love those cupcakes

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.

 

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.

 

A day in verbs

 Waking very early and, instead of turning over, getting up, feeding two ravenous cats, making a cup of tea, catching  up on the news, and checking e-mails.

Discovering that a lottery ticket purchased on impulse had won £2:70.  

Taking advantage of a quiet house and others still abed, getting on the yoga mat in front of the french doors in the living room, with a cat observing closely from the other side of the glass, and following a couple of bendy sequences in a recently purchased magazine.

Tagging along on the morning dog walk, noting how fortunate we are, living in one of the most maligned towns in the country, to have such a wonderfully wild area right on the doorstep.

Enjoying a raw porridge and berries breakfast whilst Boo turned his nose up at a new brand of dog food.

Acknowledging that yes, we do appear to have a Jo Nesbo corner, including the latest Harry Hole story.

Taking time to choose the next book at bedtime.  After reading some of the noirest of Nordic crime fiction (more on that in a future book related post), a return to the classics was needed.  Now back to some suspense.

Realising I've managed to keep a bunch of flowers alive for over two weeks.  Go me!

Making a raw chocolate tart from the new recipe book and managing to persuade the other two here to give it a try.  

Asking for feedback.

Wishing I hadn't.

 

 

A weekend of firsts

First rose

of the year spotted in the garden, with more to come.  

 First venture outdoors

for our kitty, Buzz .  First time outside since the attack.  It took just half an hour before, predictably, he returned home with a bleeding ear.  He's been advised to steer clear of the bully cat.  Has he heeded the advice?  Time will tell.

 First yoga retreat

No laptop.  No television.  No radio.  No newspapers.  Just three days of yoga, meditation, a rain soaked country walk, relaxation and patting the friendliest of dogs (his muzzle was to prevent unsavoury diet choices) in a stunning house in the beautiful North Yorkshire countryside, just half an hour's drive from here.  En route, I was anxious about spending so much time in the company of eight strangers, telling myself I could easily return home if it really wasn't for me.

But it was wonderful.  Amazing.  Perfect.  I didn't want to leave.

 First taste of Kundalini yoga

I had no idea what to expect, naively assuming that one type of yoga was pretty much like any other.  I mean, I do hatha and ashtanga classes every week, it surely couldn't be that different.

Turns out I couldn't have been more wrong.  There was a clue when the yoga teacher appeared in her white garb, her head tightly wrapped in what I thought was a tea towel but turned out to be a white scarf, and as she proceeded to sit on a white sheepskin.  (I was the exact opposite in head to foot black. And no sheepskin.)

Kundalini is a detoxing yoga, aimed at raising energy through the spine ('awakening the snake') and practice is based on kriyas and meditations and chants, some of which felt (and sounded) more haka than anything else.  Involving many many repetitions (sometimes for 15 minutes and longer), with eyes closed throughout,  it's challenging (at times highly challenging), it shakes you up (literally!), it's sweaty and it's seriously crazy weird (have a look here to get an idea).   But, despite (or because) all of that, I now want to incorporate elements into my home practice.  Though I'll no doubt end up scaring the cats and Boo (they're often an uninvited audience and spooked by downward dog),  in the process.

 First foray into raw vegan eating

 All of the meals served during the retreat were raw vegan and I loved them.  There were mutterings along the lines of 'This would be lovely with some crispy bacon on top' around the table, but I enjoyed every single plate or bowl of food that was placed in front of me. The promise of afternoon tea certainly had pulses racing.  Excitement quickly subsided when the two raw cacao truffles per person appeared. They were, however, delicious and I purchased the recipe book to have a go at making a batch at home, along with some of the other dishes  (I'll eat them, the other two here will more than likely pass).  

I do foresee a dehydrator coming into my life (and kitchen) in the near future.  The Boy is already anticipating a real life rerun of a certain episode of Friends.

 

 

Out and about

A walk in the rain yesterday.  Just in and around the park down the road.  Sans umbrella (well, it wasn't chucking it down and sometimes it's good to live a little dangerously, even if you do end up with dodgy looking hair).

The filled spaces in the car park hinted at the number of dog walkers and school groups out and about but no-one was lingering and the park is big enough, with lots of hidden paths and wooded areas, not to feel part of a crowd.

This used to be the home of one of the town's founding fathers (and is also the birthplace of local lad made good, Captain James Cook).  The hall has long since been demolished (I posted more about it here) but there are still remnants of the original buildings here and there, reminders of what used to be. 

