (it took me more than 3 hours to get round and I'm sure I didn't get to see everything).  Oh, and leave your camera at home as photography is verboten.

 

* David Bowie

Nosing around

There was an open gardens event in the market town up the road past Roseberry Topping at the weekend, to raise funds for our local hospice.  It was just £5 entry and the sun was shining so, of course, we joined in.

I love having a neb at other people's gardens and this gave us the opportunity to have a wander round 18 or so over the two days.  They were all shapes and sizes, from the tiny to the huge.  There were new gardens and long established ones, walled gardens, paved gardens, fruit and veg plots, meadows and wildflower areas, little fountains, wildlife ponds, a garden with a sheep and her two lambs and one with a lake complete with blue billed ducks and black swans (£150 each if you're interested in having your own). Some gardens had plant stalls (with very reasonable pricing) whilst others offered refreshments and at each one there was a welcoming owner gardener to put names to unrecognised plants, share top tips and offer advice. 

Returning home and surveying our own less than show stopping plot was a case of  'after the Lord Mayor's show' but we had some new plans, some new plants and some renewed motivation (which, I know, may be short-lived).   Oh yes, and after a short wait we had scones, eaten in the soon to be improved garden whilst they were still warm and topped with homemade jam and Jersey cream.

That was the weekend that was

It was a good one.  The Girlie and Boy were home for a couple of days.  Food featured a lot (buttery croissants and cherry jam, homemade pizzas, blueberry pancakes and maple syrup, peanut butter cookies, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, a vegetarian blowout at a favourite restaurant).  There was a trip into town to buy perfume and a book (shoes, too, but my size was sold out) and to browse sofas and chairs (a living room makeover is on the cards here).  We discovered a new farmers (used as an adjective so no apostrophe, right?) market at our local park where there were just a few stalls but hey, it's early days, definitely a step in the right direction and we did manage to buy chocolate (70% with caramelised marmalade for me and eaten far too quickly), duck eggs, cheese and an aquilegia plant.  The park itself (which I posted about here) was busy but there was plenty of open space. Boo, who tagged along, disgraced himself with an episode of exceptionally loud barking (seems he was objecting to having to wear his lead) and splodging (local word meaning splashing or wading, often wearing wellies) through a large and very muddy puddle.  (For more of our Smoggie dialect see here).

 

 

I love family weekends, me.