love those cupcakes

Same but oh so different

Like Dorothy, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. 

Gilead, more like.  Blessed be the fruit.

Drastic times.  Increasingly drastic measures.  Toilet roll wars.

A new, restricted way of living has been in place for less than a week. 

It feels so much longer.

With the usual routine out the window, I'm losing track of what day it is.  I only knew Thursday was Thursday because the binmen did their rounds.

And days have become longer, from the cats' wake up call at seven- ish to a now much later bedtime at two or three in the morning. I just can't switch off.  Yet, strangely, time isn't dragging. 

Being stuck indoors for lengthy periods with someone with dementia is very testing, and there have been tears. An abundance of tears.  But these are challenging times for us all, whatever our situation.

So, what's this 'same but different' life looking like?

I aim to get on the yoga mat at some point during the day, even if just for ten minutes.  My wonderful yoga teacher videoed a practice for our group to follow at home.  Just hearing her voice was a reminder of normality.  I sobbed. 

The knitting needles have been seeing a fair bit of action; one sweater has been finished, another one started  and Tucker the monkey is sitting next to me on the sofa,  patiently waiting for an introduction to the littlest. 

 

Of course,  there's never a shortage of reading material here but there were some new additions to the pile just prior to the partial lockdown.  The latest book at bedtime is The Long Call and I'm really enjoying it.  If you like a police procedural, this one could be for you.

Then there's always the telly to watch (this looks promising and this and this ), though it looked uncertain when the remote control suddenly stopped working.  But, with the help of Youtube and a kitchen knife, I managed to fix it.  I'm asking for a set of spanners for Christmas.

Comfort eating has been taken to a whole new level.  I'm still cooking meals of sorts, though there have been some strange concoctions. (Pasta made with chickpea flour?  Not recommended unless your preference is for soggy cardboard.) But I'm baking for England (still no cake for me). Biscuits, usually. Flapjacks.  Sometimes a fruit crumble.  Bread if there's enough strong flour.  The oven is rarely switched off.  I'm also eating for England.  It appears I've developed a Fry's Chocolate Cream habit. I don't even like them, so what's that all about?  Maybe it's the sugar-laden equivalent of wearing a hair shirt.  

Drier weather has meant time in the garden and the grass has been given its first cut of the year.  I'm always amazed anything flourishes in our inhospitable plot but, alongside the forget-me-nots, I discovered a clump of beautifully hued violets (which, incidentally,  I have no memory of planting).  I've also been left in charge of the pot of pansies the littlest planted the last time he visited.

Because of the current restrictions on exercise, evening walks (the later the better) are now enjoyed in the company of the dog (who, by the way,  is getting hairier by the day).  I'm not sure Boo appreciates the more, shall we say, military approach but he's stuck with it for the foreseeable.

The kitchen cupboards have never been cleaner or more organised.  Likewise the bedrooms.  The downside is the huge pile of stuff waiting to be taken to the charity shops.

And, in the absence of visits to the salon, I think i'm about to discover my hair's natural colour.  I've had a stab (pardon the pun) at cutting my fringe, though, in hindsight, maybe the dressmaking shears weren't the ideal tool.  It's probably no bad thing that I won't be socialising for a while. 

Like everyone, it's the lack of contact with family and friends that's the big struggle.   I don't use a mobile phone and rely on email for conversation, though that may be about to change as my Girlie has taken matters into her own hands (scrupulously washed, obviously).  I don't use Facebook or Instagram or Twitter, there's just this blog.  I'm fairly sure I'm talking far too much to the checkout operators in the supermarkets as I pack whatever groceries have ended up in the basket.   Likewise to myself.

Three months ago, Covid-19 wasn't part of our vocabulary.  Now we know that this new way of living isn't going to change for the better any time soon and our resilience is going to be tested to the core.

I'm signing off with pictures from my 2014 trip to Antarctica, the one place on earth free from coronavirus.......so far.

Stay safe, stay healthy, lovely people in my laptop.

 

It's a wrap

So that was February.

For one reason or another, it was a mostly home based month, with, if the pictures in the camera are anything to go by, a fair amount of time being spent in the kitchen. 

We're partial to a cake here (a bit too partial, in my case) and there are usually baking essentials on hand to rustle up something sweet whenever the mood takes.  February's highlights were a rhubarb and almond cake, a fruit and marmalade loaf and gingerbread, all easy bakes, all vegan, all disappearing far too quickly. 

But none will be consumed for the duration of Lent (I was going to go down the path of giving up all things sugary but that's a hot cross bun too far).  I managed to abstain from book buying last year and that was one helluva challenge.  This should be, well,  a piece of cake.

Not a fan of sourdough but really fancying a crusty, open textured bread to accompany a soup that was in the making, I tried this recipe.  The dough was very wet, worryingly so, and I was highly dubious it would result in something edible (or even something which could actually be removed from the casserole dish it was baked in), but it far exceeded the low expectations.  Not the prettiest of loaves but definitely one to try again.

Browsing in town one day, I came across a recipe book I'd had my eye on for a while at a special price so, of course, it came home with me and I've been cooking from it ever since. 

Vases filled with cheap and cheerful supermarket flowers have been dotted about the house, along with some hyacinths I'd grown (the second attempt and much more substantial than the earlier weedy ones) which became so heavy with blossom I had to cut them.  The scent was glorious.

The Priory up the road,  a favourite haunt of ours,  is closed during winter but was opened up one Sunday for the annual Snowdrop Walk.  It was a bright, dry, extremely windy and bitterly cold day but I love snowdrops (yep, a proper galanthophile), so dragged the mister along to have a good old nosey.  (There are no pictures of the blanket of white as the camera battery died shortly after we arrived and, typically, the spare was sitting in the charger at home).  We didn't linger amongst the bobbing litttle heads too long and spent the remainder of the afternoon in a coffee shop in the company of toasted sandwiches and a fellow customer's dog.

There was the odd dabble with things of a crafty nature.  A sea glass jewellery workshop, like the mosaic session at the beginning of the year, was hugely enjoyable and accident-free.  The latter was surprising, given the requirement to use an electric drill.  In water.  (My track record with sharp blades, naked flames and most things connected to an electrcity supply is, it has to be said, painfully poor). But, at the end, I had ten fingers intact, several pieces of jewellery which are wearable (maybe) and a new-found respect for my dentist.

And I finished knitting a bag, far from perfect but a satisfying little project and a handy size for carrying a book.

The highlight of the month was meant to be a day trip to London for the final day of an exhibition at the V&A.  Rail and museum tickets had been purchased and I was happily counting down the days. Then, the storm known as Dennis disrupted travel across the country and plans had to be abandoned. It was so disappointing (in the absence of proper holidays, these little outings are essential for purposes of maintaining sanity) but, given the situation at home,  I couldn't take the risk of being stranded at Kings Cross.  C'est la vie.

February ended with one of the cats needing an MRI scan on his heart shortly followed by a morning of dental treatment whilst, on the house front, various bits of pipework required emergency attention (you know the kind of thing, you come home from a yoga class to find water gushing onto the drive and the following day something else drops off).  The plumber spent so much time here over a two week period, fixing one problem after another, I was half expecting a visit from his soon-to-be wife (I'd been treated to the unabridged version of the story of the engagement ring).  The bank were understandably suspicious of the flurry of activity on the bank account. 

The four year old littlest was named Player of the Month at his new football club (shame he doesn't play for the team whose strip he insists on wearing as relegation looms)

and there was news from my favourite crime writer.

Now a new month begins to unfold.

Happy March!