Six unimportant things…

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So this is a good one. I got tagged by Jane at Foodzilla over in Michigan (I know! I’m feeling all international and cosmopolitan now) to tell her six unimportant things that I love. Actually, this is more difficult than it seems as every time I thought of something it occurred to me that it really was quite important after all. Still, I managed, so here goes:

1. My doggit. Yeh, okay, so he’s just a dog. Most Irish people think we’re mental for a) having a ‘working’ dog as a pet and b) having him living in the house! But he’s the softest, silliest, and most adoring fella you could ask for. He’s immaculately clean in the house (even after a marathon 8 hour shopping trip to the north - bladder of an elephant, that one), incredibly gentle and sweet natured and he just loves us all to bits (slightly annoying having a lanky, furry lesion attached to your leg at all times but hey). Okay so retired greyhounds are ten a penny, but still, we love him.

Bertie

2. My garden hearts: Hubby’s a man of few words, but he does occasionally surprise me with a nice little gesture when he’s mowing one of the lawns. I love looking out of a window and finding this:

Heart

Sometimes it’s not all about words.

3. Great ingredients. I love using real butter, free-range eggs and lovely fresh, Irish produce. There’s a great fruit & veg wholesaler local to us and I’ll often be found there picking up tons of great quality fresh stuff (they do local duck eggs too) and planning menus in my head. The great butcher at Sheelin has a little white-board up where he writes ‘this week’s lambs came from…’ and the name of the local producer. His meat is amazing. Unimportant, but it makes me happy.

4. Forward planning. I’m a bit obsessive about stuff, and nothing makes me happier than having something to look forward to. Obviously our forthcoming wedding blessing is occupying a lot of my time at the moment, and a swift search of English Towers will see me ensconsed with my notebook and a couple of magazines, daydreaming and planning about table flowers, menus, dresses… you name it.

5. My garden. I’m a novice gardener and kill as many things as I nurture, but I’m really enjoying learning all about it and our dinner yesterday featured home-grown new potatoes and baby carrots, which I served up with a certain amount of pride.

Fennel, chives and thyme

6. Our little community. It’s only when I hear people talk about ‘school runs’ and Tesco delivery that I realise quite how rural we really are. There is no school gate ‘Mommy mafia’ at the little school here, as the children that aren’t within walking distance are all picked up and dropped off by bus, such is the huge rural catchment. Tesco probably hasn’t even heard of us, let alone decided to deliver here to the arse end of nowhere, and shopping is a half-day challenge. Still, bimbling down the boat road with Bert yesterday, the scent of the honeysuckle so heavy you feel it could pick you up and float you away, and stopping and chatting to the lovely lady with the new baby, I couldn’t have been happier.

Small things, but often they mean just as much as the heavy stuff. I’m off to visit the folks for a while (and have a speedboat trip booked in London! Thanks Ma!), but while I’m gone, how about you, then? Six unimportant things that you love…

How to extract maximum bathtime annoyance from your tame racing* greyhound

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1. This takes a bit of forward planning. The night before, when your retired, lazy git of a greyhound is asleep on your lap, decide that he smells a bit ‘doggy’ and resolve to bath him the next day if it’s sunny. When the next day dawns bright and warm, remove your greyhound from his sleeping place in the shade and douse liberally with the hose. Next, chase your escaped greyhound back to his hiding place, attach lead to collar and stake to ground with garden fork. Drench liberally again:

Bert bath 3

2. Ignoring all growly moaning noises, cover your soggy victim generously with Head & Shoulders and bring to a fine, foamy lather:

Bert bath 6

3. Apply the hose to the muzzle area to attempt to remove the week-old traces of stolen Muller yoghurt, the pots of which are creating a mountain of such epic proportions on his bed that the subject has taken up residence on the sofa instead.

Bert bath 4

4. When your grumpy victim has been scrubbed sufficiently, rinse again with copious amounts of water, then run away squealing as he attempts to get his revenge by shaking cold water all over you:

Bert bath 5

5. Allow victim to return to his former hiding place in the shade to sulk and begin the long process of re-doggying himself by applying a stinky layer of drool:

Bert bath 2

6. Ignore all escape attempts while taking pictures of seething greyhound and telling him how cyoooot he looks when he’s all soggy and fluffy and what a lubly clean mummy’s baby he is, yes he is, he’s momma’s baby, oh yes he is…

Bert bath 1

7. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to laugh at any point during the procedure at furious, soggy greyhound as this will result in a greyhound death-ray glare being applied and spontaneous human combustion. You have been warned.

Bert bath 7

PS: Look Mr Lanney - he’s not fat any more is he?!