There's a mix of planting and a range of colours throughout the park, from the impressively large, and almost glowing in its blueness, ceanothus in the recently restored walled garden to the patches of wildflowers dotted here and there.

There was a first sighting and sniff of hawthorn blossom, that unmistakable whiff of almond which I can't get enough of (though I know enough of myth and legend not to want to plonk a snip in a vase at home),  whilst a park resident kept a close eye.

Before walking a circuitous route past some highly desirable residences back to the car, I popped into the churchyard over the road.  Like others,  I rather enjoy a wander round old graves.  This probably harks back to when I was little and used to accompany Aunty M every Sunday when she pulled up weeds and changed the flowers or placed a Christmas wreath on the graves of her father and brother and I used to go in search of stone angels.  I love the tranquility, especially in urban graveyards, don't find them particularly creepy or gloomy and often ponder the possible stories behind the inscriptions on those headstones that have survived.

In other news, the convalescent has had enough of lounging and snoozing and is making it known that he's ready for a return to the great outdoors.  

Little does he know his nemesis is patiently waiting.

 

 

Filling in the gaps

It's been a mixed bag of late here.

The bank holiday ended with me and the Boy taking one of our cats to the emergency vets after he'd been attacked by a huge (well, compared to our two) and vicious new kit on the block.  Turned out the perpetrator had just missed his jugular.  So eight lives remaining.  

The staff on duty were certainly kept busy that night and we were kept well and truly entertained whilst waiting for our feline to be patched up.  There was a fox under the reception desk, in some cases it was difficult to decide who was the patient, the animal or the owner, and have you ever waltzed into the vets with your little dog in one hand and a glass tumbler full to the brim with cola and clinking ice in the other?  

Poor Buzz is now sporting an impressive wound on his neck that resembles a bullet hole (not that I've actually seen one but I've watched plenty of crime dramas and read Jo Nesbo).  He's not at all happy to be housebound (cue much caterwauling) and has been subjected to so many salt water baths, he's at risk of being pickled.

But it hasn't all been doom and gloom.  Sometimes, a short drive and some solitary time in the fresh air is all that's needed to put aside, at least for a little while, all the unsettling stuff that's happening in the world (and closer to home) and lift the spirits.

There was also the  treat of an afternoon tea (yep, a vegan version for me) with my cousin to celebrate her birthday (I love buying presents that you get to share).   This was a first visit to the venue, the town's only Grade 1 listed building, since its recent controversial renovation.  Last used as a boys' grammar school, it had been empty and neglected for years and the surrounding grounds overgrown.  The land either side was cleared of trees (there was a public outcry but once they're gone they're gone) and  is now occupied by new housing and a soon to be completed hospital, with the result that the hall now looks so much less imposing than it once did and, despite having stood in that spot since 1683, sadly out of place.    

The littlest paid a visit and off we went to a PYO flowers event in a beautiful walled garden in the adjoining county of Durham.  Of course, he wasn't the least interested in tulips, much preferring to just run and run.  And then run some more.

 

 

Easter parade

When I was growing up, Easter was a time for being with family (when they weren't serving in the shop), wearing a new outfit on Easter Sunday (there was always a hat included), enjoying traditional food, collecting egg shaped treats to display on top of the piano (I hadn't yet developed a taste for chocolate) and finally, thanks to half day closing, an afternoon's drive to somewhere not too far away on Easter Monday.

These days we still do pretty much the same kind of stuff.  Whilst there was no new outfit for me, in another part of the country the littlest was so attached to his new titfer, he was puzzled at the suggestion that he remove it at bedtime.  

Our long weekend started with sticky hot cross buns for breakfast on Good Friday, followed by a trip to the beach, dinner in a Turkish restaurant, an Easter Sunday afternoon tea at home (which provided an opportunity to make biscuits using a new rolling pin) and after which a certain vegan glutton was chomping on Rennies like nobody's business and sleeping sitting up, finishing today with a couple of hours blowing away the cobwebs and cooing over the lambs (oh, teeny tiny Tink) at the somewhat incongruously situated (it's surrounded by industry) local RSPB nature reserve.  

I love Easter, me.

 

 

Weekending

I haven't worked for years now and every day is a Saturday.  But, even so, weekends still have that special feel about them.  

