cupcakes and crapjacks

This is why I rarely do flapjacks:

Goodness knows.  Don't ask.  Now I have a treacly pile of oats sitting on a plate which I periodically tear a mouthful off of each time I walk past it.  It is beautifully sweet but I can actually feel my teeth rotting with every mouthful.

The bolognese was a success, the cupcakes were not my best, but the kids ate them.  Gotta love kids for their senseless love of cake in whatever crappy form it takes.

Today is pay day (hallelujah and much rejoicing) and so the food audit beckons.  Might leave that treat until later.  A friend of mine reckons she spends less on food by doing a big weekly shop.  I know it's not tip of the year, nor rocket science, but I have not been doing that for a while, instead just popping into to various shops whilst out and about on our travels, and spending about £30 a pop, at least.  I cannot financially support an average of 5 'pop-ins' per week at £30 a time.  No sirree.  Maybe I'll do an online jobbie - that's so bloody tedious and time consuming I usually give up and pay before I've had my fill of fripperies. 

Today MQ7 is on the cards.  And a charity shop trawl, and lunch out, and it's pay day....

Happy days.

the sweet smell of success

This evening I am looking after Oliver's bestie and his two younger sisters.  Gulp.  I hope they don't gang up and overpower me.  I am dishing up this, in the hope that they'll like me and tell their Mum what a fabulous cook I am:

Yummers. 

In an unusually organised coup de cuisine, I have already cooked the bolognese. Yes.  I know.  It is the Lord's work and it is marvellous in our eyes.  (not really, I got this quote from Elizabeth 1 on hearing her sister Mary had popped her clogs and she was now Queen of England.  I am sure she quotes me often times too).

Not that I need a recipe for spag bol, you understand, I just see a tremendous appeal in things which are oven-cooked.  Marvellous in my eyes, that's for sure.  And this recipe is a little different to the stove-top variety I have done for ever.  I like the balsamic vinegar, celery and nutmeg flavours.  You have to stir in milk just before it's served (I usually forget this step) to counteract the vinegar I suppose.  The milk makes a big difference.

Pre-oven:

...and cooked to death, just how I like it:

The Boston Cream Cupcakes are an unknown entity, but I am basing my new found confidence on my recent ability to not balls up every cupcake recipe I lay my hands on.  I have found that following the recipe helps a lot, rather than the skim reading it and bunging all the ingredients in together at the same time.  I have my Mum to thank for that particular theory being tattooed on my soul.

Also I have realised that recipes which demand the use of unsalted butter say so for a reason.  I have always used salted, as I cannot bear the extravagance of purchasing two types of butter, but I pushed the boat out, and boy - the banana cupcakes I made last week were the best ever. 

I have been waiting for this Thursday to come around, as it is payday, and includes for the first time my better-paid shifts.  So it's tres exciting.  From this payday, I want to keep a note of everything foodie that I buy, as last month I spent literally hundreds on food.  I am not exaggerating.  In a house with two (admittedly greedy) adults and one child with a small appetite, that is disgusting.  I am not even counting things like cat food, kitchen foil and boring non-food stuff like that.   

I need to do an audit of everything I have edible in the house, and I suspect I am not going to like what I see. 

The recipe books, by the way, are Fay Ripley's Family Food, and The Hummingbird Bakery Cake Days.  The FR book is great - really cookable stuff in there, but it is a library book, and on it's last renewal.  I am feeling too tight to cough for my own copy at the moment (despite haemorrhaging cash from everywhere else) so I might make Oliver take it out on his ticket ha ha.  The librarian might need some convincing however that a 10 year old boy has need of Fay Ripley's assistance in the kitchen.  Do you know, I just spell-checked 'haemorrhaging', and it came up as wrong.  I felt sure it looked right, so I got up and looked it up manually - in the dictionary, no less, and I am right.  Bloody American spell-checker crap.  Really, are we the only country in the world who uses English properly?  (and get off my case, you equality and diversity people - it's a joke, OK?)

Laters.

rude, my arse

Blogging today with nothing specific to report on, no piccies to post of outings taken.  Tres boring, sorry.