* Bit of artistic licence there - not sure that Bert ever actually picked up any speed…

Butternut squash and chickpea curry

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Butternut squash curry

Righto, then, following swiftly on from the butternut squash risotto, here’s another curry that is used in so many different guises here at English Towers, I’m struggling to know which photos to use. As you know, I’m a big fan of butternut squash, so here’s the basic recipe used with squash, but it’s equally good made with potatoes or cauliflower:

1 butternut squash, peeled and deseeded, cut into chunks (mine weighed about 700g)

1 red onion, finely chopped

2 tbsp oil

1/2 tsp dried chilli (or 1 tsp fresh chilli, de-seeded and finely chopped for extra zing)

1/2 tsp mustard seeds

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground coriander

1/2 tsp turmeric

1 tsp sugar

1 tsp salt

1 tsp grated ginger (I grate mine straight from the freezer)

200ml chicken stock

1 tsp garam masala (don’t put this in until the end though)

1 tin chickpeas

Fresh coriander, roughly chopped

So heat the oil in a pan until very hot. Add the onion along with all the spices (not the garam masala, this is more of a seasoning and should be added at the end). I’m a bit random with the spices - I think this is roughly what I use, but I’ll see the Cumin seeds in with the spices and think ‘ooh, I’ll bung a few of them in’. Still it always tastes okay…

Spices

When the onion starts to turn brown, add the chicken stock (or veg stock, obviously), and the chunks of squash (or potato or whatever), stir around and cover. Turn the heat down low and leave the squash to soften for around 15 minutes.

Stir in the butternut squash chunks

Now stir in the drained chickpeas. Leave to cook for five more minutes, then stir in the garam masala, sprinkle with the coriander and serve.

This basic spice mix is really versatile. Leave out the squash and bung in a tin of tomatoes and a couple of handfuls of baby spinach, plus a can of any old pulses, or substitute dried lentils instead of the chickpeas (add at the same time as the squash, plus 100ml more water), or any other canned beans or pulses (or just leave them out and serve as a plain vegetable curry). Here’s one I made with borlotti beans (I know, a weird Indian/Italian mixture, but hey, it tasted nice and I didn’t have any chickpeas):

Butternut squash and borlotti bean curry

There you have it. On the subject of curries, anyone else have any favourites recipes?

Wall.E on Disney Blu-Ray DVD - a review by the Mad Professor

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Wall E

So as you know Disney very unwisely made us Blu-Ray Ambassadors, and revelling in his title a bit too much, #1 has decided to take over today’s blog post with a little review. Jonathan Ross eat your heart out:

WALL.E is a funny and exciting film for people of all shapes and sizes. The story begins when a small, garbage cube-making robot called WALL.E, who, after hundreds of years making cubes of garbage, runs into a hi-tech and sophisticated search robot called EVE. The two of them set off on a brilliant and thrilling adventure across the universe.

I found the environmental element to the film a very well put warning to the world at the rate we are going, and it puts it in a way that children can understand. In the movie, the WALL.E robots have the task of cleaning up the mess that all of the people made. They all disappear from earth on a space ship hoping to leave behind the mess they’ve made, only becoming fat and stupid in the process.

I would say that it was a really enjoyable film all in all.

#1

Ah, my cherub eh? He sure tells it like it is. Next up: Bolt and Beverley Hills Chihuahua (derrr de de de da chihuahua! derrr de de de da chuhuahua!). Oh you know the one (especially for Towny, this bit):

Click to Play!

The Friday photo: Un-wabbit welated gardening update

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Okay, so the rabbits haven’t eaten everything, although I’m really disappointed that they ate the tiny shoots of the plants that my Ma and I planted (what were they Ma? Dahlias and something?) as I really fancy having a few more flowers in the garden. One teeny new shoot has just peeked out again (see the little bed by the patio, left of top pic) so I’ve covered it in a cloche to see if it will reappear.

Still, the carrots are recovering well after their surprise early haircut. Here’s the raised bed, where you can see at the back that the fennel is enormous (and very cuddly - everyone stops to give it a hug) again, as are the chives and thyme, also at the back next to the remaining potatoes, and that my weird green pointy cauliflower things are doing well (netted area, far left). Next along, inside the fleecy area are some cabbages, then two rows of carrots, and to the front you can just see the two strawberry plants peeking over the fleece:

:June garden left

Here’s the middle. A bit of overlap as you can see the carrots in the fleecy bit first, but then there’s two rows of spring onions, another row of cabbages, then a fleece area containing the purple sprouting broccoli - my monster rhubarb is at the back there:

June garden middle

And to the right of the bed is the weird, bushy area where #2 ripped open a random bag of blue flower seeds and they went everywhere, next to some more chives and a few marigolds and red salvias planted for colour. As you can see, the remaining potatoes not stricken by the dreaded Blackleg (arrrr) are still thriving, thank goodness. Oh and that purple thing in the front is a flower with purple spikes but I can’t remember the name:

June garden right

Not a bad effort eh? In fact, I might go so far as to say English Towers: 1, Rabbits: 0.

