love those cupcakes

Lately in verbs

Ordering new bowls online. I'm pretty sure they didn't look like this on the website.

Watching The Great, 'an occasionally true story' about Catherine the Great.  It's hilarious, very bawdy, with plenty of effing and blinding and, erm, vomit, and I love it.  I'm a big fan of Nicholas Hoult and he's brilliant as Emperor Peter, huzzah!  Also enjoying this and this and, of course, The Great Pottery Show Down (like Keith, I cry every week).

Eating everything in sight. I don't know whose appetite I've acquired but I wish it would return to it's owner.  If I'm not eating, I'm thinking about eating. I'd like to say I truly savoured this unexpected gift of chocolates (and, if you haven't yet tried Paul A.Young's confections, go treat yourself) but, in all honesty,  I couldn't shove them in my gob fast enough.

Anticipating the weekly supermarket delivery.  It's become the highlight of my week.  It seems I've developed quite the knack for ordering the wrong size/quantity (who knew sunflower oil was available in such teeny bottles or that coriander came in bouquet-sized bunches?) so we're never quite sure what we're going to end up with.  Ooh, the excitement.

Telling porkies.  The Boy was here when last week's order was due to arrive. 'Are you putting lipstick on for the Sainsburys driver?'.   'Don't be ridiculous, my lips are dry and the lipstick helps'.  Okay, so I lied.  

Walking during daylight hours.  Unusually for me, I fancied venturing forth before nightfall and wandered beyond the immediate neighbourhood.  Way beyond.  So beyond I had to ask a passing walker for directions home.

Regretting walking so far as my poor broken feet protested loudly. For days.  Actually, it's a week later and they're still protesting.

Casting off a sweater.  Another homemade piece of clothing which I'm unlikely to wear. 

Casting on another, no doubt also destined for the charity bag. At least all the knitting keeps my hands out of the biscuit tin.  For a little while.

Celebrating the mister's birthday with a Boy-made cake.  Sadly (or should that be fortunately?) not vegan.  Incidentally,  those pretzels on top were hand painted gold, silver and copper. Personally, I couldn't be arsed but to each their own.  

 Delighting in all the snow that's fallen our way.  Mr. Boo enjoys all this cold white stuff as much as I do.  The cats, on the other hand, refuse to set foot over the doorstep.  

Loving how the garden table resembles a giant waffle.

Waffles.

Now, there's an idea.

 

 

Summer's end in verbs

Taking stock in the garden.  I was surprised to see a second flush of what are possibly my favourite roses out there, Abraham Darby, and equally surprised by the strong vanilla scent from the white nemesia, which is just glorious.  The yellow flowers growing in two parts of the garden were another surprise.  I have no memory of buying the plants (no surprise there) and not a clue what they are.  

Adding to the book pile.  Always.  The weaving book is a new publication from blogger, Mary Maddocks, with a number of projects to tempt and attempt.  No prizes for guessing what I'm adding to my Christmas list.

Finishing a couple of books at bedtime, bringing the total to 38 so far this year, not that anyone's counting. Lazarus is the seventh title in the Joona Linna series and not one for the faint hearted or weak stomached.  But if, like me, you like your crime fiction Scandi and noir, you might want to give it a try.  Although it would work as a stand alone story, I'd suggest reading The Sandman first. Fifty-Fifty is a cracking legal thriller and highly recommended.

Chucking a recently completed sweater in the bin.  I wasn't at all happy with this make (it was far too short and the neck opening was for someone with a head the size of a ping pong ball).  In an attempt to make it wearable by re-knitting bits, I tried to take it apart but that ended in unmitigated disaster.  Currently on the needles is a long-ish, olive green cardigan and much more likely to be worn.  I do love a cardi.  I've turned into my mum.

Watching the final episode of this and bawling my eyes out (I'm so predictable).  Jennifer Aniston is unexpectedly good (though the same can't be said of Reese).

