love those cupcakes

Retreating, part 1

Turns out yoga retreats are a bit like proverbial buses.  Not even a sniff of one and then two come along with just sufficient time in between to empty the suitcase, do the laundry and repack.

The first retreat was a seven day stay in Croatia.  On the island of Korcula to be exact, about 20 minutes by ferry from Dubrovnik and reputedly the birthplace of Marco Polo.  This was in the company of my yoga teacher and five other women of various ages from my yoga classes.  

To say I was anxious about cavorting on a mat twice daily in sun and heat in the company of people I hardly knew is something of an understatement.  The night before we were due to leave British soil and airspace, I could think of a million reasons not to go.  But I went and I'm so glad I did.

Korcula is certainly very pretty.  We stayed in a spacious retreat house just steps from the sea and a short walk from the town.  There were regular visits from the owner's rescued street dog, a more gentle giant you couldn't wish to meet. 

The days were punctuated with two yoga sessions, a sunrise meditation and yoga on a platform at the water's edge and an evening practice on a terrace back at the house, in a local yoga studio and in the middle of an olive grove.  

Food (vegan, delicious and generally child sized portions) was provided by a passionately macrobiotic chef who looked like he could well be related to one Jack Sparrow. 

It was a caffeine/sugar/fat/snack free seven days, a bit surprising, really, how extreme this was. (There may or may not have been a sneaky G&T and a final, recklessly rebellious night of bugger it, we're overloading on carbs and wine.) I think everyone in the group found themselves quickly launched into full detox mode, some with more debilitating symptoms than others.  But we survived, albeit a tad thinner.

I have to admit that, even without my medical history, I'm much happier in arctic/antarctic climes, where the temperatures begin with a minus and the light is more muted.  But maybe occasionally it's good to step out of the comfort zone, to try something different.

I opted out of the 3 hour hike and 5 hour boat trip (in 30C heat? I think not) which gave me some welcome space to do what I'd hoped to do in my free time - write.  The project is still very much a work in progress but I've returned home re-inspired, a definite bonus.

The week I was so worried about turned out to be one of challenging stretching and bending, snotty crying (funny how yoga can set off the waterworks), laughing so much your herbal tea comes out of your nose and long, interesting conversations in just the best company.  

I love retreating, me.

 

Filling in the gaps

July chez nous was dominated by house renovations.  Our existing bathroom and shower room weren't so bad but a couple of bits needed replacing (a bit like me) so we decided to go the whole hog and blitz the lot. 

It's taken almost a month tor the work to be completed, during which time I've been confined to barracks on tea making, question answering and decision making duties.  I found myself quietly (mostly) crawling the walls with cabin fever yet again, but this time to the sounds of songs of the 80s, sung very loudly and somewhat less than pitch perfect, with a cocker spaniel providing backing vocals.

But it's finished and we now have a swish wet room and a pristinely white bathroom, which just need a few faffy bits adding here and there to complete the look.  So far, I'm managing to keep everything sparklingly clean with the help of a couple of packs of e-cloths (thanks to the couple of bloggers for introducing me to these) and forcing everyone else to use the facilties elsewhere (just kidding....maybe).  But who knows how long until I throw the e-cloth in?  All bets are off.

July is the Boy's birthday month and we celebrated at Pizza Express (his choice) and, of course, with cake.  This year's offering was a chocolate and salted caramel popcorn creation which involved a first, and possibly last, attempt at Swiss meringue buttercream (life's too short for all that whisking).  It wasn't perfect (the chocolate sponge was moist but strangely crumbly), I couldn't taste it (made with several blocks of butter, this was the opposite of vegan) but it was well received, the candles were blown out as a wish was made and every last crumb disappeared.

Books have been featuring as usual, despite all the upheaval of bathroom works.  Highlights were  I Remember You, a spooky tale, from Iceland's queen of crime fiction, about three friends who set out to spend a week renovating a dilapidated property in a remote abandoned village.  Meanwhile, the police are drawn into revisiting the cases of a couple of missing children.  I found Norah Webster , which has been sitting on the book pile for quite a while, more enjoyable than the earlier Brooklyn.  Norah, a mother of four, is newly widowed and this is the story of her adjustment to life without her husband in a small Irish town in the late 1960s.  The Night Visitor is a claustrophobic tale.  Two women, one a writer and respected historian, the other an older, socially awkward housekeeper, and a big. fat. lie.

