love those cupcakes

Life lately in verbs

He chopped back another tree in the back garden. 

I collected the elderberries and made jam. 

He ended up with a stiff neck.

I ended up with purple hands.

The tasteless, and so thick you could cut it with a knife, jam ended up in the bin.

I mooched the charity shops in a nearby market town.  

He sat on a bench and watched the traffic.

I added to the book pile.

The Boy switched on his oven and a Gateau Basque was born.

Boo visited the vet.

I scoffed a vegan afternoon tea.

My cousin paid the bill.

The cat sicked up a mouse. 

Littlest prepared to celebrate a birthday.

I'm flying off in the early hours for a week's yoga retreat.

Namaste.

 

I have never

.....learned to swim.  Yet somehow I produced a fish-like Boy who competed at national level.

 

.....mastered the handstand.  Or the cartwheel.  Or roller skates.

 

.....climbed a tree.   Fortunately for our garden, other people have and still do.

 

.....visited any part of the continent of Africa.  For a number of reasons, I probably never will.  Ditto Australia/Oceania.  Although isn't there a saying, 'Never say never'?

 

.....properly gotten over my fear of dogs.   Lovely Boo (who, by the way, seems to be showing some signs of improvement but there's another trip to see the vet later today) doesn't scare me but many other dogs do.  This can make for very interesting dog walks. 

 

.....willingly parked my car between two other vehicles.  Just. Can't. Do. It.  Even though said car is not an Aston Martin.  Even if it means I end up parking miles away from where I'm meant to be and having to get the bus in.

 

.....danced on a table.  I've danced on a variety of stages but a table?  None that I remember.

 

.....read an entire play by Shakespeare.  I was meant to read Romeo and Juliet as part of the English Literature syllabus at my girls' grammar school but I didn't get very far into it at all.  It was a similar story with Julius Caesar and other writers' works including  Wind in the Willows and The Grapes of Wrath.  I did read Cranford and Northanger Abbey, though many years after I was supposed to.  Needless to say, my GCE exam resulted in a big fat fail.

 

.....ridden on a motorbike.  Scooters, yes, and a particularly memorable ride on one whilst spending the summer on a Greek island, when a young donkey with an impressive set of gnashers inexplicably took a fancy to me, or, more accurately, my rear end.  It was traumatic.  For both of us.

 

.....driven an HGV.  I always fancied having a go with a Class 1 truck but, given my less than skilful reversing, it's probably best I didn't.

 

.....gotten a tattoo.  My dad and my much older brother each had one on their forearms, which used to fascinate me when I was little, but I never took the plunge.  None of my friends have one, either.  None that I can see, anyway.

 

.....dyed my hair a completely different colour.  I've always been blonde.  Various shades, some more flattering than others (I'll never forget the time I looked in the mirror in the dodgy hair salon and Myra Hindley stared back at me), and occasionally with a scattering of reddish hued highlights, but always blonde.

 

.....taken a holiday on my own.  I've travelled on my own but there has always been someone at the other end to join up with.  Unlike my brother who, apart from the several times he took me with him, was always a lone traveller.

 

.....lived on my own.  Even when I went to university the boyfriend-turned-mister tagged along and we shared a flat (well, it was more an attic space with a Baby Belling) in Leamington Spa for three years.

 

.....been as old as I am now.  I love birthdays, me.  Especially when they involve a vegan brownie topped and dripping with caramel cake.

 

May days

Or maybe that should have been Mayday!  Mayday!

To say cabin fever set in wouldn't be too far from the truth.  We were virtually housebound for most of the month as Boo slowly recovered, with much lifting and carrying by his people, from major surgery. 

But he's doing well, no longer has to wear the doggy babygros (actually, I quite enjoyed dressing him and navy blue is so his colour) and exercising has begun.  The problem (scans had revealed a large mass growing internally) turned out not to be cancer which was a huge relief.  The vet is still keeping a close eye on things but, fingers crossed, the scan scheduled for August will result in a most welcome signing off (Boo likes visiting the vet about as much as he likes Jeremy Paxman which is not. at. all.)

The garden took advantage of the temporary absence of four hooves constantly trampling its borders and even the tulips which were planted very late (too late, I thought at the time) have flourished.  Now that Boo is back on his feet, I'm contemplating the erection of electric fencing to protect what is currently a not so despised little plot.  I jest.  After paying the eye wateringly high vet bills, the bank account says no.