I thought I might use this little pocket of time I have (well, it is a bit of a stay of execution as the endless chore of gardening beckons...) to indulge myself in a bit of blathering on things which have flitted in and out of my mind lately. 

A while back, I heard on the Jeremy Vine show, a woman talking about body hair.  She was in her early 20's, I think, and had not removed any body hair for about 2 years.  Now while I bitterly resent shaving/waxing/hacking back the undergrowth with a Black and Decker, I can't quite reach the rebellious level this chick has ascended to, but what she said made so much sense, I felt a bit startled by it. 

Her argument is that we have been conditioned by fashion/men/society - that sort of thing - to believe that body hair is unfeminine and therefore disgusting.  She argues that there is simply no reason that we should feel obligated to remove body hair, it is as natural to women to grow body hair as it is for men, yet we pressure girls who reach puberty that removal of body hair is 'normal', acceptable and, more scarily, necessary.  She is, I feel, absolutely right in her argument.  However, it is sadly NOT going to catch on, however much 'right' there is on her side.  It is too ingrained in us, too widely spread, too radical to contemplate.  But a surprisingly simple and logical point of view. 

Even longer ago, I think when Wimbledon was on during the summer as a lady was spotted on TV doing this: there was a discussion (JV again) on whether or not it is rude to knit in public.  Pardon my french, but for fuck's sake.   So it is not considered 'rude' to smoke in public where you are forcing everyone in the vicinity to passively smoke along with you, not considered 'rude' to yell personal conversations into a mobile phone so you are privy to information you would prefer not to have heard and not considered 'rude' to walk along the street with offensively loud music blaring from a mobile phone with shockingly poor sound quality,  but it is 'rude' to create something useful or pretty from a ball of wool.  Oh, be serious.  That one had me screaming at the radio, I don't mind telling you. 

What else.  Hmmm.  We have been watching this:

Well, have just finished it, actually, and it is darkly brilliant.  It is about a family who run a funeral home.  It didn't occur to me that because of the open casket thing in the states that there is a whole business built up around 'beautifying' corpses. Forgive my ignorance, but is that why there is embalming?  To preserve the body while it is on show?  Presumably we, in little blighty, don't go to the trouble because we go for cremation or burial without the whole sitting in a room and looking at our dead beloved?  A friend of mine whose husband is American says that we have a very 'sanitised' attitude towards death in this country.  Maybe that's a fair point. 

And I am reading (again - I read the same things over and over usually - I get great comfort from it) this:

 

I am fascinated by Anne Boleyn.  Because of her and her ambition, we have the Church of England and had Elizabeth 1, both of which I think are pretty hefty legacies.  I have days when I feel that the words I have read describing Anne Boleyn could apply to me, 'half mad with rage' and 'shrew like'.  I don't like to think of myself as 'shrew like', but the phrase does spring to mind often. 

I must get myself outside to the garden.  I can prevaricate no longer.
Tits.

just a little update

The macaroni cheese was vile, in my opinion.  I suspect I ballsed up the sauce making, because it was fuzzy.  Oliver hates fuzzy stuff (he won't eat blended soups for this reason).  Oliver's friend seemed to like it though, so the poor bugger got dispatched home with the leftovers on Saturday night ha ha.  His Mum texted me today to say it was lovely and her kids wolfed it back.  There is no accounting for taste. 

The golf competition was a disaster.  Seemingly there was a disagreement over green fees and to cut a long story (thankfully) shorter - they didn't take part in the competition.  They ended up playing a round with my parents at 'their' golf course, which is posher, and apparently Oliver played a blinder.  Always nice when your kid impresses your parents.  There is some kind of 'wrong' pleasure in basking in the vicarious glory.... 

And I had a shitty shift at work all day today and have sent a strongly worded email to the department manager which she will pick up in the morning.  It started off with  'whilst I appreciate the difficulty you have with...' which is invariably followed by 'however I think it unacceptable that......' Gulp.

I stopped off at Tesco on the way home to buy a bottle of wine.  Because the half bottle I have in the fridge suddenly did not seem nearly enough.

Still, Downton Abbey tonight. 

meanderings, MQ6 and macaroni cheese.