Heh.

A Curiously clever combination: butternut squash risotto and NZ wines

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Grub's up!

I love butternut squash. I love its sweetness, its softness, and its beautiful orangey colour. I love risotto too, and the combination of both of them is one of my favourite meals. I happened to mention to the lovely Matt, fellow blogger and ’Wine Evangelist’ (I love that title) at Curious Wines that I was going to knock up a butternut squash risotto and he very kindly offered to send me a couple of wines to taste with it. ‘I can’t taste wine’, was my initial reaction, but with the promise of help and tasting notes, I felt much better. Was I in? Too bloody right I was.

#1′s homecoming from bleeding his Grandparents dry in England seemed a good enough time for a little celebration, so I put the vino on ice and set about making the butternut risotto:

1 butternut squash

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

7 or 8 sage leaves, finely chopped

Butter

1 onion, finely chopped

350g risotto rice (arborio or carnaroli)

2 litres chicken stock

Parmesan, grated, and some for serving

So preheat the oven to 200/gas 6. Peel and deseed the squash and cut into cubes. Spread the pieces out on a baking tray and drizzle with a little olive oil. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle over about half of the finely chopped sage leaves:

Drizzle the chunks with oil and sprinkle with sage

Roast for about 30 mins or until soft and slightly caramelised. You can do this in advance and allow the squash to cool, if you like:

Caramelised roasted sagey butternut squash

For the risotto: allow the stock to come to a simmer in a saucepan, then keep warm on a low heat on the hob:

Chicken stock

Grab a heavy based pan, put it on a low heat and melt a tablespoon of butter. Glug in some olive oil (about 2 tbsp should do it), then gently fry the onion until it’s translucent (try my trick of adding a pinch of caster sugar to stop it browning too quickly). Then add in the rice, stirring around until it’s all glossy.

Add half the squash and the finely chopped sage. Now just keep adding ladlefuls of stock, one at a time, stirring constantly and making sure all the liquid is absorbed before adding another. When all the stock is gone - this might take half an hour or so - the risotto should be nice and creamy, still with a teeny bit of bite to it.

Now add in the rest of the squash and stir in the rest of the sage (the smell is amazing). Turn the heat off, have a quick taste and season generously, then stir in another knob of butter, and a handful of grated parmesan, put the lid on and leave it to sit until you’re ready to serve. Finally, ladle the risotto into warm bowls, topping with some grated parmesan, and serve:

Risotto, and a nice hunk of Parmigiano

Now to the wine. Our first contender was the Waipara Springs Premo Dry Riesling 2006 (€12.99 from Curious Wines), and wow did this baby surprise me. I think the last time I tried Riesling it was some medium German shocker (you can read all about what Curious Wines’ Mike has to say about Riesling here), but this was amazing - so zingy it was almost fizzy on your tongue. We’re no wine buffs, but could actually taste something citrusy, (#1 had a sip and reckoned he could taste grapefruit - and do you know what? It was actually on the tasting notes - he’s far too young to be this good) and the crisp, acidity was a perfect foil for the creamy sweetness of the risotto. Yum.

Onto the next one, then. Next up was the Tussock Pinot Gris 2007 (€14.99 from Curious Wines). You can read Matt’s notes about Pinot Gris here. This was a different kettle of fish. You could see instantly that it was much darker in colour, and for those of you who might find the Waipara Springs a little too sharp, this was much softer and really, really pleasant, although still retaining a crispness that again complemented the risotto perfectly. Try as we might, though, our dodgy palettes couldn’t make out the promised pear/apple notes - but I think that was our fault rather than the wine - and there was a lingering aftertaste that I can’t describe (help, Matt!) but that was absolutely delicious. Although this was lovely with food, we could well imagine polishing this one off whilst tucked up on the sofa in front of Lie to Me.

Sadly, after finishing two bottles of wine between us, I can’t read many of my notes and lost one of the pieces of paper, but the Waipara Springs definitely came in the winner with an impressive score of 16/20. So that’s it, then, my first ever wine tasting. I’d like to thank Mike and Matt for their patience, copious notes, encouragement… and the free wine, oh and for the slightly giggly game of poker that followed. Bless you.

Now whose turn is it to wash up?

In which YTPV comes to tea and becomes the YTPR

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So you’ll remember a while back I ranted on about our planned blessing and how I couldn’t understand why it was all so complicated. Why can’t you just have a big pretty church-like place to celebrate happy family stuff in, headed by some guy who stands at the front and who everybody listens to, without actually having to say you believe in something that you don’t, I said.