Stocking the cupboard with jars of jam. I'm not sure why I bother as I'm the only one who eats the stuff and I really don't need more sugar in my life. The fruits (plums and strawberries) were nothing special,  just supermarket and veg shop purchases, but is there a more satisfying sight than a pan of sugar laden preserve in the making, bubbling and spitting away on the hob?  Feeling a tad reckless, I strayed off piste this year and added cinnamon to the plums and rose geranium leaves to the strawberries.  Get me.

Celebrating the tail end of summer with a pie, using good old Bramleys and freshly picked brambles from the hedgerow round the corner.   I'd intended to cover the top entirely with pastry stars but got bored.  Happens quite a lot here.  It weighed a ton, it was so packed with fruit.  Unsurprisingly, I ate most of it.  With custard and Rennie chasers.   Nope, not even a little bit sorry.

Harvesting wild strawberries growing in a pot in the garden.  The plant was in the supermarket reduced trolley with a 59p price tag earlier in the year and home it came with me.  The flavour of these teeny weeny berries was intensely, well,  strawberry-y.  I also managed to grow two tomatoes (yes, just the two) which turned out to be inedible. Luckily, my next-door neighbour has an allotment and she knocked on the door the other day with a present of a bag of cherry tomatoes she'd grown.

Including a bunch of sunflowers in the shopping order because I do like a vase of seasonal flowers.  Sainsburys did not disappoint.

Relishing the rumblings of change, as one season begins to segue into the next.  It's no secret I'm the biggest fan of autumn and, my absolute favourite,  winter. Already my mood is lifting.

With a nod to cooler temperatures, porridge oats have reappeared on the menu, in baked form (yes, embracing all the comfort food here).  I use this favourite recipe but have tinkered with it and ditched the carrots, subbing a layer of sliced fruit on the bottom of the dish (pears, apples, peaches and plums work well) and a scattering of blueberries or raspberries on top. 

It's delicious, with its soft, fruity base, autumnal flavours of cinnamon, ginger and maple syrup and the addition of crunchy nuts and dried fruit (you could easily leave out these last two but I'm a throw everything at it kind of cook).  Once cut into portions, it can be frozen so there's always a little stash.  Serve with a dollop of coconut yoghurt and Bob's your mum's brother.

Feeling thoroughly fed up with continuing hamstring pain, it was time to consult with the physiotherapist. After a lengthy assessment (this particular physio was recommended by my yoga teacher as he takes a whole body approach), it turns out the problem is most likely my shoulder.  Who'da thought?   I've been given various exercises (talk about snap, crackle and pop, other people can actually hear the noises my shoulder makes as I practice them) and follow up appointments, so no doubt time will tell.

Spending an hour or so in the company of Monty Don.  I really enjoy these In Conversation With ...  events which, because of covid restrictions,  are currently taking place online (I've previously seen Margaret Atwood in Birmingham and Nigella in Gateshead).  The ticket for this one included a copy of Monty's latest book which looks most promising. 

I learned quite a lot in that 60 minutes, about nature and the man himself.  Who knew no-one is sure where house martins spend their winters?  Yes, they head for Africa but where exactly?  And I now know the difference between mouse and bat poo (bat poo is crumbly, mouse poo is squidgy).  And did you know Monty is scared of bats? 

Next month it's Nigella again (you can never have too much of Nigella in my opinion), with her latest book also part of the deal I opted for.  I'm really looking forward to it.  Especially as I can watch wearing my pyjamas.

Wondering what lies in store for us all over the next few months and beyond in this strangest of years.  It struck me that we've seen the littlest and his parents just the once since early March.  

Hoping we recognise each other the next time we meet.  

 

Lately in verbs

Watching  (nay, binge watching) You on Netflix.  Apparently, I've read the Caroline Kepnes' book but can't for the life of me remember doing so.  Anyway, a bookshop, New York, yoga, what's not to like?  Well, maybe the psychopathic stalker.

Treating myself to a piece of art.  A teeny weeny painting measuirng just 2 ins.  A wintry scene, naturally.  Sweet, yes?

Reading from the book pile (added to after visits to the charity shop and Waterstones).  The current book at bedtime (keeping me on my toes as I try to keep up with who's who or rather who's in who) is number 6 of 2019.  According to the sidebar, I read 42 books last year.  I was thinking of setting a reading target for 2019 but, you know what,  it ain't a competition. 

