In which the YTPR comes to tea and talks me into being sociable
I am miserable.
I am also baking.
This is a bad mixture. At the best of times, I am the most spectacularly messy baker in the history of messy baking so I’m crashing stuff around, I have flour on my nose, every surface in the kitchen is covered in packets, bowls, utensils, half-chopped almonds and blobs of cookie dough… the mixer is going full pelt…
The doorbell rings and I yell at #2 to get the door.
It’s the YTPR, Craig. He obviously has the same amazing ability as Mr Lovely for sniffing out baking the moment it goes into the oven.
‘Hello!’, says the Rev, ‘I’m stalking you’.
‘Come in’, says I, ‘…and two emails and one blog comment don’t technically count as stalking. Cup of tea?’
‘Oh go on, then’, he says, ‘ooh, are you baking?’
We chat and drink tea as I continue to hurl things into the Very Special Anniversary KitchenAid. He threatens to tell Jen that I moaned that the whisk doesn’t get right to the edges.
He’s noticed, via my blog posts (that’s the way my life works) that I seem a bit down. We chat some more. He mentions that several of his female parisioners get together on a Tuesday for a few nibbles and a chat – nothing heavy or religious, just a bit of mutual support and a few cookies…
‘Whoah…’
[Cue sound of needle screeching across record]
‘I’m not very good at socialising’, says I. It’s true. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, really, as I’m quite friendly – but there’s something about socialising that scares the living crap out of me. I envisage a group of women all chatting and having fun. I walk in, and it goes all quiet like that scene in the pub in American Werewolf. I then continue to compound my awkward situation by uttering a string of increasingly absurd things. Eventually, they all throw their cookies at me and leave. Stupid, I know, but I can’t help it.
He reassures me that they’re all really friendly. His wife goes (I like his wife). One lady is a real foodie and does catering and makes chutneys and stuff…
‘What, like chutneys and chilli jam and stuff?’
‘Yeah, stuff like that’
‘Okay then, I’ll think about it. Biscuit?’
‘Oh go on, then.’
Reader, I married him.
So finally, the weekend of our wedding arrived. Through the last year of planning and plotting, I couldn’t have hoped for a more perfect time. We’ve mulled and reminisced and remembered and honestly, there wasn’t a single thing that didn’t go perfectly.
Here, then, for your viewing pleasure, are my top ten moments from the weekend:
- Friday evening. The arrival of a whole bunch of our friends and family from the UK who crowded into our house to eat, drink, catch up and basically be very silly. My two lovely mates from England, Clare and Rebecca with their other halves, along with my Ma, my big bruv, IJ the Cocktail King and his family, and Hubby’s family (who had to go and find a pub to have something to eat when the food ran out, bless ‘em), and the wonderful Moon (Usher/Driver/Photographer extraordinaire) made me laugh until I nearly died.
- THAT dance (email me if you want a link to the You Tube video). I did wonder, as I was waiting outside the church for my big entrance, whether I had, in fact, turned completely mental. There I was, a 39 year old Mum of two, dressed in sparkly lilac and tulle, standing waiting to dance down the aisle in front of my nearest and dearest and the (soon to be very bemused) locals. Luckily, it went down a storm.
- Craig’s amazing service. The wonderful Rambling Rural Rector did us proud. He just perfectly understood that we wanted a celebration of everything we hold dear: family, friends and fun. He pitched his address just right, making everyone laugh (and cry), and quoting from bits and pieces of my blog posts, which made everything so personal. Just bloody fabulous.
- The reception. Wonderful Laura from the Oldcastle House Hotel needs a medal. The girl has obviously had herself cloned, because everywhere we looked, she was there: a calm, smiling presence, topping up champagne glasses, organising every little detail and just making everything perfect. Christopher, the Head Chef, did us proud. The spread that he put on was nothing short of breathtaking. The seafood was utterly amazing (the salmon and the little crab timbale thingies were to DIE for!) and he even surprised some of the fussier kids with chicken and chips. I can’t fault the hotel in any way at all. If you get the chance, go there. You won’t be sorry. Even though we’re probably the first couple ever to request two extra beds in the honeymoon suite, it was absolutely magical – champagne on ice, chocolates, rose petals sprinkled all around… when we finally landed there at ridiculous o’clock in the morning, I could have cried, it was all just so perfect.