You’ll also remember that the Young Trendy Protestant Vicar (YTPV) popped in to see Hubby while I was away: Hubby made noises to the effect that he might not actually be a regular church goer, and Young Trendy Vicar made noises back to the effect that if he didn’t see us in church we could wave goodbye to a pretty little stone-churched blessing, I said.

Yes? Thought so. Anyhoo, it came to pass that the YTPV read my blog post. He emailed me, I emailed back, and we ended up having a quite decent chat about stuff. He took exception to what I’d said and thought that Hubby had got the wrong end of the stick (I did only say ‘made noises to the effect…’), that he’d never insist on anyone atttending regularly, that it was a personal thing. He also took exception to being lumped in with my rather dim view of the church (mainly, I have to say, due to our seriously unfriendly and unhelpful Catholic Priest).

Anyhoo, yesterday saw us having a rather torrid day. We had one of those lovely husbandy/wifely rows that pretty much lasts all day, interspersed with small bouts of sulking. I was upstairs reading a book sulking when the doorbell rang. #2 arrived to announce that the Vicar was at the door. It was one of those moments when you have to kind of suspend your row, like when one of the kids comes in, and pretend that you’re getting along great, whilst simultaneously shooting each other ‘I want to kill you’ glares. Fun and games.

So the Vicar, then. Actually, he pointed out that he’s a Rector, not a Vicar. I asked if I could still call him YTPV if I amended it to YTPR. He agreed with a wry smile. I remembered how much I liked him. And so we chatted. We chatted about religion, yes, but we also chatted about kids and schools and TV and marriage and commitment and blogging:

YTPR: ‘I’ve actually been inspired to start my own blog’

Me: ‘Great! Can I have the web address?’

YTPR: ‘No’

Me: ‘It’s okay, I’m wholesome, I’m sponsored by Disney and everything’

And do you know what? He listened. He listened when I said that I had trouble with the whole ‘believing in something I can’t see’ thing. He listened when I told him that church had always been a big part of my life, that I enjoyed going and that I found it comforting and familiar. He nodded when we talked about wanting our kids to grow up respecting others and living by the ideals encouraged by the church. He smiled when we talked about wanting to stand up, properly, in front of our family and friends in a traditional setting, and celebrate being married for 15 years. He listened when we said we had a silly thing about actually saying our vows to each other, as we didn’t do it first time round (the evil glares were starting to diminish now).

I told him about you, my lovely readers. How I liked the fact that you’re always honest with me. How Laurie said ‘erm, am I missing something? If you’re not religious, why do you want to get married in a church anyway?’ And how one of my most loyal and long-time commenters, Susan B, said kindly that ’of all the people I know, you and your family actually LIVE the Christian ideal of open heartedness, generosity and love, as opposed to paying it lip service every Sunday’, which really touched me. And I’d tried to explain that although I’m not ‘religious’ per se, I love the little church here - me and Bert can often be found wandering through the graves or sitting in a sunny spot - it’s peaceful and beautiful and, yes, spiritual. We also told him about the non-religious options we’d looked into, and that they weren’t quite right for us.

I know I’m at risk of this post becoming very long, which I don’t like as I think people switch off if they arrive and see a huge blog post to tackle, but we had a good chat. I won’t say I’m any nearer to sorting out my complicated feelings about my - dare I say it - ‘faith’ or ‘spirituality’, but he assured us that we were welcome at the church at any time, whether it be Easter/Christmas/Weddings/Funerals/Christenings, or just every once in a while. And that if we wanted to consider a service of some kind in the church, then he would consider talking with us further, which I think was pretty nice, considering that my views are somewhat left of centre.

Oh, and I got his web address too. He talks about me here and even has a rant, which made me laugh.

Shiver me timbers, it be the dreaded Blackleg… arrr…

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Ahoy ye land lubbers. So tragic events be unfoldin’ here at Ye Olde English Towers. The potatoes they be dyin’ and there’s nowt that can be done about it. They be stricken’ with the dreaded Black Leg. Argghhhh

Okay, I can’t keep up the pirate speak. But basically my poor potato plants have started going yellow and wilting and an emergency call to the garden oracle, otherwise known as my Disreputable Dad, uncovered the tragic news that my poor tatties are suffering from Potato Blackleg, a bacterial disease that makes the potato stems rot, killing the foliage and ruining the crop:

Blackleg

Sadly, there’s no cure but to dig the buggers up. Apparently I bought infected seed potatoes (Damn you, Woodies!), but happily, not all have succumbed quite yet, and the ones that have died have been caught early enough to save most of the little babies beneath. Gutted. First wascally wabbits and now this. I’m just not cut out for the country life. I should have a high-rise apartment in Kensington or something, dahling.