A  hefty book at over 700 pages, A Little Life has been described by many reviewers as a moving, tear inducing, all consuming read and it's a book I've been avoiding.  The time is now right.  I'm going in.

Boo is still not fully recovered from his recent major surgery and appears to have, erm, sprung a leak (not bladder related, if you were wondering).  The vet is puzzled and consulting with a colleague, whilst in the meantime Boo, to his embarrassment, is wearing nappies.

The littlest and his mama paid us a visit one weekend so, armed with a picnic and Monkey, off we went to the RSPB reserve at Saltholme.  I absolutely love this place, with its wide open spaces, wetlands, industrial backdrop and reminders of the town's heritage.  

 

I've fallen out with all things culinary and proper meals have been few and far between here lately.  Following the latest trip to the supermarket, dinner has turned decidedly pastel.  And very sweet.  Classy, no?

As for the continuing heatwave, I'm saying nowt.

Lately in verbs

Wandering the grounds and ruins of the 12th century Augustine priory which the Boy's apartment (it still feels strange to type those words) overlooks.   As views from living room windows go, it could be worse. 

Feeling crafty.  Nothing too ambitious, I know my limitations only too well.  Arthur was an enjoyable Easter make for the littlest,  a baby sized blanket was on and off the needles in no time and a huge granny square was intended to use up the bags of woolly oddments (hence the strange colour scheme) but which, predictably, resulted in a trip to the yarn shop for more supplies.

Sporting a snazzy pair of hand knitted socks (and yes, that is the feet up the bedroom wall pose so beloved of bloggers).   After the knitting workshop fiasco, the socktastically generous Jenny gifted these, salve, indeed, for a bruised ego. 

Enjoying dinner at a local pop-up, courtesy of a vegan cook who just happens to be a member of my favourite band and who, after a post meal chat at the tables, could be forgiven for a level of concern about a scarily enthusiastic fan.  Who, moi?

Celebrating Easter and Custard Cream Thursday with a variety of bakes.

Weeping over a book (not the first time and most probably not the last).   A large white creature suddenly appears in the woods.  What is he?  Why is he there?  Why is he trying to fly?  This is a beautifully told story (for children, for everyone) with exquisite illustrations.  And a polar bear.   If it doesn't have you shedding a tear, you're made of tin.

Recommending another read, an account of the slow unfolding of a relationship and an unlikely couple (he was formerly  her teacher and there's a thirty year age gap).  A short novel, this is gentle, poignant, with a strong sense of place.  And gallons of sake.

Reuniting with Harry Hole.  It's been too long.  

 

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.

 

Comings and goings

We heard them before we saw them, honking away as they flew across a post Ophelia blue sky in that unmistakable v formation. 

A wedge of geese (don't you just love avian collective nouns?), necks outstretched, following the leader. 

Boo, predictably (he's a gun dog, it's in his genes),  took up the chase, barking loudly as he sped across the field, leaping into the air at intervals, conceding defeat as they continued their journey out of sight.

But were they coming or going?  I have no idea. 

The littlest and his parents live at some distance and they usually come to us.  Last Sunday, however, we arranged to meet up at a more or less half-way point, York, specifically the railway museum.

The last time we visited was years ago, when the Boy was just a nipper (he has absolutely no memory of that week we spent exploring the city from our vegetarian B&B base), so another nose around the locos was well overdue.

Littlest is very much the train fan and was somewhat dumbstruck at that first sighting of all those impressive engines.  We have a saying in our family when actors visibly overact, that they'd attended the Lost In The Woods School of Drama.  Well, littlest did a fair impression of being lost in the woods.  Actually, we all did as we entered the Great Hall.

I'd previously had no idea that, during the First World War, trains were used as ambulances.  Initially, British railway companies supplied ambulance trains for use in this country only, picking up injured soldiers from ships and transporting them to hospital, but eventually thirty trains were in use in France and Belgium, ferrying thousands of casualties.  Conditions on board were challenging and dirty.  As one nurse wrote in a letter to her family,  ‘Imagine a hospital as big as King’s College Hospital all packed into a train.  No outside person can realise the difficulties except those who try to work it.’

