Brown Soup Days

We have reached the time of the year, I like to refer to as 'Brown Soup'. The weather has changed from deliciously, invigoratingly frosty to damp and sludgy with rain pouring down from skies that are hanging heavy and low over the landscape. A local saying around here suggests that when a particular hill is wearing its hat (i.e. cloud sitting on the top), the day will be wet. Well, dear reader, more than once recently, it hasn't been so much wearing a hat as burrowing itself under a cloud duvet. 

But these are the necessary rest days and the weather is doing nothing more than helping us slow down and take stock. They are the days where you can stay in the softest clothes you own, catching up on books, tv shows, music that you'd been meaning to all year, if only you had the time. Well, now you do. Say thank you to the weather. 

There are walks, but of the sort that make you scurry home faster than usual. There are gatherings but these have lost the frenetic energy that powers the pre-Christmas ones and we don't mind when someone inevitably dozes off in the corner. There is yoga of the sort that requires lying down rather than pushing through some kind of core workout. These are not the days to push through (unless you're in active labour), but to rest. 

These are also the days for clearing out. What no longer serves is being taken out of its habitual hiding place, shaken down and held up to the low winter light for inspection. We have donations for the charity shop, items listed on Freecycle and boxes of memories packed away for the attic: the postcards and birthday cards and ticket stubs and ephemera of life that will have no relevance to anyone but us, but still they remain and we can't quite bring ourselves to throw them out. 

Somehow, despite resolutely not buying anything of the kind, we find ourselves with boxes of mince pies, biscuits and chocolates. Not many, but more than we would normally buy in a year. Some have gone to the foodbank, but they appear to have reproduced in the way boxes of that sort do and are part and parcel of the feasting and gluttony we do to shore us up against the cold and bitter days to come. 

To counter all this sugar, I make brown soup from leftovers in the fridge. The rain is tapping gently at the window and I can see the thin branches of the acer whipping about in the wind. We haven't seen the fish since November as they've taken themselves down into the warmer depths of the pond. I have a large pan of stock coming to the boil on the stove top and Kirstie Young is talking about her desert island discs in the background. Above me, I can hear the bump-buzz-thunk of the hoover being pushed about the floor. 

On the chopping board, leftover roast potatoes, carrots, sprouts, swede and parsnips are neatly (ish - this is not a beauty competition, this is Brown Soup) cubed and waiting to be added to the stock. My phone pings with a message from an old, old friend saying they would be delighted to see us for japes and larks, or, more sensibly, scrabble. 

Cheered by the news, I reach back into the fridge for the leftover turkey, pigs in blankets and stuffing. Just a handful or 2, enough to add some protein and some of that gorgeous sagey flavour. The cat flap bangs and seconds later Mabel headbutts my leg vigorously, loudly demanding biscuits. Her fur is cold and damp, thick and fluffy in its winter condition. She's been patrolling her patch, defending the borders against the evil tabby, and her eyes are glowing green with triumph. I feed her. 

A quick step into the garden for some lemon thyme. Shake the rain from my hair and pull the leaves from the stems. 

Everything in the pot, I leave it all to simmer while I occupy myself watching the weather beat against the house. The black-eyed susans were finally forced into giving up flowering during the cold snap and now the stems that wound so vigorously around the jasmine during the autumn are hanging limply, like so many bored socialites, all limp and jaded greenness. Hanging from them are raindrops like glass beads and, in that delicious betwixt times kind of way, I let my thoughts drift while watching them drip. 

The smell of soup, and the silence of the hoover, brings me back to the now and I turn my attention to the tricky business of tipping the contents of the steaming pan into the blender: have I misjudged the amount of stock and it will all overflow? Have I misjudged the angle of the tilt-and-pour and am about to have a counter liberally covered? Luckily the answer is no. Blend, noisily, for 30 seconds. Tip the resulting liquid back into the saucepan and back onto the hob. 

Taste, season, add a glug of Worcestershire sauce - the proper stuff. My, this is a brown soup indeed. Thick and rib-sticking, it promises to cure all ills, to coat your bones in a comforting umami hug. It will win no beauty prizes, but it will see you right, cutting through the gluttony, the sugar highs and lows, the hangovers and the hang-unders. 

It brings both my boys to the table where we break bread and nourish together, facing the oncoming change of the year. 

A note on the image above: I can't find the name or reference for this, although I am getting a hint of Vanessa Bell, maybe? If you know, can you let me know so I can credit properly? 

Of the Before and the After

The Potting Shed by Lore Pemberton. 

On my Christmas wish list, Click on the image to get to her website.

I had planned to pop on here and say something cheerful about winter being nearly here, but it feels like we have crossed that invisible marker here in the Midlands. Winter is already here. The past week has been full of huge downpours, torrents of raindrops that hurled themselves at the windows and roof, drumming percussive music through the week. Whole days have been blackened by rain clouds, battered by winds. Taking the train to Gloucester, I could see the silver glint of flooded fields by Bredon Hill, the hill itself looking dark and already folded into hibernation. Occasionally, a wild sunbeam would break through the cloud, sending down a fierce bright light that made me blink. 

On Monday, my friend came over with her little boy. 10 months old and already staggering around like a wee drunk man, bow legged and hands raised up for the sheer joy of motion and speed and independence. He is a joyful whirlwind, a tiny tyke, a terror of all cats and bearer of childhood nursery germs that I had long lost all immunity to. 24 hours later, whilst hoovering up what I hoped was the last of the rice particles he had liberally blessed the carpet with, I felt an ominous itch in the back of my throat. 

This has been a proper, old fashioned cold, the like of which I haven't experienced since the Kid left primary school. Stuffy of head and nose, full of catarrh, throat like sandpaper, eyes like heavy hot marbles and sleep punctuated by a cough that would scatter the crows. Bravely I have soldiered on through it, meeting grant application deadlines, project end deadlines and meetings that could not, would not be shifted. But now I'm ready to lean into it, give in to it. Lie on the sofa with a cool flannel on my forehead, a soothing drink to hand and someone else to cook. To give credit where due, N has been dying to do this for days, it's only now that I have the capacity to lay down tools and let him. 

Own. Worst. Enemy. 

But I am ready for winter now. For fresh air walks in the morning that leave your cheeks pink and tingling from the nip of a frost. For gentle yoga meditation in a candlelit evening, emerging blissed out into a house that smells of rich stews and baking bread. To take up a craft again, pick up the knitting needles or crochet hook and not care if the end result is any good. For the time to make bread and stews and soups. For woodsmoke, and citrus, and spices. 

Not that I can smell anything right now, and I was about to write "stupid cold".  Which is reflective of how I treat most of my conditions. They are stupid because they get in the way, they stop me from doing the job I loved, they cause me pain. 