Some reading was fitted in between caring duties and a highlight was yet another Jo Nesbo novel.  This one isn't part of the Harry Hole series but a stand alone police procedural involving what you might expect from the author - Oslo, bent coppers, dodgy prison officers, drug addicts, violent dealers, dead bodies, twists, turns and much more.  Highly recommended. 

The book pile was added to in a moment of home confinement related spending. (It also included the purchase of a new coffee machine as the existing one gave up the ghost.  Over-use due to all the sofa sitting probably didn't help.)  Two novels and, unusually for me, two non fiction titles this time.

Battle has been waged and, I fear, lost with a book that's been on my Must Read list for donkey's years.  Probably since the Derek Jacobi TV series.  I'm not far into it at all, mostly because, with the similar names and the constant marrying and divorcing and re-marrying, for the life of me I can't work out who's who.  A return to the charity shop from whence it came, methinks.

With warmer May days, meals (when I can be bothered to make them) have lightened and, in place of heartier bean stews, pasta is once again featuring on the menu, with a simple topping of roasted veg, chillies, garlic and olive oil.  Quick and colourful, if nothing else.

Similarly, recent bakes have tended to use lemons rather than chocolate in a nod to the rising temperature.  These lemon chia cookies don't look particularly inviting (I may add turmeric for added colour next time) but they do taste delicious. I've made them twice and had no problem polishing off the lot.

A brief break away from barracks was arranged in order to attend a Royal Wedding.  No, not that one, the one at our (very small) local railway station.  The knitting group had been beavering away in secret to create the balcony scene we weren't actually treated to at the actual wedding, which has been receiving many visitors including non train users and even a television crew or two.  I love the corgis, the Duchess of Cambridge holding the baby and how Bride Meghan looks like she's suffering after a night on the lash.

Whilst we were in nursing mode here, the littlest jetted off to Florence with his parents for a holiday.  No prizes for guessing which one required a lift to A&E one evening in torrential rain after a fall on a stone step.  Six stitches later he was all patched up, a bit swollen and ready to tackle the next gelato.

May days were also marked by the continuing saga of the wonky foot.  X rays have confirmed severe degeneration of the bones. Cue a referral (somewhat pessimistically on the part of the GP surgery, along the lines of,  'Well, there's probably not much that can be done' ) to the musculoskeletal service.  And cue more limping. 

This ageing lark.  Sheesh.  As I keep saying these days, you think you're doing okay and then something else drops off.

 

This and that with the letter B

 

Blossom has appeared in the front garden

whilst the camellia is doing its blooming thing in the border next to the French doors.  In the Garden of Perpetual Autumn (no matter what the season, we are always knee deep in dead leaves and twigs in the little plot here), it's always a surprise when anything shows signs of life.

A baby blanket has been cast off

and buttons added to a cardi intended for yours truly.

Brownies (using this recipe) have been baked

and biscuits appeared in (and quickly disappeared from) the tin.

Meanwhile, in his own kitchen up the road, the Baking Boy made bread (a rosemary focaccia)

and blobs (wild garlic mayonnaise, to accompany a fresh from the oven herb and onion tart).  It's good to see presentation standards are being maintained.

Washing has been blowing on the line

and books (blimey, Harry, I really thought you'd breathed your last) read.

But it hasn't all been pink and fluffy.  I've been encountering bone related problems, specifically those in my right foot which have been quietly degenerating and growing bone spurs.  Nice.  Actually, not so nice at all, unsightly and at times excruciating.  The x-ray department has been attended and an up to date assessment is awaited.  A possible solution is filing the bones.  Much more of this painful hobbling and I may be tempted to have a go with the Black and Decker myself. 

In other news, poor Boo has been battling his own health issues.  There has been a raft of examinations and  MRI scans and eating the canine anti cancer diet.  On Thursday he's once again meeting with the vet (his least favourite person after Jeremy Paxman) for a biopsy and surgery.  We're keeping everything crossed that all goes well and he bounces back.

 

Update:  Convalescence day 1

 

Lately in verbs

Celebrating the mister's birthday with pizzas and chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes.

Looking up at stunning skies and a super moon.

Visiting an open garden to check out the impressive collection of snowdrops and be mithered by a professional singer (retired) cum volunteer hospital driver (I know because she told me a hundred times and no, I wasn't counting but it truly felt like a hundred).

Participating in a sock making workshop at the coast.  Using tiny needles with points at both ends.  Four at the same time.  Just two words.  Never. Again.

Baking crumbles with the pinkest of Yorkshire rhubarb and syrupy stem ginger.