So for the purposes of today’s post we be talkin’ like a pirate, yarrrrr. In fact, I designate today ‘English Mum’s Talk Like a Pirate Day’ (with apologies to the real Talk Like a Pirate Day, which is sometime in September), which means any comments shall be strictly of the pirate variety (and yes Moon that means you have to join in) else you’ll be walkin’ the plank, so ye will, ye lily-livered scallywags. Yarrrr.

The Saturday photo: Why have a dog and bark yourself?

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So oopsy, was so busy ranting about the Evil Octopus Woman I completely forgot the Friday photo. I did have one in mind, which became even more relevant when I took a quiet wander round the English Estate this morning and discovered not only a new rabbit hole from the field into the garden, but a tunnel. A TUNNEL! In my raised vegetable bed. The cheeky furry little bastards have dug a tunnel through the potatoes (the hole is in the middle and all the yuck they threw out is covering my spade):

Rabbit tunnel 1

… and under the rhubarb:

Rabbit tunnel 2

I mean, what’s that supposed to be? They do realise it’s a raised bed and they can’t actually dig anywhere do they? Or is it just that they’re sneakily trying to reach the carrots on the other side with a covert underground access-point?

And, to add insult to injury, where - you might ask - was my rabbit-chasing, ex-coursing greyhound during all these rabbit digging shenanigans?

I'm just snatching 40 winks...

*sigh*

Evil Octopus Woman and her flabbergastingly farcical finances

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So you’ll like this. Back yonder in October, I reported to you with near manic excitement, that I had secured myself a job testing recipes for a magazine. It started off really well - I developed their Christmas recipes and even helped with testing recipes for a book. The excitement of seeing my name in print was well worth the magazine’s rather erratic payment schedule. Initially.

By April this year, though, I was getting a bit worried. I’d only been paid for October and November 08, and although my increasingly concerned emails were met with ‘a cheque run will be done on Friday, I’ll make sure you’re on it’ or ‘I’ll have a word with the accounts department’ type replies - somehow the cheques never materialised. ‘They’re going to go bust’, said Hubby, ‘mark my words. And they’re going to take your money with them’.

Every month became a toss-up between accepting the proferred offer of work or declining it as the likelihood of my getting paid seemed more remote. By the time I went to Florida in May I had still not received any more money and started to chase my payments a little more vigorously. One was, indeed, paid while I was away - the invoice for work I did in December. This was getting ridiculous, as were the excuses for non-payment: the person who signed the cheques was away, then the accounts lady was away, then my invoices weren’t right and had to be re-issued… You get the picture.

The accounts woman was… well, not exactly sympathetic - in fact, her emails got more and more aggressive and she even picked a fight with Hubby on the phone when he tried to explain a tax issue that she patently didn’t (or wouldn’t) understand. I started to picture the evil octopus lady (what was her name? Ursula?) from The Little Mermaid - whenever I heard her voice. ‘Fair play to ‘em though’, said Hubby, ‘she must be the best darned accounts person ever - she never actually pays anyone.’

Another month of polite enquiries got me absolutely nowhere and I finally sent an email to the Editor pleading for payment of at least a couple of my outstanding cheques. This was ignored. I sent another saying that I wouldn’t be doing any more work until I got paid. Well. Evil Octopus Lady did not like that one bit. I got another snotty email telling me off for going to the Editor and pointing out that ALL (bold, capitals, underlined) accounts enquiries go ONLY (bold, capitals, underlined) through her.

Finally, after a snotty email exchange of epic proportions, I got January cheque yesterday and - holy cack - another one today covering February and March, meaning only one left to pay. Evil Octopus Lady’s final nose-thumbing coming in the form of a complement slip enclosed with the cheque stating, and I quote, that ‘invoices will only be paid 30 days after date of receipt of invoice AND NOT BEFORE’. Oh, so she was just making doubly sure by keeping the cheques for 150 days, then.

She obviously passed on our last snotty exchange to her boss, though, and I got a ‘piss off’ letter today in the form of an email telling me that my services are no longer required. I couldn’t help myself. I replied, saying that I wouldn’t work for them ever again even if they were the last employer on earth, and that I hope the next mug they take on to test their recipes doesn’t mind waiting five months for their money.

So that’s it, then. Fired. Anyone need a cookery writer?

Alcohol to calories convertor: prepare to be horrified

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Bleurgh

So this is fab, via Glitter, a rather nifty little gadget that calculates the junk food equivalent of what you drank last night.

CLICK HERE

For the sake of full disclosure I would like to point out that the three large glasses of Jacob’s Creek Sparkling Shiraz that I had (what? I was testing fizz for our anniversary party) had the calorific equivalent of:

1 onion bhaji

1 slice of pizza

1 doughnut

2 jaffa cakes

Honestly, though. I’d rather have the booze than that crap. Anyone else care to fess up their calorific equivalents?

