ENGLISH MUM: never knowingly undercatered

So I was lying in bed this morning, occupying, along with Hubby, the 9/10 of the bed that wasn’t completely covered in large furry greyhound, reading the latest edition of Eve magazine. Now I’m not going to slag it off because it’s by far my most favourite magazine. I like to keep in touch with what’s going on in the world of womanly periodicals over in Blighty. I quite like Image magazine, a bonus because it’s published here in Ireland and is therefore considerably more relevant, but I don’t understand the pages and pages of pictures of couples at parties holding champagne glasses. Presumably, people in Ireland actually know these people and it’s entertaining or something. To me, it’s a bit like looking through a total stranger’s wedding pictures. Baffling.

Eve, though, is not exempt from magazine weirdness. In their ‘Luxe for Less’ section, they have this thing called ‘Fashion Maths’. For this piece I get the impression that the fashion team all get together and sniggeringly send a minion out to the shops and tell her to buy the most preposterously expensive item of clothing they can possibly find. This week, for example, the dogsbody came back with a ‘Chanel Pussy bow blouse’. A snip at … wait for it … £1,220. They then give you examples of how you can ‘accessorise the look’ for the office, going out, etc and justify this expense by telling you that if you wear it once a week for the next two years, it works out at just £11.73 per wear! A veritable bargain!!

Now I’d like to think that there’s a certain amount of tongue in cheek playfulness about this, but purlease: £1,220 for what is basically a silky shirt with a huge bow at the front, reminiscent of Margot Leadbetter in her heyday? I think not. But then, browsing through the fashion section, I realised that I didn’t like a single thing. It was full of huge, clumpy Nanny McPhee boots (at £500 a pop) and …gulp …capes. Did you know, for example, that this season, ’sumptuous fabrics and rich colours such as jewel-bright satins’ are de rigueur? Oh God. It gets worse, apparently ‘metallics and leopard prints are still storming the catwalk’ too.

Oh, it’s okay, I’m not worried that I’m not particularly fashionable. I’ve got a bit of a thing about nice jeans, but I’m happier in Converse then Choo and purple satin would definitely scare the sheep. Anyway, I’m nodding to the trend with my jewel-bright pink Hunters, and Bertie will be sashaying along in his leopard print collar. Fashion-forward, moi.

I like it here. I like Irish people and I like Ireland. Sure, like every country it has its quirks, its things that are wrong (I don’t know enough about the Irish economy or politics or any of the other serious issues to comment (and I wouldn’t be so forward anyway - I’m more light entertainment - think of me as a kind of Bruce Forsyth of the blogging world) and stuff that’s downright silly (like why do they only sell school clothes in the summer holidays? Don’t Irish children rip their trousers in November?) but I think 73man hit it on the head in his comment about Irish miles versus English miles. The only difference is the perception about why it is important to measure things ‘properly’.

I miss my English mates, but our new Irish friends are kind, thoughtful and full of fun too, and it doesn’t matter that we’ve only known them five minutes. An evening in with them has my sides aching and lasts until 4am. People talk to you at the bar and wave when they pass you in the village, even if you’re not really sure that you actually know them. I was horrified when back in England, to find that I snorted rudely to myself when some snooty woman in the queue in Tesco ignored my cheery attempt at conversation. ‘Pah’. I thought. ‘Stuck up English cow’. And then immediately thought ‘oops’ when I realised what I’d done. But think about it, there’s something typically English about that little scenario. Yes, she probably had a million and one things to do, she was probably planning what precocious little Barolo to have with her Pasta Alfredo or mentally doing spreadsheets, I don’t know. My point (and yes, I’m getting to it) is that we could all do with learning a little from our friends here across the water: she could have taken a couple of minutes out of her rush rush hurry hurry mental gymnastics to wind down with some friendly conversation. I mean, us Brits are probably fairly efficient, but why are we all so far up our own backsides?

And no, I’m not going to turn into one of those irritating twats that have been here for five minutes and then start affecting a mock Irish accent (Lord knows, the one on the Simpsons Movie was bad enough), pretending to understand GAA and over-pronouncing Taoiseach. Apparently there’s too many of us in the country already. Oh, and I also know that I live in a rural area and maybe people aren’t quite so accommodating in Dublin. I have a sneaking suspicion that they are, though. Maybe we could all do with learning a little from each other. All together now: ‘nice to see you, to see you…nice’.