Enjoying a Burns Night supper (with peas alongside the neeps and tatties because there has to be something green on the plate) a day late.  There's not a drop of Scottish blood in either of us (as far as we know) but I'm rather partial to a homemade vegan haggis.

Familiarising myself (or at least attempting to) with the bells and whistles of the new car.  At the end of last year, the mister made the decision to stop driving (as you may remember, he has his problems which are currently being further investigated).  His tank of a vehicle was too big, my cute runaround too small so, taking a leaf out of Goldilocks' book,  we went for something in between.....ish. We're also familiarising ourselves with the workings of the local bus service as I'd prefer not to embark on a new career as full time taxi driver.  Let's just say one of us is faring better at this than the other but it's early days.

Testing the car's fancy hill start assist system on an incline at the coast.  I think I prefer a good old hand brake.

Baking brown sugar chocolate chip cookies because there were no eggs for a cake and the biscuit tin was empty.

Aching in body parts I didn't know I still had after a 7 week (enforced) absence away from the yoga mat.  

Hatching travel plans (nothing too adventurous).

Spotting a clump of snowdrops in the front garden.  Seeing them always reminds me of the time I was a 10 year old in Mrs Whitehouse's class in junior school and we planted snowdrop bulbs.  I got to take the bowl (it was green) home for the Christmas holidays which my dad advised would be happiest in the cool of the musty pantry where he stored the boxes of Daz and Oxydol washing powder for our shop.  Nothing emerged from the compost, which I remember was so disappointing as we'd made a chart to plot the progress of growth.  

Proving I wasn't to blame for the snowdrop non-show with a pot of soon-to-be crocuses.  Just call me the corm whisperer.

Caffeinating.  Always.

Appreciating quite a lot.

 

 

 

 

 

So far so autumn

Pumpkin spice lattes.  My coffee intake has been seriously reduced of late (I've finally admitted that ten cups a day is probably excessive) but there's now a vegan version of the seasonal beverage at Starbucks and denial was never my strong suit. 

Food. Is there anything more comforting than seeing a pile of chopped roots in readiness for a soup, a dhal, a stew?  The veg man and his daughter have returned to their autumn and winter only pitch at the farmers market and I bought a bagful of soil covered delights for just a couple of quid.  Every meal we've eaten recently has been taken from HFW's Much More Veg, a vegan recipe book which is spicing up the menus here very nicely.  

Woollies.  It's not yet time for the beloved polo neck sweaters (I'd wear these all year round if I could) but other knits have come out of storage and a couple of new ones purchased. My mum loved a cardi.  I've turned into my mum.

Candles.  I never burn candles during the summer months but, once the nights start drawing in, the house is transformed into a fragrant fire risk.  This vegan range is a current favourite.

 Leaves.  Yes, I know I bemoan the constant, year round dropped leafage in our garden but oh, I can't get enough of those piles of autumnal crunchiness. 

 

The telly.  Those panto stalwarts Strictly, Bake Off and The Apprentice have been joined this autumn by some cracking series: Killing Eve (she's a tinker, that Villanelle), Vanity Fair (I've never read the book and have only a vague idea of the story which might be an advantage) and The Mighty Redcar (of special interest as the town is just down the road from here).

Halloween.  The pumpkin has been purchased (you have to move quickly to nab a half decent specimen, I've learned) and is now sitting in the garage awaiting some judicial slashing.   And speaking of slashing, the film releases later this month and I. can't. wait. 

Reading. Once the mammoth A Little Life is finally finished (and the last page can't come soon enough, it's so depressingly miserable), there's yet another stack of charity shop finds to dip into.

 I love autumn, me.

Staying local in verbs

Spending an evening in the newly renovated town hall in the company of my favourite local band and the Northern Orchestra.  Typically, I left my camera at home so the picture is courtesy of someone else's.

