So having a friend who owns a greyhound rescue can have its perks: first dibs on any greyhounds you fancy being one of them, but occasionally one has to reciprocate, and on this occasion when the call came in saying ‘there’s a stray greyhound in Trim, can you go and get it?’, I was happy to help.

Happy, that is, until I got there and came face to face with a spindly, scrawny, half bald, severely skinny little scrap, covered in scabs and cuts.  ‘Oh’, said #2, obviously expecting something furrier, happier and altogether sweeter smelling, ‘the poor thing’.  The poor thing wagged its tail feebly and jumped into the back of the car, and off we went with our evil smelling passenger gazing out of the back window.

Once home, we took it easy, giving them a chance to get to know each other with a little walk around the garden. Inside, though, things took an alarming turn, when Thing decided that not only did he quite like Bertie, but that he REALLY liked Bertie.  Bert, although he’s friendly and open-minded, really drew the line at Thing’s amorous advances, and after narrowly avoiding a nasty incident involving Bert’s teeth and Thing’s neck, we had to separate them: Bert sulking on the sofa at the unfairness of it all, and Thing howling a very miserable tune in the kitchen.  I grabbed the pink bat phone:

Me: ‘I need help’

Jen: ‘Oh no, do they not get on?’

Me: ‘Er, it’s not that exactly, it’s just that Thing likes Bertie a bit too much’

Jen: ‘Erm…how do you mean?’

Me: ‘Well, he keeps trying to … er… well, y’know’

Jen (catching on but determined to make me spell it out): ‘No.  What?’

Me: ‘He keeps trying to have his wicked way with Bertie, who is distinctly heterosexual and not at all happy’

Jen: ‘But it’s a boy, isn’t it?’

Me: ‘Yes, he’s certainly got the right equipment, he’s just a bit confused about how he should use it’.

Jen (stifling a full blown attack of the giggles): ‘Good God, I appear to have asked you to pick up Ireland’s first gay greyhound’

Me: ‘Funny.   And Bert’s going to need therapy’.

So anyhoo, Thing’s had a nice bath, a blow-dry (he liked that), antiseptic cream on all his cuts and scrapes, a big dinner and lots of cuddles and is now asleep on the dog bed in front of the fire.  Bert, meanwhile, is watching him warily from his perch on the sofa.  Never mind, Jen’ll be booking him in to have his bits and bobs off and then I’m sure he’ll make someone a lovely pet.  And Bert will be fine, given time.  And a bit of counselling…

Jeez, Bert’s driving us all bonkers.  Don’t get me wrong, we all love him to bits, but his phobias are turning the house into some kind of cotton-wool padded sanatorium, with us all creeping around avoiding anything potentially scary in case we prompt a major attack of gibbering. 

Take balls, for instance (steady).  I mean, there are three men  of various sizes in the house, plus another two next door so football kind of comes with the territory.  But Bert is terrified of footballs - just the sight of one sends him whimpering, back arched and tail between his legs, into his bed where he curls up as small as possible and pretends he’s not there.  And rugby balls are even more scary as their rolling is more unpredictable - they can suddenly veer off and come straight for him.  It’s quite pathetic.  A rare bit of sunshine the other day had to be carefully managed, as he doesn’t really like even being in the back garden when people are kicking a ball about out front.  Poor baby.  We bought him a tiny squeaky football once, but it sent him into such tremors when anyone squeaked it that we had to hide it.  On the day that Gorgeous George came to visit, Bert nearly had a seizure when George found (and loved) the ball, galloping about, throwing it up in the air and fetching it (fetching it!  Can you imagine?  What does George think he is?  A dog?).  This brings me neatly on to dog toys in general.  Any or all of which are enough to send him into some sort of quivering spasm, especially if they… gasp!… roll along the ground.  Then there’s shoes, which, although not particularly frightening, need to be rounded up into little non-threatening piles around the house, just in case they launch a stealthy attack when he’s not looking.

Cutlery is another problem.  Unloading the dishwasher can produce a 45mph exit from the kitchen.  Dare to drop a fork on the floor and the resulting ‘Dancing on Ice’ four-legged skittering would probably earn him a bronze at the next Winter Olympics.