But it occurs to me that this is the wrong approach to these things. It lacks grace and understanding. It tries to set the bar to how things used to be when, truth is, it can never be that again. As a friend said last week "it's okay to be angry about them but don't let that anger become all you feel". So, it is time to reach an accommodation, an acceptance of where I am now. To develop an intuitive understanding of what my body is trying to tell me, instead of rushing over it because there are things to be done. To consider a new approach to my body instead of feeling like a failure because it doesn't work like it used to. 

Chronic pain is the worst bedfellow, it sucks as a walking companion, and I've raged bitter war against it, but maybe, this Winter, I can take the time to recognise it for the signpost it is. The one that guides the way to a better, more sustainable life, overriding the itching temptation to eat all the chocolate oranges under the tree and carry on as before. 

'Before' is a closed box; 'After' is a wide, open landscape to explore. Let's see what I can find there. 

A Found Thing

I had a bit of a blogging break recently as I rushed to get some work finished up before we went away. There was work that I'd not managed to do because the heatwave knocked me for six and other work that was fast approaching a deadline and more work that had been put aside because I'd got carried away helping a client set up an exhibition. 

Actually, the latter made me realise that, whilst the freelance life suits me, I do miss the energy and buzz of being in a museum, working towards a common goal, rather than sat solo in my little office, tapping silently away. It's nice to have a taste of it every now and then. So now, once a week, I catch the train into Gloucester and work and chatter and plan and help out. It's a lot of fun and very good for my soul. 

Last week we made an escape up to Northumberland, that beautiful county full of moors, hills, woodlands and beaches. Ruined castles staring moodily out to sea. Viking lore. Big brooding skies that stretch over wide empty sands. Hills turning slowly purple as the heather flowers. Yeavering Bell. Lindisfarne. The Laidly Worm of Spindlestone Heugh. Grace Darling and the heaving North Sea. Corned beef pasties. Craster kippers. I'll blog more about it next time. 

The week has helped to reset my head and revive my energy. Grief is a strange, shifting thing that, this year, has made me mostly sad (as opposed to last year's incandescent anger) and feeling as though joy might have been locked up forever. I could find enjoyment in the moment of things, but that pure joy, with its giddy laughter and keen eye for nonsense, had gone. 

Or rather, not gone but hiding. Time away, some spent with good friends, and the absolute determination that I would not go through life joyless, found it for me again. I'm very grateful. 

And also grateful for the shift from August to September that occurred while we were away. There has been much-welcome rain. Dew on the ground. Stripy spiders creating complex and beautiful webs right across the very path you need to walk down. Socks are required once more and I had to, brace yourselves, Put A Cardigan On last night. When Mabel comes in at night, she is no longer dusty from lying under bushes, but speckled with water from damp grasses. The smell of the air is different and I can feel my lungs opening up to it. 

The Kid looked after both house and cats extremely well. So well that neither cat bothered to get up when we got back. Actually, that's their standard behaviour. The house was clean (we had given him 4 hours warning of our return) - even the bins had been emptied - and I think he'd seen it as a bit of a holiday for himself too. It is hard: at 24 you don't want to go on holiday with your Mum and her partner necessarily, but you can't always afford to go by yourself. Have decided to put the offer in of a break regardless and see what he says. 

A stay away always makes me think back to my stint in hospitality, over 25 years ago now. How I took pleasure in making sure guests had everything they needed so that the first thing they could do was kick off their shoes, make a cup of tea and just sit for a while in a chair that held them like a hug. I wanted them to say "oh it is good to be here." 

What does not make people say that is making them track down the nearest supermarket for milk the minute they arrive, or expecting them wrestle with a coffee machine/kettle that needs a NASA degree to operate and then sit on a sofa that fair rattles the bones. Luckily, we were only there for a couple of nights before moving on to our Friends in the North.

I think self-catering providers should be made to stay in their own properties for a month before letting paying guests in. Trust me, once I rule the world, that will become law. 

N starts uni on Monday and is keeping a very careful lid on how nerve-wracking he's finding the notion of returning to education. Rationally, we both know he'll be absolutely fine. Irrationally, I'm fighting the urge to make him a packed lunch and iron him a clean handkerchief. 

Later today, I shall take myself off to the allotment to see what it's been up to during my absence. Hopefully there will be more damsons on the wild trees for me to scrump on the way back. I'm going to make a hearty risotto full of mushrooms and garlic. I'm going to put on fresh bedding that carries the smell of autumn with it. I'm going to soak for a long time in the bath and remove the summer peach polish from my toenails. I'm going to book tickets for See How They Run. 

But first, I'm going to savour being back in my little office, tapping solo at my laptop, In Our Time teaching me new things at a low volume, gently closing the window against the sound of the aggressive needless lawn-cutting going on outside. It's good to be back.  

Leftovers Cake

I don’t often bake these days. Whilst being an enthusiastic supporter and consumer of baked goods, there just isn’t the call for it in our house. N will sometimes make sounds of appreciation over a sticky toffee pudding or a crumble, then put his portion in the fridge and forget about it for 2 months, which is no way to live quite frankly, and should, in all right-minded households, result in some sort of jail sentence. 

The Kid decided some time ago that he’s reached an age where my attempts at birthday cakes are superfluous to his enjoyment of the day. These days he likes his birthdays with a side of beer rather than a cake that resembles the leaning tower of Pisa, if the tower at Pisa had been constructed of sponge, cream and strawberries, or that has a strange blobby space monster blobbing it’s green tentacles all over a wonky moon. And the least said about the doughnut cake the better. 

My Nan used to make wedding cakes of 3, 4 tiers. Fruit cake heavy enough to knock out a burglar, stacked on silver paper covered stands, covered with thick marzipan and icing rigid enough to break a tooth. They would be decorated with flowers she had painstakingly made herself from the same icing, rolling it to a fragile thinness, cutting the circles and strips that would then be rolled, crimped, frilled and pressed into flower shapes to adorn the tops. Further icing swags, curls and dots would decorate the sides and the lack of a steady hand could be hidden with a quick design change or swipe of a damp sponge. 

I still have the blurred photographs she took to remember each creation; the flash is too harsh, the background too dark. I can recall the smell of the cake, the sweet grittiness of the icing. I was mmmph years old before I realised marzipan needn’t taste synthetic. 

She was a bakers daughter, my Nan, and I still have the recipe book she wrote when she joined the bakery at 13. I say “joined”. It was more in the way of the family National Service - the only person who escaped conscription was her brother, the great hope of the family, eventually brought down by gambling and ego.

In this hard backed, faded red exercise book, she wrote down the recipes for Eccles cakes, the coconut macaroons that would eventually become my dad’s favourite. Malt loaf made by painstakingly soaking the fruit in cold tea. Bread off every kind, cottage loaves a speciality. Her unsure, looping hand records how the ingredients are scaled up and up for batch baking, the demand in this Lancashire town never quite satiated. 

So when I bake, I’m small again. My own kitchen recedes and I’m stood on a stool to reach the counter, a riot of 70’s daisies spread over the apron that’s been tied around and around my waist. There is the smell of cold tea, coconut and sugar. I can feel the warmth of her oven and heat her telling me to “sift the flour, really lift it.” 

