Absolut jelly shots and serious hangovers
So there’s nothing nicer than spending a warm, early summer’s evening surrounded by the sound of chinking glasses and laughter. And last night was exactly one of those nights. Loads of people came (Hubby had invited more people when he was down the pub last night) and we had buckets full of ice dotted around to keep all the drinks cold, tons of food (the kebabs went down particularly well) and sweeties galore for the tiddlers. Talking of smalls, I think at one stage we had upwards of seventeen kids between 4 and 15 running around like loonies. Happily, they had loads of space as they had the run of D, Little C and Lou’s garden too, and spent a happy evening playing 40/40 (no idea – a bit like ‘kick the can’), having running gun battles, playing football and generally wallying about. Us adults, meanwhile, nabbed every available chair in the place and parked ourselves outside on the patio where we continued to drink, eat and talk crap long into the night (kept warm by a very knackered, but startlingly hot patio heater we’ve had for years). Several kids stayed over, others eventually collapsed in front of the TV and as people started to drift off, we were eventually left with just D and his sister A (her hubby J had taken little E home). We carried on drinking and talking shite (oh yes, the Morgan’s Spiced came out) well into the wee hours until we decided to finally call it a night (morning?) and leave all the clearing up until we could stand up straight.
The jellies were a huge hit. #2 made little cranberry and raspberry shots, #1 made raspberry and lemonade ones, and I made Absolut Kurant and Blackcurrant ones for the adults. Basically you just make the jelly up as you normally would with half a pint of boiling water, then with the kids ones you just make it up to a pint with cold water and whatever else you fancy, and with the adults you add a big glug of whatever booze takes your fancy. Apparently, once you’ve melted the jelly in the ½ pint of boiling water, you can add up to ¾ of the rest in alcohol (depending on how strong it is) and it will still set, although I didn’t put in more than 4fl oz as I didn’t want them to be too potent and have people falling all over the place.
Anyhoo, I’m off to the carnage that was once my kitchen. Having been the hostess with the mostest, I’m now reverting back to my primary role in household management: chief cook and bottle washer, all with a crashing headache. Happy days.
The Friday Photo: ‘Guard Mama’s booze, good doggy’.
So okay, I know at this exact precise moment it’s still Thursday but I’ll be FAR too busy tomorrow to post anything so you’ll have to indulge me. What’s that you say? Why will I be busy? Well, dear reader, I’m having a PARTAY!!
You see, people, in Ireland you definitely have to go with the flow a bit. A party can often start for the most inane reason. For example, last Friday we popped over to D Next Door’s sister A’s house to pick up #2 who was round there playing with little K, and ended up staggering home some time after 2am, sans child (he stayed over having lost the hope of ever dragging us home somewhere around 11) and last night turned into a bit of a sesh round D’s (Hubby popped in for a chat, cracked a beer with D, then other people popped in and suddenly there was a houseful and, well, it’d be rude to leave), so we ended up staying until 11pm (headaches all round again this morning). And this, apparently, is only the beginning of the summer barbecue season. Now you know why the kids here have such bloody long school holidays, it’s because the parents are planning on being so hungover they can’t possibly do the school run for three whole months.
Anyhoo, so we thought we’d get in there quick and invite all the lovely people we’ve met here for a little gathering: D and the kids, obviously, C and his lovely wife C (the ones with the boat) and D’s sister A and her Hubby J and their kids, and T & L who live next door to A & J, T who fixes the cars and his wife G, and probably a few other stragglers from GAA (that’s Gaelic Football to you foreigners, heh).
We got the usual burgers and sausages, etc, and I thought I’d marinate some chicken in different stuff like honey, mustard and soy, and Thai green curry paste, etc and do kebabs with various dips, plus those minced lamb kebab things and then just round it all off with an enormous plate of pistachio brownies and ice lollies for the kids. Drinks-wise, I thought as well as wine and beer, we could whizz up a big blender-full of Frozen Strawberry Daquiris just to get things going, plus various non-alcoholic fruity smoothies for the children (no, don’t worry, I won’t mix them up and get the kids drunk).
So Hubby and I went up north again today (the £ being terrifically bad against the Euro, it’s cheaper for us to do our shopping there) and came back with a car load of food, beer, wine, champers and….er…jelly. Yes, jelly. Well I’ve always wanted to make jelly shots and… oh dear, this could be another late one.
