love those cupcakes

Turned out nice again

Spring isn't my favourite season (it isn't my second favourite, either) but I can appreciate the changing colours and signs of life, with the promise of spicy buns (must seek out a recipe) and chocolate treats (woe betide if someone forgets to buy me a Lindt dark chocolate bunny, I've dropped enough hints) along the way.  

It looked so invitingly bright and calm outside the bedroom window the other morning that I decided not to do the usual lounging around in 'jamas with a cup or two of strong coffee until I've properly woken up, and joined the mister and Boo on the first walk of the day in the little park round the corner.  

The swings in the deserted play area were irresistible, much to Boo's noisy disgust

and the Transporter was just visible in the distance.

In other news:

It seems I've managed to crochet stripes at long last, thanks to a very helpful group of crafty ladies in Saltburn.  I'm not sure I'm working the edges correctly, though, and may well end up with a large striped triangle.

I've discovered the brilliant Terry Pratchett.  

Up to now I've avoided his books, assuming a genre that wasn't for me, but reading Dodger has me wishing I'd found him much much sooner.  This book isn't part of the hugely popular Discworld series but is set in early Victorian London with a main character, young cheeky chappie Dodger, scraping a living from scavenging the capital's sewers where he feels most at home.  The story starts with him leaping to the rescue of a young woman one rain soaked night, a gallant deed which sets him off on an entirely new path on which he meets the likes of Charles Dickens, Benjamin Disraeli and even a certain Mr Sweeney Todd.   It's funny, witty, wonderfully descriptive, with a clever interweaving of historical events and fictional characters, and thoroughly enjoyable.  If,  like me, you're new to Terry Pratchett's writing, you'd do well to begin with this.  You won't be disappointed. 

My little family is about to increase.  Yep, the Girlie and her husband are expecting their first baby in the summer.  Which gives me the perfect excuse to buy more books.

 

Happy Wednesday

It was one of those days that doesn't start with any definite planning but pans out to be most enjoyable in the most understated and not particularly exciting way.  I really like those days.

After the dog had been walked, fed and watered (in that order, always), the sun was shining its heart out in a sky that was the bluest it's been in quite a while, so we decided to pop over to Saltburn, a favourite spot, not least because it has a wonderful beach and several decent little independent shops.  Funny how there are those places you never tire of, no matter how long you've been visiting.

We browsed the couple of charity shops and the wool shop provided all the necessaries for a new knitting project (which may well prove to be a step too far but time will tell, no doubt).  It was via the extremely helpful and chatty owner of the latter that I found out about the felting workshop mentioned in the previous post (and it appeared she'd heard about The Penguin and very possibly about all the broken needles). The shop is well stocked with a good range of crafty stuff (much better than my usual port of call which mostly offers huge balls of cheap acrylic) but also has an adjoining Workhouse, a small venue for crafting drop ins and workshops of all kinds.  I may have signed up for a crochet session this weekend.

A stop for coffee and cake led to an unexpected meeting with a friend and plans being made for a lunch date and proper catch up next week.  

We replenished the drinks shelf, with ginger beer and bottles of good old north eastern brewed ale for him, something slightly more pink and floral for me, from the little wine shop. As we clanked up the street, the mister looked mightily relieved as I whinged about the bookshop being closed.  No worries, though; there was a new to-be-read stack waiting at home.

Then down to the beach where the tide was out, everything looked sparklingly clean and the delicious scents wafting from the chip hatch proved futile to resist.

On the way back we pulled over next to the field where the dozen or so donkeys were still enjoying an out of season rest before gearing up to providing rides along the sand from their traditional Good Friday start date.  There was a veritable stampede.  Sorry lads, no chips left.

 

That was the week that was

 A good week, though if you're lucky enough to be still here, still breathing, every week is a good week.

This one started with flowers from the Boy on Mothering Sunday which were followed by a drive to Saltburn, a quick glimpse of the sea and a 'Little Creatures' felting workshop.  I opted to have a stab (literally) at making a penguin and, in the process, won the prize for breaking the most needles. (I broke so many I had to hide the bits in my specs case.) The penguin wouldn't win any prizes but at least he was greeted with only minimal laughter during show and tell at home.

A midweek baking session resulted in a half batch of Jamie's brownies which didn't hang around the kitchen long, though the other two here didn't really get much of a look in.   

A couple of books were read which, amazingly, I can still remember and recommend.  Wolf Winter has a small remote settlement in 18th century Swedish Lapland as its focus and, with skilful interweaving of reality and the spirit world, seeks to answer the question 'Who killed Eriksson?'  I'm a big fan of Patti Smith and Just Kids is her memoir, making good the promise to photographer Robert Mapplethorpe to write their story, from their meeting in New York in 1967 to his death in 1989 and everything in between.  