Back into the swing and all that this week, and Oliver's new schedule has gone very nicely indeed.  AND he is reading - on a daily basis.  Pick me up from where I have fallen off my chair. 

On Tuesday, accompanied by my Mum, we headed off to.....MQ6 yay!  The intention was Dawlish, but this was closed.  Obviously this discovery was made after I had coughed up for the car park pay and display.  Muttering and cursing aside, I decided to postpone this one and pop along to the next seaside town - Teignmouth. 

I found this museum 'OK'.  Not brilliant, not rubbish, it was - OK and served very well as a substitute for my original intention.  We would have had to visit this one anyhow, so all is not lost.  It had a (not surprisingly) seasidey theme running through it.  I asked the lady at reception if there was any sort of 'quiz' or 'thing' for kids and she informed me that there were interactive things in the museum for children.  The word 'lame' sprang to mind, but I left it there and thanked her politely.  That's me - Mrs Polite.  In my head I have often hung, drawn and quartered people before the second syllable of the word 'hello' leaves their lips. 

So, another museum is ticked off the list.  42 to go.  Incidentally, a good 'friend' of mine (with a kid the same age as Oliver in school) reacted with such horrified dismay at my museum quest idea that I was quite stunned by it.  She called Oliver a 'poor lad' for having to endure such a boring scheme and I had to remind myself to close my mouth as my jaw had dropped open in mute surprise at her strong opinion.  Now I am no stranger to strong opinions, having voiced a few of them myself over the years, but she really took me aback and I found myself on the defensive back foot.  To my mind, Oliver and I going out together and sharing time talking, listening, looking, loving, experiencing and being is so valuable and incomparable to anything a school environment could offer him that I am again astonished it could be so challenged.  I calmly and firmly explained this the best I could to her, and she accepted it, although I don't think she 'gets' it. 

What she will see in years to come though, I believe, is that time is a great leveller, and that her son and mine will, in 'achievement' status be - give or take - on an equal footing.  The big difference I think will be that my son has had the security of developing emotionally away from the pressures of the playground and his belief in himself will not be shaken nor will his desire to seek friendships be undermined by confidence issues.   She also asked me if I would be setting him any SATS next year..... after I had laughed out loud and said no, why?  she said that if she were me she would want to know where he was compared to school kids of the same age.  With some incredulity in my voice I replied no, I didn't need to know how he compared to school kids, and that I didn't give a shit anyhow.  We moved on to talk about other things. 

Hmm, what else. 

Bit of baking, bit of crochet, you know how it is.  Last night we ate at Pizza Hut and Oliver had macaroni cheese.  The pasta was not macaroni, and I strongly suspect the sauce had not seen much real cheese.  Despite these culinary insults, he loved it. So tonight, for tea for him and his friend (who thankfully eats anything I cook apart from bacon, and no, he is not Jewish), I am doing macaroni cheese.  This has sent me into a state of gibbering recipe searching.  I have made this dish twice before, both pretty unsuccessfully it has to be said.  This time however, I have this on my side:

The author has sought out lots of different versions of 'classics', tried them all, reported on her findings and tweaked them to her liking.  What a bloody good idea.  Her macaroni cheese has cheddar, parmesan and gruyere cheese in it.  There is no way that my dish is going to taste anything like the dish he had last night and I sense temper tantrums on the horizon.  I also feel under pressure to perform as last night at the restarant Mark said to Oliver 'Mum can make a much better macaroni cheese than that.'  Gulp.  I bloody doubt it. 

Goodness ME...

...gardening is bloody hard work.  Just popped down the garden (and please do remember - it is DOWN the garden, and therefore a fair old way back UP afterwards...) to dig over a bed, plop on compost and cover the whole lot over as I've had enough of the growing season already.  I know, I know, I am a nature philistine.  I managed about a third of a bed before I had sweat dripping down my forehead and the crack of my arse. You have to know these things to be able to share in my discomfort.  I bore the hideousness of uncovering the compost heap aka insects-of-the-world home in order to scatter a pathetic amount of rotted down goodness on top, and then covered with plastic.  Bye bye til next April (May if I can get away with it.  I am truly not a natural in the garden.)

Now to the indoor life, to which I find I am best suited.  I have finished - THIS!