Working/part-time/at home with kids? We’re all female, remember?

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So once again, there’s a load of hassle about working mums versus stay at home mums. An article in The Times has set quite a few female pulses racing, and rightly so; commenting stupidly on the ’yawning chasm that opens up between the mothers who do, and the mothers who don’t’ is never likely to win friends and influence people.

But seriously, these things have been done to death, haven’t they? And really, the biggest issue here as far as I’m concerned isn’t whether some silly woman feels she needs to validate her existence by describing stay-at-home motherhood in terms of ‘the endless coffee mornings, the loneliness, the intellectual invisibility, the simmering resentment, the gin-soaked afternoons’, but her contempt for her fellow female - her total lack of sisterhood. As I commented before, I’m perpetually astonished and appalled by how women treat each other. Whether this is solely the realm of womankind, or whether men do it too but are just better at hiding it (let’s face it, they’re sneaky gits), I have no idea. I just notice it more with women.

Have you noticed how early it starts, too? Again, I’m not saying that boys aren’t horrible to each other, but they seem to be better at the face-to-face slagging. Let’s face it, is there anything more venemous than a group of girls? You know how it is - one of them has some perceived flaw or says/does the wrong thing and suddenly they’re on the outside of the circle looking in, forever destined to be the one that nearly was. I wouldn’t mind if it stopped there, but somehow young women are even developing a taste for violence. Did you see poor old Gemma Whatnot the Page 3 girl recently - beaten and assaulted in a nightclub, not by muggers or leering young men, but by a group of girls? What on earth is going on?

A while ago I commented on women who break up relationships. And my point here still stands…where do we get off nicking each other’s husbands? ‘Oh, it takes two to tango’, they bleat, ‘if he was happy he wouldn’t have looked elsewhere’ and other such rubbish, as they walk off hand in hand into the sunset, while once again some poor, rejected wife faces a new life alone with devastated children and even more devastated self esteem. Nothing knocks your confidence more than the person you love choosing someone else over you. How treacherous; how unsisterly; how downright wrong is that? I understand that sometimes you just can’t help who you fall in love with, but if he’s attached with children, walk away for God’s sake. You have ears and eyes - don’t you think if he’s done it to his wife, he’ll probably end up doing it to you? When I originally wrote about Husband (and Daddy) stealers I said that they should be pinned down while their cellulite is photographed at the most unflattering angle and then humiliated with big, blown-up photos of it being posted all around their home town. I stand by that comment, but now I think they should have them posted on the web too.

Any volunteers?

Once, on this blog, I said that every so often we should tell our mates how fab they are (even if, like me, you have to email most of them), what we love about them and the qualities that we most admire. I stand by that. Cherish your friendships, strive to make new ones, and never be guilty of excluding anyone from your social circle, no matter how complete you think it is. Strike up a new conversation at the school gate… smile at a lady with a new baby… compliment a total stranger on her fabulous shoes and celebrate the fact that we are, obviously, in this together.

You can read more about this here:

The Times Online

Dulwich Divorcée

The Potty Diaries

Playground politics: do two wrongs never make a right?

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Okay, so this is a long piece for me, but bear with me as I’d welcome any comments. Sometimes growing up is difficult: stuff happens and as a parent you’re supposed to have a solution - a piece of advice for the child to follow so that the situation doesn’t rear its ugly head again.

Take my youngest. I know I’m biased but he’s a lovely chap; happy, sporty, smiley and a lot of fun. He can be a huge pain in the arse, granted, but generally he’s pretty easy going. He lost his sparkle for a while when he had a difficult time at his last school, but he’s fitted in just fine at the local school and comes back full of tales of what he’s been up to, with a big smile on his face.

I do think, though, that what he went through at that school knocked his confidence. He plays well with a bunch of kids, but although he’s friendly and likes them all, seems to keep a little bit of distance. I’ve taken the opportunity, while the big fella’s away to encourage him to ask a couple of different kids round to play. We’ve had one so far, which went well, and he’s slowly getting used to the idea again.

Recently, though, a child that he plays with quite a bit said something mean to him. This is normal kid-to-kid stuff and nothing unusual - a little playground snipe. A play, quite cleverly, on the fact that #2 doesn’t hang around with many people. ‘You’ve got no friends’, said Child A. ‘Yes I have’, said #2, ‘go on, then, name them…’ said Child A.

Now at home, none of us are backward in coming forward - we are all quite quick with the wisecracks and #2 is no different - he’s very well equipped to deliver a stinging rejoinder to anything anyone can throw at him - in fact, on several occasions it’s how he gets himself in trouble: these little sarky replies going a little bit near the knuckle when directed at one’s parents. So what did #2 do? Did he redirect with a stinging comeback (of which he’s quite capable)? No. He dissolved into tears, tried valiantly (but failed miserably) to hide it and carried on. I went to talk to him and found out what had been said, and this is where I’m doubting myself.

