love those cupcakes

Out with the old

Don't you love it when a plan comes to fruition? 

We'd hoped and prepared for a family gathering and, lo and behold, the six of us actually managed to join together for a few days to celebrate Christmas.

Despite the ongoing challenges here and, I'd have to admit, low expectations, the traditional schedule was smoothly (so smoothly I was convinced I'd forgotten to do something crucial) followed and it all proved to be highly enjoyable. 

And highly calorific.  I had to keep my apron on the whole of Christmas Day as, by the evening, I'd indulged so much (I ate most of the box of these and refilled my plate far too many times from the suppertime buffet) the zip on my trousers refused to fasten.

On Christmas Eve, with the youngest of the group finally fast asleep,  I reclaimed the Scrabble crown (it was actually a medal) after too many years of coming fourth (aka last).  I know it's wrong to blow your own trumpet but I was ON FIRE!

The now 6 year old littlest was his usual entertaining self throughout, keeping us on our toes, delivering his verdict on every aspect of the festivities ('Granny, that soup looks like sick'), challenging each of us to games of darts and table football and Silly Sausage.

After he and his parents returned home to Manchester on Boxing Day,  the Boy (he stayed here a week) and I played several rounds of Exploding Kittens (I was well and truly trounced) and managed to squeeze in a night walk along the beach and an afternoon stroll through the woods, both short but good for blowing away a cobweb or two.  We also managed a trip to the recycling centre, the first of many, hopefully, but that's part of another plan.

Many gifts were exchanged (mine included tickets to see this and enjoy a meal here) and all were seemingly well received.   Well, I haven't been asked for any receipts.  

Now, the cake, mince pies and Boy-made gingerbread house (those windows!) have all been demolished, decorations have been packed away, the tree is on the drive awaiting collection, the sizeable chocolate stack has been stored in the cupboard, there's a pile of new reads to dip into and Christmas 2021 has been locked in the memory bank alongside all the ones from preceding years.

I'm feeling surprisingly optimistic about the new year, determined to enjoy, to savour, to appreciate, to accept as I navigate a way through what I know will be an increasingly testing situation.   There'll be no making of resolutions or setting a guiding word for the year, more a sense of reassessing, I think.  For starters, yoga and meditation used to be such a big part of my life and now they're not.  I intend to change that.

And on that note I wish all of you lovely people in my laptop a happy and healthy 2022.  Your visits, comments and emails are so very much appreciated.

 

Time out

It really happened.

After much planning and jumping through hoops, I managed a short break, the first time away from home in two years.

Right up to the last minute, cancellation looked inevitable but, with the mister, dog and cats miraculously placed with their respective carers, me and the Boy boarded the London-bound train for a few days of just simply enjoying.

To say this was much needed time out is something of an understatement.  Settling into the journey with a novel and the Christmas edition of Good Housekeeping, there was such a sense of release I ended up with a soggy face mask (no, you're a crybaby).

Arriving at Kings X and being too early for the hotel check-in, cases and bags were dumped in left luggage. We had a wander round Coal Drops Yard before a most delicious lunch and festive cocktails in Dishoom, followed by a visit to the British Library.  It was a very good start to what promised to be a fun time.

After a mooch around Spitalfields and a nosey here, that first evening was spent strolling along the river before a relaxed dinner, then ending up here for a couple of glasses of champagne, spectacular views and indulging in a favourite activity of mine, people watching.

 

We'd pre-booked some tickets including ones for the Alice in Wonderland exhibition at the V&A which I'd been very keen to catch and which didn't disappoint.

Avoiding the underground because it seemed the appropriate thing to do, we travelled the city using black cabs and Uber cars (and sometimes Shanks's pony).   Yes, it's a more expensive way of getting around but you do get to see sights you'd otherwise miss.

London was looking fabulously festive.   As we weren't staying there this visit (we were based here),  we popped into the Ritz for a gawp at the Christmas tree. 

