love those cupcakes

Lockdown rambling

I finished another knitted jumper.  It kept the old fingers busy (fingers covered in skin that would be at home on the back of a crocodile, it's so dry with all the handwashing) but is probably destined for the Wear That? Not On Your Nelly pile.

Boo was on the receiving end of a shampoo and cut (actually cuts, I've had two goes so far) yesterday. He'd gotten so hirsute he was beginning to resemble Cousin It.  He seemed to enjoy the experience, although maybe all the tail wagging was more a case of 'I'll keep it moving in case she hacks it off'.  Now he's more Barry Manilow than cocker spaniel.  I'm thanking my lucky stars that I'm responsible for the evening dog walk.  In the dark.  

I had a stab at cleaning the pond which was looking uncared for (probably because it is, like a lot of stuff here these days, although the cutlery drawer is pristine).  This involved working out how to operate the vacuum cleaner to remove the sludge at the bottom, which, apparently, is a bad thing.  With the help of a YouTube (naturally) video, I managed it, although I was concerned I'd suck up the fish (not that I've spotted any; if they've any sense, they'll have already upped and offed).  The water doesn't look any clearer but I'm reliably informed that that's not a bad thing.  Next,  the filter and pump need degunking but I need to locate them first.  I suspect they're immersed in the water and it might help if I knew what they look like before trawling the depths in rubber gloves.  

The comfort eating here has reached Olympian heights.  I'm going for gold.  Lunch one day was a giant bag of salted popcorn.  Dinner was an entire packet of Oreos and a hot cross bun (no 'butter', I didn't want to over-egg the pudding).  Supper was what was left of a vegan chocolate bar, two Polo mints and a Rennie.  Last night's menu was more about real food - crispy coated polenta cakes topped with ratatouille, puy lentils and griddled tenderstem broccoli, finished with a sprinkling of nutritional yeast for me, finely grated Italian cheese for the mister.  It was very tasty and looked pretty but there's less washing up when you eat crap.

Cherry blossom is strutting its stuff in the front garden, the camellia is doing the same in the back.  The grass (that's stretching it, it's more mossy clumps than rolling greensward) is ready for another cut but the green bin and a green bag are already overflowing (I have no idea why the garden is continuously covered in twigs and branches, though I have a funny feeling about one of the houses that backs onto ours) and collections haven't restarted yet

I grew up in a shop and I love shopping (as did my parents and brother, come to think of it).   But the weekly circuit of the supermarket is anything but enjoyable.  It's the exact opposite of enjoyable. The Sainsburys branch I use has now installed crowd control.  Well, that was the wording on the back of the bomber jacket the elderly man sitting on a fold-up chair outside the entrance was wearing.  The crowd waiting to be allowed in was well behaved (well, it was just me and Crowd Control called me Madam). 

Once inside, it was more about dodging the other trolleys to keep the required distance, and avoiding doing anything that might be construed as loitering, than finding essential items (unpacking at home was interesting).  And everyone I encountered glared, like I was riddled with nasties.   It was a relief to get back into the car where, armed with a pack of treasured antibac wipes, I scrupulously cleaned  hands, steering wheel and door handles.  I shoved a wipe up my nostrils, too, just to be on the safe side.  

Easter will be very strange in this, the year of the virus, but I've hung little wooden eggs on some pussy willow branches and a modestly sized Simnel cake (just the vegan Christmas cake recipe with the addition of a ton of marzipan) will be baked.  I think I have all the ingredients.  If not, I'll substitute.

Or as my dad used to say, there is no bread. We'll have to eat toast.

 

Same but oh so different

Like Dorothy, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. 

Gilead, more like.  Blessed be the fruit.

Drastic times.  Increasingly drastic measures.  Toilet roll wars.

A new, restricted way of living has been in place for less than a week. 

It feels so much longer.

With the usual routine out the window, I'm losing track of what day it is.  I only knew Thursday was Thursday because the binmen did their rounds.

And days have become longer, from the cats' wake up call at seven- ish to a now much later bedtime at two or three in the morning. I just can't switch off.  Yet, strangely, time isn't dragging. 

Being stuck indoors for lengthy periods with someone with dementia is very testing, and there have been tears. An abundance of tears.  But these are challenging times for us all, whatever our situation.

So, what's this 'same but different' life looking like?