Then there’s frogs: evil, scary, threatening, nasty, frogs.  Oh don’t be fooled, they may look small and innocuous to you, but believe me, Bert knows the truth.  Lower your guard and they’ll go for your throat. 

He also suffers from an intensely strange, greyhoundish fear of approaching small furry animals.  These are not to be confused with retreating or fast-moving small furry animals, which are, of course, meant to be chased and eaten.  Somebody should tell the hares that if they stopped running away and ran straight towards him instead, he’d most likely suffer some sort of fear-induced spontaneous combustion and explode right there on the spot.  I wonder what would happen at the track if the lure was sent towards the dogs, instead of away from it?  They’d probably all keel over.

The little yapper down the road, all 6 and a half inches of him, invokes the kind of wide-eyed abject terror only usually reserved for nail cutting sessions.  Yesterday it even jumped up at his legs.  Bert had to be stopped from actually climbing Hubby’s legs to get away.  And a visit to C yesterday saw Bert shaking like a jelly after Tabby the cat walked in to check him out.  One evil cat-glare was enough to induce at least a 5 on the Richter scale.  What a baby.

So there you have it.  You know I’m always banging on about getting a greyhound, and they really do make lovely pets.  But should you go ahead and make the momentous decision to own one of these beautiful creatures, please try to do it without forks, because they’re dead scary.  Oh, and balls.  Oh, and take a rain check on frogs, too, if you don’t mind.  Ta.

So more congratumalations due today then.  This time to the beautiful, the waggy, the gorgeous, the downright bloody dogtastic Johnny Gatillo, kennelmate (that’s all they’ve got in common, believe me) of our useless but lubly Doofus the Wonderdog, who was voted Irish Sprinter of the Year at Sunday’s National Greyhound Awards.   The boys are huge fans and badger the hell out of the lovely M (lookin’ good in that tux, mate!) every time they visit the kennels until he lets them have a cuddle with their own little furry superstar.  Pork chops all round.

So this started off as a Black Forest Gateau until I realised I had no cherries.  Or any whipping cream.  Or any Kirsch.  Anyhoo, with true birthday bloody-mindedness I set to work making some other sort of cake.  There are plenty of times when my experiments end up in the bin, but seeing as it’s my birthday, I thought I was on a winner as the only one likely to dip out if it was a disaster was me.  The result, as you can see, was rather good.   And I should know, I had three pieces.

6 oz butter

6oz golden caster sugar

3 eggs

5 oz self raising flour

1 oz cocoa powder

1 bar Green & Black’s dark chocolate

Blackberry jam to fill

For the ganache:

1 bar Green & Black’s dark chocolate

1 small tub single cream

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees and grease and line two cake tins.  Melt the bar of chocolate in a bowl over some simmering water.  While you’re waiting, cream the butter and sugar with an electric whisk until really light and fluffy.  Turn the mixer down low and mix in the eggs one at a time (remember if it starts to curdle just bung in a spoonful of flour).  Sieve the flour and cocoa and fold into the mixture.  Then stir in your cooled, melted chocolate (make sure it’s just blood temp).  Divide the mix into the two tins and bake for 15-20 minutes until the middle just springs back when you touch it.  Tip the sponges out onto a rack to cool.

Now melt the other bar of choccy and when cooled again, whisk in enough cream to give a nice, smooth pouring consistency.  Take your first cake, spread thickly with the blackcurrant jam, then take the second cake, smother with the chocolate ganache and splodge onto first cake.  Empty the rest of the ganache over the top, smear it about a bit and decorate garishly with white chocolate buttons.  Eat, whilst still warm, stabbing at any over-eager small children with your fork if they attempt to nick any of your cake.  After all, you’re only 38 once.

PS: Sorry about the cloth, takeaway menu and pair of jeans in the photo.  David Bailey I’m not.

Ooh, I’ve come over all Cliff Richard today.  Scary.  Anyoo, lots of exciting, celebratory-type things happening today.  First off is the exciting news that the widest cow in the world has finally popped and given birth to two of the fluffiest, spindliest, cutest little calves in the whole of Cavan.  Yum.  Oops, I mean ahhhh.