In which English Towers goes greenish
So aul’ Thrifty‘s working hard towards self sufficiency, and although I’m not in the same league, I’m moving swiftly towards my dream of wandering out of the kitchen into my little kitchen garden and picking me own lettuces for tea (oh and I’m still working on Hubby with regard to the chickens). The trouble is, I’m dithering a bit as to where to put my veggie patch. This being Cavan, the wind fair howls across the garden and our teeny Beech hedge is not much of a windbreak. Being a pampered pet I’m not actually going to do the digging (don’t be silly, lovely D, our landscaper, is going to build me a raised bed complete with railway sleeper edges). But first I have to decide where to put the bloody thing. Here’s the view of the back garden from the kitchen door. As you can see, it’s very slopey. And on this side, it’s rabbit central as it’s surrounded on two sides by the field:
Then this is the view from the kitchen door towards the left, which still backs on to the field, but is next to D’s garden (and I don’t think he’ll hop over the fence in the night and nick my lettuces, although you never know….).
Down by the house it’s a little more sheltered, and getting somewhat overcrowded with all my growbags and stuff all waiting for a home. The two terracotta pots contain mint (far side of the patio doors), basil (dying) and thyme, and the growbags have got aubergine, courgette and rocket seeds. The other pots are fennel (the frondy things), a rhubarb plant (next to the spade), and a flat leafed parsley in the dog bowl (don’t ask).
These are sweet peas for purely aesthetic purposes, but I like them so that’s okay.
And then inside I’ve got two trays of dwarf french bean seedlings, a tray of spring onion seedlings, and another of tomato seedlings, all waiting for me to get a shift on and plant them out. See, you’re impressed aren’t you? They might be manicured, but my fingers are definitely a teeny bit green. Heh.
Reader, I kept him.
So blimey. Can you believe it’s a whole year since we agreed to ‘foster’ Bert while Jen found him a home? I can’t quite remember life before Bert, but I’m sure it was altogether less funny and considerably tidier, but with much more room on the sofa. Ahhh, tell you what, though, I have fond memories of that time: picking up this enormous furry, muddy lump from an outdoor pen at the kennels: ‘flippin’ heck’, me Ma said at the time, ‘are you sure that’s a greyhound? It looks more like a camel’. And then, having been warned by Jen that he was a bit nervous, swiftly deciding that he wasn’t really that nervous when we’d been licked and kissed until all of us were dripping with smelly slobber. Into the bath he went, then, taking the combined efforts of me, me Ma and #1 to heave him in there, where he stood looking very bored as we scrubbed and showered enough fluffy sludge off him to construct a whole new dog. I seem to remember feeling a bit like a giant teddy bear after he proceeded to have a jolly good shake, covering us all in wet fluff, which stuck like glue. I also remember blow-drying him after which time he was so gorgeously soft and fluffy and smelt so good that we all had to have a quick hug, slobber or no.
Before Bert, one could always guarantee one’s shoes were where they’d been left, and not tidied up into a little nest somewhere nice and quiet, and of course solo visits to the loo, in fact, solo visits anywhere in the house are a thing of the past. Still, we’re all used to walking with a waggy, furry growth attached to our legs now and can even negotiate the stairs without too many problems. Visitors still quake at the sight of a large furry torpedo heading in their direction, but we’ve become adept at heading him off before they’re on the receiving end of two enormous paws straight to the chest and a thorough wash to the kisser.
Okay, so he’s a bit gangly, very moth-eaten, slightly bald, has horrendous breath that smells of dead people, sleeps in weird positions with his wedding vegetables (what’s left of them) on show and stands in front of the Wii at the worst possible times (‘Muuuum, Bert ruined our game AGAIN!!!!’), but he’s our moth-eaten, bald, useless, stinky, annoying Bert and strangely, we’re rather fond of him.
In his favour, he’s also disgustingly cute (he currently has his head on my lap, looking lovingly into my eyes whilst simultaneously nudging my elbow – it’s tea time), incredibly cuddly (even now he’s lost his outside-dog kennel fluff) and so darn stubborn (sitting down and refusing to budge when it begins to rain half way along the boat road, and walking in concentric circles when he has to have his coat on), that frankly you can’t help but love him as much as he loves you.
Happy anniversary Bert. Oh, and thanks must obviously go to Jen, for realising that English Towers was definitely the place where he’d be able to spend many more years spreading himself out on the sofa, getting everyone tangled up in the lead because he’s decided to walk backwards, hurling himself down the stairs when we come in, turning round three times before falling off the bed whilst trying to get comfy, watching TV with his head on my shoulder and having to breathe in his evil fumes, and pulling my arm out of its socket while he tries to chase rabbits. You can tear up the foster papers girl. He’s staying.
The Friday Photo #2: ‘fluff my pillows, woman’
Okay, ‘specially for Jennifer, then. Here’s a Bert photo to entertain you until Monday.
The Friday Photo: Lights! Camera! Er… fractions!