I aim to get on the yoga mat at some point during the day, even if just for ten minutes.  My wonderful yoga teacher videoed a practice for our group to follow at home.  Just hearing her voice was a reminder of normality.  I sobbed. 

The knitting needles have been seeing a fair bit of action; one sweater has been finished, another one started  and Tucker the monkey is sitting next to me on the sofa,  patiently waiting for an introduction to the littlest. 

 

Of course,  there's never a shortage of reading material here but there were some new additions to the pile just prior to the partial lockdown.  The latest book at bedtime is The Long Call and I'm really enjoying it.  If you like a police procedural, this one could be for you.

Then there's always the telly to watch (this looks promising and this and this ), though it looked uncertain when the remote control suddenly stopped working.  But, with the help of Youtube and a kitchen knife, I managed to fix it.  I'm asking for a set of spanners for Christmas.

Comfort eating has been taken to a whole new level.  I'm still cooking meals of sorts, though there have been some strange concoctions. (Pasta made with chickpea flour?  Not recommended unless your preference is for soggy cardboard.) But I'm baking for England (still no cake for me). Biscuits, usually. Flapjacks.  Sometimes a fruit crumble.  Bread if there's enough strong flour.  The oven is rarely switched off.  I'm also eating for England.  It appears I've developed a Fry's Chocolate Cream habit. I don't even like them, so what's that all about?  Maybe it's the sugar-laden equivalent of wearing a hair shirt.  

Drier weather has meant time in the garden and the grass has been given its first cut of the year.  I'm always amazed anything flourishes in our inhospitable plot but, alongside the forget-me-nots, I discovered a clump of beautifully hued violets (which, incidentally,  I have no memory of planting).  I've also been left in charge of the pot of pansies the littlest planted the last time he visited.

Because of the current restrictions on exercise, evening walks (the later the better) are now enjoyed in the company of the dog (who, by the way,  is getting hairier by the day).  I'm not sure Boo appreciates the more, shall we say, military approach but he's stuck with it for the foreseeable.

The kitchen cupboards have never been cleaner or more organised.  Likewise the bedrooms.  The downside is the huge pile of stuff waiting to be taken to the charity shops.

And, in the absence of visits to the salon, I think i'm about to discover my hair's natural colour.  I've had a stab (pardon the pun) at cutting my fringe, though, in hindsight, maybe the dressmaking shears weren't the ideal tool.  It's probably no bad thing that I won't be socialising for a while. 

Like everyone, it's the lack of contact with family and friends that's the big struggle.   I don't use a mobile phone and rely on email for conversation, though that may be about to change as my Girlie has taken matters into her own hands (scrupulously washed, obviously).  I don't use Facebook or Instagram or Twitter, there's just this blog.  I'm fairly sure I'm talking far too much to the checkout operators in the supermarkets as I pack whatever groceries have ended up in the basket.   Likewise to myself.

Three months ago, Covid-19 wasn't part of our vocabulary.  Now we know that this new way of living isn't going to change for the better any time soon and our resilience is going to be tested to the core.

I'm signing off with pictures from my 2014 trip to Antarctica, the one place on earth free from coronavirus.......so far.

Stay safe, stay healthy, lovely people in my laptop.

 

It's a wrap

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!

 

 

Weekending

The littlest and his mother visited for a belated celebration of the mister's birthday and we spent Saturday afternoon mooching around the market town up the road, intending to make the most of the pre-Ciara weather. 

We kicked off with a tasty lunch in a newish Italian cafe, showing remarkable restraint in the presence of an array of cakes and bakes (honestly, they were on every surface), walked along the riverside, popped into the churchyard to examine the snowdrops, stocked up the larder and bathroom from another recent addition to the high street and made a few purchases in the charity shop. 

I chose three books (I want to make just about everything from the preserves book, I recently watched the film of the Rhidian Brook novel and fancied extending my limited knowledge of Buddhism), a print (which reminded me of the little wood near our house but was greeted with a says-it-all stony silence by the others, huh, philistines) and a wonderfully soft shirt (which looks unworn).  All for the unprincely sum of £3.98.   

Back at home, we voted on dinner options.

'Let's celebrate with a sausage', suggested littlest.  After some lengthy deliberation, we eventually went down the takeaway pizza/curry route.  The mister preferred fruit from the fridge.  