I don’t know if you know about this stuff, but on my little blog ‘dashboard’ whatnot, I can see who’s been sent to my blog by Google, and what they typed into the little search window. Some people were obviously looking for me, others were led to me by such normal requests as ‘chocolate muffins’, ‘Rachel Allen’ (who must be really pissed off that I get all her hits) or ‘Landrover Discovery’, and others are just downright weird. Such is the nature of my ramblings, and obviously the dearth of other information on such things, that by Googling: ‘breasts squashed in sari’, as some weirdo did, you will be directed, disappointingly, to one of my posts on Goa. This is worrying. Other disturbing searches include ‘mother’s silky knickers’ which led the somewhat odd enquirer to a post when I’d mentioned knickers and my mother in the same paragraph (sorry Mum, for dragging you into the mire), and the frankly smutty: ‘Euro mums in bikinis’. The poor sod thought he was going to get saucy pictures of nubile lovelies but no, he got me waffling on about my holiday instead. That’ll teach him.

Someone else was led here after Googling ‘as a Grandparent, do I have rights to see my children’. I don’t know whether they found the answer, but if they’re reading, they’re very welcome to borrow my children in lieu of the ones they’ve obviously mislaid.

Here, then, just for fun, is a top ten of my most favourite Google searches that pointed in my direction. Sometimes I’m not even sure why:

1. ‘How to stop sheep crapping in my garden’ (Google.ie). I love this one. Shut the gate, love!
2. ‘Cross eyed dog’ (Google.com).
3. ‘The best time for picking field mushrooms’ (Google.ie).
4. ‘Sari shop in Dublin’ (Google.ie)
5. ‘How to enlarge my bust’ (Google.ie). Ooh, I know this one: implants? Wonderbra?
6. ‘Massage girls midlands Ireland’ (yahoo.com). Ew.
7. ‘Hot English mums’ (Google.nl). Yes we are rather aren’t we. Ha..
8. ‘Where can I buy marshmallow fluff?’ (Google.ca). At the marshmallow fluff store, duh.
9. ‘Dying without a will’ (Google.co.uk). Don’t, please. It’ll just turn your relatives against each other and make them try to trip each other up just by the edge of the train platform and stuff. Very messy.

And finally, my all time absolute favourite:

10. ‘Irish miles versus English miles’ (Google.ie). Absolute classic. Ah, so that’s why it takes so bloody long to get anywhere here - the miles are longer.

Blimey. I can’t quite believe it but we’ve lived in Ireland for a whole year. Looking back on my blog entries from this time least year, I came across this one and just have to share it with you again. It made me smile and elicited the odd tear too. My Dad’s still as disreputable and me Mam’s still as bonkers (she’s coming next week so I’ll get a slap for that), but we’re definitely home, and that’s worth a bit of reminiscing, I reckon:

“Hmm, unable to muster anything funny this morning. I’m feeling strangely detached from everything and I think it’s probably the dreaded homesickness setting in. For the past three-ish weeks, I’ve been settling in, discovering the area, unpacking those last few boxes, but now this really is it. We live in Ireland. How weird is that?

This feeling has been somewhat exacerbated by the fact that I have received emails from both my parents this morning. This is more of a surprise on the Dad front, as he’s only just got the hang of the internet, previously favouring the stone tablet and chisel, and has typed his email laboriously with one finger. The comment that really made me draw breath was this: ‘I’ve just realised that apart from the times that I’ve been p***ed off with my favourite daughter three weeks is the longest time I’ve gone … without talking to you’. (Have you noticed I edited out the ‘for xxx years’ - well, this is an anonymous blog and no, I’m not touchy about my age!) Now firstly I’d like to point out that I am in fact his only daughter, just in case you thought he had another, less fantastic, one than me. And secondly, he’s probably right although I did actually reply stating that even when he was p***ed off with me he would still be in constant contact, giving me the ‘benefit of his experience’ and generally teaching me the error of my ways.