This recipe isn’t hers but it has her fingerprints all over it. 

Leftovers Cake: 

Ingredients - 1 pot of yogurt about to go off, 1 banana that’s too squishy for eating, zest of one lemon, 1 egg, self-raising flour, vanilla, any berries that need using up, caster sugar. 

1. Blend 1 cup of yogurt with the banana, half a cup of the sugar and the vanilla. Chop and add the berries. 

2. Stir in enough flour (to sift or not to sift, you decide according to time) to make it look like a proper cake batter - I think it took about 2 cups but I was ad libbing, talking to the cats and listening to the radio at the same time, so I can’t quite remember. 

3. Remember the lemon zest, grate it over the bowl, Drop the lemon into the batter, curse, wipe it off, continue grating till done. Stir in. 

4. Line the cake tin of your choice - I used a flapjack tin, about 15 cms wide because I appear to have lost all my roundy tins - with baking paper and tip the mix in. Sprinkle with Demerara sugar. 

5. Bakes for 20 mins in a 180 heat oven that you’ve remembered to preheat. If you haven’t remembered to preheat, do it now and make a cup of tea while you wait. Possibly talk to your partner/child/handy pet at the same time. 

5. Test readiness of cake with a skewer or, in my case, a wooden chop stick. If it comes out clean, cake is done. Allow to cool a little before lifting it out of the tin. Allow to cool completely before removing the paper. 

6. Slice according to portion preference. Eat. 

Adventures in Muesli, and other food stories

As you can imagine, with N's Mum ill, we had some weeks of quietness, panic, worry and bad eating because he certainly wasn’t interested in food that required thought, preferring to opt for toast with things on, or takeaways. But you can't carry on that way forever, so I pulled my socks up and set to, aided by a trip to the farm shop. 

Farm shops are great for inspiration. Not so great on the old wallet, so I tend to limit my visits. They are a treat rather than how we usually shop, but what a treat they are. I even love the way they smell. In no order of preference, I came back with:

• a Romanesco cauliflower, all spiralling turrets and vibrant green. Plus many other vegetables that were mainly normal and everyday, for e.g. carrots. You don't need me to describe the carrots
• Mango chutney and caramelised onion chutney. Because, chutney goodness. I'll stop saying chutney now*
• proper honey from a local bee keeper
• a loaf of bread stating "takes 3 days to make". It was crustier than a crusty after a week protesting a bypass from a tree top
• late plums and early rhubarb 
• strawberries! So so early but not flown in from overseas, grown within 5 miles of the shop! They smell amazing
• purple sprouting broccoli. 
• A giant bag of red potatoes that roast beautifully
• a crumbly, buttery-feel blue cheese that just slightly puckers the taste buds
• Eggs with golden yolks from formerly free-range but still definitely organic hens
• a made-on-site coleslaw that creamy and delicious
• sausages made from pigs raised and butchered locally

I roasted the sausages in a trayful of the vegetables, including the cauliflower, stirred in some of the onion chutney, threw in some garlic and stems of thyme from the garden. 

The potatoes I turned into surprisingly successful gnocchi (the first batch I've ever made that didn't turn gluey and the water into wallpaper paste) and had those with the purple sprouting broccoli and some of the blue cheese when N was out on Wednesday (he does not like PSB). 

The plumbs and rhubarb became a compote for adventures with muesli. To cut the sharpness, I added the honey rather than reaching for the sugar. I mean, honey is sugar, but marginally less so and it meant the compote has a more satisfying flavour than if I'd just bunged caster sugar in. 

Did I mention I make my own muesli? Well I do *pauses to polish halo of smugness*. Oats, sultanas, dates, pumpkin and sesame seeds, ground hazelnuts and almonds. Spiced with ginger and cinnamon. Cheaper than standard muesli from the supermarket (but only because I buy in bulk). Trying to do that from a standard shop where every individual ingredient is tiny-ly portioned and wrapped in plastic for our "convenience"? Forget it. 

Tonight, when we come back from college, I'll make an omelette with spinach, mushrooms and the rest of that blue cheese. We'll have it with tiny roasties, made from those red potatoes, and the coleslaw. Just right for a day where the temperatures have dropped and we'll have been outside planting parsnip seeds. 

Which reminds me, I have a giant parsnip I need to turn into soup. Before I go, I need to tell you that comment moderation has been switched on after a veritable swathe of spam comments for casinos, dodgy Viagra and so on. Is it just me or does the internet just feel like a lot of work these days? Easier to make soup. 

*No I won't

Of Waste Puritans and Freezer Gods

In this household, 'waste' is a dirty word. Neither of us approve of it and try to reduce wherever we can. Vegetables looking a bit ropey? Soup! Leftover pasta or rice? Bake! Remnants of a roast? Pies! Mysterious jars of things that have been open too long? 

Oh. Okay. Some things have to be thrown. Please do not use that 3-year-old open jar of chutney in anything. 

In general, I'm quite good at remembering to freeze things at the time of discovering there is too much. Partly because we are Waste Puritans, doomed to poke through fridges and hold things up in an accusatory way, intoning our chant "Did you mean this to be a complete waste of money?" We scourge ourselves with the last wrinkled spring onion from the vegetable drawer and you bet we get invited to all the parties. 

Also partly because I then have meals 'in the bank' for those days where I cannot face another session at the kitchen counter. Usually on a Monday and Thursday when I'm late back in from Pilates/college, and I'm cold with all my senses urging a bath, not an hour cooking. 

And so it was, last Friday, I found myself with a mass of veg, a mostly picked over chicken carcass and, lo!, a wodge of homemade pastry in the freezer. I duly defrosted this and set to.

Leeks, mushrooms, celery, garlic and courgette were chopped into tiny pieces and cooked gently for a long while in a ladleful of stock with thyme thrown in for good measure. I picked over the very last of the chicken and shredded the pieces, throwing them in to seethe and simmer with the veg. It smelled amazing. 

I rolled out the pastry and laid it carefully in the quiche dish, muttering under my breath and patching as I went because if there is one thing gluten-free pastry does not have, it's structural integrity. It will break and tear and you will be forced to patch it regardless of your best efforts at delicacy. 

Let the mix cool slightly while you blind bake the pastry case for however long at whatever temperature. In my case, that was for the duration of time it took me to win that day's Wordle and walk to the postbox, and at 150 fan oven. 

Carefully tip the mix into the pastry case, avoiding the bit where it's shrunk away from the dish. Smooth over and then bake for another 30 mins. Serve with salad or extra vegetables of choice and roast potatoes because the world is always better for roast potatoes. Eat. 

At the eating point, I became aware of something I am not particularly good at. Labelling items in the freezer. 

