love those cupcakes

Is it just me?

• I much prefer cooler weather.  Actually, the colder the better (hence the Antarctic adventure earlier in the year).  Ideally with a layer of snow.  Or a crisp frost.  Or an early morning mist.   

 

• I could eat a whole freshly baked blackberry and apple pie.  Maybe not in one go though I haven't put it to the test. Yet. 

 

• I used to be completely useless at identifying national flags.  Apparently I still am.

 

• I can't stop adding to the notebook pile.  The latest is from Orla Kiely and will be used for writing, well, I'm not sure what.  Maybe the novel that's been in my head for the last 10 years or so.  Or maybe I'll just produce prettier shopping lists.

 

• I can't abide people who don't know how to eat properly (or, if they do, choose not to).  You know, the ones who grasp cutlery like shovels or hold their knives and forks limply instead of using straight forefingers and with the fork tines and knife blade edge facing down.  Or those who chomp with their mouths open.  Or slurp their drinks.  And don't get me started on the 'I've finished eating, thank you' cutlery positioning.  Sheesh. 

 

• I love long soaks in the bath.  At least once a day but always just before bed.   Just plain water and soap, no bubbly additives.  The other night I was happily splashing about when I noticed I was still wearing a bra.

 

• I like to order DVDs every now and again but when they arrive I can't remember why I bought them and they usually turn out to be absolute tripe.  The blurb on the cover of the latest purchase sounds alright-ish but I have no idea why I chose it or how I found out about it.

 

• I salute lone magpies.  Always.  It's unlucky not to, so they say.  But there are so many around here, people must think I'm barmy, saluting all over the place. And then what about the ones I inappropriately salute, the ones which turn out not to be on their own but are part of a duo for joy or a trio for a girl?  Is that still lucky?

 

• I used to spend my birthday money on short skirts, tailored coats and long leather boots (which kind of makes me sound like a lady of the night but be assured I'm not).  Now it's wellies and padded jackets. 

 

• I love baking, much more than producing meals, always have since my dad, the family cook, showed a 7 year old me and my friend, Marian, how to make currant buns.  I find the whole process of measuring, mixing, rubbing in, rolling, folding, beating and timing so calming, however frazzled the morning or the day or the week has been.   There are sometimes failures, of course there are, like this week's lemon drizzle loaf which sank spectacularly (there was more sinkhole than cake) and ended up in the bin.  But mostly the biscuit and cake tins get stocked with something edible at the end of a session and we get to munch on a few freshly baked treats (there have been banana choc chip pecan muffins and chocolate peanut butter cookies since the lemon cake fiasco) because a mug of coffee is just too wet without one.

 

But it can't be just me, can it?

 

 

 

The old ones are the best

There isn't the same compulsion to 'do' something on a bank holiday weekend when you don't have a job or regular commitments and when pretty much every day feels like a holiday.  But we noticed there was a classic car show being held just up the road from here, in the field behind the village pub, aiming to raise funds to buy a scanner for one of the smaller local hospitals.  So, leaving the Boo in charge of the cats, off we went. 

Both my dad and my brother were passionate about cars.  Although by the time I came along he aways bought new cars (every 51 weeks, for some reason, and mostly from a garage where they called him Les though his name was Harry), my dad was more interested in what was going on under the bonnet, never happier than sorting out a dodgy clutch, diagnosing the cause of that strange knocking sound with the help of a Haynes manual or going to the scrapyard to pick up some spare part or other which 'might come in handy'.  

My brother, who never owned  or drove a car because of a lifetime of living with epilepsy, was more interested in the design and the marques, particularly American ones.  He used to build model cars, some with petrol powered engines, spending hours and hours gluing and spray painting and sprinkling some powdery stuff from little bottles that, once set, magically (or so it seemed at the time) resembled car upholstery.  He even travelled to the US occasionally to buy kits which weren't available here and ended up with a substantial collection (which one day, without giving a reason, he gave away) and an article about him in a Pittsburgh newspaper.

The weather on Sunday was perfect for spending time outdoors and the car show was already busy when we arrived (after a quick visit to the market and the purchase of one of the tastiest sourdough loaves I've ever eaten).

With many more entries to walk around than we were expecting, there were some once familiar names

and cars like some of the ones my dad used to own (though his always displayed an RAC badge and he never ever chose red),

 cars like the one I used to wish my dad owned,

cars like the one the son of one of my dad's friends drove which I always hoped I'd be offered a ride in but never was,

 cars which look quirky even today, 

cars with babies,

 cars with Equity cards,

cars with iconic ornaments on their bonnets.