Watching Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace (I loved the novel) on Netflix.  Highly recommended.

Reading.  Always reading.  I've enjoyed every book so far this year, though some more than others. Highlights have included Little Deaths by Emma Flint, based on a real life crime committed in 1960s New York and about the dangers of making assumptions when presented with difference, Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng, about parents, babies, adoption, rights, and Alex by Pierre Lemaitre, a twisty turny crime thriller which is very much a tale of the unexpected.

Catering for hungry visitors of the feathered variety.

Poking around the 12th century with that feeling of being watched.

Gazing out on a decent fall of snow and stamping welly prints in it on night time walks with the Boo.

Packing for a city break.

Crossing everything that we actually make it to the airport.

 

Chugging along

The central library in town is a Carnegie library, in operation since 1912 and a familiar, if not particularly striking, building for most locals. 

Whilst the surrounding area has changed beyond recognition (the terraced streets and corner shops have long since gone, the little park complete with bandstand has been paved over,  the police station is now a car park, MIMA is next door in all it's glass fronted glory and there are the controversial plans to build five office blocks round the corner), the library has been quietly chugging along quite nicely, thank you very much. 

Some visitors use the bank of computers, some go in for a sit down and a warm, some, like me, browse the books and the noticeboards. 

The council, in its wisdom (and I use that term very loosely) has decided the library is 'intimidating'.  Big changes of an undisclosed nature have been announced.   Change here usually means demolition.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. 

The reference library is housed on the first floor, the place I used to hang around outside every week all those years ago, waiting to meet my friend who had a Saturday job there, and now the perfect spot for quiet reading or writing or attending one of the literary events library staff are so good at organising.  

One Saturday more recently, I was lucky to nab a ticket to see my favourite band, fellow Teessiders Cattle and Cane (have a listen here), who were performing an acoustic set.  Great music amongst shelf after shelf of books.  How perfect is that? 

Of course, books are an ever present feature at home.  (I'd had another good clear-out but then, looking in the loft for suitable items for the local Scout group's annual jumble sale, I was reunited with a huge box of forgotten but much loved reads.  I'm still trying to find space for them.)

Jane Casey's The Kill is part of the DC Maeve Kerrigan crime series and is a well paced police procedural.  A killer is at large in London.  The body count is mounting and someone clearly has a grudge against coppers.  I gobbled this one up. 

House of Spines has been hailed as a chilling contemporary gothic and is a book I've been itching to get stuck into.  Ran McGhie, a young writer with no immediate family and a history of mental illness,  inherits a mansion on the outskirts of Glasgow from a relative he'd not only never met but didn't know existed.  The vast house comes with certain conditions but Ran, struggling to keep his head above water, thanks his lucky stars and quickly moves in.  But all is not as it seems and Newton Hall begins to whisper its secrets.  The novel is reminiscent of Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger, with a smidgeon of Henry James' The Turn of the Screw  but, for me (yes, I know I'm in the minority), it was disappointing.  The annoying printing errors probably didn't help.

The current TBR pile is a mix of borrowed and purchased from Waterstones (well, who can resist a buy one, get one half price offer?).

The garden is well and truly in autumnal mode, slowing down but still providing some welcome splashes of colour.   There's an accumulation of spring bulbs awaiting planting.  It's on the to do list but, given last year's are still languishing in a pile in the shed, they may be in for a lengthy wait.

The oven has been working hard so far this month. I've been working similarly hard to keep it clean and could have done without the tomato and mozzarella tart overflowing spectacularly whilst cooking. 

Simple bakes (lemon drizzle cake, brownies, cheese and chive scones) are keeping the other two here happy (a vegan ginger cake just for me ended up in the bin, it was so inedibly damp) whilst the Boy has been turning his hand to all things filo (me, I just buy the ready-made stuff). 

He mentioned he was planning to have a crack at baking a seasonal loaf and I had pictures in my head of a crusty golden wheatsheaf, complete with cute bread mouse.  You know the ones.

We were presented with.....

Of course, the Harvest Tarantula.  

 

Lately

We've been spending time (not to mention mucho dinero) on replacing a raft of boring but essential items which had seemingly conspired to simultaneously give up the ghost.  Things like a bed, a fridge freezer, an oven, a washing machine, a steam iron and a garden pond pump (two of the biggest fish were sad casualties of this particular malfunction, though they were given a decent burial under the whitebeam at the bottom of the garden which I must remember before embarking on the usual slap-happy spade work).