On the way out, I somehow managed to end up on hands and knees on the red carpet at the bottom of the steps.  In my defence, there was no champagne involved.  I'm blaming the steamed up specs.

A night at the theatre was on the cards and, after a spot of shopping in Old Compton Street and several bookshops, we settled down for three hours of supercalifragelistic entertainment.  

I love wandering cities at night and London surely has to be one of the best for doing just that. 

 

A trip to to the capital is never complete without a visit to Borough Market.  We arrived early as the stallholders were finishing setting up, allowing easy unhurried browsing and prompting much deliberation of what to buy, what to eat. When it was time to move on,  I was amazed to realise we'd spent three hours there.

The weather was glorious as we walked south of the river, hopefully shaking off at least some of those market calories and heading towards the Tate Modern.

This free exhibition was fascinating.  (I've tried to add a video of these floating machines but Typepad isn't playing ball.)

 

We did all of this and so much more, packing as much as we could into this visit whilst never feeling rushed.

Returning home to pets and snow, there were still a couple of days to catch up with family and slob on sofas with takeaway pizzas before normal life resumed, though with batteries well and truly recharged.

 

 

Socially distanced celebrating

Me and the Boy drove to the beach, the first time in a long time despite it being such a short distance away. 

It felt good to connect with the real world for a while, a welcome break from life in the twilight zone.

We splodged along the shoreline, maintaining the advised distance, scanning the sand and rock pools for what the littlest would term 'treasure', wondering if a dead jellyfish, one of many washed up and looking for all the world like a purple flower encased in gloop, would have made the final cut.

The forecast had warned of heavy rain all day and, like every man and his dog, we'd dressed accordingly. 

Predictably, grey skies turned blue, the sun shone, waterproof jackets became an encumbrance and the Boy's head (sporting a radical number 1 haircut) turned pink.

The steep steps to the top, where the car and our picnic lunch were parked, had had another hundred or so added to them since last scaled. 

Or maybe it was the impact of Post Lockdown, Still Doing Far Too Much Sitting And Face Stuffing syndrome.

Whichever,  I stopped for a breather on the half-way bench whilst the colour of a certain head moved up the pink intensity scale.

Back home, there was a chocolate, rose and pistachio cake and a bottle of bubbly, accompanied by some rousing singing over the phone from an enthusiastic littlest, who was somewhere at the southern end of the country, suitably pumped up (as, I'm sure, were his parents) for a visit the next day to Peppa Pig World.

There were cards and gifts to open - books, posh chocs, Turkish delight from a stall at Borough Market (I'm addicted), a selection of spices, a scarf, flowers, plant, candle - which truly couldn't have been chosen better.  My people know me well.

I'd started the day not feeling in a particularly celebratory mood.  The Boo had been ill the previous week which had led to an afternoon with the emergency vet for various tests, a scan and injections (he was given methadone and tramadol; I was trying to work out how I'd fund a dog with a drug habit), with follow up scans at our usual surgery the next day.  He's doing well but the vets' bills are his Christmas present for the next 25 years.

Then there was a scarily high number knocking on my door and the omnipresent spectre of The Virus.

Not the ideal ingredients for a day of merrymaking. 

But, you know what?

I love birthdays, me.

Edited to add:  For some inexplicable reason (problems with Typepad? Virgin Media? Who knows?),  I'm now unable to respond to comments via email.  Apologies for this and, as always, thanks so much for taking the time to visit and leave a comment on my ramblings.

 

January goings on I forgot to mention

We went to see The Darkest Hour recently.  

In the afternoon.

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

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

The film was so very enjoyable, the acting superb.

I cried. 

Twice.

I say Gary Oldman for Prime Minister.

I mean the Oscar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I spotted the sign.

Special offer:  basted pork shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So who wins the battle of the brownies?

You decide.