 The mister was reminded of his days driving round town on two wheels,

I imagined life after the big lottery/premium bonds win,

and others just wished it was time to go home,

 which all too soon it was.

I love a classic car show, me.

 

Life lately in verbs

Watching  Frances Ha.  This was on my 'to watch' list so I took advantage when the Boy told me it was available on Netflix.  Filmed entirely in black and white, this is, well, it's a genuinely lovely (I can't think of a more appropriate adjective) film about 27 year old dancer Frances. She has a less than perfect life: no money, no proper job, no boyfriend, shares a Brooklyn apartment with her best friend, Sophie, who moves out. Throw in a decent soundtrack (Frances leaping through the New York streets to David Bowie had me wanting to join in) and you have one of those films that has you caring about the main character, wishing she was your friend and wanting to watch the whole thing over again.  If you like lots of action and a gripping storyline, this probably isn't for you.  I loved it.  

Reading Carol (the story of an affair between Therese,  a nineteen year old seasonal sales assistant and thirty year old about to be divorced Carol, which then turns into the kind of thriller we usually associate with Patricia Highsmith) and The Unknown Bridesmaid  (about Julia, her present as a child psychologist and some of the young people she works with, and her own troubled, guilt inducing, shameful past).  Two very different reads but both recommended. 

Buying a new and rather expensive lipstick (my absolute favourite makeup item and one of my desert island essentials) which looked perfect when I tested it on my hand in the shop but turns out to be an entirely different colour with a peculiar texture. 

Enjoying a free bottle of prosecco with our Friday night pizzas.  

Remarking how much better something tastes when you don't have to pay for it.

Noticing the colours beginning to change in the park and in the garden. I always associate the autumnal palette with my mother, maybe because she had gloriously auburn hair, maybe because she always had vasefuls of those huge copper coloured chrysanthemums for her birthday in October. 

Wondering where the fish went.  We have a pond in the garden which, at the last count, was home to twelve fish.  This week just two have been spotted.

Thinking maybe H is for heron.

Picking brambles from the plentiful bushes just round the corner from here early one morning.

Baking a pie with fruity pickings and almond pastry. 

Day tripping at Brimham Rocks.  Rock formations that resemble sitting dogs, gorillas, ET, stunning views, heather and bilberries, constantly changing light and weather that, at times, was nothing short of wuthering, a picnic (the first in ages) enjoyed in the car to escape all of that wutheringness (if that isn't a real word, it should be).  Wonderful.

Eating birthday cake.  My own.  Yep, another year older and very happy and grateful to be so.

  

Summer bites

Our menus don't seem to change much between the seasons though I suppose we avoid the more robust casseroles with dumplings and sponge puddings with custard during the warmer months.  But I've been trying several new recipes lately including this sweet potato and mango salad.  I added a sprinkling of pumpkin seeds for a bit of crunch and used coconut oil instead of olive, and, I must say, it made a deliciously tangy and colourful lunch. 

Then there was this chocolate peanut butter banana bread, for coffee breaks in between sweeping the ever present piles of dead leaves in the garden, which, predictably, I cut into long before it had cooled and, believe me, melting vegan marg just isn't the same as melting butter.

To use up some of the bargain blueberries I bought yesterday in the excellent fruit and veg shop next door to my hairdresser's salon, I tried yet another muffin recipe, though left out the cinnamon, subbed almond extract for the vanilla (because almonds and blueberries are perfect partners), added a sprinkling of lemon zest and demerara and made them full-sized rather than mini.  I find I'm using coconut oil in most recipes these days, both savoury and sweet, and am getting through jars of the stuff.  If you haven't tried it yet, it comes in the form of a white solid but quickly melts to a clear liquid and is so subtly flavoursome.  Great as a moisturiser, too.

(That isn't the world's largest lemon in the picture, by the way, just a teeny weeny Christmas cracker gift grater.)

Of course, the Boo hasn't been left out and his usual bone shaped treats have turned into fish.  Oven baked with Edam and Gouda, according to the bag.

 And that's about as exciting as it's been here lately.

 

Fresh air

When I was growing up, it didn't do to breathe in too deeply, surrounded as we were by industry (we're not called Smoggies for nothing) and everywhere and everything coated in a layer of black gritty dust.  But times have changed, the iron and steel and most of the chemicals are long gone and we now live on the edge of town with ready access to fields and lungfuls of properly fresh air.

Instead of turning right as we left the house for a walk the other day, we turned left, away from the little park and down the lane towards open countryside. 

The Boo was happy to lead the way though always chivvying to stop dawdling with the camera and just get a move on.