- The band. Eoghan and Amanda and their gang were just fantastic. From traditional Irish jigs and reels (which got us all up and jumping) to a heart-stopping version of the Cranberries’ ‘Linger’ for our first dance, they were amazing from start to finish. The boys and their mates danced and danced (and lasted right til the end!). The band were also, incidentally, still on the dance floor at 2am when Hubby and I finally gave up and crawled to bed. Worth every penny.
- Ali dumping me on my arse on the dancefloor. My mental brother whizzed me around so hard that I managed to step on my dress and fall over. Well, it gave everyone a laugh.
- Seán singing Raglan Road. One of the locals, Seán, took everyone by surprise by getting up and singing a traditional Irish song. His voice was stunning, the band knew exactly how to support him, and everyone had goosebumps. It was the most amazing moment and I’ll treasure the memory forever.
- The cake. Oh. My. God. The cake was fabulous. Sadly, I’ve only got one very wobbly pic of it, but when I’ve got more I’ll post them here. Poor Jen got to bed at something like 6am after working on it all night. Not only was it beautiful, it was yummy too. The zingy lime filling had everyone talking.
- The craic. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever laughed (or cried) so much. Moon, Mad Uncle Ali, Clare’s Hubby R and my brother IJ were on fine form and we just spent the whole day with tears pouring down our cheeks. The locals were just amazing, welcoming all our family and friends and showing them just how hospitable Irish people are. At one stage, I looked up to see Galway C whizzing my Ma around on the dance floor, and Seán dancing with Hubby’s Ma. We really are lucky to have such lovely neighbours.
- The comedown. By the early hours there was only Clare and her hubby, The Lovelies, Moon and the band left with us. We had the last half hour on the dance floor by ourselves and it really was one of the nicest bits of the evening – winding down, dancing and laughing.
There’s so many people to thank I don’t even know where to start, but I’ll have a go:
To our wonderful, generous neighbours, for being open minded and accepting of our slighly left-of-centre church service, and for welcoming our family and friends in your inimitable fashion.
To our beautiful bridesmaids, for looking so gorgeous and doing us proud with the dancing thing!
To our Mums, I think every time I turned round my Mum was cleaning up again.
To my Disreputable Dad (who kept his speech clean as promised). Well done, Dad!
To the Lovelies, Clare and Rebecca and D-next-door for being the bestest friends ever, we love you x
To Moon, who took on about ten roles and performed them all with a stream of dry one-liners that had us all in stitches. You’re the best x
To Jenny my hairdresser for our fabulous ‘up-dos’ and Mary the superflorist for listening to all my demands and providing exactly what we wanted.
To Jen for our amazing cake (Mad Uncle A completely fell in love with her too – he emailed me earlier and asked if I thought she might marry him. I think C might possibly have a few words to say about that)
To Laura at the Oldcastle House Hotel (thanks for the Moet too!) and Christopher the chef, plus their amazing team
To Craig, our Rambling Rural Rector, the kindest, gentlest, most generous man, for accepting us as we are and making our celebration so special. No words will ever be enough to let you know just how grateful we are for making our day so perfect and for opening up your heart (and your church!), for suggesting the big entrance and ‘going with the flow’! x
.. and finally to my beautiful boys who looked so handsome, were such amazing hosts and behaved so amazingly well the whole day and to my wonderful Husband. I’d do it all again tomorrow. I love you guys xx
There are more photos to come, but for now I’ll leave you with this. I love this pic. The beautiful Little Lovely when she finally collapsed, bolt upright, in a chair. Isn’t she gorgeous?
I’d like to thank winner of the 3.55 at Fairyhouse…
So yesterday saw both me and Jen setting out on epic cross-Ireland journeys to meet somewhere in the middle (bad planning moving so far away from each other) at a hotel where we sat, gossiped, giggled – no, hang on, there was something else – oh yes, and rolled 85 Order of Service sheets into scrolls and tied them with 85 little bows of ‘To have and to hold’ ribbon from the luscious Cox & Cox.