We watched Nightcrawler, a film about decidedly creepy petty criminal but desperate for a job Louis Bloom, who discovers there's a living to be made filming crime scenes for TV news channels.  This is a dark, edge of the seat thriller, at times cringeworthy, at times grisly, at times oddly funny, with a slimmed down Jake Gyllenhaal in the central role.  Recommended.

There was a short break in London, primarily to visit the V&A's Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty exhibition. Whilst I was hoping for more biographical detail, the exhibition (photographs not allowed, sadly) was well worth the trip and, to quote Ross from Friends, O is definitely for Oh, wow!  Afterwards, I met up with the Boy (who'd had an interview in Leeds earlier) and, with no definite plans, the remaining time in the capital was spent eating, nose following, pavement pounding (and acquiring the mother of all blisters), browsing, sign spotting, coffee drinking, dog admiring, book buying.

The week ended with a visit this morning to the market in the big park down the road followed by a rendition of the birthday song.  Yep, my amazing father in law is now just one year off a century. 

 

 

Throwing in the towel

At the beginning of the year, I made a commitment to stop adding to the to-be-read pile here, apart, of course, from charity shop book shaped purchases.

Shortly afterwards, I added books bought with birthday or Christmas money to the exemption list.

Then I  had to include books acquired on holiday.

Plus the ones which inexplicably fell into the shopping trolley, virtual or otherwise.

I know, I know. 

I'm kidding no-one.

It clearly hasn't worked.

I give up. 

I have no willpower.

I'm Liz and I can't stop buying books.

I read reviews in newspapers, magazines and blogs and I have to have the books.  I mean, if someone much more intelligent  than me thought it was a brilliant read, then I'm bound to enjoy it. 

Waterstones send me e-mails announcing their Book of the Week/Month/Year/Decade and I have to have my own copy. 

There are lists of the 100 books everyone should read and the titles coming soon to a store near you.  I duly make a note in the appropriate section in my reading journal.

Then there are those books I buy that I've already read.  This isn't intentional but simply because I forget what a book was about just as soon as I've moved on to its successor.  (Those annual 'books read' lists in the sidebar over there? Nope, no bells ringing with most of them.) 

I've tried going down the e-reader route but I'm not a big fan (old dog, new tricks and all that) and prefer the real thing. Granted, a Kindle takes up very little space on the bookcase but shelves were made for books.  

I like the feel of a bound wad of dried out wood pulp in my mitts, I like being able to gauge my progress through a book by physically seeing where the bookmark is and I find it much easier to remind myself who's who (and I find I need to do that more and more) by flicking back through actual pages.

Borrowing from the library or from friends doesn't work as it turns out I'm unable to read books which I have to give back.  (What's that all about?)

It's not that I have to buy constantly because I read loads as I don't.  I'm not averaging a book a week these days and, at the rate I'm buying, I'll need to live long enough to receive several telegrams from the Palace to have even a slim chance of making an impact on the unread stash.

At least I'm much better at ridding the shelves of those titles I have no intention of re-reading, those I failed to finish and those which have no sentimental attachment.

This is the current book at bedtime (1717, Swedish Lapland, strange goings on).   

We came across the teeniest bookshop when we popped to the seaside last weekend and there was this one copy on display (hardback, full price).  Actually, the shop was so small I think there was only one copy of everything.

 'I'm only going in for a quick browse', says I to the mister, knowing full well I was never going to leave empty handed. I never leave a bookshop empty handed.

 'What's that look for?  I'm supporting the small independent retailer', I declared huffily as we made our way back to the car a little later, me carrying the latest acquisition.

So there it is.  As far as books are concerned, I have no self control.

I think I need a copy of this.  

That's a joke.

I've already bought it.

 

Mixed bag

This week I.....

Made a disaster of a chocolate and orange vegan layer cake, using a new-to-me recipe.  The cake was intended as an entry in a local baking competition but, after zesting oranges, melting vast quantities of chocolate and making a right old mess in the kitchen, I concluded it wasn't up to standard.  (The lightbulb moment came as I found myself sitting in the car outside the venue, trying in vain to rescue the oddly gloopy ganache icing which was refusing to adhere to the top and sides of the monster bake.) So home it and I came, where a big slice was cut, tasted and hoyed in the bin, shortly followed by the rest of the cake. Shame, as I'd washed my hair specially and donned a clean pair of jeans because, well, you know,  just in case.  No, definitely not Star Baker this week. And definitely no pictures.

Visited the cinema early afternoon to watch the Shaun the Sheep Movie (essentially a silent film, very funny and thoroughly enjoyable).  We were most certainly the oldest people there and one of only two couples without a child in tow.  About half way through a young voice exclaimed loudly behind us, 'Dad, I need a poo.'  Cue much shuffling and sharpish exeunt stage left.