Source

Listening to author and local lass Sarah Dunnakey talk about her book and the writing process.  She's also a question setter for programmes including Mastermind, Pointless, University Challenge and Eggheads so, of course, a literary quiz followed.  I didn't win.  I wasn't even close (in my defence, the winners worked as a team).  Shame, really, as the prize was a collection of books and a stack of chocolate, both of which I can always find room for.  

Making a first visit (no excuse as they've been living there since the late 1970s) to the town's dinosaurs at Teesaurus Park.  This was once a heavily industrialised area and the park, established in an industrial estate and on what had been a slag heap, is a surprising oasis of nature and calm.  Like so much of the green space here, the council made moves to sell the land a couple of years ago but, following an unexpected change of heart, these dinosaurs were saved from extinction.  

Eating the worst vegan afternoon tea.  Imagine dry as a bone sandwiches (no butter substitute, just lettuce leaves and slices of tomato atop tastes of sawdust gluten free bread), a dish of dairy-free ice cream, a bunch of grapes, slices of banana draped in melted chocolate, a jar of raspberry puree,  two  strawberries and a slice of way past its best frangipane tart.  Can't think why the chef needed several days notice to put such a sorry offering together.  At least my cousin and the alpacas the other side of the window appeared to be much happier with theirs.

Introducing the littlest to the Transporter (we used to be rather good at building bridges here).  Not sure what he was expecting to see but he asked repeatedly, 'Where's the bridge?' and then was sidetracked by the strawberries calling his name from an old stone planter outside the operator's cabin.  Ah, well.  Still a working bridge, ferrying cars, bikes and pedestrians from one side of the river to the other, the Transporter was out of action to the pubic the day we visited but there was a practice run and we watched as the empty gondola, suspended over the water, made its way across.  Not that the littlest was impressed.  He was too busy throwing sticks and gravel through the railings and enjoying the plops and splashes as they landed.

Remembering, with a slight feeling of nausea, the day the Boy jumped off the top.  

Bemoaning my still restricted mobility but using the time reluctantly spent indoors to work on a blanket for Boo (he's been a good boy), read from the book mountain (Lullaby and If We Were Villains are both recommended), bake and devour spicy buns and watch the latest episode of season 2 of The Handmaid's Tale.  Intense, compelling, chilling, wrenching.  It's excellent, it really is, but I'd say definitely not one for binge watching.  Blessed be the fruit loops.

Admiring the roses in the garden and reckoning they've never put on such a good show.  (Can't be as a result of anything I've done.) Some have been picked and brought into the house.  One, an Abraham Darby, I think, has continued to grow in the vase and is now the size of my head.  Well, maybe the size of a saucer.

Wondering (both sofas face windows and there's been an excess of sofa sitting lately) why I never manage to achieve streak free windows (the insides; Nathan, our window cleaner throughout the 26 years we've lived in this house,  never leaves streaky outsides).  I use water with a dash of washing up liquid and a splash of vinegar, a fake chamois/shammy and kitchen roll paper to polish.  Where am I going wrong?

 

Reading highlights

Mr. Mercedes (Stephen King).   It's donkey's years since I last read a Stephen King novel and picked up this one in a charity shop. One of a series of three books featuring retired detective Bill Hodges, this is a proper race against time thriller.  Nothing about the supernatural or the paranormal here.  There's a crime resulting in multiple victims, a still open case Hodges was working on before retiring.  We readers know early on exactly who the killer is so this novel is not a whodunnit.  What develops is a classic cat and mouse chase as Hodges tries to prevent an even more devastating tragedy (and one which will strike a very sad chord with British readers given recent events) .  

End of Watch (Stephen King).   The third in the series, this  book picks up the Mr. Mercedes story six years down the line. There are reappearances from many of the characters, with Hodges now running his own private investigation business,  Finders Keepers, and his nemesis safely in hospital in a vegetative state.  Or is he?  This is Stephen King, after all, so anything can happen. 

The Bird Tribunal (Agnes Ravatn).    Allis Hargatn leaves her job as a television presenter and her home to take up a post as a live-in housekeeper and gardener in a remote house where her employer, who turns out to be much younger than the old man she was expecting, lives alone whilst his wife is away travelling.  This is a story about two strangers and their secrets in which the tension slowly builds leading to goodness knows what or where.  The writing is exquisite, chilling, spellbinding.  This is a short book and I loved it.  