Before I left, Jen produced a heeowge box (she’s only teeny and it was nearly as big as her) which she said was our wedding present and I was strictly instructed to open it as soon as I got home. Apparently, she said, it wasn’t exactly perfect and she was a bit disappointed, but still, it was a nice present anyway. Even after pointing out that we weren’t strictly getting married (‘okay, call it an anniversary present then’), I was deeply suspicious as Madame J was somewhat squeaky and excited about this present. I actually suspected it might be a chicken. A heavy chicken, granted… maybe a chicken and a couple of bricks.
Well, dearest reader, the journey home seemed to take the longest time and finally I pulled back up at English Towers where I was greeted by two small boys (and one large one) who totally ignored me and made a beeline for the pressie. ‘What is it?! Open it! Open it!’ So with the chicken thing still in my mind I made them open it in the kitchen and I think I’m quite within my rights here to write OMG. A KitchenAid! A bloody KitchenAid!!!
Apparently this incredibly generous present was somewhat attributable to the racing prowess of two horses that Jen’s other half C bet on. So thanks go not only to Jen and the lovely, adorable C (who chose the colour – I love it!) but to Mark Anthony and Swift View for coming in first. I love you guys horses.
‘So hang on’, says #1, ‘last week on your blog you said that you wished somebody would give you a KitchenAid and here you are unwrapping one’. ‘Erm…yes, I suppose you could say that’, says I. ‘Right then’, says #1, ‘I want you to put on your blog that I want a 50″ wide screen TV, online gaming and the new Call of Duty 6′.
‘Done’, says I, ‘but don’t hold your breath’.
Admitting defeat
So yes, I suppose I went into it with the best intentions: a puppy! A playmate for Bert! (who must surely be lonely seeing as he’s the only dog in the house?). A fun, diversionary interest for the boys during the holidays! Another little addition to the family! Even, it has to be said, to save poor Jen from a four hour round trip across Ireland to drop her at the kennels. Hmm. Cue sound of needle scratching across record.
Bert hated the puppy, hated it with all his marrow, all his being. He took, as you know, to sleeping upstairs, having to be persuaded to come down with the use of the lead (lies! All lies!), growled and snarled (and in one particularly terrifying encounter, snapped at her little head) when she climbed all over him, went on a week-long hunger strike and (what hurts the most – to quote that one from Cascada with the funny black and blonde stripey hair) withdrew all my cuddling and slobbery kiss privileges. Not one single happy greeting, (not even when Hubby arrived home from work – usually the scene of delirious wagging and face slurping), not one airborne greyhound crashing onto the bed as soon as he heard us wake up, not one sleepy, after-dinner cuddle: his nose stuffed lovingly into my armpit, came our way. Gosh, dearest reader, life is hard.
So luckily, seeing as it was only a foster arrangement, little Taz (or Flea or Maudie or whatever) was able to be returned to Jen to be put into her kennels as originally planned (where, it seems, they’ll be able to find her a little puppy playmate or seven); be dumped from our little family unit like a hot potato if you would. But this begs the question: what would have happened had we actually bought her – permanently – into our family? I suppose we would have had to persevere with an over-emotional Bert skulking upstairs on the bed, closed doors, segregated mealtimes and muzzled introductions. Would Bert have starved himself to death? Who knows, but to inflict such misery on my beloved? I couldn’t do it.
Happily, she’s bound to be adopted quickly – puppies not being the most difficult of ‘retirees’ to rehome. She’s a good girl (she learnt to use a little patch of newspaper in the kitchen during that first week instead of random floor peeing), didn’t chew (well, only children and they don’t count) and didn’t cry at night. What it has done is cause Jen just as much driving: two trips to meet me at Maynooth rather than one huge trip to the kennels, and probably even more hassle (fevered, desperate telephone calls being only the start of it). And for that, Jen, I’m truly sorry.
