love those cupcakes

Happy Easter

Earlier this week, my dear father in law celebrated his 100th birthday and I wanted to make him a more personal card than the ones in the shops, one that encapsulated parts of his life - where he's lived, the blast furnace where he worked, his regiment (he served in the Reconnaisance Corps during the Second World War), his social club.  

Of course, he received another card which well and truly trumped my amateurish effort.

And now we're in the midst of a glorious Easter weekend.

Easter Sunday and, whilst it's gusty out there, the sun is most definitely shining, at least for now.

There are chocolate eggs of all sizes and a line of slightly menacing bunnies to be scoffed, flowers in vases, croissants from the farmers market in the park, a wonky Simnel cake, Easter biscuits, the Boy is making something fancy with gruyere and there's a just out of the oven Victoria sponge for a proper afternoon tea (yes, the other two here will be required to nibble finger sandwiches, drink from dainty china cups and use pastry forks).  

With a cracking read on the go and the finale (noooo!) of The Night Manager to look forward to this evening, it doesn't get much better.

But Easter wouldn't be Easter without a glimpse of the Easter Bunny.

 

One of those weeks

You know the ones, when....

You buy flowers, you buy some more and then you're given an enormous bunch on Mothering Sunday.

You run out of vases and have to employ a coffee pot to display the overflow.

You add to the substantial TBR pile with yet more bargain reads. And then some.

You realise you've already read at least one of them.

You stop, look round and finally accept that you'll never write that 'My journey to minimalism' post.  Me and my stuff?  We're meant to live together.

You arrange a working lunch in the local art gallery with your friend, only to pass like ships in the night because someone who isn't you got the time wrong.

You just can't seem to shove in enough broccoli.

You meet your Girlie and the littlest for a day in York.  No plans, just time to wander, catch up, eat good food, drink good coffee.

You share an otherwise empty train carriage with the shiniest, most well behaved traveller and his owner on the journey home.  Ah yes, the perks of first class rail travel.

You stumble down pothole ridden paths in mud laden boots in the dark one night with a complaining  ('will you just let me off this lead?') canine and a moaning ('will you just point the torch over here?') mister to try to catch sight of a steaming beauty.  And maybe, just maybe,  you did. 

 

Brought to you by the letter 'C'

Charity shop drop off.  Specifically bags of (hopefully) the last of Aunty's stuff which I've been driving round with in the boot of my car since December. These went to Oxfam who handed over a £5 voucher for M&S because some of the clothes bore that label. Nice one.

Cocktails.  The coffee shop round the corner from the charity shop had stopped serving food (they'd run out, it had been so busy) so we consoled ourselves with very delicious blueberry, lavender and mint concoctions.

Crafting.  Specifically, making a couple of cards. Or as it's known here, making a mess with the ink pad.

Competition.  Each year, four of us have a go at  nominating our own Oscar winners.  Predictably, I came last.  (Sorry, but Mark Rylance?  Really?)

Carbohydrates.  The farmers market in the big park down the road yielded savoury pastries (there's an excellent veggie/vegan food stall from York), sourdough loaves, muffins for toasting, lemon curd filled doughnuts, shortbread (of the peanut butter, ginger and salted caramel varieties) as well as soil laden vegetables, apple juice and pear cider and curry spices.  A good, if a tad tough on the old purse, haul.

Celeriac.  With all its fascinating knobbliness.  My first ever.  The market stallholder asked me how I was going to cook it.  'Not a clue', says I.  Still haven't.

Cracking on with a piece of outstanding work.  Whoah, my nose just grew.  Truth is I just can't find the motivation or enthusiasm to finish it, despite the lure of a little pay cheque once I do.  Mañana.

Croissants.  As if all that markety goodness wasn't enough, the Boy decided to have a go at making a batch.  From scratch.  The whole process (using a Paul Hollywood recipe) was spread over two days and involved a lot of butter and rolling, but, I must say, they looked so very good, if so very non vegan. The other three here certainly lapped them up.

Cinema.   Him:  Do you want a carton of popcorn?  Her:  No thanks, I've brought a satsuma.  So, The Revenant.  It's long, exhausting, violent (very), bloody (extremely), there are some continuity errors (where did all the deep snow go? Oh, it's back), Tom Hardy has a strange accent ('And turns out that God......is a squirrel') but the scenery throughout is stunningly beautiful, there are close-ups so close that the camera lens mists and I only cried once.  Okay, twice. 

 Chilling.  On the carpet.  With a chum. Or four.