The children miss their Grandparents too. I’m lucky that I have the kind of family that, although we have our ups and downs, is quite normal (in a dysfunctional kind of way). We all like each other and although we don’t live in each other’s pockets, we’re all quite chummy when we do catch up. My Dad is the worst Grandparent in the world if you’re the parent of those children, but the best Grandparent in the world if you’re the kid. He’s the kind of Grandparent who has them in stitches all the time doing things they really shouldn’t do. One classic example was the cherry-pip-flobbing competition off a bridge over the canal in Copenhagen. This elicited several tut-tuts and shaking of heads from passers by, while my disreputable Dad and cheerfully compliant sons merrily chomped through several bags of cherries and then spat their stones as far as they could towards the other side of the water. Civilised trips out for dinner end up in arm-wrestling competitions; the fierce spinning round of the central serving plate in a posh Chinese restaurant, and, most recently the pouring of soy sauce into Grandad’s coffee. All this naughtiness causes so much disruption in these otherwise sedate places that I’m amazed we never get kicked out, as I sit - steam coming out of my ears - watching the chaos unfolding around me. Yep, we miss Grandad.

My Mum, just to paint you a picture, starts her emails with ‘Yoo hoo!!‘, likes a sherry (well, anything really), sends the boys mad postcards with pink sparkly elephants on, and has a sign on her fridge which says ‘welcome to Grandma’s house, children spoiled while you wait’. I think she has adopted this as her mantra, and nothing - ever- is too much trouble. The boys drive me bonkers when I go there - regressing into lazy toddlers while poor Grandma runs around after them whipping up hot chocolate and producing teeth-aching amounts of confectionary. She laughs at their jokes, runs around like a loony with them on the beach instead of falling asleep like most adults do, and has endless patience for YuGiOh cards or whatever the current fad happens to be. A shopping trip with Grandma always ends with them rushing back in, pink faced with excitement and armed with several carrier bags of booty. ‘Don’t ask for anything…’ I whine desperately as they disappear with her, knowing that they’ll have everything they can have ever wanted by the time they get back!

My Mum is also the biggest hoarder in the world. It’s a family joke that she can’t throw anything away, but if you need something - anything! - my Mum will have one somewhere: paperclip? Yep; duct tape? Second drawer down on the left; fake fur for a costume in the school play? ‘ooh yes, dear - bound to’. We did a boot sale a while back, and all the useless crap that she’s hoarded over the years netted her the largest amount of money I’ve ever seen anyone make from a boot sale - and we still came back with a full car! Still, this also makes her an excellent shopping companion (’ooh, I think we’d better have one of those, don’t you?’). She’s coming over next week on the plane, and true to form has already had a rummage for the occasion: ‘I’ve got my see-through bag ready - I know you all laugh at me for hoarding things, but this time sunshine, I’ve got a lovely sturdy bag that had #2’s new jamas in I think - just the job, so eat your words’. I will, Mum, I will!

My Mum’s cooking is the stuff of legend, each meal having been carefully planned to make sure that it will contain at least one thing that everybody likes. Therefore an average Sunday dinner could quite likely include: roast chicken, sausages, stuffing balls, roast potato, mashed potato, peas, carrots, broccoli, onion rings, baked beans and Yorkshire puddings, and will quite likely be followed by treacle pudding/ice cream/yoghurt/custard/cream (delete as appropriate). ‘Don’t fancy that love? What can I get you then?’ I definitely inherited the ‘make a huge mess and use every pan and piece of crockery in the entire kitchen’ style of cooking from her. I think it’s a nurturing thing. Or maybe we’re just untidy.

She’s also an Olympic medallist babysitter, having had all five of her youngest Grandchildren overnight on many an occasion when her badly organised offspring have all gone out on the same night without consulting each other. I have to say I’m probably the worst culprit on the babysitting front, so she has considerably more free weekends than she ever used to. Mind you, she does have the mental, Baileys-drinking dog to look after still, who will presumably have to go cold turkey into an alcohol-free kennel for the length of her visit. We’ll certainly be doing some alcohol consumption while Mum’s visiting - she’s an excellent drinking buddy (we share a Pinot Grigio gene) so roll on next week I say. This has cheered me up no end.”

Happy days…

So you know my sneakiness knows no bounds, but while #2 continues to refuse everything healthy apart from carrot sticks, frozen peas and the odd apple I need to keep one step ahead. Breakfast is a particular problem, as he hates milk and smoothies make him gag (we made raspberry and mango ones yesterday and they were absolutely gorgeous - he tried a sip but no, same result: think Dean Gaffney on ‘I’m a Celebrity…’). Tea is slightly easier, I made spaghetti the other day and used the same tomato sauce I make for pizza and he did eat that, but grudgingly. So in order to stave off rickets or mange or whatever it is malnourished children get, I figured even a little healthy stuff is good, even if it’s disguised with chocolate, and these little babies even surprised me.

