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!