Eileen (Ottessa Moshfegh).  Eileen, the narrator of her own story, is obsessive, she shoplifts, is addicted to laxatives, full of self loathing and most definitely not someone you'd choose to be your best mate.  The novel is focused on one week in the lead up to Christmas in 1964, when, living in squalor in a Massachusetts town with her alcoholic ex-policeman father, Eileen dreams of leaving her miserably narrow life for the bright lights of New York.  At the boys' detention centre where she works and indulges in fantasies about one of the security guards, she meets the mysterious and glamorous Rebecca.  The pair become unlikely friends and then Eileen's story takes a sharp, unexpected turn.

Snowblind ( Ragnar Jonasson).  This is the first novel in the author's Dark Iceland series.  Ari Thor Arason is a trainee police officer with a first posting in a small town in the far north of Iceland where 'nothing ever happens'.  A snowstorm and subsequent avalanche cuts the town off, with no-one able to leave or enter.  A resident is found close to death in the snow. Another has what at first appears to be a fatal accident.  And so the twist on the classic Christie-esque 'body in the locked library' mystery unfolds. 

The Ice Beneath Her (Camilla Grebe).  This is what we've come to expect from the Scandinavian crime fiction genre, a well-paced police procedural with a grisly murder or two and a detective with commitment issues (though happily without an alcohol addiction). Each chapter is written from the perspective of one of the three  main characters which works rather well. Emma Bohman is employed as a sales assistant in a branch of a clothing chain in Stockholm.  Jesper Orre is the company's CEO.  A chance meeting leads to an affair which he insists must be kept secret.  Fast forward two months and the police become involved when the body of a woman is discovered in Orre's home, a crime reminiscent of one that occurred ten years previously, a crime that was never solved.  This is an easy read and sufficiently twisty to keep you on your toes.

The Crow Girl (Erik Axl Sund).  The author is actually two people, Jerker Ericsson and Hakan Axlander Sundquist, which could make for a disjointed read but in this case doesn't.  Originally a series of three books, this is a hefty novel of almost 800 pages and, given the subject matter at the heart of the story, one most definitely not for everyone.  A couple of chapters in, I wasn't sure I could continue.  And that's from someone with a working life steeped in child protection and safeguarding.  You see, this book covers the whole distressingly debased lot:  child trafficking, child sexual abuse, child physical abuse, incest, cannibalism, murder. Scandinavian crime fiction is generally gory, dark, violent in the extreme. But Nordic Noir seems far too tame a tag for this book.  It's highly descriptive (probably excessively so in parts for many readers), very character driven (the good, the complex, the bad and the downright monstrous) and absolutely relentless.  You think it can't possibly get any more noir and then it does, though at no point did the violence and abuse feel gratuitous or included for ever more shock value. What the novel does is delve the depths of human depravity.  The subject matter might be abhorrent and hard to stomach but it's what happens in real life.  If you stick with it, the crime fiction bar is well and truly raised with this novel.  In the words of one reviewer,  it’s a book for the committed Scandophile. Or those that should be committed.

The current book at bedtime is The Monogram Murders,  an Hercule Poirot murder mystery, and so, when the opportunity arose to spend an evening in the company of its author, Sophie Hannah (and her mother, author Adele Geras), I jumped at the chance. Our library service runs these meet-the-author events at fairly regular intervals and I usually tag along, always fascinated to hear a writer talk about their work and their particular approach to writing (Sophie really likes a detailed plan).  Of course, her latest novel was purchased (it would have been rude not to, no?), duly signed and added to yet another tbr pile which at the moment is looking like this:

The highlight of Sunday evenings here is watching the latest episode of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.  Whilst I've yet to read the book (must admit I prefer to do it the other way round), this is seriously good television.  It's a horror story, it's a thriller, it's a warning.  Blessed be the fruit.

 

Life lately in verbs

Enjoying the sight of snowdrops in the churchyard and finding a surprising little clump in the front garden, surprising because I  don't remember planting them.

