love those cupcakes

January goings on I forgot to mention

We went to see The Darkest Hour recently.  

In the afternoon.

The mister bought a huge bag of toffee popcorn and a giant Coke.

I went the healthier and cheaper route with a couple of clementines from the fruit bowl.

The film was so very enjoyable, the acting superb.

I cried. 

Twice.

I say Gary Oldman for Prime Minister.

I mean the Oscar.

************

Though we're down to two here, the food shopping trips don't appear to have decreased.

I was in Lidl the other day (their fruit and veg is very good and opportunities for people watching equally tempting).

Perusal of the displays was interrupted by a man shouting to his female companion in the next aisle.

'Do you want one of these bastard joints of meat or not?'.

Why, I thought with a discrete shake of the head, does he have to swear at her and so loudly?

Then I spotted the sign.

Special offer:  basted pork shoulders.

************

In another supermarket, a much anticipated book was espied on the shelves.

Of course a copy (no such thing as too many books, especially half price ones) found its way into the basket.

************

I baked a batch of sparkly triple chocolate and peanut butter cup brownies for my Girlie's birthday (being delivered in Manchester by the Boy who's joining her for a weekend of celebrations).

That same Boy baked salted caramel brownies for his colleagues to welcome Friday.

So who wins the battle of the brownies?

You decide.

  

Life lately in verbs

Enjoying the sight of snowdrops in the churchyard and finding a surprising little clump in the front garden, surprising because I  don't remember planting them.

Continuing to watch Taboo on the telly.  Tom Hardy is still striding around a dark and very grubby 19th century London in that hat and coat, he's still grunting and growling, still sounding a bit Welsh, still displaying a penchant for ripping out other people's hearts and tongues, it's all absolutely bonkers and I'm loving it.  

Deciding I drink far too much coffee.  We buy our beans from here, have done for years.  Problem is we're buying more and more with less time in between orders.  No wonder I'm twitchy.

Practising yoga daily.  There were no classes last week due to half term so, not wanting to seize up and hoping to combat all the caffeine induced twitchiness, I've been bending and stretching and saluting the sun at home.  In my pyjamas. Watched by a perplexed Boo.

Knitting a pair of mittens which don't swamp my small hands.

Wishing the same could be said for the matching hat.

Blaming the knitting pattern which isn't clear about what to measure.  What does 'from the beginning' mean?  When measured from the beginning of the rib, the hat was far too small.  When measured from the beginning of the main body, it was far too big.

Casting on hat number three which, fingers crossed, will be just right.

Feeling like the Goldilocks of the knitting world.

Listening to 'Jeffrey  Bernard Is Unwell' on Radio 4.   A brilliant play with the equally brilliant John Hurt.

Easing back into my reading comfort zone.  Crime fiction.  More about these and others in an upcoming post.

Breaking the book buying ban when I spotted a copy of the first Harry Hole in the charity shop.  I thought I'd managed to go without acquiring any new reads for several months.  Turns out I lasted all of three weeks.

Baking chocolate orange buns for the other two here as the cake tin was empty and, well, just because.

Viewing Under the Shadow, a superbly creepy film set largely in an apartment in a war torn Tehran in 1988.  A mother, a young daughter, a much loved doll.  And maybe something else.  Highly recommended.

Complaining vociferously about our local council's incomprehensible decision to give the green light to the building of office accommodation on the centre square in town (that's the central square that used to be a park).  Five office blocks are to be constructed.  Yes, five.  This despite any number of empty offices of all shapes and sizes scattered across the town and this not being the kind of place to which office seeking businesses flock (that particular traffic tends to flow in the opposite direction).  One of the blocks will be built on top of the existing small lake, currently a beautifully litter-free and tranquil home to a couple of swans, many ducks and who knows what else.  Another will wipe out the grassed area just beyond it.  Calls from local residents and Friends of the Earth to leave untouched this one small oasis of calm and welcome little piece of urban nature have fallen on deaf ears. Participation is very much a tick box exercise here.

Honestly, it's so disheartening, I could scream.

              

 

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.

 

Lately

This walk.  Very easy.  Very familiar.  Very local.  Out the front door, along the lane, sharp left towards the farm and follow the sign.  Fields of just about ready for harvesting crops.  Thistles in abundance.  Bees everywhere.  Ripening berries and the promise of a fruit crumble in the not too distant future.  Boo embraced that whole 'If you're happy, leap through the barley field with your ears and tail in the air' thing. Nearing home after a couple of hours walking, a friend's donkey, Humphrey, trotted over for a bit of a chinwag. Or maybe he was anticipating a treat or two. 

 

This film.  Also this one.  Both well worth watching if you haven't seen them already.

