one is need, two boxes is greed.

I have started on these:

They are intended to be coaxed, eventually, into something like this:



Solveig's Flowers In The Snow blanket

Quite magnificent ce n'est pas?

I have chosen vintage-y shades, and imagine it double bed size, which I may, or may not then gift to my little brother.  He is an ungrateful bastard and exceptionally rude to boot, so although I am erring on the 'may not' right now, I cannot help myself wanting to please him.  Crackers.

On the Easter front, I had a lovely surprise delivered from my good blog pal Mrs TT, which contained two brilliantly bright and cheery crocheted eggs (now hung up on the dresser) and this:

I cannot tell you how much joy this brought to my day.  I love the idea of a Cadburys creme egg popping out of a chicken's bum and Mark and Oliver tired of seeing it long before I did.  Tee hee big time. 

It was, of course, somewhat spoilt by me scoffing the egg within the first hour of clapping greedy eyes on it.  Talking of greedy, I was given two boxes of Maltesers at 6pm yesterday.  At the time of writing, both boxes have been eaten, and I shared not a one with anyone else.  For shame.  They have all trickled down my gullet in lovley, melty honeycomby mouthfuls of six or more at a time and settled happily around my arse cheeks and upper thighs.  That's over 1000 calories.  I cannot even bear to imagine how much fat it represents.  I'm not even a choc fan, really.  Imagine if I were - I would be about thirty stone.

There seems to be a problem with my Stop, You Unhealthy Glutton button at the moment. 

I drank about two thirds of a nice cava last night (in between boxes of Maltesers, obvs) whilst watching Foyle's War on the box.  I love Michael Kitchen.  We are also watching Lewis on DVD, and I love that too.  These shows are about as dark as I can go - I scare easily and am a bit of a lightweight in the thriller/violence/gore department and so cannot go down the much acclaimed Nordic Noir route, much to Mark's despair.  Tonight I am looking forward to a spot of Jonathan Creek.  This is a truly terrible programme, but the music is good, and as it's a 'seasonal special',  it's full of celebs, which I luuurve.

This morning I took Oliver out for a plod around the block.  This was partly because I wanted a quick bit of exercise, partly because it is too cold for a family jaunt out anywhere and partly because I am ever conscious that after giving up Judo, swimming and cubs in recent months, Oliver's exercise is not what it once was.  We had to stop after about three streets as he was out of breath, and then had to walk up the hill at the end.  He is, unbelievably, even more unfit than I am.  He was bright red in the face and blotchy for ages afterwards.  How much 'good' has been done here is anybody's guess.  He has tennis booked in for the rest of the week as a holiday activity.  In the meanwhile, I have a two-day course to look forward to at the hospital on carbohydrate counting for diabetes.  Whoopie flaming do. 

I despise courses, having attended several million whilst working for Lloyds Bank for over twenty years.  It will be yawntastically dull, we will all have to introduce ourselves giving a couple of twee facts and we will have to 'brainstorm' at some point.  These things will make me want to scream and I will struggle to hide my resultant loss of temper.   That is if I manage to stay awake that long.  Warm rooms and listening to jabber for longer than ten minutes has a very sedative effect on me. 

To be fair, we, as a family, did request a place on this course over a year ago.  It is for Oliver's benefit, although now it has come round,  both Oliver and Mark seem to have suddenly found better things to do and it is Joe Muggins who has drawn the short straw.  It is going down on my ever-growing mental list of things which fall into the category 'labours of love'.

To be sure.

more new baby...

..than Easter, I fear:

 

It was my intention to hang decorated blown eggs from these twigs, but after blowing the insides out of two, I felt quite giddy and my eyes hurt, so I gave up and went for the spring ribbons instead.  There are some lovely decorative eggs out there though - dotty ones, Cath Kidston ones... you get the idea.  I may yet succumb.

This week we have ventured out to take on MQ9.  Oh yes.  The Museum Quest is not done with, merely resting over the winter as many of the little museums of the sort we like, are closed until at least March.