#2 and I returned from our trip to meet Jen and C to find an ecstatic Bert waiting deliriously at the door, tail going like the blade of a helicopter, jumping and leaping, delighted to see us. He scoffed down a huge dish of food (it’s always best on Sundays – leftover roast dinner!) and spent the remainder of the evening laid across our laps ‘en famille’ happily snoring and drooling as we watched Top Gear. For Bert, life is sweet. And for me? Well, I’m disappointed, but Bert’s family, and you know what they say: family comes first.
In which Jen and I are the oldest rockers in town
So yesterday, then. Early in the year, Lubly Auntie Jen had purchased Linkin Park tickets for the RDS in Dublin. Not exactly enamoured with the idea, but swept away by Madam’s enthusiasm (railroaded, moi?) and wishing to protect our offspring, we naturally had to go with them. Queue several months of worry, planning and plotting and plenty of ‘ooh, only [insert timescale here] to go’.
Yesterday dawned hideously rainy and windy (sign of things to come, perchance?) and I managed to borrow D-from-next-door’s sat nav (‘It’s completely foolproof, honest’ *worrying pause* ‘er…I’m sure you’ll be fine’). To be honest, I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse, but actually it wasn’t too bad. There was plenty of girly squealing when we got into the centre of Dublin:
‘Look, Mum, I can see the Liffey!’
‘Don’t talk to me, I’m concentrating! Arrrrggghhh!’
and Mrs Tomtom-sat-nav-woman was blasting ‘filter left here’ then ‘prepare to turn right here’ instructions at me, but we made it in one piece to the parking area. Phew.
A rather long queue in the rain followed, but Jen and I rather enjoyed the people watching (‘tartan leggings with those thighs? Uh uh’). #2 was my biggest worry, seeming rather teeny for an event populated by a scarily large amount of mohicans and piercings, but most were very friendly. We eventually got in, and after the warm-up acts, one of which, Coheed and Cambria, was quite good, although not really my cup of cha, and one of which, Queens of the Stone Age, the sound seemed very poorly engineered and we could hardly make out what the poor guy was singing. We could certainly feel the baseline, though, which was a big thump-thump-thump in our chests.
Anyhoo, finally Linkin Park came on, the crowd went wild, and we actually got into it a little bit. Jen and I took turns to have #2 on our backs (needing traction this morning, though) and I even recognised a couple of songs. The second half of their set was by far the best. By that time we’d moved to a less crowded area to the side (it wasn’t actually that packed), so we could all see the stage and the big screens well, and more recognisable songs came on. We were even taken by a small, far too ancient urge to dance about a bit. Shocking.
Gripes: mainly the fact that alcohol is served and several silly arses seem to want to pay extortionate amounts for a ticket, then spend the concert completely incoherent, staggering annoyingly around being a nuisance. Also that people were allowed to smoke. Not only is it bloody annoying to be inhaling someone’s icky smoke, but frankly, dancing with a lit cigarette is asking to take someone’s eye out (oh, hark at me, I’m turning into my mother).
Highlights: ‘What I’ve Done’, an awesome track; watching the kids dancing around and singing all the words until they were hoarse.
Biggest bummer: having to drive all the way home and not getting back until 1am as Mrs Tomtom decided to drive us all round County Meath by the scenic route.
Chances of us ever doing it again: slim to zero, but hey, me sprogs deserved a treat. That’s not to say that if I could choose the concert I wouldn’t go… who would you go and see live??
Roast beef with garlic roasted butternut squash
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.
Death by strawberry
So J, C and little C finally came up for their long-awaited visit. Hubby and I made a special trip to Flood’s the butchers in Oldcastle to get a joint of their fantastic beef. It’s a very busy place which is always a good sign in my book, and they have all the details about where their meet comes from (even the abbatoir if you’re that interested) up on a blackboard in the shop. The chap brought out a whole bloody great wodge of cow so we could choose a nice cut for our roast dinner. Small distractions like me dropping the entire tray of Yorkshire puddings mid-pour, and leaving the potatoes so long that they turned into mash and I had to do some more for the roasties did nothing to dampen our spirits. J & C came armed with so many pressies you could hardly see J for the piles of boxes. I got the most AMAZING Le Creuset bean pot in the same blue as my Denby Jetty that I shall be salivating over for years to come (Hubby and C just didn’t get it).
