Masterchef

Oliver is really interested in food.  He likes watching cookery shows and asks me to buy all sorts of 'interesting' foodstuffs at the supermarket, which he subsequently spits out and refuses to eat.  He knows a fair bit about nutrition and has picked up many (useless) tips from countless episodes of Masterchef.  (Useless largely because the chances of us preparing salsify and needing to immediately keep it in acidulated water or having to remove the beak from a fresh squid seem a little unlikely).   He has wanted to cook a meal for us for some time, and the desire to do so flared up again at the weekend.  In the past, his desire to undergo this mammoth operation has been thwarted by a few things; firstly, he wanted to dream up his own menu.  To be applauded for sure, but financially impractical as he was very extravagant in his food choices, and there was no guarantee I could step in and salvage any potential disasters.  Secondly, the idea of actually writing down any ideas/recipes from books filled him with horror.  Thirdly I would just lose my temper with the whole thing and it would get postponed indefinitely. 

Happily, these things have not put him off completely, and bank holiday Monday saw us tripping off to the local Waitrose (yes, we are posh shoppers on occasion) to purchase ingredients from a real live list drawn up by my little chef. 

 

He chose to do pork with apple and mustard (Fay Ripley) for us, and a chard and ricotta tart (River Cottage) for Mark.  Nightmare.  I tried (without success) to steer him towards the 'ooh, lets have something the three of us can eat so you only need to cook one thing' idea, but he was having none of it.  Hell's teeth.  AND we had to buy chard.  Chard!!!! After years of having the national chard mountain growing in the garden, this year we had - none. 

Although the whole operation called for what felt like hours in the kitchen, (it was a long time), I had to admire his application. 

In the end, the pork was undercooked and had to go back in, so the three of us sat down to enjoy the tart.  It tasted beautiful, but hadn't set enough (despite being in at the right temperature for the right length of time) and was very runny.  This bloody annoys me with cookbooks.  I had suspected the pork wouldn't be done, but put my faith into the recipe anyhow.  Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.  I am really proud of Oliver for the massive efforts he put into this, and it all tasted wonderful.  (We had the pork the next day for lunch in the end - sliced and warmed through in the oven with the appley-mustardy sauce.  Bloody lovely.

I have been doing a spot of baking myself lately, and did the red velvet cupcakes from the HB pixie book.  They were fabuloso, and my confidence with cupcakes is growing daily.  I was therefore delighted with the arrival of these:

A selection from the Book People - this little lot came to just under £30 including delivery, which I think is brilliant.  (sorry Kindle)  Note the HB cake days book.  I urge you to get this one - it is the best cake book I have ever read, and I don't think there is one thing in there I wouldn't want to have a go at.  Yummers. 

And finally. 

There sure are moments when I wish I was my cat.

size does matter...

This is a bit of a time-killing exercise, as Match Of The Day (ruiner of weekend TV viewing) is on and I can't bear to sit in the same room.  I have nothing against football, per se, I just bloody well object to it taking over the TV (and my husband's attention) Sat AND Sun evenings for the next nine months.  I think, actually, I have banged on about this before, as it feels horribly familiar.....

Soooo.... here I am.  Tippety tapping away.  This post title refers to a problem I seem to encounter with ordering things from the Internet and then finding them to be ridiculously smaller than I had pictured in my mind.  I will refer you to a children's bible I once ordered, thinking that it was the same as one my SiL had ordered - a proper book-sized book - only to find that when it came, it was teeny and you needed a bloody magnifying glass to read it, the writing was so small.  SiL found this hilarious, needless to say, and this mirth was further tickled by the arrival a couple of weeks ago of a mini-easel to display my 12"x12" scrapbook layouts.  This easel stands at 4.5" tall and is woefully inadequately proportioned to bear the size and weight of my layouts.  Boy it sure looked bigger in the pictures.  And today, my piece de resistance arrived by post - The Hummingbird Bakery book of cupcakes and muffins.  When it fell out of its cardboard sheath, I threw my head back and howled with laughter.  It is 5"x5" in size.  It is barely thicker than a CD, and my face must have been a picture because I was expecting a library-volume sized tome.  I MUST start reading the dimensions of my purchases.  Goodness knows what will pop through the letterbox next.

See - ordered from Amazon - this doesn't give me the impression of 'miniature'.  I must admit to having not read the description of the book as 'cute, compact gift book', but even then, in my defence I would not have expected a book the size of which would not look out of place on a pixie's mantelpiece now, would I?

Tonight I made pizzas - bases and everything, and happily guzzled three glasses of wine.  I have to work early tomorrow morning and am toying with the idea of going swimming first, but the over-consumption of alcohol may not prove helpful in the plan of dragging myself out of bed and out into ever-cooler morning air.

Today I gave the Daisy ripple blanket to - well, Daisy, actually, for her birthday, and she seemed to really like it.  She said that purple was her favourite colour and when I left, it was draped like a shroud across her father's cocktail cabinet.  (don't ask).