This one is a good one:

Coldharbour Mill, a working wool museum.  Apparently there is no woollen mill in England to pre-date this one, which is surprising,  as one associates the wool trade to be oop north, and oop north only.  The man who set up this mill, on the river Culm in Devon, also set up a larger one in Wellington on the river Tone as it was a bigger river, and therefore had a faster/stronger flow to drive the mill wheel.  Eventually they became steam-driven mills.  It was fascinating watching the machinery at work inside - there were people working there dead keen to impart their knowledge about the process and the history.  Brilliant.  Bloody cold there though.  We learnt the origins of the sayings 'cloth ears' - the deafness of many textile workers suffered by the constant noise of the looms, 'on tenterhooks' - referring to the tension in wet fabrics held out stretched on 'tenters' in the fields to dry, and 'taking the piss' - to do with the use of urine to fix the dyes in the cloths.  It was the job of some poor bods to fetch and carry urine for this purpose and he was mocked as it was such a lowly job.  Apparently.  I am sure Wikipedia would have something to add.

From fleece:

To bobbins:

To smaller bobbins,  as the wool is drawn down to be longer and stronger.

The looms were a wonder to witness.  I find it amazing that someone could sit down and invent a piece of machinery like this, it is incredible to me.  Such foresight, such creativity.  Necessity sure is the mother of all invention, and I am awed by it every time.

But extremely interesting. 

And nan came too.

A couple of days later, Oliver felt under the weather, so we abandoned the little home ed work that we do do, in favour of an unscheduled trip to Otterton Mill.  Unexpectedly (and unbelievably) it was milling day there, which happens only twice a month - where they mill local grain into flour (no kidding) and you get the see the mill in its full glory. 

Oh yes, the ubiquitous cream tea.

It was great.  The whole idea of milling is a brilliant one, and the fact that this mill still works today is testament to its skilful design and craftsmanship. 

So despite the baking disasters (there was another cake balls up yesterday - nuff said), this has been a Good Week.

Laters.

It's baking - but not as we know it.

You know, I have had dark days in the kitchen.  Disasters of epic proportions have emerged from the cavernous filthy hole that is my oven from time to time, but this one really takes the biscuit.

Lacking a decent pudding/dessert to offer Oliver and his friend after tea last night, I had a mind to rustle up a batch of Hummingbird vanilla cupcakes with jet black icing, topped with little gold balls.  Oh yes,  it all looked so lovely in my mind's eye.

 

Er, no.
This is not how it was supposed to happen.  In fact, their physical appearance belies their appalling texture.  Oliver's friend kindly described them as 'alright, but a bit spongy.'  He wasn't kidding.  These could give Spontex a run for their money.

Thankfully we were spared the throat burning smell of freshly laid tarmac, but in every other respect the icing very closely resembled a road surface.  You could not separate the cake from the wrapper, so tightly the glue-like interior clung to the cheap folds.  Kim -  even these cannot be rescued by consuming with a cup of tea.  A cup of Rennies, maybe.

I apologised to the boys and threw them away.  I expect that it will take several days before the one they did manage to eat can clear their digestive system anyway.

I know where I went wrong.  I am too ashamed to tell you about it, but suffice to say, it involved a lack of patience and corner-cutting.  Tut tut.  I imagined myself knocking these out in a round of the Great British Bake Off, and felt quite faint at the awful prospect.

These can now sit in my Great Hall of Crap Baking, along with these gems:

This was supposed to be flapjack.

This was supposed to be a smooth ganache covering.

Meh.

If we lived in the days of Pioneers, my family would surely be the one to starve to death.

Nessun dorma

 

 

A couple of years ago, Oliver went to a cub 'no sleepover.'  This involved his pack rocking up at the local headquarters, playing games, bit of rifle shooting, unrolling their sleeping bags and watching movies on a giant screen until their eyes bled, or they dropped dead from exhaustion - whichever was the soonest. 

On Friday, there was another no sleepover event.  This time it was different. This time I had 'volunteered' to be parent 'helper' and boy, was I not looking forward to it. 

Here is Oliver's sleeping bag:

From Millets, for life in the great outdoors.

Here's mine:

From 1985, for Toyah.


It started to go downhill from here really.

There were 42 cubs there.  I felt tired from the moment I arrived at 7pm.  I was greeted by the brother of my ex-boyfried who, rather horribly, is something to to with district scouting.  He was going to be there all night too.  I spent a lot of the evening avoiding him, dreading him revealing to all and sundry the tale of how we knew each other.  At 9pm I got sent to the chip shop for 62 portions of chips.  It was that sort of night.  Scream scream scream. 