I never thought I would get to the end of this before I reached the end of crocheting as a hobby.  But, I dug in, et voila.  I started this in France last September.  Oliver chose the colours, which I hated and complained bitterly about as each row passed, but I realised as it went on that actually, they looked pretty sharp.  Here it is on my bed, just for show, as Oliver's bed is just too untidy and full of stuff to get a half decent pic. 

He likes it.  Result. 

And, joy of joys - the school is no longer out for summer.  Everywhere is now free of irritated parents ignoring their badly behaved offspring.  I love, love. love this time of year.  It also heralds the start of Autumn - Autumnal loveliness such as smoky bonfire air, dimpsy evenings and the wonderful cooling of temperatures which draw me to the outdoors more than the sunshine ever could.  And there is Halloween, bonfire night and the promise of Christmas to come.  WaaaHAAAAAYYY!!!!!

Oliver has (with a little prompting/suggestion) drawn up a new schedule for the coming few months:

Note the gaps.  They are self-awarded time off for good behaviour slots, methinks.

And I am more than ready to welcome back a little routine into our lives.  Over the summer 'school' work stopped and we ticked along with the MQ, and the Summer Reading Challenge.  This challenge, initiated by Oliver, needed constant prodding towards this goal:

Six whole books read over the school hols.  This is some achievement for him, given his irrational dislike of reading.  The regularity of this task however, has clearly improved his reading skills and he reads pretty fluently, with intonation and a clear understanding of punctuation and passages spoken by the characters.  Blimey, that looks like a piece from a school report.  Anyhoo, 'we' have introduced 'book review' into the schedule on a fortnightly basis, the idea being that he will read on a daily basis and write a review at the end of it.  This is a really big suck it and see. 

Oliver's keenness on golf continues, and this morning the golf coach suggested he enter a competition next week as long as he has an adult with him who can play golf.  I feel completely justified in putting Mark forward for this despite his apparent horror at the idea - he used to play golf, and this is one of those things which is a Dad job, becuase Dad plays golf, and Mum don't.  Can't wait to see how it goes.

Lead on McDuff.

MQ#5 Topsham

Topsham is a little town on the outskirts of Exeter which is tres posh and full of old people, as they are the only ones who can afford to live there.  It is also very pretty, being based on the estuary of the river Exe and was once an important quay/port.  The streets are narrow and the houses quaint, and I usually end up peeping into windows and yearning to live there with the smell of outdoors and seaweed permeating the air.  Then I realise there is nowhere to park and realise I would be trapped in Topsham, at the mercy of public transport and I snap back into the real world....

So, MQ5.  This was housed in such a pretty building, right on the front in The Strand, with a garden across the road.  It was so picturesque.

There is, inevitably, maritime history. 

And one of these, which actually, I realised I had never seen before in real life.  They are bloody huge. 

I found this interesting:

It is the nightdress worn by Vivien Leigh in Gone With The Wind (I think on the morning after she was ravished by Clark Gable).  She was seemingly married to Leigh Holman (the 'Leigh' part of her name), who was from Topsham and remained on very good terms with both him and his sister after their divorce.  She kept up a friendship with the sister in particular (Dorothy Holman) and it is she who lived in the house which is now the museum. 

Oliver, of course, found this all unutterably dull, and found solace in the 'find the rubber spider trail' and cake.

He did find this fun and interesting though,

and it is this which he chose to write his little piece about.  Basically it demonstrates effectively how a load is moved by a system of pulleys and ropes, and that the more ropes and pulleys in a system - the easier the load is to move.  Simple physics, and simply smart.

After this little jaunt, we headed back into Exeter for Oliver's swimming lesson.  As I had my camera on me and spied him through the glass, I thought I'd take the oppo to take a sneaky pic.  Although I 'get' why you can't take pics at the public pool, it still pisses me off that I could never have a photo of my own kid learning to swim. 

Imagine then, if you will, my horror when the flash unexpectedly went off.  It was as if a bolt of lightning had come from above to strike me down for my wickedness.  I just looked down at the table and fiddled with my camera and pretended that it was nothing to do with me.  Ooh I am so naughty.  Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.  HA!  Wondered if I could get that one in.