8 oz plain flour
1 oz dark cocoa powder (I used Green & Blacks)
1 tablespoon baking powder
Pinch of salt
6 oz brown sugar
6 fl oz milk
1 egg, beaten
4 oz butter, melted
Large handful dates, stoned
4 oz dark chocolate, chopped

So, as usual with the muffins, sieve your flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt, then add the sugar. The darker the sugar the more toffee-ish the end result. Now here’s the sneaky bit. Take a big handful of the dates, and whiz them in the blender with the milk until they’re unrecognisable. Then melt your butter in a jug in the microwave, mix in the date/milk mixture and the beaten egg and stir into the dry stuff. Remember, the less you mix, the lighter the result. Finally, bung in the chopped chocolate. A couple of ounces of walnuts would be a good addition here, too. Give them a hint of a stir to combine, then divide into 12 muffin cases. I found that you get a large serving spoonful in each one.

Bake for about 25 minutes at 200 degrees, then serve warm, explaining that the little glistening golden pieces in the muffin are toffee (they do taste remarkably toffee-like, well, that’s what you use to make sticky toffee pudding, right?). Oh and remember, lying in a maternal, nutritionally responsible way isn’t really lying at all.

Having just driven an hour to the inordinately large shopping centre only to find queues of cars even to get into the car park (it’s bank holiday here) whilst simultaneously fighting the urge to open the window and shout ‘get out of the feckin’ way, I only want to go to the bloody cinema!!’ and then having had to run through torrential rain from the farthest space possible from said shopping centre, and then having sat through The Simpson’s Movie (don’t ask) in my sopping wet clothes and then having driven an hour back too, I would, with your permission, like to have a small mental breakdown in the shape of a little school holiday prayer:

Dear God… oh, hang on, I’m not sure I believe in God. Who else will answer the prayers of a non-believer with highlights and a bit of a thing for shoes? Oh I know…

Dear Victoria Beckham

It’s the sixth week of the holidays, Vic, just another five to go.
I’ve smiled and played and entertained, my reserves are getting low
I’ve played football in the garden, always the goalie or ref,
Watched The Suite Life of Zac and Cody and Kerrang ’til I’ve gone deaf
I’ve listened to endless versions of ‘Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay’
And I’ve always clapped and sung along in an appreciative way
So PLEASE could I go to a really nice spa, have my roots done (they’re looking a sight),
Have a facial, a manicure, massage and swim and then somewhere to go for a night?
A party’d be great, (hell, you’re well connected - somewhere glitzy and glamorous, no offer rejected)
Or dinner a deux, just me and the Hubby
With Moet or Lanson, or anything bubbly
I’m not one for moaning, I try and stay chipper
But what I would give for one night and a sitter
I’d really be grateful, ecstatic no less
Oh and Posh, could you manage to buy me this dress?

Last night, I was just closing the blinds after putting the smalls to bed, when something caught my eye out of one of the front windows. On closer inspection it turned out to be the teeniest tiniest little baby hare, only just the size of two fists, lolloping around with ridiculously enormous back legs and seemingly lost. Whether this was his first excursion without Mum and Dad or whether he really was lost (or worst, orphaned), we realised we could do little to help the little scrap, but watched out the window as he nibbled at the grass and weeds (er yes, must sort that out) and ambled aimlessly about.

This lovely country picture was ruined, however, when big Bert wandered over to see what all the fuss was about and caught sight of him through the window. He proceeded to get completely overexcited, howling, whining and jumping up and down in a manner totally unbecoming to a greyhound deemed to be a ‘non chaser’. At one stage, he hurled himself from the top of the sofa, throwing himself dramatically against the window and was then banished to the kitchen by a very cross Hubby for fear of the furry pillock actually doing himself some damage.

Well, this morning the hare has disappeared but Bertie, undeterred, has taken it upon himself to mount ‘harewatch’ and is stationed as I write by the hall window, just in case the tasty morsel comes back again. As Hubby pointed out, there’s something odd about a dog that obsesses over everything from this little scrap of fluff to the sheep in the field, but is completely and utterly petrified of next door’s terrier.