This sunflower.  All snuggled up to a hydrangea growing in a pot near the pond in the garden.  I planted the hydrangea (which is of the black stemmed variety).  I didn't plant the sunflower.  Funnily enough, it's the best blummin' sunflower that's ever grown (there have been many) in any of our gardens (there have been three).  In other pots there are cosmos and love in a mist plus still so very green and tiny, marble-like tomatoes.  Can't say I'm hopeful of them ever ripening.

This Sunday morning breakfast.  Ready in a flash (well, quicker than getting in the car and buying a pack from the supermarket bakery section).  Vegan, too.

This book.  Oh, gosh yes.  This Pulitzer prize winning book.  Donna Tartt's third.  A big one at 771 pages. Written in the first person.  The story of a boy, a tragedy, a priceless painting told over a period of fifteen or so years.  A cast of wonderful characters you actually come to care about, flaws and all.  A brilliant sense of place, be it New York or Vegas or Amsterdam.  One of those books that you can't stop reading but don't want to end. One of those books that is so utterly absorbing you can't get it out of your head.  One of those books that you just know you'll want to read again the minute you finish it.  One of those books which just might be up there with the best you've ever read.  The blurb on the dust cover describes it as breathtaking.  It is.  Breathtakingly perfect.

'It was all very different from the crowded, complicated, and overly formal atmosphere of the Barbours', where everything was rehearsed and scheduled like a Broadway production, an airless perfection from which Andy had been in constant retreat, scuttling to his bedroom like a frightened squid.   By contrast Hobie lived and wafted like some great sea mammal in his own mild atmosphere, the dark brown of tea stains and tobacco, where every clock in the house said something different and time didn't actually correspond to the standard measure but instead meandered along at its own sedate tick-tock, obeying the pace of his antique-crowded backwater, far from the factory-built, epoxy glued version of the world.'

Donna Tartt, 2013

Weekend in verbs

Watching Jurassic World.  Saturday night, the cinema was busy, the dinosaurs were big and bad, Claire/Bryce Dallas Howard ran though the jungle in pristinely white high heels and the mister noisily chomped his way through a giant bag of salted popcorn. 

Deciding I need a coloured glass vase and buying one for a couple of quid in a charity shop in town.

Baking a batch of cupcakes.  It's ages since I made any (which is odd for someone who named her blog for the love of the finger lickingly sweet treats).  I've fallen out with piping bags and nozzles so went for a dollop of buttercream and topping overload - chopped up Reece's peanut butter cups, Snickers, Crunchies and a bar of chocolate with Malteser bits in it,  a sprinkling of dried raspberry pieces here and there, a drizzle of caramel and a final flourish of melted white chocolate.  The cake version of a Christmas selection box.

Adding to the book pile.  I had no reason to go into Waterstones but I did and, well, you know the rest. Pity I forgot to add to the points on my loyalty card.

Popping into a charity shop on the way to the supermarket to buy the afore mentioned chocolate bars and spying another glass vase.  Seems I now have a new collection.  As I was indulging in a spot of show and tell, someone here asked, 'So what are you getting rid of to fit them in?'  Like someone's some sort of Grand Master of decluttering and sorting.  Which he most definitely is not. (The answer, by the way, was 'Nothing'.  Or something along those lines.)

Wandering along the riverside, looking for ducklings and spotting not a single one.  There are none at the local pond, either.

Visiting the aunt.  She's still in hospital though no longer in isolation (a raft of tests found no evidence of any nasty infections).  Now we're just waiting for the nod for her discharge and transfer to the care home for a couple of weeks of respite which hopefully will establish new habits and routines.

Admiring someone's sartorial style.  Garboesque, I'm thinking.  Well, I suppose if you've got it...........

 

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. 

 

 

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).  

 

 

 

The week's this and that

Watched the wonderfully brilliant Boyhood, one of those films which stay with you afterwards and my choice for the Best Picture Oscar (ballot paper from here if you fancy casting your votes).*

Read one of the books purchased in an excellent bookshop in Reykjavik (yes, I know I'm supposed to be reading from the substantial pile here but this one has such a great cover and books bought abroad don't count, along with charity shop buys, books courtesy of Christmas or birthday money and those pesky 'how did that get in there?' copies that unaccountably appear in the shopping basket).  Translated (into English, not Icelandic, I'm no linguist) from the original Finnish/Swedish, it's about family (specifically Max, a soon to be sixty Sociology professor, his Helsinki health service professional wife, Katriina, and their two daughters, Helen, a teacher and married with two children, and Eva, an art student in London), marriage, imperfect lives being lived, decisions being made. Recommended.

 Finished another roundandround blanket and wished I knew how to crochet a different pattern. Any pattern.