Yes, friends. That was sweet pastry I had lovingly defrosted and used, all the while patting myself on the back with the Parsimonious Parsnip of Smugness. Specifically the sweet pastry I had used to make mince pies last year but neglected to label as I put the leftover in the freezer. 

Reader, I ate it regardless. And didn't mention it to N, who also ate it regardless. It was not bad, just ODD and I certainly wouldn't do it again (unless the Freezer Gods dictate that I shall) but it was edible. Which was the main thing and allowed me to continue to wear the habit woven from stale breadcrusts handed out to all us Waste Puritans. 

I find the trick is to not tell anyone about the pastry until it's all been eaten. So I might tell N later today. After his lunch. 

Tales from the Pudding Front

How it should have been...

First of all, a word of advice. Do not attempt the making of this dessert whilst 3 baileys/beers/glasses of wine/[insert drink of choice] to the better on Christmas Eve. If you’re sober and ready, then we’ll begin. 

First, the meringue. Separate egg whites from yolks. You’ll need only 6 but will actually use 8 as at least 2 of them will scramble during the separating process. Add sugar and whisk until stiff peaks. Do not attempt to do this by hand. Use electric whisk or spend Christmas Day asking passers by to cut up your food because your wrists have given up. 

Split the mix into 2, creating a sort of indent on one of them which will form a space for the creams and whatnot, and bake at 100 (electric fan oven). You have successfully completed the easy bit. Go and lie down while it bakes. Have another drink. Well done you. 

Now, raise yourself from the sofa and sift the cocoa powder into the double cream. Watch it drift and settle over every surface. Congratulations! You now have a brown kitchen and a speckled Baileys. Add the sugar and whisk in. 

Stop! Not that much. Now you have curdled chocolate cream. Start again. 

This next step calls for ground hazelnuts except you couldn’t find ground hazelnuts and the man in the shop thought you were mad asking for it: “Ground hazelnuts? Do people want ground hazelnuts? Nah. Ground almonds though.”

Sigh and buy the chopped hazelnuts, figuring you can grind them yourself with a rolling pin. This you can now do. At some point your rolling pin will slip and partially ground hazelnuts will scatter across the counter and onto the floor. Make sure you’re working on a very clean work surface before you begin or the damned nuts will also contain cat biscuits and crisp crumbs. 

Fold these, the vanilla (extract because, again, you couldn’t find ground vanilla ANY WHERE) and suspect the recipe makers are fucking with you. Ditto ground cardamom (leave that one out, no one will know)). Add the liquor of choice: one for the pudding, one for you etc. 

Spread the chocolate cream over the meringues and sandwich together, covering the top one with more choc cream. Do not press too hard or you will have invented Tabletop Eton Mess and have to start again. 

Realise at this point that you forgot the first steps which was to make a super-chocolatey cream involving double cream and bitter chocolate melting together. Raise your hands to the sky and ask the Kitchen Gods why they are making this so hard. At this point significant others in the room will find reasons to leave..."pub's about to shut and I really need...peanuts...YES! Peanuts!"

Decide to improvise by making vanilla cream (again, no one will know). Make vanilla cream without bothering the wash the fucking bowls for the fourth fucking time that day. You now have mildly chocolatey vanilla cream. It will taste fine, don’t worry about it. Wrestle this into plastic tub, getting the spatula stuck between the tines of the whisk. Abandon both in washing up bowl. 

Now to deseed the pomegranate. It is a good idea to warn loved ones that you are doing it so that when they walk into the kitchen they do not fall to their knees screaming "but it was only a pudding, there was no need for murder!" This is because pomegranates are EVIL and will splatter bright red juice over you, all surfaces, walls, cupboard doors, appliances, floors, livestock and all stationary objects within a 100 metre radius. Congratulations! You now look like a crime scene. 

Decide that you will take all constituent parts (meringues, creams, seeds and other decorative items) and assemble in situ on Christmas Day with small children because that will be FUN. You will assume this because Christmas has made you lose your mind. Go and lie down in darkened room, leaving clearing up to those lucky bastards that escaped to the pub. They will be shifting sticky sugar and cocoa mixes for hours. Probably a good idea to have a bath. 

On the day, carefully transport the pudding components, along with a billion bags of presents, unsent cards that will now be hand delivered to relatives (so much nicer!), the entire beer supply of your local shop and several overnight bags of anxiety, stress and familial angst. 

After present carnage and gluttony at the table, gather small children unto you and attempt to guide them. 

"No, we squeeze the piping bag from the top."

"Please don't hit each other with the spatula."

"Yes, the gold dust is pretty but you shouldn't squirt it in each other's eyes."

"I really think that's enough cream in that spot."

"Maybe if we try spreading it..."

"Yes, that did make a rude noise when you squeezed it."

"No, I don't think we should just throw the pomegranate seeds in the bin."

"Could you not see if you can get gold sprinkles in your brother's ear?"

You are now covered in sticky substances and gold dust. Serve and eat. Silently cast curses in the direction of those refusing it: "I really couldn't, I'm so full" (may all their sandwiches be dry turkey ones). Bask in delighted noises from those that do eat it: "this is soooo delicious!", "bloody hell, how much Baileys is in here?"

The meringue is perfectly chewy yet crisp on the outside. The creams are boozily delicious. There is enough sugar to take them all down with diabetes. It is a triumph. Get another drink and make those who were TOO FULL to try it, do the clearing up. 

Note: unused pomegranate seeds (i.e. all of the damn things) are good in gin. 

The actual messy reality which WAS totally delicious and 

any lapses in good taste, structural integrity or artistic arrangements 

should not now or ever be placed at the feet of the original recipe 

designers, but are entirely down to REALITY getting in the way. 

Seasons Eatings

Every family has them. Those odd side dishes or food rituals that only appear on 25th December and incomers (sons and daughters in law mainly), look on with undisguised horror and incomprehension. But to your family, they are non-negotiable. If these foods do not appear, it isn't Christmas and boy, will you make sure everyone knows about it. 

There are the things you buy in - Quality Street, Cadbury's selection boxes, Cadbury's chocolate fingers, Terry's chocolate orange (you see where I'm going here, right?) - and things you make, bringing them to the table with a sense of propriety and pride, smiling like a beneficent god as the rest of the family choke down something they don't really like but wouldn't dream of hurting your feelings by saying so. 

For years, until Mum mastered the art of pastry, it was mince pies. My sister and I aren't sure, all these years later, what happened as this usually exceptional cook took the raw ingredients of flour, fat and liquid and turned them into something you could build a house with. Her pastry throughout the rest of the year was spectacular: light, fluffy, crisp, flaky...whatever it needed to be, it was. There was just something about the time of year that changed the way the pastry fell together. Now, years after those days, I suspect an egg was missing from the mix. 

These days, her mince pies are delicious, but somehow, I still hanker occasionally after one from my childhood years. Whenever I’m short of a weapon. Or some grouting. 