In fact, with the benefit of hindsight, I’m furious with myself. I talked to Jen about it afterwards who quite rightly said ‘what, and you didn’t say anything to Child A?’ Er.. no. I’m terrible with any sort of confrontation. If there’s any telling off to be done, I tend to direct it to the group as a whole and will ignore things with other children that I would no way tolerate in my own kids. I took #2 to one side, told him that he should brush himself down, ignore it and get on with stuff - that he knew better than to take any notice of silly ‘sticks and stones’ rubbish like that.

But have I made it worse? By not taking Child A to one side and saying ‘now hang on, that was mean and I won’t tolerate you being mean in my house’ have I shown Child A that spite has no consequences? That next time #2 gets on Child A’s nerves will they deal with it by another spiteful comment? By not encouraging #2 to fight back (verbally), do I make him less well equipped to deal with the slings and arrows of the playground?

Hubby is of the opinion that if someone is mean to you then you’re quite entitled to be mean back: ‘f*ck that’, he told #2, if Child A’s mean to you again you bloody well give it back double. You know you can’. However, I’ve always followed the tack that two wrongs don’t make a right, but now I’m starting to wonder if Hubby’s right and that the best course of action would have been for #2 to turn round to Child A and deliver one of his rather witty and stinging put-downs. Child A would be instantly silenced, and everyone would carry on.

We talked about it a bit last night ‘but you’ve always told me not to be mean’, argued #2, ‘in fact, the one time I did say something back to Child A when I was at their house, #1 told you and you went mental’. This is true. It was a lot to do with the fact that I feel strongly that my children should be polite in someone else’s home - I was furious to think that #2 could have been overheard saying something rude when he was a guest there.

Ugh. I’m so confused. As parents, should we get involved? Should we take a step back? And if we take a step back should we allow our children to sort out their own battles in the way they best know how, even if, to a certain degree, they’re doing stuff that we wouldn’t normally encourage?

Maybe I should borrow Rosie’s book?

The Friday photo: please look after this bear

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#1

So after months of planning, #1, the Mad Professor, has gone to visit The Disreputable One and EnglishGrandma (not together, obviously) - they have five days of carefully planned custody each, plus two neutral territory days with my brother, the Lycheeni demon: Uncle I, Auntie L and the fleas (what? no of course I wouldn’t let him stay with Mad Uncle Alg. Are you mad? - he’ll no doubt take him out for alcohol and loose women somewhere during the trip).

The build up to this event was more than stressful, and involved me doing this approximately every five minutes:

‘So keep your passport and boarding card safe, and don’t talk to anyone, and don’t wander round the shops and lose track of time, just get to your gate quickly okay? And don’t put your bag down at all. And leave plenty of time to walk to your gate…’

#1: ‘Yup’

I was worrying that it wasn’t all sinking in, especially when, in the car on the way to the airport, his précis of the task in hand went:

‘and I have to go to the checkpoint place and, like, sign in yeah?’

Oh God.

So anyhoo, I took him to the airport, I signed a disclaimer at the Aer Lingus desk (basically a piece of paper that says ‘no of course I don’t give a shit about my child, otherwise why would I be letting him travel on his own all the way to England without anyone to look after him?, and if you happen to lose him or kill him well sod it, that’s fine with me, I didn’t want him anyway’), and walked him through to security.

We hugged. We kissed. We hugged again. I squeezed tighter. I might have detected a little tremble.

He went through.

He looked back at me with a slightly wobbly smile and all of a sudden didn’t look like the clever 14 year old Mad Professor, but like a little lost and slightly bewildered toddler again.

I sent him a text from the car park which said: ‘now remember, don’t go shopping, just get to your boarding gate, it shuts at 4.30′.

No reply.

I send another: ‘oy. Are you at your bloody gate or not?’

Finally the phone beeps:

‘Yeah mam. Of course. Lol.’

So I drive home, worrying, and by the time I get home he’s in the air (hopefully) and there’s nothing I can do but wait for the phonecall. It comes. It’s my Dad’s mobile. Oh good grief…

Disreputable One: ‘Did the child not get on the flight? I waited ages at arrivals and there’s nobody here…’

I think I might actually be sick.

And then…

#1: ‘Ahaha yeah, I’m here. Everything’s savage. Grandad was here to meet me. Oh and I spent all my money at the airport. What? Yeah, the Euro and the Sterling. What? On some savage PSP games! Ah it doesn’t matter, I’ll get some off Grandad. Yeah, and I had to sit squished between these two massive Polish blokes, and one stole my window seat. No of course I didn’t say anything, he was, like, HUGE! Yeah love you bye’.