Took Oliver along to golf this morning and was approached by the chap who ran the junior course he attended recently about the idea of Oliver completing a more advanced course with a view to becoming a member and playing next spring.  This is something Mark and I were thinking of anyway, and I am sure that the club is very keen to encourage more juniors along anyhow, but seemed genuinely keen to impress on me how quickly Oliver has made excellent progress in just two weeks and in any case,  it is always very lovely to hear your child described as an 'asset' in any given situation.

Anyhoo, I have a Linwood Barclay to tuck myself up with until an exhausted and too-brief sleep claims me. 

Laters.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside.....

Well, sometimes I do.  The height of summer ain't particularly my fave time of the year to be so, but yesterday saw Oliver and I strolling the 'prom' with the other grockles in Torquay on our way towards this:

It is The Riviera Wheel.  Finished last Friday, it is therefore seemingly a new thing for the town, and we fancied a spin.  Obvs there was no real 'spinning' involved as it moves very slowly, but it feels a lot higher when you're in there.  And less safe than it appears from the ground ha ha.  We got stuck at various heights as it was loading up with passengers and it was not a nice feeling swaying in the breeze suspended many feet above the rest of the world.  Funny tummies all round. 

See that spacky fringe?  Bloody hairdresser.

Anyhoo, the reason we were in Torquay at all was to visit...

Yes!  MQ#4 was underway.  There is a sci-fi exhibition there for another week or so, and I thought it would be a good one for Oliver to see, and another museum under our belts.  It was a nice museum, although we both came away with the impression that whilst there were several floors of 'stuff', there didn't seem to be anything in particular to hone in on.  I'm not dissing it though, it was a great building and well laid out, but I certainly had a preference for the teeny one at Exmouth.  I am looking forward to the smaller ones more now...

And the traffic was shit.

weed indeed

I arrived at the allotment in a state of a great sulk dragging my wellied-heels considerably,  to be confronted with this:

Even I have to admit the Allotment Manager had not exaggerated about the weed situation.  However, standing there open mouthed and thinking dark thoughts didn't get the job done, so I waded in (literally) and cleared some:

Then I rang Mark and whined that it was going to take hours and I didn't want to do it.  (and bloody well didn't intend to either).  We exchanged a few cross words, mostly based around my effort versus paying someone else and washing our hands of it and the fact that I said I would rather be putting this sort of effort into our own garden, not into a patch of land we intended to give up in a month anyway.  He countered this by saying that I wouldn't put that much effort into our garden, which carried a nasty grain of truth in it.  Just to prove that I can act upon good intentions if I so choose,  I came back and de-weeded/cleared one particularly nasty patch lurking at the end of one of the potato patches.  Then I gathered up all the weedy shite from our garden and wheelbarrowed it down to the allotment for disposal in 'our' compost bins.  By this time I was sweating, filthy and seen more insects than you could shake a stick at, and I hate that.  As Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen once said, 'that's the trouble with being outdoors, it's so full of nature.'  ha ha.  Give me my apron and kitchen any day.  Less crawly wildlife to contend with. 

Anyhoo, the upshot of the allotment debacle is that a couple of emails later has negotiated us a month to move our shed, voluntarily giving up said plot and no mention of payment for some other bod to come in and 'do'.  I know it seems terribly cavalier, but I am glad to be rid of it.  We applied for it before we moved here, when we didn't have growing space, and then got offered it just after we got here with it's humongously large garden.  Having waited over a year for it, I was loathe to turn it down, so we took it and spent the first two years of having ridiculous amounts of veg which we couldn't eat/freeze/preserve or give away fast enough to keep up.  And that's the story of the allotment. 

A display of a complete lifecycle on one bush.

And I thought I was confused.

jog on

Indulged in a spot of this lately:

Cannot even begin to think how many calories are in these - there is a blob of nutella nestling inside each cake too..... very, very, super sweet cakes, but have that lovely,  chocolatey-ness that lies thick in the throat, if you know what I mean....  Bit unsure about the turd-like appearance of the icing too, but I'll forgive myself ha ha. 

Went to a massive warehouse-type antique place yesterday in the quest for something pretty (preferably a milk jug as I like the look of them) for my dresser.  I came away with this: 

It was cheap (£3) and I like the shape and the 1940/50's look of it.  I think it is a creamer rather than a milk jug because of it's size.  It's harder to browse for something indefinable that you 'like' rather than having something more specific in mind.  After 3 floors of 'stuff' I felt quite dizzy, and unsure about what I actually did like.  Thankfully I had found my little juggy on the second floor halfway round, or I could have been quite swamped by it all.

Whilst Oliver is at golf today, I must go down to the allotment and do 'something' with it.  I think this will consist of ridding the plot of a covering of bindweed which, the allotment manager tells me, has reached such proportions that if we don't deal with it, a contractor must come in and spray it to prevent the spread of the 'noxious weed'.  He made it sound like Day Of The Triffids.  I am quite tempted by the whole 'getting a contractor in' idea, but Mark says we will get charged for it.  I am still tempted.  Sigh.  I will at least have to GO there and check it out.  Something to look forward to.  NOT.