Then, as we worked through the ever increasing catalogue of ailing appliances, the dog stopped eating. Initially someone joked he was just helping ease the financial situation by reducing his (specialist dried stuff for sensitive doggy tums) food intake. He became so bony, we all stopped patting him in case he broke.  There followed a number of blood tests and investigations under general anaesthetic and then a vet's bill so large I wished I'd been anaesthetised before being presented with it. The result? Nothing untoward was detected. Nothing at all. Yet the refusal to eat continued despite the wafting of normally bite your hand off treats under his nose, such as cubes of vintage cheddar, scrambled eggs, marinated tofu, and sometimes all three together.   As a last-ditch attempt to tickle the taste buds, the switch was made to those pouches of gravy soaked chunks.  The result?  He scoffed every single scrap, with an air of, 'Thank goodness and about time, too', and has done at every meal since.   Even the cat licks out the dog's dinner bowl.  I've now started another Things To Be Replaced list as my car needs new tyres, the power washer hasn't recovered from my attempts at cleaning the paving slabs in the back garden and I'm wearing crooked specs (thought I'd developed a neurological problem but thankfully it was just down to all the wonk). 

London called one Saturday so off I went, in the company of my cousin.  We met up with her boy, who lives and works in the capital, for coffee and a good old chinwag and then wandered the streets of the city, eventually heading across London Bridge towards the resistance-is-futile stalls of Borough Market before finally ending the day with another delicious afternoon tea here and my first vegan macaron.

Last weekend we supported a charity fundraising open gardens event in the North Yorkshire market town up the road.  You really can't beat a good nose round someone else's plot, however small, for inspiration, ideas and cheap plants (and, in the case of the mister, regular top ups of tea and slices of homemade cake), even when you've visited some of the gardens several times over the years.   One thing's for sure, the garden here would never meet the standard for public inspection.  Well, unless the dead leaves (damned enormous, constantly shedding eucalyptus), twigs (despised white buddleias that were supposed to be blue not white and much less snappy) and trampled plants (too many big furry feet plodding around and I don't mean the mister's) theme becomes de rigueur.

Just before the oven died, I managed to nab a little time in the kitchen (someone else here is still obsessed with all things patisserie and is now making up his own recipes - lemon meringue eclairs anyone?) for a spot of gentle pottering with the piping bag.  Yes, the Boy might be Star Baker but I'm still the Buttercream Queen.

 

Last week

The littlest enjoyed a picnic.

Boo was reunited with his string of sausages.

The cats had lodgers.

Cherry blossom bloomed in the front garden

and pear blossom in the back.

Lambs appeared in the field up the road.

And I had the lurgy.

 

Don't you just love it when...

... your candle matches your book.

 ... you finally finish the jumper you've been knitting for yonks, it kind of resembles the picture on the pattern, it fits and you might actually wear it.

 ... you commit to giving up cakes and biscuits for Lent and twenty days in finds you still abstaining (though you're eating M&S dates by the boxful). 

 

... the camellia springs to life in a corner of the garden.

 ...you meet a friend for a catch up over a  delicious lunch at your favourite venue in town, you're still there four hours later and return home so late you have to treat the family to dinner at Pizza Express.

 

... your postman delivers book shaped parcels at regular intervals.

 ... your Boy mentions wild garlic season, you remember where it grows locally and you pick enough to make..... well, something delicious.   Probably.          

 

... you find your kitchen completely covered in a thick layer of, ugh,  sugary stickiness after a boy's yumyum frying session and, even though it's really the very last thing you feel like doing on a Sunday night,  you end up having to.... oops, sorry, wrong list.

 

 

Weekend in verbs

Enjoying a sticky treat (dark chocolate and quinoa, so practically a superfood)  from the farmers market for an al fresco breakfast.

 Cursing the (huge) source of all those leaves covering the garden and thinking maybe we should swap Boo for one of these.

Feeling smug at successfully growing Virginia stock from seed.

Wondering when the night scented stock sown at the same time will put in an appearance.

Realising certain aspects of my role here are now redundant after the boy baked his own birthday cake.  Four layers of Madeira-like sponge with white chocolate ganache and waves of Belgian white chocolate curls.  Nine eggs and half a dairy of butter.  Next year he can buy his own birthday presents.

Continuing to leave the hair straighteners unplugged and resorting to intervention as humid conditions prevail.

Remembering the time my hair was always worn au naturel, and, with a picture of an eighteen year old self in my head, asking the mister if my currently wild locks reminded him of anyone from way back. 

Pausing only ever so slightly, he replied:

 'Lionel Ritchie'.