So that’s it. My world is a quieter place for a week and a half. Bert will have to find other comfy perches in the garden:

#1 and Bert

And his Grandparents? Well, I hope they’ve got plenty of food in…

Which leads me swiftly onto other news and here, in all its glory, is Anouk’s rather luscious version of my Rhubarb Crumble Traybake thingy, which has the right amount of rhubarb, and which looks a lot more gorgeous than mine:

anouk-crumble

Rhubarb crumble traybake cake thing (that’s extra yum with syrup instead)

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Rhubarb crumble cake

So a friend of mine mentioned that she’s rather fond of rhubarb crumble traybake, but that she’s been unable to find a recipe. Being a stick-my-nose-in sort of a person, I decided I’d have a fiddle around and see if I could make her a good approximation of her bakey cakey thing. And here’s what I came up with:

First you need some lovely young rhubarb. Mine’s not quite ready in the garden so I had to make do with some from Tesco, which was well past its pension-pulling age, I can tell you. Anyhoo, here’s what you need:

115g butter

115g sugar

2 eggs

A teeny grating of fresh ginger/orange zest/tsp vanilla extract/cinnamon/whatever

115g self raising flour

400g sliced rhubarb

Beat the butter and sugar together until it’s really light and fluffy, then beat in the eggs, one at a time. To flavour your sponge, you can either go with the usual teaspoon of vanilla extract, or I found that some grated fresh ginger added a nice zing (I keep it in the freezer and grate it straight from frozen). I was discussing my ressup with Madame Belly Rumbles and she then pointed out that a little chopped preserved ginger would be lovely here too - along with a dash or two of the syrup. Or some orange zest maybe. Anyhoo, then gently stir in the flour. If the mixture is a bit stiff you can add a splash of milk.

So spoon this batter over your sliced rhubarb, which you’ve arranged in the bottom of something akin to a small baking tin or lasagne dish or whatever (if you haven’t yet discovered the bestest non-stickiest tray ever that was dirt cheap in Tesco, then I suggest you butter your tin first too). I used 200g rhubarb, but honestly, it was a bit of a case of ‘spot the rhubarb’ - you really need at least double that I think as it practically disappeared.

For the crumble:

115g plain flour

60g butter

60g demerara sugar

So after you’ve blobbed the cake mix haphazardly over the rhubarb, make the crumble by gently rubbing the butter into the flour, then stirring the sugar in. Give it a bit of a squeeze with your fingertips so it clumps together, then crumble it over the cake mix.

Bake at 180 degrees /gas 4 for 30 mins and serve with cream or custard or vanilla ice cream (not the one made out of rehydrated skimmed somethinorother, the one made with eggs and milk and cream, thankyouverymuchly).

This is one of those ‘use anything’ kind of recipes - it would be just as nice over a layering of apples with some grated lemon zest, or some lovely fresh peaches and a touch of honey… Oh, and then on the Sunday when me Ma was here, I did the same recipe, but instead of the rhubarb, I dolloped about a ton of golden syrup in the bottom of the tin, covered it in the cake mix and then added the crumble. Naughty, but ohhhhh so nice:

Syrup crumble cake

Sunbathing, salsa and the garden luge. With cackling.

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So it’s bank hols here in the Republic and yesterday dawned the most beautiful, hot sunny day. There’s nothing quite like a sunny day in Ireland. Not only is it very unusual and therefore all the more welcome, but the whole greenness of the place gives it an almost luminous, lime green glow. The kids started off mucking about spraying each other with water guns, then hubby disappeared to the shop and came back with industrial strength rolls of bin bags to create the garden waterslide from hell. Here’s Hubby, #1, #2 and Little C (Lou was far too dainty for hurling herself downhill on a bit of plastic) having fun. Apologies for the hideous cackling, but what you couldn’t see, just out of shot, was that they all crashed into the side of the garage at the end of the trip (oh and check Hubby’s ‘argh! incoming!’). Oh and sorry about shooting directly into the sun. I don’t think I’ll be entering it at Cannes this year. Enjoy though.

We had lamb-burgers for lunch, made with minced lamb, breadcrumbs, crushed garlic, cumin, mustard seed, salt and pepper, with a lovely salsa that hubby made out of the lovely frondy fennel in the garden, plus chilli, pineapple, tomato, greek basil and spring onion. Summer on a plate:

Salsa

Bert enjoyed the bank holiday too. Hubby has mowed another beautiful heart in one of the front lawns for me which is now full of wild flowers:

Heart

and happens to make a rather nice sunbathing spot too:

Bert sunbathing

Mind you, when you have a comfy child to lean on, you can sunbathe just about anywhere:

Bert sunbathe 2

We rounded the day off with hotdogs and a bonfire, with a bit of guitar playing and a sing song. Ah, I hope the summer lasts.