Bubba Grills, Barbecue and motorbikes

Well, I've been making up 1000 portions of hot barbecue sauce for this weekend as husband road tests his Bubba Grill at the International Motorbike Festival at the Skylark showground this weekend. It's been all action stations on the Boston Bean and Pulled Pork front. I am just crossing my fingers and hoping the rain holds off, so the bikers can enjoy, hopefully to our full economic joy, husbands ribs, pulled pork and beans.

There's been a lot of interest in the kit. Men have randomly stopped and asked about it as they've seen it, Americans from the local area have stopped by to admire it. Bubba in the USA is cool, and Jamie Oliver saw them for his last book. Husband visited to learn their arcane barbecue arts, and now we are all stations go! It's a barbecue X10. I just hope we break even for a first venture. And man, my chilli sauce is HOT!

half arsed politics and combining

I have really gone off the boil, politics wise. I was pondering why, and it hit me: I can't face watching the news because it's too like the 80's, it seems like a replay and I don't want to watch it. I can't be alone in this. I am filled with apathy: when I should be geting angry and waving placards. It will come, doubtless.


And on a similar bent, at least, about the possible futures/pasts, I have been waxing lyrical about harvest, as the combines chug up and down outside my back garden. And it made me search out this poem by Edwin Muir, about the one-day return of the horse, machines abandoned.

Barely a twelvemonth after

The seven days war that put the world to sleep,

Late in the evening the strange horses came.

By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs ; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter,
Nothing. the radios dumb;
And still they stand in our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listen, we would not let it bring
That old bad world that swallowed its' children quick
at one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep
Curled blindly in its' impenetrable sorrow
And the thought confounds us with its' strangeness.
The Tractors lie about our fields; at evening
they look like dank sea monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust;
"They'll moulder away and be like other loam"

We make oxen drag our rusty plough
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers land.
And then, that evening

Late in the Summer the strange horses came.

We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming, it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet, they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long lost archaic companionship.
In the first moments we had never a thought
that they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then, they have pulled our ploughs and bourne our loads,
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed, their coming our beginning.





I just cry at this. It says more than I can, you get it.

straight backstitch, berries, spice,kindness and chickens

Well, lacking a sewing machine, and not wanting to fall back on drinking huge quantities of wine in the evenings in the absence of anything good on telly, I decided to start on son's quilt anyway. I chopped the material into 20X20 squares and 20X40 rectangles. No silly little bits this time. This quilt will be a super fast quilt, and an opportunity to practice sewing in straight lines. Plus, the material is really the star for him, all dinosaurs and airplanes, so lots showing is what he wants. I will get all fiddly with the quilting and binding, after all. Chopped up, I patterned it all out into one rectangle by 2 squares for each (big) block and commenced. My backstitch is now getting very tiny and straight: i'm pleased with it. And the blocks look nice anyway, even though they are big. I am doing 1 or 2 an evening and popping one in my bag for when the kida are busy at the park. So it might get done before Winter.

And then I started baking, or tried to, with the huge glut of blackberries we have. 25 bags in the freezer so far. I haven't found one cobbler recipe I like for them, they all seem to come out stodgy, but this could be the fault of my heavy hands, again. So crumble it is. Nobody else likes it, but I do, so soon I will be fat as well as balding.

As for the week of cooking 70's, it ended badly, with me yearning for spice and chillies. Everything was so bland, and whilst the kids can eat endless potat/cheese based meals, I cannot. I drew the line at a recipe that required spaghetti hoops from a can, and leapt into the arms of Rick Stein for his yummy malaysian broth, searing the roof of my mouth with chillis and making the kids cry. Mee Goreng tonight. Although it is VERY hard to source galangal in the Fens. Garlic is something they use to scare off vampires, the more exotic ingrediants simply don't get up here. Luckily, husband has a Chinese supermarket next to him when he goes to London.