Bertie went mental as soon as he saw C, his favourite person in the whole world. A quick check-up indicated that we’re doing well – lovely coat, just the right weight, but claws a bit too long (uh oh, I hate doing those), and Bert even got to show J & C his favourite route past the cows and sheep down the boat road. He was a happy boy. Later, when C was lying on the sofa, Bertie gingerly climbed up on top of C and perched, happily if a little guiltily, until told to get down. It’s love, pure and simple.
Later we made cocktails, which descended into throwing everything you could possibly imagine into the blender and seeing what the result was. J’s masterpiece was this, a slightly spicy strawberry number that, quite frankly, will blow your hat off. Woohoo!
Death By Strawberry
Tin of strawberries
Morgan’s Spiced Rum
Absolut Kurant
Lime juice
So add a few spoonfuls of the tinned strawberries, along with a splosh of juice. Add a shot glass full of Morgan’s and another of Absolut. Squeeze in the juice of half a lime and a handful of ice. Blend until smooth. Drink until giggly.
Permission to shout ‘OHMYGOD!’ and Yorkshire Puddings
Oh we had such a lovely day yesterday. Jen and Big C came up with little C (not to be confused with little C next door – same name, funnily enough). I did a roast beef joint of epic proportions, roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, plus enough vegetables and gravy to feed a small army, followed by the old faithful chocolate brownies, which we had, naturally, with lashings of cream. We then retired to sit in front of the fire, drink wine and talk trash for hours. They’re a great couple as Hubby gets on well with C, who has the same razor wit and makes us all howl. Bliss.
J gave me a beautiful Prada handbag charm that she bought me from Milan, complete with Prada box and Prada ribbon (!!) eliciting an ‘OHMYGOD!’ that had the men chuckling in that benevolent but slightly patronising ‘oh, women are so silly’ way that other halves tend to have. Both, apparently, know when we’re on the phone to the other as the air is peppered with ‘OHMYGOD’ and ‘NO!’ leading them to think that some terrible disaster has ensued. Little do they know these are usually responses to the discovery of a perfect pair of shoes (J had the most fabulous mossy green ones with a little strap across the ankle yesterday), or the reaction to a lovely snippet of gossip. Men. They really have no clue.
Anyhoo, here’s my recipe for the perfect Yorkshire Puddings which I’m not sure I’ve written up before. I’m trying to gather up all the recipes onto one page but still struggling slightly with links and all that other web-bloggery stuff that makes no sense to me. Blonde, see?
The best, fluffiest Yorkshire Puddings ever
4 oz plain flour
2 eggs
10 fl oz milk
Large knob of butter
Vegetable oil
So whack your oven on nice and hot: say 230 degrees which is gas…er…whatever. I appreciate it’ll be slightly less if your roast is already in there, but it doesn’t seem to matter). Grab your muffin tray (or you can get fabulous ones with bigger sized holes especially for Yorkshires) and dollop a glug of oil into each hole (I’m quite generous here because I think it makes for nice, crispy puddings, but you can just put in a teaspoon if you like). Get the tray into the oven now so the oil can get really hot.
Cut a generous slice of butter (say an ounce?) and stick it in a bowl in the microwave to melt. Then, add in the milk (or if you’re a lazy cow like me, just plop the butter into the milk and stuff the whole lot into the microwave). So weigh out your flour, add a nice pinch of salt, and put it in a bowl, add your eggs and whisk it up, adding your (cooled) milk and butter mixture until you have a nice smooth batter. You can do this in advance but I never remember.
Pour the batter into a jug and then pull the muffin tray out on the oven shelf, carefully filling each tray to the top with batter. They should take about 20 minutes and swell up to delicious pillow-like puffiness. This mix also makes wonderful toad in the hole (use a lasagne tin or similar and stick the sausages in with the oil).
Serve with your favourite roast dinner, or leave out the salt and fill with ice cream, drizzling over golden syrup. Heaven in a calorie-laden bowl.