Continuing to watch Taboo on the telly.  Tom Hardy is still striding around a dark and very grubby 19th century London in that hat and coat, he's still grunting and growling, still sounding a bit Welsh, still displaying a penchant for ripping out other people's hearts and tongues, it's all absolutely bonkers and I'm loving it.  

Deciding I drink far too much coffee.  We buy our beans from here, have done for years.  Problem is we're buying more and more with less time in between orders.  No wonder I'm twitchy.

Practising yoga daily.  There were no classes last week due to half term so, not wanting to seize up and hoping to combat all the caffeine induced twitchiness, I've been bending and stretching and saluting the sun at home.  In my pyjamas. Watched by a perplexed Boo.

Knitting a pair of mittens which don't swamp my small hands.

Wishing the same could be said for the matching hat.

Blaming the knitting pattern which isn't clear about what to measure.  What does 'from the beginning' mean?  When measured from the beginning of the rib, the hat was far too small.  When measured from the beginning of the main body, it was far too big.

Casting on hat number three which, fingers crossed, will be just right.

Feeling like the Goldilocks of the knitting world.

Listening to 'Jeffrey  Bernard Is Unwell' on Radio 4.   A brilliant play with the equally brilliant John Hurt.

Easing back into my reading comfort zone.  Crime fiction.  More about these and others in an upcoming post.

Breaking the book buying ban when I spotted a copy of the first Harry Hole in the charity shop.  I thought I'd managed to go without acquiring any new reads for several months.  Turns out I lasted all of three weeks.

Baking chocolate orange buns for the other two here as the cake tin was empty and, well, just because.

Viewing Under the Shadow, a superbly creepy film set largely in an apartment in a war torn Tehran in 1988.  A mother, a young daughter, a much loved doll.  And maybe something else.  Highly recommended.

Complaining vociferously about our local council's incomprehensible decision to give the green light to the building of office accommodation on the centre square in town (that's the central square that used to be a park).  Five office blocks are to be constructed.  Yes, five.  This despite any number of empty offices of all shapes and sizes scattered across the town and this not being the kind of place to which office seeking businesses flock (that particular traffic tends to flow in the opposite direction).  One of the blocks will be built on top of the existing small lake, currently a beautifully litter-free and tranquil home to a couple of swans, many ducks and who knows what else.  Another will wipe out the grassed area just beyond it.  Calls from local residents and Friends of the Earth to leave untouched this one small oasis of calm and welcome little piece of urban nature have fallen on deaf ears. Participation is very much a tick box exercise here.

Honestly, it's so disheartening, I could scream.

              

 

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

 

Week in verbs

Acquiring yet another piece of kitchen paraphernalia.  The New Year's Day Savoury Pie I concocted was delicious but would have been even better in a larger dish.  I came across a perfectly sized enamel version in one of those shops that sells all sorts of weird and wonderful bits and bobs at very reasonable prices. 'Where did you find that?', demanded another customer as I headed for the till, 'That's the very pie dish I was wanting'. I pointed in the direction of the shelf stacked with enamelware, advising her that mine was the last one in that particular size.  'But I looked there earlier and didn't see it. Look, I've ended up with a cake tin instead'.  She stuck with me as I joined the queue and then issued the challenge.   'I'll toss you for it'.  In your dreams, lady.    

Buying the first bunch of tulips, my favourites, of the year.

Watching some promising telly.  Eight part-er Taboo, with Tom Hardy wearing a dark mood and a natty titfer.

Swapping oats for rice.  Pudding for breakfast.  What's not to like?

Welcoming a colourful visitor to the garden.

Eating an entire (bar one, I'm not greedy) box of dairy free chocolates. 

Looking a tad green around the gills.  Not even sorry.

Finishing book four of 2017.  In my eyes, Joanne Harris can do no wrong.  Highly recommended.

Reconnecting with the yoga mat after the festive break. Namaste.

Making marmalade and a sticky mess in the kitchen.

Entering the world of steam cleaning.  Well, I have the appliance.  Just need to get to grips with the science.

Feeling kind of balanced.

 

 

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.

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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.