Secondly is the news that my lovely Cousin and sometime commenter, Moon, and his much lovelier new bride, M, have invited us to their blessing (having snuck off in the first instance and done the dirty while nobody was looking).  Congratumalations, you guys.  Enjoy the honeymoon.  I’m off to buy a hat.  Woohoo!

And thirdly is the stunning news that today is my birthday.  Oh yes, I’m a whole 38 today.  I got a beautiful pink watch from my #2 son, along with Patrick Suskind’s ‘Perfume’ that I’ve been after forever, plus a beautiful John Rocha heart necklace from my beloved, and an amazing Japanese Maple for my garden from #1.  I also got a big wad of cash from me Ma (thank you Mumsy!) and a heeeowge bouquet of flowers from Jen, plus another from the Disreputable One, currently living it up and spending my inheritance somewhere warm and sunny.  Lucky me, eh?  Oh and by the way, Dad, thanks for the pornographic birthday card, but unfortunately his spinning willy fell off in the post.  Bet that’s the first time An Post have been blamed for breaking off a pornographic appendage.

Thanks, finally, to my wonderful sister-in-law, C, for my lovely little top and shorts (pictured), which probably sums me up better than she knows.  What a lucky beaver I am, eh?  I’m off to make myself a birthday Black Forest Gateau.  Laters.

Yesterday, then, I had a teensy hangover (thanks Jen), which was surprising really as although we probably drank a couple of bottles, we did it over several hours and with vast, bucket-loads, nay, shed-loads of food.  Still, I woke up a little headachey and decided, in that time-honoured tradition of the hungover who trawl the fridge the morning after the night before, that we should make pancakes.  And furthermore that while I was making pancakes I should eat half a Chocolate Orange egg that Hubby bought me.  The children went off to the GAA pitch with D next door (handy chap that he is) to play in the annual Easter gaelic football competition, and Hubby and I settled in with a cup of tea and the other half of the egg.  Then we decided we needed a bit of fresh air, so we wandered down to watch the matches, taking full advantage of the free tea and biscuits on offer.  On our return, I stuffed down a rather yummy leftover beef, rocket, tomato and mayo sandwich, along with a packet of crisps, then started on Hubby’s Toblerone egg too.  At which point, D arrived for a cup of tea, so I felt obliged to open the other Toblerone bar and share it with him.

For some reason, we didn’t feel like any supper, but then at 9.30 I decided I really needed two rounds of marmite on toast, another cup of tea and a few of the truffles out of the Thorntons egg that Jen bought me.  Honestly.  I feel sick just reading it.

Why is it that I eat like a total gannet after any form of alcohol abuse?  Slightly adding insult to injury, methinks.  Just the one tonight, then, Mrs Wembley.

So yesterday, then.  I knew J and C were coming to lunch so I popped down to the nice butcher’s on Saturday to get an enormous leg of lamb (I appreciate I have plenty next door, but they’re all still attached and somewhat fluffy).  Oh dear.  The horror stories I read in the paper about lamb legs selling for 50 euro a pop due to Easter being so early were neither confirmed nor denied as they were totally sold out.  No amount of eyelash fluttering and shameless flirting could persuade him to produce any contraband, so I had to settle for a nice joint of beef.  I have to say it was a very nice joint of beef (so it should have been for 25 quid), so I went away mildly happy, already dreaming of rubbing it with olive oil and crushed pepper.

I know you probably already know how to cook roast beef, but here’s my version, which I obviously believe to be far superior:

For the beef:

1 enormous half a cow (mine was 4lb!)

Olive oil

Handful of peppercorns, crushed

Sea salt

So first weigh your monster and calculate your cooking time.  I prefer slow-roasting (at about 180 degrees) and none of my family are fond of pink meat, so I opt for well done.  I would say as a general rule that a boneless beef joint would take about 30 mins per pound plus another 30.  If you, unlike me, don’t sacrifice your likes for that of your family and would prefer your meat pink in the middle then omit the extra half hour I suppose.  To double check, stick something metal like a carving fork right into the centre of your beef while you count to ten.  If you can hold the end without giving yourself third degree burns, it’s pretty likely that your beef with have a pink middle. 