As we wandered the museum's exhibits, memories of waving off my uncle (my mum's brother, Bob, now aged 97, the last remaining sibling and living in the US), aunt and three cousins at Darlington station when I was five or so came flooding back.  Auntie Joan leaning out of the train window, waving the hankie she'd been using to dab tears, the train noisily belching steam as it left the platform, heading south towards the ship that would take them to a new life in  Africa.  All so very Brief Encounter in my head.

Comings and goings in the kitchen of late have included a loaf, baked from a recipe in a Sainsbury's magazine and more successful (well, it was edible) than yet another attempt at a cottage loaf (which fell off its warm perch in the airing cupboard and grew stubble in the process).

The other two here are fans of chocolate and peanut butter (I am, too, but they prefer theirs mixed with eggs and butter) so I re-jigged a favourite recipe and made a batch of brownies, complete with blobs of creamy peanut butter and a topping of chopped up Reese's cups. 

This was more a case of they came, posed for a picture, hung around in the cake tin for a bit and then ended up in the bin.  At least, most of them did. 

'Don't you know brownies freeze well?', queried the baking clever clogs, after I'd moaned about wasted time, wasted effort, wasted ingredients, rejected love (not that last one, we're not at all soppy here).   

Well, I know now.

 

Positively autumnal

It's that time of year when the light changes, the temperature drops (the colder the better for me), the days shorten (or, as my dad used to say, it gets late early), the colours glow, and Mother Nature begins the process of hunkering down.        

Cooler weather cooking and baking is so much easier and so much more satisfying.  Comfort food. Platefuls of good old stodge. Yorkshire puds, mashed potatoes, hearty bean stews, dumplings, creamy dhals, fruity sponges, custard.  Just typing the words makes me feel a whole lot better.

Suddenly, in my year round uniform of black jeans, long sleeved shirts, military boots, I'm wearing season appropriate clothes. And then there's the multitude of polo neck sweaters (my absolute favourites), jackets, coats, hats and scarves waiting patiently in the wings.  

Growing up in a slum clearance area (I didn't know it at the time, it was just home), gardens, trees and wildlife didn't form a daily backdrop to the changing seasons (there was that memorable year when an owl took up residence on the street light outside the butcher's shop). The nature table in a corner of the classroom in junior school, carefully maintained by the always inspiring Mrs Whitehouse, was the closest many of us ever got to conkers, fir cones, feathers that hadn't come from a pigeon, nests and colourful leaves as big as hands. Now, much to the Boo's delight, we're lucky to live right on the doorstep of woodland trails, just there for the autumnal walking (and caterpillar spotting).

Pumpkins didn't feature at all in my childhood.  I didn't know they existed outside the pages of a favourite book, where one was magically turned into a glass coach.  These days, cans of pumpkin puree are readily available in the supermarkets and easily turned into a fragrantly spiced and fruited loaf. (I used mostly wholemeal flour, added sultanas and walnuts, omitted the banana and created a mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice and ginger.)   

Coffee is always my hot beverage of choice.  But autumn marks the reappearance of gingerbread syrup flavoured drinks in the coffee shops and resistance, I find, is futile.  A wholefood shop in a nearby town has recently offered fresh turmeric for sale and I'm planning on enlivening the drinks menu here with mugs of turmeric and ginger latte.  

Seasonal changes appear elsewhere.  I'm a big fan of matching my reading to the time of year whenever I can and, as Halloween approaches, I'm eager to get stuck into a spooky new book (though in no particular hurry to finish the current book at bedtime, a gripping tale of the Witchfinder General and life in mid 17th century England).  

Although I light scented candles indoors throughout the year, they make so much more sense as the nights draw in, adding to the cosy feel as you close the curtains, switch on the lamps and settle down to tune into the latest episode of Bake Off or the much less sugaryTin Star.  And an added bonus, they don't highlight your lack of dusting like sunlight does.   

Oh, yes, I love autumn, me.

 

 

The things people say

In a supermarket

Small child's mum:  Please stop being so naughty.

Small child:  But I don't want to stop.

 

******

In a library

Young woman:  And then I realised I was driving the wrong way round a roundabout.

Young man:  Oh, no.  What did you do?

Young woman:  A three point turn.

 

******

 In a street

Man to his walking companion:  But not only is he very hairy, he reads The Economist.   For fun.