So, there was much excitement at the schoool this week. The children were strangely interested in being at school early and, frankly, I didn’t blame them. An enormous film crew descended upon the 200 year old pile, magically taking it back in time to the 1930s. It was really quite bizarre, when picking up your children, to bump into a 1930s schoolgirl, complete with bobbed hair and pinafore dress, or park up next to a beautiful old car on the drive.
The far end of the cricket pitch was a mass of trailers, catering wagons and trucks full of equipment, and the fellas tell me that some of the interior was repainted and altered as well. They’re miffed that it was supposed to be a girl’s boarding school as some of the senior girls got paid (yes! Paid actual money!) to be extras (‘and they got to use the catering wagon’ added #2, huffily). I did, I admit, have a very interesting conversation with one of the make-up ladies (who let me have a look in her see through make-up bag… woohoo!) so I could tell you what film it is that they were shooting, which incredibly famous and rather beautiful actress is starring and who the director is, but sadly I would imagine it’s top secret so I’d have to kill you.
In which I’m attacked by evil hoodies
So I got tagged by Jay over at The Depp Effect to publish a photo of something quirky. It was supposed to be something from my area, but seeing as there’s only trees, fields, cows and wabbits, I couldn’t find anything exciting. Then I was doing the laundry (our tumble dryer’s in the garage), minding my own business whilst doing my bit for the ozone layer (not) when I was divebombed by these two little reprobates who have set up home in the eaves. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
In which I pretend I’m really learned and bookish
So I love it when someone new comments on one of my random ramblings, and then we all trot off to have a read of their blog. My core list of favourite blogs gets bigger all the time. I also love it when I’m reading one of said favourite blogs and there’s one of my little gang of commenters commenting on their blog too! It’s like a big, incestuous (but not in a pervy way), blogging family.
Thus, having arrived over at Parlez Vous Moo in exactly this manner, I discovered that The Nutty One is off on her hols to Kenya, and all her commenters have been recommending reading material. There are some real classics there, such as Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife which gave me goosebumps, classic Bill Bryson, such as The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, and loads of other stuff I’ve never tried. So then I thought, seeing as we’re such a nice, friendly, and ever-expanding group of chumlies, that we should have A BOOK CLUB!
Yep, our very own, grown up, book club. We can all have a waffle about books we’d like to read/books that we’ve heard are good, etc, etc, choose a book, then all bugger off for a month (or however long) to pore over it, then regroup to discuss our findings in a very intellectual and grown up kind of manner. And by that I mean actually go and buy, steal, beg or borrow the book and actually commit to reading it, proper like. So what do you reckon then? Who’s in?
Messing around in boats
So Hubby being a bit of a waterskiing freak, another of our many new friends from the village, the lovely C (yes, another C – so inconvenient that they all have the same initial!) invited us out to one of Cavan’s many beautiful loughs to have a go on his new boat and for Hubby to suss out whether it’ll be suitable for skiing.
Well. The boat was amazing, the sun shone, the lough glistened and glimmered, a bizarre troupe of donkeys came to check out what we were up to… and the most amazing day was had by all. Seriously, dearest reader, I cannot tell you just how beautiful this country is. If you ever get a spare weekend, head up to Cavan. You won’t regret it.
My own personal highlight was laughing until I nearly wet my pants at #2′s grimly determined face as C tried his very best to throw him from the ‘donut’ being towed from the back of the boat. Sadly this shot of #1 on the donut (also bedwettingly hilarious) was taken on Hubby’s mobile as he sat precariously perched on the front of the boat. Apologies for the crap quality.
Oh and skiing is definitely on the cards. Humiliating pictures will no doubt follow.
Spiced Lamb Kebabs
So now our woolly neighbours have gone, I can once again happily eat lamb without each mouthful sticking guiltily in my throat. I got some minced lamb whilst shopping and threw together these little beauties. Even #2 ate them. Miracle.
500g minced lamb
1 teaspoon mustard seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 level teaspoon sea salt
1 or 2 cloves garlic
2 slices bread, whizzed into crumbs
1 egg
So put your lamb mince in a bowl. Grind your spices and salt in a pestle and mortar with the garlic, and add to the lamb along with the egg and breadcrumbs. Squish all together with your hands. There’s lots of lovely squelching about in this recipe – very satisfying. Split roughly into 8 handfuls and squash it onto skewers or those little wooden satay sticks (make sure you soak them first, otherwise they catch on fire). Try to make the lamb like an even sausage around the skewer as they’ll cook better.
Grill until nicely golden brown and cooked through, then serve with minted new potatoes and a nice salad. Or couscous. Ooh, or let the new potatoes go cold and then make potato salad with some mayonnaise, fresh mint and chives…or remove from the kebabs and stuff into pittas with salad.
Ooh, or you could make little teeny balls of mixture, grill them and serve them on cocktail sticks at parties with yoghurt and mint dip… Okay, I’ll stop now.