So drizzle your baking tray with a little oil, then plonk in your beef joint.  Drizzle over more oil and sprinkle generously with the salt and pepper.  Then just set the timer and forget it.  If, like me, you’ve a pain in the bum friend who’s not particularly keen on big slabs of meat (and cheats at Easter Egg hunting), you’d do well to try this butternut squash recipe, which is dead easy and tastes yum:

1 butternut squash

4 or 5 fat cloves garlic

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

Cut the squash in half lengthways, scoop out the seeds, pop the garlic into the little scooped out bits, and generously drizzle with oil.  Season well, then when your beef is cooked, remove it to rest covered in foil, whack up the oven to 230 degrees, and cook for about 45 minutes.  This is quite handy because it’s about the same time as your Yorkshire puddings and roasties will take (see batter recipe here).

So by this time Jen and C had arrived and Hubby and I had hidden all the eggs, sweeties and stuff around the garden.  C from next door made a guest appearance to start the proceedings off, but because Jen’s such a bloody cheat, she’s already been round the garden for a recce and knew where half the stuff was.  Cue Jen rushing around the garden like the pied piper, followed by a little line of children with rapidly expanding goody bags.  Tsk.  Some people just don’t play fair.  Anyway, after all this rushing around, we were ready for our roast dinner, and finished it off with a cinnamon apple crumble, the recipe for which I will divulge next time I can be arsed.

Oh, and I should also mention that while we were all zonked, groaning and full-up on the sofa, Bert nipped upstairs and helped himself to #2’s goody bag, wrappers and all. 

So we were all in need of a bit of comfort food last night.  And this packet of bloody Carnaroli rice has been sitting in the cupboard glaring at me every time I go in there for a tin of beans.  Me and risotto have a chequered history.  It’s not that I don’t like it, oh no, it’s just that every time I make it, I get that kind of ‘hmmm’ response from my lot that means ‘yeah, it’s okay’, not the more favourable ‘mmmm’ which translates to ‘wow, that was fabulous’.  My best effort was Jamie Oliver’s pea and prawn risotto which is rather nice.

Anyhoo, I was in the mood for a bit of messing in the kitchen (keep it clean, people) and this is the result:

2 pints chicken stock

1 large onion

2 cloves garlic

300g carnaroli or arborio rice

3 or 4 large flat mushrooms

1 pack streaky bacon

2 chicken breasts (free range, natch)

Handful of frozen peas

Parmesan cheese to taste

So first things first, get your stock bubbling on the hob and plop your chicken breasts in to poach.  Get a nice heavy based pan and chuck in a big slice of butter and a glug of olive oil.  Finely chop your onion and garlic and let it soften on a low heat.  Snip up the streaky bacon and add to the pan along with your sliced mushrooms.  Keep it cooking until the mushrooms and onions are starting to look a little golden, then add your rice and stir around.

Now you can start to add ladles of your stock, one at a time, making sure all the liquid is absorbed before adding another.  It takes a while but the stirring is really therapeutic.  When the stock’s nearly gone your chicken breasts should be ready, so chop them up and add them to the risotto as well.  Finally, bung in a final knob of butter, stir it through and leave it to sit for 5 minutes with a lid on, just to get even creamier.  Taste, season, and pile into big bowls to eat in front of the telly.

A little fresh thyme would be lovely with this, but I didn’t have any.  Enjoy!

Bloggery’s a funny ol’ thing you know.  You never quite know who’s who and what’s what.  I can be chatting away to someone and they’ll go ‘oh yes, I read that on your blog’ and I’ll have no idea they even knew I had a blog.  This happened to me with one of #1’s teachers and I had a mild panic as I did a quick mental rewind of all the times I’ve mentioned him and whether it was in a good light or not.  (By the way, if you’re reading, Mr L, he’s an angel, and let’s hope his English is considerably better than his mother’s).  I expect #1 told him about the blog, but my point is that sometimes I probably say too much, complacent under the blanket of anonymity that blogging gives me.  Grandad has some fair points to make about political correctness gone mad, but I’m talking more about my blog giving me the guts to write stuff I might not say out loud.