Dad didn't cook, wouldn't have wanted to cook, but would earn unending brownie points with us kids simply by deigning to share a Smartie or two from his Christmas stash.  If we were very lucky and very good, maybe even a square or - heaven! - a line of 4 squares of Fruit and Nut chocolate. Despite this being the total sum of his culinary contribution, his tastes shaped our Christmas lunches. 

I remember describing it to a friend once and she looked at me with horror; "Mushy peas? Mushy peas have No Place on a Christmas table!" They did in our house. He was not a fan of most green veg, my Pa, but put a bowl of mushy peas in front of him and he was as happy as a pig in a pea field. 

Likewise, he was not a fan of the claggy fruit-laden Christmas pudding. Yes, he'd set it on fire for us to ooh and ahh at, but that was it. Once it was safely blown out, he'd help himself to a wodge of syrup sponge pudding, adding extra syrup from that green Tate and Lyle tin that brings back such a sugar-rush of memories now, and then complain if the custard wasn't thick enough to stand a spoon up in. 

If there was not enough left for a second helping the following day, he'd sulk and refuse to share any more Smarties. 

Pity my poor Mum, influenced by Delia and Keith, desperate to bring a bit of class to our table with spiced red cabbage, goose fat roasted potatoes, a delicate cream for the puddings, only to be thwarted by his distinctly down to earth tastes. "Fancy tack!" he'd say and carve himself another slice of custard. 

This year, I tentatively suggested that we opt for rib of beef or goose (I like both more than turkey) when Mum voiced concerns about a possible avian-flu-related turkey shortage, only to be shouted down with "we always have turkey!". Like I said, some things are non-negotiable.

There will still be mushy peas this year but there won’t be a syrup sponge pudding. I’m not sure any of us could eat it without crying, and god knows, this year has rendered us soggy enough as it is. 

Instead, I’ve offered to make a festive pavlova. 2 layers of chocolate meringue, sandwiched together with a chocolate liqueur spiked cream, some pomegranate seeds and more sugary stuff that I need to buy in as I’ve sworn off it till then so we’ve nothing sweet in the house. I WILL make us a pudding to ooh and ahh at and fight over the second helpings or, so help me, take us all down with diabetes in the attempt. 

Of course, it has to survive the 40 minute car journey from here to there, so we may well be eating an Eton Mess by the time it reaches table. 

***Image above from Food Stories - click on photo for link to recipe - rest easy, mine is NOT going to look like that***

It's going to be...busy

Presents have started arriving. For the past 3 mornings, the overladen post woman has rung the bell, handed me a parcel and then vanished, juggling 10 more under her arms. When, looking through the window, I see her open up the back of the van, there are enough still in there to stock a defunct Debenhams. 

Christmas is now a mere 22 days away and the Great Flurry has begun. Today's parcel included handmade soaps and alpaca socks, tiny wishes in bottles. Yesterday, a selection of nut butters was handed over with a sigh (it was a heavy box). Tomorrow, hopefully, hand poured candles, this poster and hot chocolate to make the winter bearable for my people. 

I'm ordering as much as I can from small, independent suppliers but it is heavy on the postage charges. I'll order books from Bookshop.org and then I can't avoid heading out to the high street. Except, it's not the high street, but the one behind it where the sweetshop lurks next to the gallery, around the corner from the really good charity shop because my friend and I have a challenge - who can buy the most interesting/weird thing for each other for 4 whole English Pounds. 

Up in the little side arcade, the wool shop is where I'll get beautiful yarn for winter projects to keep a couple of recipients busy (I also need some circular needles for me), and the no-plastic shop has cool water bottles and lunch boxes I can fill with tasty things for the Kid and his partner. The deli has amazing coffee in bags and herbal teas that actually taste good and not like pond water. 

Back home via the lovely independent gift shop where I'll get things for my sister and sister in law; the plant shop just because. 

Home to make: mince pies, autumn jumble jam, peppermint bark and gingerbread. Last year was the Year of Chutney which, although it was fun to make, I would bet a house on the fact it's still in people's cupboards, unopened. In fact, I know it is because I still have a jar of my mum's from 2 years ago. Unopened. 

But nothing sweet is left unopened at Christmas. Out will come my collection of tubs, baskets and cardboard boxes stashed over the year, forming an ever more tottering tower in the small office. These now come into their own as Joy Boxes. 

Everything is better in boxes. These are filled with those bakes and makes, cards, presents and other bits of nonsense I've collected over the year - cardboard punched into the shape of snowflakes or little pictures of trees made from washi tape, a scattering of jelly babies. 

In Dad's honour, everyone gets a scattering of jelly babies this year. They were his favourite sweet. 

This weekend, we are going to get ahead of the crowd and get the tree. N took me aback by insisting we got a tree. I'd been prepared for a battle as he's really not a Christmas man, but he mentioned it first, so I'm holding him to it. We'll leave it in the garden for a couple of weeks yet - right now is too early, it'll be brown and shedding by Christmas Eve if we bring it in now. 

Then we need to leave it up for a week with no decorations as we fully anticipate a Tiny Wee Mabel incident. This will be her first Christmas with a tree. There will be shenanigans. 

Of course, I write all this now. On a calm Thursday afternoon, in the slight state of delirium that comes from having had a heavy cold for a few days. Come the cold light of the 24th, I shall be screaming at a jam that won't set, a boyfriend that hasn't secured the tree properly and a me that put so much pressure on myself. Presents will still need to be wrapped and someone I've forgotten will deliver a card. 

By midnight, I shall be 4 sherries to the bad, covered in flour and parcel tape, collapsed on the floor next to the tree, watching The Nightmare Before Christmas while the Kid and N throw jelly babies at me. 

It's going to be Christmas. 

How is it October?

I distinctly remember, as a child, moaning about how dreadfully long the days could be, a long drawn out whine of “I’m booooored”, especially if it was raining and the prospect of nothing but playing Monopoly with my sister was on the cards.

I still can’t play Monopoly without smelling Sunday lunch cooking in the background.

Of course, now as a grown assed adult, with my own house to maintain and lunches to make, I completely understand the bitter laugh that invariably came from an adult in the room. 

 

Days are simply not long enough any more. And it’s not all down to my Instagram habit. 

Anyway, here we are in my favourite month, despite it feeling that the start of September was only a blink away. Mornings are nippy, blankets are out and I have made 3 soups in the past 2 weeks.

Thank god I no long have to pretend that I’m perfectly happy with salad, thank you very much, could you pass the coleslaw and cheese, and the dressing and the other thing to smother it in. It is much easier to eat healthily in Autumn and Winter, I find. Soup needs no dressing and ice cream casts no spell when it’s cold outside. 

If I could, I’d live in perpetual October with brief forays into June and July for birthdays. 

But enough fantasising about squash, ginger, coriander and lime soup with garlic flatbread to dip, back to the matter in hand: my disappearing September. 