  

Venturing

Over a weekend, the baking Boy ventured into the world of Italian patisserie, a la GBBO.  Making sfoggliatelle, to be precise. It looked a laborious and messy process but he ended up with some lamination and a tray of pastries.  And a new respect for the current series' participants.

Venturing once again into the realm of small knits for small people has produced mixed results.  A friend is about to welcome triplets into her family so I picked up the long rested knitting needles and various patterns which didn't appear too taxing, aware I need three of whichever item I decide to knit and that I'm currently bothered by a painful golfer's elbow.  No, I don't play golf, it's just my elbow seems to think I do.  A pair of boots turned out looking more or less like they should (they're not perfect but they're intended for feet) whilst a beanie hat was just tiny.  Far too tiny, unless my friend's daughter gives birth to three boiled eggs. 

It seems I've ventured into the writing world of Nigel Slater.  Never a fan of his TV shows (I prefer it when it's just the potatoes that look like a good scrub wouldn't go amiss), never having bought any of his books and skipping his column in the Guardian, I finally succumbed (his latest publication has the word 'Christmas' in the title and was half price in Waterstones, so of course a copy came home with me).  Surprisingly, I'm enjoying his words (I doubt I'll be giving any of the recipes a try as they're far from vegan friendly),  particularly those describing his obvious love of the colder, darker months of the year (which pretty much matches my own).

Today is the last day of October and I'm about to venture into the loft to retrieve the bag of spooky stuff.  There's a bowl full of sweet treats for anticipated little (and not so little) callers, a giant pumpkin has a face, a batch of vegan pumpkin cupcakes is awaiting a topping of gingerbread spice buttercream, pumpkin, butter bean and coconut curry is simmering away on the hob and a couple of seasonally scented candles will soon be lit.  In between answering the door knocks, I'm planning to watch the remaining episodes of the second season of Stranger Things (it's so very good and so hard to ration), followed by the obligatory viewing of Hallowe'en and a creepy book at bedtime (I really shouldn't do any of this as I've been having a few too many bad dreams of late).

And now I'm signing off for a few weeks as we venture east in search of Richard Parker and friends. 

 

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.

 

 

The simple stuff

It isn't all about trips abroad and fancy treats and meals in restaurants here.  

No, most of the time it's the simple stuff that brings a smile or two.

Like a pile of books from the library.  Yep, I joined.  Or, to be absolutely correct, re-joined after a very long gap.  The same library that I was a member of as a young girl when only two books, one fiction, one non fiction, could be borrowed.  Now I can choose twenty.  The same library in which my best friend at school had a Saturday job and later worked in as a proper librarian. It seems so much smaller these days.  Or maybe it's that I'm so much bigger.  Or because the tall, dark wood bookshelves have been replaced with low level white units.  On the day I visited there was just me and a couple of older men, one with a hacking cough, the other wondering loudly when the tea and biscuits would be brought round.  It was a bitterly cold and windy day and I suspect, from their total disinterest in the books, papers and computers, that they were simply seeking warmth and a comfy-ish chair each.  And that they were shortly to be disappointed on the refreshments front.

Like a long walk locally on a sunny day after a couple of hours of yoga stretching.  It was bright and sunny, cold and muddy and we all needed hosing down once back at home but it was so good to just be out there, tramping the waterlogged paths, breathing deeply. 

Like a cracking series on the telly.  I loved the BBC's Dickensian, which concluded last night when the ghost of Jacob Marley came a-knocking, though I'm aware it's had a mixed reception.  So many familiar characters, from the raft of Dicken's novels with their familiar endings, all criss-crossing and jostling each other as they go about their daily business.  There's smog, gaslight, hunger, murder, pies, gin, deceit and much more as the back stories are cleverly woven into one big whodunnit.  Highly recommended.

Like a batch of croissants or Singing Hinnies for a late, post dog walking breakfast.  Hinnies (recipe at the end of the post) are a simple traditional griddle scone, a lot like a Welsh cake, from a bit further north than here.  Enjoyed with a slick of butter (and vegan alternative for yours truly) and an untraditional sprinkling of sugar whilst still warm.