 Past the farm

and along the cornfield

with a familiar landmark always visible in the distance.

 

Stopping every now and again to watch the wildlife going about its business

and to nibble the ripening brambles

before veering off the pathway and plunging through the trees and undergrowth

to the edge of the lake.

Many local people don't know this exists, it's so well hidden.

Originally a trout lake, it formed part of the Grey Towers estate, once the home of Arthur Dorman of Dorman Long fame.  His old house is now luxury apartments.

 Yes, there he is,

and his family, too.

Then it was just a matter of hopping over the stile, 

 walking through the sheep field

and down the road towards home.

I love spending a couple of hours breathing in the fresh air, me.

 

Random snippets

• With one vegan (it's now six months) and two vegetarians here, we eat differently a lot of the time. One evening, I made a simple tart for the others with readymade puff pastry, pesto, spinach, tomatoes, olives, mozzarella and basil (or basically anything I could find in the fridge or on the window ledge).  It certainly looked okay before baking.  As they tucked in, I asked 'How is it?', as I usually do if I can't have a taste.  'Doughy,' replied one. 'Raw,' said the other.  Sheesh, some people can be so picky.

• The older I get (and as I watch Aunty M struggle to put one foot in front of the other these days) the more aware I am of the necessity to keep everything moving.  As I was growing up I was never what you'd call sporty.  Yes, I enjoyed playing street games but at school I detested PE and sports. At my all girls grammar school it was hockey in winter (I always opted for left or right back as there were few goals scored and in those positions you could more or less guarantee a lot of hanging about and gossiping with the other back), with netball, tennis and track events featuring in summer (I was completely disinterested and absolutely useless at them all). But outside of school I spent thirteen years and most nights and weekends in dance training (ballet, tap and something called 'modern') which meant a whole other group of friends (both for me and my mother) and a degree of suppleness I've never achieved since.   These days, I enjoy walking (with or without dog), a bit of running (the mister reckons I do a fair impression of Phoebe in that Friends episode) and this week I had a go at belly dancing (which I can say with some confidence that I won't be continuing) with my WI group.  I've also dabbled with yoga on and off over the years (sometimes in a class, sometimes on my tod in the spare bedroom) and I'd love to be better at it.  So I signed up for this.  I've only attempted Day 1.  Seems I may have been a tad ambitious .

• Bea Cat doesn't stray far from home and isn't in the least agile.  So it's a puzzle how she managed to scale the garage roof.  One afternoon this week, she came into the house from the garden, made her distinctive chirruping sound, sat down, opened her mouth and ......... a butterfly flew out.  We're thinking of hiring her out at weddings. 

• Whilst searching in a drawer here for something or other, I came across my brother's last fountain pen (which has since been cleaned, re-filled with Quink and is ready to go).  He had the most exquisite handwriting and always wrote with a 'proper' pen and (usually turquoise) ink. I think I must have inherited the fountain pen obsession (I love the look of them, the feel of them and how they make my scruffy handwriting look so much better) and always have two or three to hand with a Mont Blanc tucked away for best.   Yes, F is definitely for fountain pen.

• For me, summer this year has been all about the donut peaches, of which I can't get enough.  I've not eaten many peaches in my life, largely because I've always reacted badly to the furry skin, ending up with an unattractive itchy rash round my gob.  But the clever little donut shaped ones mean no meeting of peach and human skin.  They taste so good, too. 

• I thoroughly enjoyed this week's book at bedtime which might not be in the same league as Atonement  but, with its literary references, little stories within the story and twist at the end, it hit the spot on several levels.  With an early 1970s setting, it's the story of maths graduate and avid reader of novels, Serena 'rhymes with plume' Frome, a new recruit for MI5.  Sweet Tooth is the code name of her first mission, the reeling in of a promising young writer as part of a wider strategy to counter pro Communist anti west propaganda.    It's  certainly an easier read than Wolf Hall  which was a bit of a struggle, largely due to the style of writing and the continuous working out who 'he' was or trying to remember who the Duke of This or That was and which of the several Janes and Thomases was which.   I loved the subject matter, though, and reading the book did help me answer three questions (Thomas Cromwell, Cardinal Wolsey, Act of Supremacy) on University Challenge.  I wasn't in one of the teams, oh no, just grabbing the opportunity to watch it on TV whilst The Boo was being walked.  You see, he detests Jeremy Paxman, turns into a trembling terrified mess whenever he hears his voice (and exacerbated by those blasted buzzers).  He also hates Gregg Wallace.  Fortunately he's not bothered by Mary Berry which bodes well for next week.