Most of it went in work and the start of college (my return to education following a 27 year break), but we also had a trip to Surrey for a friend’s wedding. I have only been to Surrey once and can confirm that it’s roads are as badly surfaced now as they were 15 years ago. 

 

 

But we had a splendid time at the wedding which was nice. Even nicer (sorry Charlotte), was the church in Chaldon that a friend of mine had suggested we visit in the morning to see the Doom painting (second photo). 

I'm sure you'll agree that as wall paintings go, that one is just...wow. I mean. Seriously. Can you imagine being an illiterate 14th Century peasant with no scientific knowledge, and that's the image that confronts you the minute you walk into church, and when you leave? 

 

Enough to frighten the beezus out of anyone. 

It was also home to one of the most unintentionally hilarious monuments I've ever seen (not shown). Along the lines of "she survived a shipwreck on the way to somewhere foreign, sailed out there again, suffered disease and the birth of eight children far from home, bore with fortitude all the inconveniences of life there, died on the way back home". Well honestly, wouldn't you? "That's it, I told you I'd had enough. You men and your bloody ships."

We visited Brighton while we were down there. Umm, sorry Brighton, but I think you've probably seen better days than a humid Monday out of season and post-pandemic. Nice graffiti in places though, although I did think they could have opened their museum. Boo.

There were some excellent trees and equally excellent views from the balcony of our AirB&B. There was delicious pizza, fish and chips, and a wedding buffet that transcended the once standard pork pie and cold chicken legs. There were friends, laughter and, almost uniquely for an AB&B, a very comfortable bed.They got a good review for that alone. 

Certainly not for the fact there were only 2 tea bags and 1 toilet roll in the property.

There was a big old moon, sea gulls in their rightful place (i.e. by the sea and not attacking moorhen chicks along the canal back home). There was rest and relaxation and a not entirely hideous return journey along the M25 - it was no picnic, but I expected worse.  You can't help thinking of Crowley and his M25 shenanigans in Good Omens when you think of the M25. 

No demons were summoned during the course of our journey. I think.

This week, the Kid is home from Sunderland for his own slice of rest and relaxation. Working as a carer for adults with complex (and sometimes undiagnosed) mental disabilities and needs during the pandemic has been an exercise in fortitude, grit and sheer determination to see they suffer as little as possible despite the shit show going on outside the doors. 

I've never been prouder and have made all his favourite meals this week. He all but cried at the sausage and bean casserole that was a childhood staple when he was growing up. Yes, I am sending him back with masses of filled tupperware and, hopefully, a renewed vigour for the challenges ahead. He'll need it. 

Back to work next week but hopefully I'll find time to catch up with my trip to London before then. 

If not, rest assured I shall be composing never-to-be-written blog posts while I dig manure into my plot. Kudos to all those taking part in Blogtober. I am enjoying reading your posts. More power to your typing fingers.

Gathered In

Its that time of year again. The worktop by the sink is cluttered with empty jars and bottles that all need a long soak in hot soapy water before they're clean and label-free enough for me to use for all things I'm planning to make. 

The wineberries are safely gathered in and I'll be making a cordial out of those, rather than the gin I'd had planned. My mother in law has MS, so booze is off the cards for her (it worsens some of the symptoms). Rather than have her miss out, as she has on the damson gin, I'll make a cordial from this and another from elderberries. The latter has the added benefit of being exceptionally good for sore throats and coughs.

And I'll still make some damson gin for those who can have it. And the damson jelly that is so good with cold or hot meats, cheeses and basically anything savoury that needs something tart to cut through.

There was a general consensus recently that the last thing any of us needed was more courgette or runner bean chutney, so I'll make a very small batch pickled shredded beetroot and dispense some of it in very small jars, so it feels more like a gift and less like an obligation. I still have a chutney my Mum made 3 years ago in my cupboard, so the whole gift/obligation thing is very real. 

Raspberries I am greedily, gleefully keeping to myself. This is the first year I've had more than 1 solitary, sad raspberry cane fruiting, and I intend to freeze all those I can't eat, to get me through the dark days of late winter with a burst of sunshine. Ditto the blackberries which I'm either eating by the handful at the plot, or on yogurt with a thin but decadent drizzle of proper honey. 

This will be the first year I get to have a go at bottling tomatoes. On the plot are huge fat Marmandes, smaller Big Daddy's and an even smaller yellow cherry tomato, the name of which I've forgotten. I'll make a couple of tomato tarts, eat some raw with goats cheese, bottle the rest to open in late winter and use to smother pasta, eat my way back to summer.  

The courgettes are being roasted and frozen for the same purpose. Come February, when we are tired of sprouts and the dark, I'll throw a couple in with the tomatoes, snip some basil that's overwintered on the windowsill and take us away from the damp and the gloom.

Getting Back To It

It was with some relief that I returned to work this week. As I'm working from home and it involves sitting at a laptop, this is something I can do without worrying about being asked to lift anything heavy. The heaviest thing I lift is the kettle (filled to the minimum required for a coffee boost). I may still be banned from doing any yoga, digging or anything interesting, but I can still use my brain. 

And my brain is glad that I can because it was getting impatient. I could almost feel it itching with ideas and plans, which is always a good sign I'm recovering. That said, one podcast recording, one meeting and an afternoon of emails completely wiped me out, leaving me yawning and barely able to hold a crochet hook by 7pm. 

I'm so much better that I was even allowed out for a walk all by myself last week. True, I did try leaving the house in my slippers (got 3 paces out of the door and realised what I'd done), the pace is slow and the distance not far, but the joy of being able to get out into the air is not to be underestimated. 

 

And then it snowed! And got very icy! A fear of slipping kept me from going outside again for 3 days - I really do not need to fall over right now. Although, I managed to almost take a tumble in my own home by getting my foot tangled with a phone charger cable, so maybe I just shouldn't be allowed to stand up on my own. Or at least move from my seat without supervision. Sadly N wasn't taken with the idea of being my personal watchdog - "mind out for the wool! There's a pile of books to your left!" - on the grounds that he has a proper job what pays the mortgage. 

He has promised that we'll take a trip up to the allotment at the weekend though, so I can't complain about him. 

So far in lockdown we've had surprisingly few rows. The most recent involved him playing The Idles very loudly while he hoovered and I dealt with laundry upstairs. I loathe that band. I mean, really hate them. They make me want to tear off my ears and beat the lead singer into silence with them. I don't know why, I just do. So I did the only reasonable thing and sat upstairs, seething, until the album ended and I could go back downstairs and tell him to put his damn earphones in.

 

It could be said that he was reasonable in asking why I hadn't mentioned it at the start, instead of waiting until the end, by which time I was in the right frame of mind to throw things (I didn't, credit me with some dignity, if not rationality). But I was not in a mood to be reasonable. At least, not until several hours and a bottle of wine later. 