Like a picture of a little someone apparently channelling his inner David Brent.

******

Singing Hinnies (Makes 6-7 hinnies)

4 ozs plain flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

Pinch of salt

2 ozs soft butter (or dairy-free spread for vegan version)

Generous 1 oz currants

Milk to mix

 

1. Add the baking powder and salt to the flour in a bowl and stir well.

2. Rub in the butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

3. Add the currants and mix in enough milk (about 4 tbsp, added a little at a time) to form a soft but not sticky dough.

4. Roll the dough out on a lightly floured board to a depth of a £1 coin.

5. Cut into 2'' rounds.

6. Heat a very lightly greased frying pan and cook the hinnies on both sides until golden brown (about 4 minutes per side).

7. Serve (sprinkled with sugar if desired) whilst still warm with butter, jam or whatever takes your fancy. 

 

Week in verbs

Taking advantage of a sunny afternoon to walk round the park.

Noticing signs of Spring and plump squirrels.

Signing up for an additional weekly yoga session.  Another baby group but still, it all helps.  Right?

Continuing the Scandi love with a few beautifully wrapped treats.  For the house, not me.

Welcoming visitors with mango bellinis and nibbles.

Concocting a supper of savoury strudel, grilled courgettes, peas, feta and mint, and roasted peppers, sunblush tomatoes, mozzarella and basil, with fresh from the oven brownies, raspberries and vanilla ice cream to finish.  Quicker to make than to type.

Forgetting to take foodie pictures before the demolition squad moved in.

Surprising myself and everyone else by marking the 14th of the month with homemade offerings of peanut butter cups (excellent recipe from here) for the big people and a card for the littlest. 

Ignoring comments about some sort of plot having been lost.

Watching activity at the bird feeder.

Waking up to snow.

Wondering if it is etiquette to point out that someone has a little dab of something on their chin.

 

Out of the mouths of babes, take 2

 

'It's time to try real food, you say?  Well, I'm a big boy now (or so everyone keeps telling me) and milk is so yesterday.  Bring it on!'

 

'What the hell kind of crap is this you're shovelling in?'

 

'First impressions in one word?  Meh.'

 

'Another day, another sweet potato and I think I might be getting the hang of this eating lark.'

 

'Honestly, change can be so exhausting for a four months old ba............zzzzz.'

 (Pictures courtesy of the Girlie)

 

Out of the mouths of babes......

I found myself walking the Boo on my own the other night as the mister had a rendezvous in a pub (he wasn't sure which one exactly but that didn't seem to worry him) with one of his oldest (as in from school days) friends who was visiting from San Francisco.

We took the usual winter route, with no-one else in sight  until a chap and his young (I'd guess 5 ish) son appeared in front of us on the path. They'd clearly been to the garage for essential provisions if the over-full carrier bag, which one of them was struggling to carry, was anything to go by.

I'm a quick walker, especially in soggy conditions (and compared to the mister who positively dawdles), so we soon overtook them, though the little boy tried his hardest to keep up with us (Boo was undoubtedly the attraction).

As we stopped for a comfort break (the dog's comfort, not mine), the other two walked past, with the little boy taking great interest in what was happening on the grass in the vicinity of Boo's rear end.

'Oh, look, ' he shouted, 'the girl's picking up the dog poo.'

Hang on a minute, what was that? 

No, not the bit about the poo.  A girl?  He called me a girl.  Me, who could give Methuselah a run for his money.

Alrighty, yes, I know he was very little and yes,  it was very dark, but I'm at the stage where birthdays mean more candles than cake and, unless they introduce an upper age limit,  I'm never going to be asked for ID when buying booze.

Compliments of any sort are a bit thin on the ground here so I have to take them where I can get them.  And I'm grabbing that inadvertent one from a titchy person with both hands, thank you very much.

I'm telling you, that boy will go far.

And I skipped home.