This last one has been especially enjoyable, with visitors of the family and feathered varieties, local walks, fundraising bakes, cards and presents, a farmers market to replenish stocks and pat dogs, tasty home cooked food and lots of it, coffee shop stops, charity shop finds.

The weather was glorious.  The sun shone, the sky was blue, though for this lover of deepest, darkest winter, polo neck sweaters, the comfort blanket of choice, still featured.  

Someone had the hump. 

Nothing that a good long roll in the muck couldn't fix.

 

As January ends

London called, so me and the Boy went.  Just for the day but hugely enjoyable (oh, Ottolenghi's scrambled tofu, you beaut) nonetheless.

Then there was an outing to York for a mooch in the mist and a catch up with the littlest and his mother.  Seems someone is putting travel time to good use.

Feeling crafty, I made a card for a friend who's celebrating a big birthday.  There's a party tonight and I'm sparing the mister the agony of attending a large scale social gathering by popping along on my own.  Not something I particularly relish but I'll don the glad rags and pile on the slap.  Needs must and all that.

Clearly on a crafting roll, the pointy sticks came out and a cowl was cast on.  Easy knitting whilst browsing a new magazine and tuning into the second series of Fortitude.

Despite considering a throwing in of the towel several times,  I finally managed to finish Miss Smilla's Feeling For Snow.  This was such an odd book and even now I'm not really sure what I think about it.  

There's the perfect setting (initially, a wintry Copenhagen and finally, the Arctic).  There's a tragedy (a young child dies after falling from a roof). Then there's gritty Miss Smilla Jaspersen, half Greenlander, half Danish, with a feeling for snow and ice and a nose for a crime to be solved.  Throw in a big corporation, some (baffling for me) science, a string of baddies and you'd think you'd have the ingredients for a riveting read.  

The story certainly begins with promise and there were sections in the book which were engrossing.  But it was by no means an easy read (there is an incredible amount of detail in parts) and, in a way, I was mirroring Smilla's doggedness by making it to the last page.  At times, it felt more like James Bond than Nordic noir and I wasn't always clear about who was who, what was happening and why, though maybe that says more about me than the book.   I'm sure it deserves a re-read but sorry, I'm out.

One of the reading aims for 2017 was to move outside of my literary comfort zone and I've done just that with the current book at bedtime.  Sci-fi, no less. There's a first.

With recent purchases piled up around me, there's now a self imposed book buying ban in operation.  

Yep, cold turkey and a stinking headache as a result.

Source

 

So that was Christmas 2016

It's been brilliant.  

Lots of the festively familiar with a sprinkling of new.  Just how it should be.

Perhaps predictably, the indefatigable (his batteries are always fully charged) and occasionally bearded littlest eschewed his pile of presents for an old plastic stick (for the launching of tennis balls for the Boo to catch).  In fact, he loved it so much he licked it.  

It's official.  I'm the worst player of Downton Cluedo (any Cluedo) ever.  You'd think with all the crime novels I read and all the crime dramas I watch I'd be ahead of the game but no, it's clear I haven't the first clue how to play this.  Why do I end up eliminating every suspect and every room so I never know whodunnit or where?  Why can't I eliminate more than one weapon? Why didn't my sparkly (and heavy, I could never be an actual countess) headdress distract the other players sufficiently to enable a bit of sneaky reading of their detectives' notes?  Fortunately, I'm better at Scrabble (very nice placement of the word 'quire' to use up all my tiles, even if I do say so myself) and huzzah, I won the prize box of chocolate truffles.  

We headed for the beach the day after Boxing Day.  The tide was in, it was busy with people, dogs and surfers, and the queue for fish and chips (me, I'm craving broccoli and salad) was unbelievably lengthy but it was so good to breathe in lungfuls of sea air.

Of course, there's been a night at the panto.  Our town only has one theatre (in its iron and steel making heyday it boasted a total of nine), so small it was named the Little Theatre, and we usually have to travel to Newcastle to see anything half decent.  But panto is panto when all's said and done, so down the road to Aladdin it was.  A massive improvement on last year's dire production, I loved it.  Oh yes I did.

So now the Christmas presents (i.e. the ones the mister hasn't already eaten) are gradually being put away, breakfast on these in-between days is a very generous wedge of Christmas cake or a chunk of gingerbread house and I've concocted a recipe for a savoury pie to serve on new year's day.  I'm calling it New Year's Day Savoury Pie.