This morning saw a lovely doorstep visit from my son and his boyfriend. They delivered and received belated Christmas presents, and he received a pile of post he hasn't thought to have redirected. That is something he's going to have to deal with soon as they are moving up to Sunderland at the end of Feb. I am trying to gather the tatters of my rationality around me about this - he's not moving to Australia, the house they're getting has a spare room for visits, he's healthy and happy - but it's a close thing. 

Not helped by my recent afternoon organising all my photos into neat digital files. I tumbled right down memory lane to the time when it was just him and me, and the places we visited, the hills we climbed and the books we shared. Lockdown or no, I will be giving him a hug goodbye before he goes. 

 

In other breaking lockdown news, I took a pair of scissors to my fringe in between meetings on Tuesday and instantly regretted it. Usually I trim mere millimeters off so it rests just below my eyebrows, hiding my massive forehead and enabling me to see, but I'd got fed up with seeing all that hair, so grabbed the blunt kitchen scissors and hacked off a centimetre, without factoring in the spring-back effect. 

Oh dear. Released from the weight of itself, the rest of the fringe has sprung up even further, leaving me looking perpetually surprised and slightly lopsided. I find myself tilting my head to one side in Zoom meetings, trying to disguise it. It'll settle down and grow back again, I know but my eyebrows are seriously traumatised by the sudden exposure and my neck is developing a crick in it. 

Really, it's just a symptom of wanting something to change and I'm craving a bigger chop to my hair all over. I'm thinking to the ears, nothing too drastic (I shaved my head once in the mistaken belief I would look like Winona Ryder with her pixie crop - I very much did not), but enough to rid me of all this hair. I keep picking up scissors and putting them down...N may have to hide them before the week is out. 

My attempts at sourdough have all failed miserably. The starters I started refused to develop, lying sulky under a sour brown liquid and giving off a smell that no mother could love. I do not have much luck with bread making under normal circumstances. My loaves always resemble dwarf bread (see Terry Pratchett for that running gag) and could potentially be classed as weapons if dropped from any height over 2 foot. So I called it a day on that Earth Mother dream and ordered some instead. I will feed back (pun fully intended) if it's any good. 

I did once think I'd be an Earth Mother sort of person: keeping chickens, baking bread, hoard of angelic children being homeschooled around me. Then I discovered that chickens smell (and are quite deranged), I can't bake a bread worth eating and children really get in the way of your reading time. And I don't think clogs are acceptable footwear. Besides, I'm not a one for labels - they always seem too much to live up to. 

All photos from a handful of the museums, galleries, hills and beaches I've visited with the Kid. Yes, I am milking this.

My Week in ... Taste

Gosh this week is a bit frantic. I'm wrapping up last minute jobs at work, wrapping up presents in the evenings and managing to get virtual catch-ups with friends and family in the spare moments. Last night I woke at 3.30am with a jump: I'd been dreaming I'd forgotten about my op until 2 hours after the time it was scheduled. Not happy that my waking anxiety should invade my sleep!

Anyway, onto my week in seven flavours. Only a little more abstemious than I thought it might be, what with the New Regime and all. 

Cashew nuts! All part of the new food regime. Having been strictly an only-peanuts girl, I found them weird at first but now I even like them more than the former. Roasted and salted, of course. Whaddaya think I am, some kind of penitent?

Smoked salmon. I don't buy a lot of it before you go thinking I'm posh or summat. But this time of year is my own personal "salmon season" (me and everyone else in Britain) and I'm thoroughly enjoying the unbeatable taste of smoked salmon folded into gently scrambled free range eggs, the yolks so orange they look like little suns on my plate. 

Coffee. Real coffee. Working from home means I get to make myself a cafetiere of the stuff every morning, so I'm not missing out on the coffee shop right next to my workplace. It's not quite the same, but it's close enough. 

Coriander. Or cilantro if you're American. I love this herb but you have to go carefully with it unless you want a mouthful of something that tastes like antiseptic. This week, I've had it in soup, courgette fritters and in a giant cous-cous (the only cous-cous worth the water used in preparing it) salad. 

Damson gin. Self explanatory surely?

Damson Jelly. I've been adding spoonfuls of this to gravies for the past couple of weeks and it adds a blast of sour fruity goodness to cut through the fat and heavy saltiness of gravy. Amazing. Try it now if you haven't already. 

Rice cakes. Don't. I know. I've actually written the words "rice cakes" on my blog. I'm so ashamed. But not bloated, so there. When the need for a crunchy food that isn't toast (see previous post) or a nut (see above) overwhelms, I "butter" one up and add some humous or goats cheese. No, it is not at all as good as a piece of toast with cheese or jam on it. How could it be? This breaking of old (bad) habits is tough on the tastebuds sometimes, folks. 

Zombie peanuts! Ho ho ho 

Cloud Rambling

A week into my own personal lockdown and I haven’t yet cracked and run amok through the house screaming “will I never see OUTSIDE again?” Which is a bonus.  

As a person who is mostly introverted and who enjoys copious amounts of quiet time on her own, I was always going to be suited to this. I can happily wile away whole days inside, making bits of nonsense, reading, writing, watching, baking (not so much any more - more on that story later), pondering the garden or paint colours for inside, staring into space...

At the weekend I put together a Christmas wreath made from pom-poms and lights. It’s extremely cheerful, extremely gaudy and makes me happy every time I look at it (although I’m kind of wishing I’d cleaned the windows before I hung it). It also meant I could claim my day’s work done and spend the rest of it reading the paper. 

Behold! The Wreath of Gaudiness! 

We’ve played scrabble, watched films, cooked, played with the cats. I’ve bottled my damson gin, jarred my damson jelly and labelled the runner bean chutney for N to deliver while I’m in hospital. 

Last night we watched Batman: the Dark Knight because I am nothing if not behind on my superhero film watching. 3 thoughts have stayed with me: 

1. Bale’s Batman makes me laugh every time he speaks. His voice is so ridiculous! I can’t hear him without imagining him having to break off mid stirring speech to cough and choke. I don’t find him convincing (however he was excellent as Dick Cheney in Vice).

2. Heath Ledger could have been given more airtime. He was astonishing as the Joker and leaving him dangling at the end was a waste.

3. This film does not pass the Bechdel test. Poor Maggie Gyllenhaal portraying the only rounded, fully inhabited female character and she gets killed off? You, Christopher Nolan, did a disservice there, regardless of plot. 

In fact, her character's death made me almost as cross as the Black Widow's did in Avengers: Endgame. Yeah, great, just bring the most interesting character to a stop, why don't you. Leave us with the anodyne Captain America, sure. You didn't just miss a MASSIVE trick there at all. 

Ahem. 

Back to the matter in hand: lockdown. 

There's no doubt that I've been bolstered in mood by a walk my friend and I took the day before I had to sequester away like some medieval nun in a hermitage. We parked up on the side of the Malverns, by Holywell (appropriate, no?), in the mist and murky gloom, and walked up. And up. And up. Admiring the way the muted daylight brought out the russets of the beech leaves, the reds of the berries and the silver of the birches in stark contrast. There was colour everywhere we looked, despite the lack of light. 