The day finished with candles, an enthusiastic rendition of the birthday song and generous slices of cake (plus a side of extra Smarties for some) with a couple of episodes of this (gravity defying, body torturing, relentless hard graft with some very sad back stories).

Sunday continued in much the same vein, if a tad gustier and wetter, with a leisurely breakfast, a meet-up with the Boy, lunch in a coffee shop, food shopping, the usual stuff. 

All too soon we were waving the visitors off but there was an evening on the sofa in the company of the latest knitting project (a bag, this one, knitted in one piece, lining, handles, the lot, and which currently looks like a scarf with holes) and Agatha Christie on the telly to look forward to.  

I love weekends, me.

 

Lately in verbs

Galloping through book number three of the year.  Exquisitely detailed descriptions of place (the marshlands of North Carolina), of nature, of clothes worn, of food prepared, meals eaten.  Set in the 50s and 60s, it's a story of abandonment and survival, difference and intolerance, rejection and loneliness.  And maybe a murder.    Not quite perfect but very readable and **** .

Finishing the littlest's stripey jumper, which should fit. Well, it will if his arms hang past his knees. 

Watching Season 1 of Anne with an E on Netflix.  Based on the book, Anne of Green Gables, the familiar storylines are there but this version is darker, presenting a much more miserable picture, mostly via flasbacks, of an orphan's life.  So, Anne's vivid imagination seems to be more a way of dealing with the abuse she has suffered prior to being taken in by the Cuthberts.  Although it's a period piece, it's modern, if that makes sense.  The Prince Edward Island setting (and the Cuthberts' house) is stunning and, so, whilst it's not what I was expecting (I love the book),  I'm sticking with it.  For now.

Wondering what on earth has happened to the hyacinths I planted.  They seemed to be doing well, but the flower spikes (blue, huzzah!) are stunted, poor wee things.  They still have that glorious hyacinth fragrance, though you have to stick your neb right in to get a whiff. 

Making marmalade. It was a messy business, not helped by one of the glass jars in the motley collection shattering whilst being filled.  But it tastes so good. Too good, maybe.

Consuming far too much sugar.  See above.

Missing the coffee machine which has been spending time in coffee machine hospital.  I tried coffee bags and a cafetiere in the meantime but it just wasn't the same.  Cue lots (the bank account confirms) of visits to cafes where sweet vegan treats have also been consumed (resistance, I find, is futile).  Costa's rocky road, Nero's raspberry croissant and a cherry and almond scone at a newish vegan eatery up the road were memorable.

Sweeping up white feathers which were scattered along the length of the drive and in piles by the dustbin and on our neighbours' front garden.  From the amount I had to dispose of, they'd once kept an albatross warm and dry.

Sending Buzz cat to Coventry.  See above.

Filling the vase with tulips, my absolute favourites.

Learning the basics of modern calligraphy.   This was a hugely enjoyable workshop, held one evening in an upstairs room in a bistro, and had nine of us getting to grips with securing the nib in its holder, loading it with just the right amount of ink to avoid blobs and positioning the hand properly to ensure a scratch-free flow across the paper.  Honestly, we were all so focused on forming the letters (thin upward, thick downward strokes), time sped by (I only remembered to eat my slice of vegan chocolate cake just before everything was cleared away).   Now for some home practice.  Without spilling the ink.

Meeting up with my girl in London, to celebrate her birthday.

Demolishing a very delicious  afternoon tea.

Lurking long after the table had been cleared after discovering the presence of a TV film crew.  I've always felt I'd make an excellent extra.  After all, I do have stage experience and yes, yes, I know I was only three at the time but it all counts.  However, I suspect this might be as close as I get to a BAFTA.

Returning home after a fab day out.  With the wrong box of afternoon tea leftovers.

 

So far, so good

Just a week into the new year but for some strange reason it feels much longer.  I've always loved January, I think because it was a big birthday month in my family, kicking off with my dad's on the 12th, shortly followed by my brother's.  But now we just have the one, my girl's, towards the end.  

Yoga and tai chi classes re-started this week and I was so ready for them, not just for the practice itself but for re-establishing a little routine into my week and reconnecting with friends.  The theme for our Wednesday yoga sessions is 'Empowerment'.  I foresee a lot of challenging poses in my near future (not that they're not usually challenging).

The first daffodils of the year appeared in the supermarket so, of course, I popped a couple of bunches into the basket, and the hyacinth bulbs (blue, with a bit of luck) I planted before Christmas appear to be faring well in one of the bedrooms.