 Spent a grand total of 99p, actually a quid as I didn't pick up the change, on three more books in the charity shop.  The Jane Shaw book is from the 'Susan' series, my favourite reads when I was growing up, and, whilst  I already have a copy of Little Women,  I can't find it.

Cast on a hat.  Double moss stitch.  Get me. Though I'll be very surprised if it ends up on my bonce and not shoved at the back of the hall cupboard with all the others I've knit.

 Popped into the churchyard before my dental check-up in the market town up the road to admire the display of snowdrops whilst giving those psycho gravestones a wide berth.

Worked on a green project from a Christmas present kit.  The 'ta-dah' reveal was greeted with much hilarity from the other two here as I remembered Kermit's wise words: 'Just because you haven't found your talent yet, doesn't mean you don't have one'.  

Dougie seems very happy with his new best friend, Trevor.  

And in case you're wondering, Trevor is a frog.  

Yes, really.

With a wonky mouth and an alien's eyes.

Someone else felt a tad left out.

We may need a bigger piano stool.

 

Edited to add:  What?  Boyhood was robbed!

 

Is it just me (part 2) ?

• I have my hair cut and blow dried (with occasional highighting) every five or six weeks.  After an hour and a half or so of chopping, faffing and industrial strength straightening in the salon, I come home and immediately wash and dry it all over again. Every. single. time. There was a slight change to the process the other day as I delayed the hairwashing to take a picture (for blogging purposes only, you understand) of my considerably shortened and flattened locks and eat some much needed lunch.  'Oh. Your hair looks very short.  And very flat', remarked the very observant mister. Little does he know how much it cost to get it like that.  Nor how close he came to wearing houmous and salad.

• We went to see Gone Girl at the cinema earlier this week.  I remember in the lead up to the release of the film there was talk about a different ending to the one in the book.  I've read it but can't for the life of me recall how it ended (and I can't check because my copy was dropped off at the charity shop a while ago).  Actually, it's a wonder I remembered any of the story as these days, almost as soon as I've read the last sentence and closed a book, I can't tell you what it was about.

• No surprise, then, that I find it impossible to have more than one book on the go at the same time. I was kind of forced into trying recently when I was accidentally separated from the current read (it's written in the format of a very long letter to a one time friend with not much in the way of action) and had to start another.  Of course, when I returned to the original book, I'd forgotten who was who (Ruth? Who she?) and had to re-read parts when I picked it up again, which took ages and meant that I ended up no further forward. Talk about one page forward, three chapters back.  Sheesh.

• During the festivities, we had a discussion about eating (well, we were doing rather a lot of it).  It turns out the others here share the habit of leaving the best bit on the plate to eat last.  I do the opposite and go straight for what I consider the tastiest morsel.  I mean, what if you're too full at the end to really savour what you've been saving?  

• It seems I've never learned that you can't always assume, especially when you're not wearing your specs, that that stray peanut which you spot on the kitchen worktop and pop into your mouth really is a peanut and not a cat treat.

• You'll probably have gathered by now that the mister here isn't lavish with the compliments. We were in the middle of some meal or other a little while ago when he noticed my hands (huh, after all these years), which I'd be the first to admit are very veiny (and very unlike his).  'Ugh' he exclaimed, mid chew, 'it's like you're an alien or something'.  Actually, they're my mother's hands (if you know what I mean).  I happen to like them, veiny as they are, because they're just as I remember hers. Incidentally, I also have my dad's nose (which has been passed on to the Girlie though hers was enhanced when she was at primary school and a teacher dropped a chime bar on it during a music lesson).  I'm happy with that, too (my nose, that is, not the chime bar incident).  Regardless of what the mister says about it.

• The January sales haven't been too enticing though I did bag a set of cheap as chips bedding (not that we needed any more given the over filled state of the airing cupboard).  The design is a range of tickets.  It's probably just me but I look at some of those tickets and think bourbon biscuits.  Edited to add: Homemade bourbons, of course.

 

Festive snapshots

Boo in a range of headwear I didn't know he owned * Glasses of posh bubbly after the predictably tear inducing church carol service on Christmas Eve * Piles of wonderful presents and an ocean of glitter * Coming over all Blue Peterish and making last minute table decorations * Clean plates all round (a first) at the Christmas lunch table * Aunty M declaring she was too full to eat anything else and promptly diving into a chocolate walnut whip * A trip to the cinema to see a surprisingly enjoyable film * Marking my first vegan Christmas with a far too crumbly nut roast but a tastier than expected/you'd never know the difference Christmas cake * A suitably seasonal Walter de la Mare poem with pictures * Playing a highly competitive board game, complete with timer, in the no schedule, slower paced lull between Christmas and New Year * Taking the winner's place on the podium with maybe a little more than a smidgeon of unfestive smugness *  Looking forward to an evening at the panto.  Oh yes I am *