I just got interrupted by a man delivering tiles.  He couldn't manoeuvre his lorry down our narrow lane so I have just had to go up to the top of the road in my pyjamas, bed hair and scary morning-face,  to move my car for him to leave the tiles in my space.  Hells teeth.  I like to think I'm a modern-day sort of gal but even I draw the line at standing in the street chatting to delivery men in my PJs. 

...and on to Rio.

I feel deeply saddened by the end of the Olympics.  I think  I have matured into them as I really couldn't be doing with them at all in my youth, and my Mum and Dad loved them.  Now I think they are the bees knees and I have raved on about them with Oliver glazing over on a regular basis.

Now I have to wait another four years to watch minority sports with a running commentary on the nuances of each and every rule.  Love it.
It also may have been because I have been hanging around at the Golf Club waiting for Oliver for up to two hours every day and so have been drip-fed the Olympics via big screen.  I have watched open swimming, the triathalon, Tae Kwon Do, rowing, gymnastics, diving, dressage, etc etc none of which I would bother to give the time of day for under normal circumstances, but hey - this is special.

Oliver's golf proved a successful choice of summer entertainment, and his week culminated in him achieving this:

which he is incredibly proud of.  It is for the most improved golfer of the week.  Since he was a complete beginner on Monday, he probably had a better chance than some of the others at this anyhow, as some seem like mini-pros already -  but I am not knocking this - it is a great achievement for him and I am ridiculously pleased for him and proud of him.

What else, hmmm, oh, I had a hideous haircut last week.  The girl who snipped it this time, or Edward Scissorhands as I now like to think of her, was the same one who did it last time, but she managed to hack Oliver's a tad short at the back, which he is none too pleased about and for some reason ballsed up my fringe so I look as if I popped in for a short-back-and-fruit-bowl cut in 1958.  Bloody hell.  I have spent the last five days grasping hold the fringe and dragging it across my forehead to hide the fact that it is waayyyyy too short and makes me look a bit simple.  Quite frankly I felt like demanding £20 off of her at the end for my trouble rather than handing it over as payment for a job done.  Pah.  I have at least another week of fringe-induced trauma ahead of me because of her and her over-eager scissor fingers. 

I swam again this morning and think that at the end of this week, I won't go again until next May, when the pool opens up for the 5 month early morning go-ers stint.  It's a bit tough getting up that early to swim, but it is a lovely feeling afterwards and I really think it is a far better exercise for my aching bones and muscles than anything else.   We'll see in May...

This week Oliver is playing out on the course, which is giving me more free time per day.  I spent yesterday trawling charity shops with my Mum (a much loved hobby) but they seemed full of modern, cheap tat and were quite depressing.  Today I intend to come home via Tesco (which I hate now - think it's gone way downmarket) and cook pretty cupcakes for Oliver as a treat.  And I shall crochet and indulge myself in a little catch up TV.  Oh yes, that's the kind of me -time I like. 

Only one al fresco opportunity last week.

Notice I have changed my customary diet coke for a glass of wine.  ha ha.  It was Friday.  There still is something a bit special about Friday, and the squeeze-yourself-with-joy feeling that Fridays bring.  Hence the wine. 

Laters.

standing up to be counted

I watched a fair bit of the Olympics yesterday,  feeling lifted by the joy of achievement and triumph over adversity and was moved to tears at several points.

Along with the gold medal performance at the dressage (dressage? I can't be doing with horses normally) which made me start snivelling, and the boo bo-ing over tales of the struggles of athletes I have never seen from countries I have never even heard of, there was one story which touched me enormously, and one I want to record here.

In the Mexico Olympics of 1968, the 200 metre medal ceremony attracted massive controversy and outrage because of this:

It is commonly known as the Black Power Salute,  demonstrated by Tommie Smith and John Carlos, signifying support for the human rights movement, notably the struggle of black people for equality.   

This story focuses on Peter Norman, the white guy in the picture.  He was Australian and came second in the race.  Smith and Carlos told Norman before the ceremony what they planned to do, and Norman pledged his support, saying 'I'll stand by you.'  At the ceremony he wore this badge:



which got him in a whole heap of trouble.  Smith and Carlos were banned from the Olympic village and expelled from the Games.  Peter Norman was shunned and ostracised from Australian athletics for the rest of his career, and despite making the qualifying time for the next Olympics, was not selected to represent Australia in Munich.  His silver-medal time at the Mexico Olympics of 20.06 still stands as the Australian record. 

The Sydney Games of 2000 saw him excluded from events completely, but subsequently received an invitiation from the Americans.  I find this gratifying enough, but what moved me to tears was that when Norman died in 2006, both Smith and Carlos were pallbearers at his funeral and both gave eulogies. 

The support offered and the sacrifices made by this white athlete had clearly not been forgotten over time.

Not sure how many more of these sorts of stories I can take before I have an emotional collapse....