Typepad informs me that I read 61 books in 2019, which surprises me somewhat (I know it isn't a competition but that's the most I've read in a 12 month period since starting this blog).  Some were memorable, others I couldn't begin to tell you what they were about (though that probably says more about my memory than about the books).  Christina asked about favourites from 2019 and I struggled to recall the titles I'd enjoyed most.  So I'm now trialling a simple (1-5) star rating system for each book I read this year so that the standout ones really do, well, stand out.  The current book at bedtime is White, a shortish novel set in my absolute favourite part of the world, Antarctica. Just needs a foot of snow outside to add to the reading experience.

Eating chez nous is still on the indulgent side of healthy, and there are far too many sugary snacks being consumed, but the addition of two new recipe books to the collection should help to shake up the menus. Soonish.

In the absence of mince pies and Christmas cake (we still have non vegan ones), I baked a batch of fudgy, nut laden brownies using this recipe.  I didn't dust them with icing sugar.  Well, no point in over-egging the pudding (or whatever the equivalent is in veganese).

Although sea glass is to be found on the beach just a bit further up the north east coast from here, I've never collected it.  Actually, I'd never handled it at all until I participated in a mosaic workshop last weekend.  It was highly enjoyable.   A group of seven of us got stuck into embellishing wooden coasters and picture frames with beautifully hued pieces chosen from a huge pile of sea glass (plus bits of driftwood in my case) using tubes of grout (I really shouldn't have worn black) after hearing lots of interesting stuff about the glass itself.  The end results were, oh, how shall I put it, rustic?  Primitive?  Artisan?  Rough and ready?  I'll maybe use the coaster as a plant pot stand and I think I know just the place for the frame (hint:  it's a short word, beginning with 'b' and ending with 'n').

The venue for the workshop was a lovely yarn shop in a neighbouring town and, surprise surprise, I took the opportunity to stock up on materials for a new project.  I chose a straightforward pattern to knit a sweater (and maybe the matching hat) for the littlest which just might keep the fingers too busy to dip into the treats cupboard.  And pigs might fly.

I'm continuing with writing a diary after using a five year line a day one since 2015.  My new one is a much prettier version, a Christmas gift, and, over time, I'll enjoy reading the entries from previous years on any given date.  

Something of a tradition now, I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, preferring instead to choose a guiding word for the year which, once again,  I've also expanded into a sankalpa.  After much pondering, I've decided to go with compassion.  Compassion for others, for animals, for planet earth, for myself.  

I'll give it my best shot.

 

Round-up

So, here we are at the start of a new year, a new decade.

Christmas seems such a long time ago.  Of course, everything came together in the end, as it always does (though the woodland themed centrepiece probably looked better in my head than it did on the table).

Oh boy, there was so much (too much for one person) to do in the lead up and, come Christmas night, after a run of late finishes and early starts, I was head thumpingly, unable to move exhausted, with joints aching, balance off kilter and looking more than a tad grey round the gills.  

But it was worth it and never more so than when the littlest suddenly shouted mid Christmas dinner, 'Three cheers for Granny.  Pip, pip...' . 

The celebrations kicked off with an evening at the panto, we enjoyed the carol service at church on Christmas Eve and afterwards played a game of festive Scrabble, now a night before Christmas family tradition and something I really look forward to. (Competitive?  Moi?)   It didn't end well.  Not only did I not reclaim the winner's crown, I came fourth.  Last.  Oh, the shame.  

As in houses up and down the country, presents were exchanged and opened, meals prepared and eaten, snacks devoured, bottles of the fizzy stuff quaffed, a gingerbread house demolished, telly watched (this, this and this ).  We had dinner at a favourite restaurant and there was a party one night to celebrate my cousin and her husband's special anniversary (I was one of the bridesmaids at the wedding all those years ago).

After the littlest and his parents returned home to Manchester on Boxing Day, me and the Boy enjoyed a late afternoon leg stretch along the beach (whilst the world and his wife and dog queued at the fish and chips hatch).  The light was absolutely stunning.

Now, everything has been packed away, there's a pile of new books to get stuck into and I'm left wondering where all the mince pies went.  

Actually, my jeans keep giving uncomfortable hints.

Wishing you all a happy and healthy 2020.