At 11.30pm, after a multitude of teeth-gnashing activities, enduring noise levels which made my eardrums buzz and screeching 'shush' at countless cubs, they were finally laid out in a looonnnnnng room end to end in their sleeping bags to watch films.  But it wasn't over there, ooohhh no.  It became apparent that the leaders were going to push through til dawn, and not sleep at all.  I wanted to cry.  In fact, I think my voice broke a little when I whimpered 'seriously, all night - not sleep???  We sat in the very brightly lit  IT suite on Very Upright chairs with the computer server humming away in the background.  It was like being trapped on a bloody ferry.  In the wee hours, a  couple of the ladies gave up and went 'to bed', so I gladly followed them, crawling into my cold, hard sleeping bag in a grateful daze.  Where I dozed fitfully and shiveringly until 5.45am when they turned on the lights for the commencement of more brain-frying will-sapping activities.  Everyone looked like death warmed up.  I sulkily gamely joined in until we were summarily dismissed at 9am.  I practically ran to the car, and my screeching tyres and getaway speed rivalled that of a bank heist.

By 10am I felt so tired, I felt ill.  By 1pm, both Oliver and I were crashed out asleep on the sofa until he woke up declaring 'I'm hungry, can I have my tea' at 3pm.  Ghastly.  It was like suffering the worst jet lag.  Horrible, horrible, horrible.  And it wasn't even for charity. 

Enough tales of shitty nights away.  I have finished this:

 

 

This pattern was originally seen here.

It clearly has a right and wrong side though.  Let's not dwell on the dark side.

Laters.

bonne cuisine, incroyable

In fact - it was tres bon indeedy.  The cream, I think, was too much, although Oliver had second helpings, and Mark thirds.  Greedy buggers.  It gave me tummy ache but I will deffo make this again, but maybe with single cream (is that less rich??) or creme fraiche and milk.

This is what is left.

 

And I am awaiting this to emerge from the depths of my overworked oven:

It is teabread, made from a recipe copied from my sister in law when she was living in Tunisia.  I remember copying it out sat in the garden in the sunshine in November, I think.  Anyhoo, she can have a slice with her cuppa tomorrow as she is dropping by for a  pasta and pesto lunch.  Two days of culinary delights eh? 

Tomorrow night I have a thing to go to which is so awful I can't even begin to describe how much I would rather not be going to it at all.  Yes folks, it's another labour of love for my son which I strongly suspect will be bitterly endured by me, and thoroughly enjoyed by him.  No change there then.

I like me potatoes

O-KAY, moooooving on....

This is the evening family repast in four not very good photos:

I have no idea how this will turn out - I panicked at the last minute about flavour, or lack of therein,  and bunged on nutmeg, salt and pepper.  I am also dubious about the health benefits of 600ml of double cream.

I have just put it in the oven and I am blogging it now for hilarity value later when it all goes a bit tits up.  As these things do when I go off piste with my cooking.  I saw this being prepared in the background of a dinner party featured on Food & Drink, and both Oliver and I thought it looked good.  Even I recognise the potential dangers of cooking a meal only briefly seen out of focus on the telly for five seconds, but I have googled the google, and a mish mash of likely recipes led me to this point.  The spinach is my brainwave addition, and caused Oliver much a-wailing, but it will all be alright.  There, there.  Won't it?

Hmmm.

The Emperors New Clothes

I have been reading this with interest over at The Coffee Lady. 

For some time I have become increasingly wound up with blogs becoming less of an interesting and informative read, and more of an exercise in samey-ness with a splash of up-your-own-arse-ness.  In short, there are bloggers who have started to believe their own hype.  And it shows.  In colour.  Lots of skippity colour. 

There is loving stuff, and there is loving stuff sooooooo much that it almost makes it plagiarism for other people to love stuff too. 

I am probably not making sense now.  And I am probably straying from the point the Coffee Lady is making, but I agree in essence with it. 

Certainly there is the very real and valid point of view that if it cheeses you off, look away.  After all, blogs are the personal mouthpiece of the author.  However, the point at which a blog moves from being on your blogroll, and referred to on a daily basis for genuine pleasure to a reader-driven site where the writing style morphs into self-inflated twee prose reflecting the opinions of its obsequious comments is almost tangible.  And depressing. And makes me shout obscenities at my computer screen.

And these bloggers stop replying to comments because there are just too many, and become one of the Untouchables.  Blog to Site in four easy steps.  Sad.

I want to say they are hoisted by their own petard, although this is not quite the right expression, I think you will get my gist.  A victim of one's own success.  And the original purpose of blogging, one assumes, is lost in a sea of self-promotion.

That's what I think.  And if you don't like it, look away.  Ha ha.