Today, though, I’ve got stuff to say, and it’s just going to come out because, as 73Man points out, we all blog as our little bit of therapy - a little emotional outlet if you would - a chance to say whatever we like and if people don’t like it, well, poo to them.  There are hundreds of blogs and they can just go and pick another one.

Some scary stuff’s happened recently.  A good friend and colleague of Hubby has been injured in a terrible crash.  He has serious injuries and yesterday was tense as we waited for news.  Hubby seems immune to the fact that he does a very dangerous job (as the cost of his life insurance certainly proves) but I’m all too aware of it.  As he drove off this morning, the little alarm bell that tinkles gently in my head when he’s off to work had turned into a whopping great clanging one.  Eventually it got too much and I sent him a text, which was met with a kind of ’sod off I’m busy’ reply.  The weather’s not great today - Bert and I got practically blown home from our walk today, and I shan’t be happy until he walks back in the door.

So bloggy blankie or no, I’d just like to take this opportunity to thank those people who do dangerous jobs every day so that lazy buggers like me don’t have to, to tell my Hubby I’m as proud as hell, and say to J, Hubby’s mate, get well soon matey, we’re thinking of you.

We’re bumbling round the field yesterday,then, minding our own business (me avoiding the sheep poo and Bertie rootling and tootling about in the hedgerow) when suddenly all hell breaks loose.  I can feel this weird thundering under my feet (oh yes, pink wellies are very sensitive to vibrations) and while I’m still looking around wondering what the hell it is, suddenly from under a bush comes three enormous hares, travelling at about Mach 3.  Now I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a hare up close but they’re really surprisingly large.  And don’t think ‘fluffy bunny’ either - when those yokes are barreling towards you like some furry spitfire, think more like small, slightly buck-toothed rocket-powered kangaroo.

Anyoo, these three bloody monsters shot, Linford Christie-like out from the undergrowth, practically knocking us both over, and pelted off down the hill.  Well, Bertie stood absolutely still while it registered that three potentially tasty furry things had whooshed past him, before turning away from me and accelerating off after them like #2 on a sugar rush.  I think in the split second it took me to register that I was attached to the other end of the lead was the exact moment that he got to the end of it.  Stupidly, seeing as he could potentially transform me into a 45mph human kite, I held on with both hands.  There was a moment of tension when I thought my arms were going to be pulled out of their sockets,  and then wham, his collar tore and he was a furry beige blur in the distance.  Ohhh shit.

Now yes, you’ve guessed it.  With my track record at getting loose animals back, I’d started to panic before I’d even lost sight of him.  We’d walked past the next door field stuffed with tasty spring lambs just a few seconds before - would he remember and double back?  I picked myself up, felt both my arms, and relieved to find them still attached, started trudging in the general direction of the Bert-powered bullet, cheerily calling his name.  I didn’t see any of the chase, or the end result, but knowing how crap Bert was when he was racing, I should imagine the hares ran a fair distance away, then turned back to blow raspberries, do little cartwheels, and generally rub his loser nose in it.

Just when I’d lost hope, I got to the bottom of the last field where the ramshackle old shed is and he was standing, huffing and puffing in the middle, holding one of his back feet up and whining like a girl.  Phew.  As I got closer he looked at me with that ‘ow, I’m dying’ look, reserved entirely for greyhounds, and thankfully allowed me to wind the lead around his neck in a makeshift collar.  Well.  He got no bloody sympathy from me.  Especially after a quick shufty showed that one ruined and very expensive leather collar, a little nick under the paw, and a nasty scraped shin seemed to be the sum total of his injuries, and he’s got a bit of a cough, which I take it is a result of the collar pulling tight just before it snapped.  He also got a rare old earbashing, which lasted all the way home.

Back at home, I was straight on Ebay to order a very, very thick new leather collar and a shorter lead.  Bert stopped limping when he realised it was getting him nowhere and has taken to lying pathetically on the children, extracting every teeny little drop of sympathy they can muster.  Bloody dog.  Bloody hares.  Bloody country living.