 

Just one more sleep

The lights in the bathroom may not be working but we do have a gingerbread house, courtesy of the baking Boy.

After a bath by torchlight, the 4 year old littlest has been tracking the progress of Father Christmas (last seen in the Democratic Republic of Congo and heading towards Malawi).  We're all hopeful he's made it onto the Nice List.  Just one more sleep and we'll know.

Merry Christmas, lovely readers.  

 

Mountain climbing

The mountain that is Christmas prepping, that is.

I'm stuck about half way.  Ish.

One of the Christmas cakes is baked (the non vegan one), there are two versions of mince pies in the freezer and the festive pud has been mixed, wished on and steamed for 8 hours.

Nigella's Christmas chutney has been decanted into jars, one of which will form part of a present, even though I'm not convinced it's the right consistency.

Presents have been bought (some may have been bought twice) and sorted into people piles on the spare bed.  

The overseas cards have been written and posted. 

I've booked seats at the panto.

A wreath has been collected from the lovely new florist up the road and hung on the door.

The giant of a tree is waiting patiently in a bucket of water in the garage.  Fingers crossed the flu ridden Boy will have recovered sufficiently to visit later in the week and help move it indoors and into its holder.  If he's feeling up to it, he might even throw some lights and decorations at it (I risked life and limb to bring those down from the loft).

There's also been a meet up with a pyjama clad littlest and his mother for a night-time ride on the Polar Express, a word in the ear of the man in the red suit, a woodland walk, continuous feeding of a serious mince pie addiction and, somehow, Ronnie Mouse has been crafted (not perfect but with a bit of luck the eagle-eyed 4 year old recipient won't be overly critical). 

Over the next couple of days, I need to bake something for an after yoga party (I'm thinking vegan millionaire's shortbread though the caramel layer is likely to be very hit and miss), play a round of Hunt the Present (it's here, somewhere) before I meet a friend for lunch,  take the contents of the overflowing bin (so much online shopping, so much cardboard) to the recycling centre as the next collection isn't until after Christmas.  And the dog is in desperate need of a bath (actually, he'll be having a shower if I can entice him into the wet room; if not, it'll be a dunk in a tub in the garden) as at the moment he can be located just using the sense of smell. 

After all that, there's everything else on the lengthening to do list to work through before the summit is finally reached.

If you pass me on the way, give a wave.

 

A milestone

On 27th November 2009, I was admitted to hospital to undergo radical surgery for a gynaecological cancer.  One of the rare ones, malignant melanoma of the vulva.

On 27th November 2019, I travelled to London with the Boy for a short stay, to mark 10 years of being cancer free.

The intervening period hasn't been without its hiccups and there have been further surgeries to remove potential nasties.   But, I'm still here, still breathing, and so very very grateful (I'm well aware many women with a similar diagnosis are not so lucky).

So, that trip to London.  

The mister couldn't be included as dementia is really making its presence felt now and, apart from a couple of eventful days in Vienna at the start of the year, holidays have fallen by the wayside for us (how happy am I that we undertook those big, life changing adventures when we did).

The aim of the two days in the capital was simply enjoyment - celebrating life, escaping the challenges of the situation at home and pushing the boat out just a wee bit. 

We stayed here which was where we were having dinner on the first night and which was also the perfect springboard for everything we planned to fit in.  The Christmas decorations were a bit of alright, too.

A must-do on the list was a visit to the Royal Academy (conveniently over the road from The Ritz) and the Antony Gormley exhibition (although it's now closed, you can read more about it here).  It was wonderful, absolutely stunning, from the first encounter with the almost overlooked Iron Baby on the paving in the courtyard to the final smell and cold air of 'Host', the gallery floor covered in earth and salt water.  It's impressive.  It's thought provoking.  It's one of those experiences that stays with you a long time afterwards.  I loved it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, we packed in as much as we could, including the first mince pie of the season (the floodgates have been well and truly opened) and visits to the British Library (there was a lovely exhibition of children's literature and an excellent shop), Borough Market, Southwark Cathedral, Seven Dials, Soho (with a wander down my favourite Old Compton Street) and a very festive Fortnum and Mason.  Lots of walking, lots of hopping on and off tube trains, lots of food and coffee breaks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 This really was the best way to celebrate such a significant milestone.

I love London, me.

 

The Eve Appeal is funding research into and raising awareness of the five gynaecological cancers.  You can find more information here.