And then. Oh friends, then we broke above the cloud into...glorious sunshine! The snaking, ridged spine of the hills leading across the landscape to the almost-touchable Iron Age hill fort was picked out by a sharp light that made the whistling wind feel less bitter. Over to our right, Herefordshire countryside laid itself out, shaking off the damp and glowing greenly. 

To our left, the cloud brushed up against the side of the hills, forming a white carpet so thick and solid looking that we felt we could walk on it. Occasionally bits would be blown up and over the path, momentarily blurring the edges and making me think of moorland mists, the Hound of the Baskervilles and other appropriately Gothic things. 

hill fort in the distance, cloud sneaking over the top of 
the hill to see what was on the other side. 

An hour later, when my thighs gave a wobble at the longest walk I've done in the past 18 months, we headed back down in search of soup, cake and a bookshop. Once I got home, I sat myself down and read HotB, from under a blanket while the mist curled itself against the windows. It was perfect, post-walk, misty day reading. 

And baking? I did promise more on that, didn't I? In truth, I've hesitated to write about this because there is nothing more boring than hearing about other people's diets, but as it's the basis for a big shift in my life, I'm going to. 

Some years ago, I gave up dairy (apart from eggs) in a desperate attempt to bring my eczema under control. And for a time, it worked. Until it didn't and the eczema crept into my scalp, developed on my knees and generally made life itchy and miserable. That alone was enough to make me consider the next step, but when coupled with some other minor, but irritating, health problems, I figured the time had come to bite the (dairy-free) bullet, not to mention my credit card, and book to to see a nutritional therapist. 

I'd not had much luck with doctors, you see. 

Many hours of research later and I finally found a non-woo therapist. And by non-woo, I mean someone who didn't think kale was the answer to everything, who didn't think that fasting would cure my ills or that I should replace my meals with smoothies, who didn't suggest crystals as anything other than something nice to look at, or that I should engage with dream therapy. I wanted someone with a solid grounding in science and a healthy understanding of human nature as well as nutrition. 

Luckily, I found her. Unluckily, the first thing she suggested I quit was gluten. 

Oh bread! Toast in the mornings, sandwiches at lunch, garlic bread with dinner! Naans with curry! Muffins with eggs! Pasta morning noon and night! Cakes, biscuits and other tasty goodnesses! Goodbye to you all, my lifelong delicious friends! Yes, I have been that dramatic; ain't I a peach to live with? In my defence, it is a big step for me: I come from a solid family who's answer to a bad day was crumpets, my favourite part of a roast dinner when growing up was a slice of bread smothered in gravy and my Dad had a second breakfast of lemon curd sandwiches when he was working (he was a landscape gardener, so definitely burned it off throughout the day). 

I could go into the many reasons why this is a recommended first step, but I won't because I don't want to bore you all. Suffice to say, I am no longer eating peanut butter on toast for breakfast and my energy levels have rocketed. Heartburn has disappeared. Bloating is a distant memory. The eczema? It takes 4-6 weeks for the skin to replace itself, so the jury is still out but I feel so much better. Possibly mainly because I'm taking control. And that's got to be worth it. 

I'm still having proper stuffing on Christmas Day though. 

This is likely to be my last lengthy post pre-Christmas. My op is next Tuesday and I imagine I won't be up to anything like this, let alone coherent enough to write it. Thank you all for popping by my tiny corner of the internet, commenting or just reading and moving on. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and a very merry new year as we say goodbye to this sod of a year. 

I've not been told I have to give up the damson gin, so I'm not. 

The warning is necessary. 

October at the Allotment

To paraphrase Snoopy and his novel's opening line, it was a dark and stormy October. Well, not all of it was, but a great deal of it and conversations at home went something like this. 

"I'm off to the allotment."

"Really? I'm sure it's going to rain."

"Nah, my weather app says it's good. See you later."

...

30 minutes and heavens opening later

...

"You're back then. Enjoy the allotment?"

"Shut up." exit stage left, squelching, to change clothes. 

I did manage to harvest the 3 Kabocha squash that had survived (all my pretty little patty pans had rotted) and they are now safe in the utility room awaiting their fate as risotto, soup, cake, stew and fritters. They are a gloriously grumpy shade of green, the sort of green that's resentful of the other brighter greens around it, with bumpy tough skins. Inside, the flesh is a glorious orange, the middle chock full of seeds that I've carefully rinsed and saved. There's one roasting in the oven behind me right now, getting ready for a monster risotto-making session. 

Would you look at the size of this absolute unit?

Not the biggest squash I've seen but one I can at least eat, rather than turn into a small house. 

The brassica cage took a battering on more than one occasion. Each time I went up it needed the netting securing or the canes replacing/refirming. It is not, and the constructor of it (not me) acknowledges this, the best brassica cage in the world, far too flimsy and complicated, but it has done a fine job of keeping the butterflies off. There is at least one baby cabbage snug in it's nest of leaves. I have 12 more seedlings at home that are hardening off. As soon as a decent cage is constructed, they can go up. A bit late but may as well see what they can do. 

My folks came over and helped us with the fallen tree clearance. 2 of the 3 elders at the canal bank end of the plot had come down some time ago but the tree surgeon the council employ had proved to be mythical, so my Dad brought his chainsaw and we set to work, spurred on by the thought of the coffee and bacon sandwiches in the rucksacks. 

Inside the Kabocha. Would ya look at that orange!

The 3rd elder is still standing but minus all bar 2 of it's branches. Elder are a bit unstable frankly and as 2 had gone, I'd decided to rid myself of the 3rd while a man with the right bit of kit was there. Unfortunately the man without the right bit of kit kicked up an almighty fuss about the destruction of a "perfectly good tree" and a proper domestic ensued. Ended when I capped my argument with "mo' digging, mo' opinions". 

Essentially, do some more work up here and you get to dictate what happens. 

My folks, doing what they do best and have been doing for years. 

Quite took me back to my childhood. 

All that aside, there is now a large pile of elder logs forming an excellent habitat for bugs and hedgehogs over the winter. Bonfires are still banned on the plots, so it'll be staying there for quite a while. To be honest, there is so much bug life on the plot that it won't take long for the greater part of it to rot down, as I've seen with The Pile, made up from the barrow-fuls of grass and weeds that I'd put in a heap at the bottom. Once about 4 foot tall it has, within the space of a few months, settled down to just under half of the original size. 

This month I'll be putting up stage one of the fruit cage and planting in some rhubarb as well as the rest of the brassicas. 

I'm so grateful for this space, even in the dark days of late autumn. Just to have somewhere to sit and be is a huge benefit. And it has come back to me that planting is an act of hope. Every time you drop a seed or a plant into the ground, you're hoping that the conditions will be right, the world will not have ended and the seasonal cycle will once more bring you back round to pumpkin time.