Started reading (with some difficulty as the pages keep falling out) a charity shop copy of Cranford which I'm really enjoying.  This was a set text when I was at grammar school though I managed to avoid even opening the book. I'd had much the same interest in Wind in the Willows and Northanger Abbey which probably explains my dire performance in English Literature exams.  In my defence, at the time, my group of friends was rather more interested in reading Juliette Benzoni's somewhat racier Catherine and Arnaud and I did fare rather better at English Language (ah, participle clauses).  

Bought daffodils from the veg shop.  At three bunches for £1, I'm running out of vases. Actually, that's a joke.  We're knee deep in vases here.  And daffodils.

Stopped to take a picture on the way back from the veg shop.  We've had a mixed bag of weather this week and the local high spot sported a light dusting of snow that day.

Acquired another new duvet cover and pair of pillowcases.  Seems my new 'thing' is bedding.  And maybe plates.  

Finished a hat and decided it was missing something so I added a big pompom (or is it a bobble?). Surprisingly, this one has actually been worn (on dog walks, in the dark, with my hood up, but still).

Started knitting a cowl to sort of match the afore mentioned hat.  Just simple moss stitch rather than double this time.  You can have too much of a good thing.

Waved off the Boy who caught the train to London where he's spending the weekend with his sister, primarily to experience the Harry Potter studio tour.  I just don't get HP's huge popularity (who was it who likened it to Billy Bunter with broomsticks?), though admittedly I've never read the books nor watched the films. I did go to see the first one but fell asleep after about five minutes and was admonished afterwards for snoring. Very loudly, apparently.

Took advantage of the absence (he doesn't eat fruit, strange boy) to make a peach and chickpea curry (this one with a bit of tweaking), sag aloo, homemade naans and rhubarb crumble for afters (which looked so inviting there may have been befores for someone).  

 

 

 

Roots of iron and steel

There are a couple of things you should know about my home town.  

Middlesbrough was once a thriving industrial centre.  In 1821 there were just four houses. However, the discovery of ironstone in the surrounding hills led to rapid growth and, by the end of the 1890s, the local population had swelled to 90,000, with people being lured here from all parts of the country (and parts of  Europe) by the promise of work. 

Every family in the town had some connection to the iron and then later the steel industry, including my own.  In its heyday, Middlesbrough set the global price for iron and steel.  The town became famous around the world. The Sydney Harbour Bridge?  Made from Middlesbrough steel. The New Lambeth Bridge (London), the Tyne Bridge (Newcastle), the Bangkok Memorial Bridge (Thailand), the Menai Suspension Bridge (Wales), the Strostrom Bridge (Denmark), the Chien Tang River Bridge (China)?   Yep, these and more are all thanks to Middlesbrough's industrial past.

Now the other thing you should know about the town is we've been demolition mad for years.  Much of the historic architecture has fallen victim to the bulldozer, seemingly for no good reason other than the construction of a road (is this the only place sufficiently barmy to have a so-called bypass which runs through the centre, effectively cutting the town in two?) or yet another car park.  

So, a little while ago, we were keen to visit an old building which, rather than being demolished, has been given a new lease of life, primarily as offices but with one room being given over to a small gallery.  This is a building which has significance for both of us as my dad and the mister's father worked for the company who once owned it, my dad joining after he left the Army and my father in law starting as a blastfurnaceman's helper and retiring many years later as the blastfurnace foreman.

The building was designed in 1916 and was once the company's headquarters.  Restoration work uncovered the original sign which had been hidden for years.

Chatting to the member of staff on reception, I mentioned our families' links with the Cargo Fleet  'works'. Magic words, it turned out, as we were then invited to have a peek at the upper floor which was still in the process of being renovated.

Some original fixtures and fittings were still evident.

We came across panels and photographs from another once prominent local company which was based nearby, the shipbuilders, Smith's Dock.

 

This old picture shows how the building was once surrounded by industry, with the Transporter Bridge just visible as it spans the Tees in the distance.

Now there's just wilderness and some free grazing.

After our visit, I remembered something I'd come across in one of the old biscuit tins my parents used for storing photographs and papers.  

My dad's employment with the company ended when he was involved in a serious industrial accident.  I have no idea how much he eventually received in compensation but the decision was made that my parents would use the money to start a general dealer business, renting a shop with living accommodation on site, the shop that was to be my home for many years.  Although my dad was left permanently disabled (as a little girl I used to try to copy his walk and pretend I had a limp), he never talked about his accident and just got on with life.  

Ah, the stories embedded in our old buildings.