By the way, I’ve had to Photoshop this photo to death as not only was it dark and drizzly, but our subject was only knee high to a grasshopper (as you can see by the seemingly enormous thistle next to him). I know it’s un-country-like and sentimental, but I kind of hope he found his way home.

I mean, blimey, what a disgusting, unwashed, greasy, spotty waste of skin that bloke is. Thank God Kate Moss has seen sense. And have you seen his fingernails? Ew.

(By the way, for these and other equally awesome t-shirts, visit shotdeadinthehead.com)

Fellow blogger Isitjustme did a fantastic cheese on toast recipe using Edam, spring onions and Worcestershire sauce. We got chatting about Welsh Rarebit and I’ve been doing some research. Blimey, there are some seriously strange versions out there. One of my recipe books starts it by saying ‘reduce 4 tbsp Guinness by half, add 5 tbsp double cream and reduce by two thirds’. I don’t know what you do next because that load of faffing was enough to make me close the book.

Generally all of them seem to contain some form of ale, which is a problem as there are no Real Ale drinkers in our house. Hubby likes the occasional Guinness but frankly, it’s not particularly kid-friendly. So here goes with our version:

Large knob of butter about 1 oz)
¼ pt milk
5 oz mature Wexford cheddar
1 tbsp flour
½ tsp mustard
Couple of chopped spring onions
4 thick slices of bread

So melt together the butter, milk and cubed cheddar. It goes all weird and separated but don’t worry. Add the flour and carry on heating and stirring until you get a lovely thick creamy mixture. Take it off the heat now and toast your slices of bread on one side.

So, turn over your toast and at this stage you can either add the spring onions and mustard (steady on the mustard - #1 went a bit mad and it was a tad zingy), or leave it plain. Either way, spoon onto your bread, grilling until golden and bubbly.

This was an absolute revelation. Even the Fussy King of Fussiness, #2, grudgingly admitted that his plain version was ‘okay’. High praise indeed.

Edited to read: As an afterthought, this mixture would be fantastic poured over steamed broccoli or cauliflower and grilled. Or what about in one of those huge great field mushrooms? Yum.

Ah, don’t you just love Amazon? At any given time there’s usually a ton of books in my wishlist just waiting to be ordered. There seems to be a glut of fab new cookery publications at the moment and, in typical Veruca Salt fashion (altogether now: ‘don’t care how, I want it now!’), I want ALL of them. In fact, yesterday I succumbed and ordered Rachel’s Favourite Food at Home, which for some reason I never got, and also pre-ordered Rachel’s Diary for 2008 and her new book, Rachel’s Food For Living. So here, for your delectation, is my current top ten most wanted, along with my random reasons for why:

1. Rachel’s Food for Living (not yet published). Ah, lovely Rach. Accessibly Irish cookery at its finest.

2. Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British At Table by Nigel Slater (not yet published). I love Nige. If you haven’t done so you must read his ‘Toast’. Amazing.

3. Nigella Express by Nigella Lawson (not yet published). Still the Queen of the kitchen, and still my favourite - I can’t wait for this.

4. Rick Stein’s Mediterranean Escapes (out today!). Funny thing about Rick, I don’t tend to actually cook many of his recipes but I love his writing.

5. Angela Hartnett’s Cucina: Three Generations of Italian Family Cooking (out now). Angela is, undoubtedly, the only good thing associated with that aggressive tosspot, Gordon bloody Ramsay (yes, he can cook, but why swear and intimidate too?)

6. Made in Italy: Food and Stories by Giorgio Locatelli. Remember that fantastic series he did with his mate Tony Allen? Bloke cookery at its best.

7. Jamie at Home: Cook Your Way to the Good Life by Jamie Oliver (not yet published). Jamie is still the best thing that ever happened to British cooking - apart from bringing the word ‘pukka’ into the vocabulary obviously.

8. Holiday by Bill Granger (not yet published). Oh, the sunny Australian lifestyle, the fresh ingredients, and the cheeky blond surfer-type good looks…

9. Indian Food Made Easy by Anjum Anand. Following on from her fantastic TV series - did you see how easy it was to make Naan bread? I was riveted.

10. Fabulous Fanny Cradock: TV’s Outrageous Queen of Cuisine by Clive Ellis (not yet published). The original TV chef: ballgowns and weird things in aspic. Magic.