Walking companion:  Eh?

 

******

In a yoga class

Yoga teacher:  Ooh, you've been in that pose for quite a time, Julie.  Are you just enjoying it?

Julie, in a strangled voice:  No, I'm stuck.

 

******

In a kitchen

Vegan blogger:  I'm thinking of making a vegan lime tart.

Vegan blogger's baking boy:  What's in one of those?

Vegan blogger:  Looking at the recipe, it's mostly avocado and limes.

Vegan blogger's baking boy:  In other words, guacamole.

 

******

In a park

The littlest's Mummy:  Littlest, can you see the ants?

The littlest:  Mumble, mumble, mumble.

 

 

Home

These pictures were taken on a recent walk, a circular route we've tramped many times.  

It's very local; just a step out the front door, turn left, continue up the lane, take the public footpath through the farm and then just breathe.  

This town is always in the top ten of those Worst Places in England lists.

But I love being a Smoggie, me.

 

Someone......

......and her mister paid a return visit to the walled gardens at nearby Wynyard Hall. The borders have flourished since we were last there a couple of years ago, bursting with colour and buzzing with bees.

 Someone also spotted her first real live medlar tree bearing its distinctive fruits (named dogs' arses in French, so I'm told).

......has been digging into the TBR pile and borrowing from the library.  Every one of these titles was enjoyed and is recommended.  (***Pop back soon for a chance to win your choice of one of these books and others.)

......is still obsessed with all things patisserie (we really do need an appointment system for accessing the kitchen these days).  Recently out of the oven, courtesy of the Boy Who's Always Baking (and after deliveries of copper moulds from France and a lump of beeswax), were Caneles (they were days in the making) and...

a batch of (mistaken by a passing someone else for sausage rolls) brioche based Creme de Parisiennes, topped with sugar pearls.

......celebrated a birthday.  The Baking Boy continued to strut his alchemic stuff and made a wonderfully rich and fudgy vegan chocolate, rose and pistachio cake whilst muttering, 'Vinegar just shouldn't be a cake ingredient'.  Being the birthday girl, I was given a choice of candles.  No brainer.  All of them.

......was treated to a birthday afternoon tea at the coast.  As we stopped en route to the venue to take a snap of Huntcliff, my cousin uttered the words, 'If I was going to commit suicide, I'd definitely do it jumping from there'.

......is convalescing (again). Having had to defend himself once more against the neighbourhood's feline aggressor, poor Buzz ended up needing a partial front paw amputation. But he's recovering well and, hallelujah, the bully cat has moved house. 

......is about to turn 2.  What?

 

Goings on

I went to a friend's retirement presentation (she's relatively young for a retiree, one of the high salaried, well pensioned lucky ones). The venue was in a nearby town.  It seemed a good idea to go by taxi.  The taxi driver called me 'babe'.   A lot.  I declined his offer to wait outside for me.  The presentation went well as my friend took us on a hilarious journey through her career.  There were mountains of chocolate brownies and many faces from the past.  As an ex colleague sitting next to me said, as we played the game of Name The Latest Arrival, it's funny seeing people you'd assumed were dead.

I hopped on a train to London (and hopped on one back, obviously).  I met up with the Gorgeous Girlie and off we trotted to Ottolenghi's for a late breakfast.  The food was good.  The service was abysmal. Someone was making it very obvious he wasn't happy in his work.  We mooched about Spitalfields and crept quietly around Dennis Severs' house, trying not to trip over in the candle-lit gloom. We had afternoon tea at Fortnum and Mason.  The pianist did a passable impersonation of the very smiley Russ Conway. 

I made curry.  The Boy made Ferrero Rocher lookie-likies.

The buddleias bloomed briefly in the garden.  The butterflies weren't attracted.  Not one.

We went to Butterfly World.  No buddleias but butterflies aplenty.

I read Barbara Kingsolver's Flight Behaviour.  More butterflies.  Lots more.  And climate change.

We celebrated the Boy's birthday with triple chocolate cake (I baked it but couldn't eat it) and dinner at our favourite local restaurant.

We headed to the coast for a food festival.  Along with thousands of others.   We ate chana chaat naans and macarons.   We bumped into old friends.  We quaffed cocktails. The weather was alternately sunny and stormy.  As was the littlest.