And beautifully, a super act of kindness from a fellow set of Fenland bloggers. The kind lady here , Tina, rang me today to say that she has found a sewing machine for me, and I am overcome that someone who hasn't met me has been so kind! There are other ladies here in the Fens who are conspiring to get me sewing as an obsession, and I thank them. They are all too talented, they may have to show me how to thread the machine, let alone actually use it. you can visit their pages here to see their skills. http://fenlandtextiles.blogspot.com/2010/07/lists.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+FenlandTextileStudio+%28Fenland+Textile+Studio%29

http://mixedmedia-jem.blogspot.com/2010/08/luttrell-psalter-exhibition.html I am not sure how to make the links look tidier.

And lastly, the coop is up and treated, the run is on its' way, and the chicken breeder sourced. In a fortnight, we will have our chooks. I have been reading up on redmite, lice, foxes, and the propensity of chickens to die, and frightening myself, but the kids will be sanguine should they kark it, I am sure.

shreddies are for cakes, not just for breakfast

The easiest cake in the world. It got to be the day before playgroup breaking up day and son mentioned in an offhand way that he had told his play-worker that he would bring in a cake for her. So rather than produce one of my unfailingly unfluffy sponges from the hands of cement (my hands just don't do fluffy), I reasoned that a shreddie cake would be the best bet.

It is a malt loaf, and it's DENSE but it's lovely with a bit of butter. It is forgiving, you don't need to measure. I use either a mug or a jug. My loaf tin will work well with approx 400ml.

Take yourself :1 cup of / 400ml of :

self raising flour

shreddies

milk

fruit (I use apricots and raisins, I also add chocolate)

sugar (caster is best for a lighter loaf, brown for a denser one).

Squoosh the shreddies up in the milk. Add the fruit and sugar. Sift in the flour. Stir. Bake for 60-75 mins at Gas 4. Leave to cool, best eaten after it's sat for a day.

How easy is that?

vintage recipes and food refusal

My two are so naughty at the moment. They have both realised that they can get attention off of the other one and onto THEM far more easily if they are naughty. One of the problems with having 2 so close is that they learn each others bad habits rapidly as well as good. I am usually very good at ignoring behaviour rather than pandering to it and only intervene when necessary (blood, wounds, screams that rouse neighbours). I want them to learn to get attention from good behaviour, not bad.

Unfortunately, the time when my fuse is short and they win out every time is over the dinner table. I am torn between my sensible desire to ignore them and my desire to shove something, anything down their throats. Daughter has learned to get a reaction from observing her brothers sleek "I don't actually like this now, I liked it the other day but not now" and copying it. From one day to the next I never know what they will actually eat. They will both blankly refuse the meal presented to them and then say "it's horrible, I won't eat anything tonight". I know I can ignore it. I say "Ok, wait till we have all finished and then you can get down". I ignore their pleas for snacks and milk. "No, you did not eat your dinner", but the next morning, after a night without food they are VILE and it is impossible to get them dressed without screams. So, they need to eat something.

I have spent weeks buying old 60's , 70's and 80's cookbooks from charity shops. The photos are vile, the food looks awful. But it was what I ate. And I ate it. I even remember liking some of it. Either way, I thought a week of "What mummy used to have to eat with no snacks" would do them, and me some good. Stocking up on mince was probably needed.

So, take this cookbook from 1973. I remember this from my Mums' kitchen. Nobody, I think, would now want to eat the "Savoury egg pie" consisting of bread, canned oxtail soup, cheese and , get this, peanuts, or the terribly names "Cottage cheese and orange mould". They probably didn't eat it then. But, as a challenge, here is my proposed week from a 1973 cookbook. I'll tell you how it went next week.

Mon: chicken croquettes with grilled tomatoes and cheese salad. (As this is late posting, I can tell you, this went down VERY well)

Tues: Family Cornish Pasty (Likewise!)

Weds: Macnamara pie (seriously, a pie made with powdered tomato soup!) and lamb chops

Thursday: Somerset Chicken Casserole

Friday: Spaghetti Moussake. A recipe involving canned, yes, canned spaghetti and mince. And you know what, I bet they eat it.

Saturday: I've had enough. Back to River Cottage.

I went out with my friends and we schmoozed

I made it to big London Town this weekend for a lovely Saturday with my friends, Cathy, Nancy, and Naomi. We had all ditched the kids and had a lovely day browsing the faces at the National Portrait Gallery, eating lots and lots of yummy Dim Sum in China Town and then meandering the fabric shops of Berwick Market. Oh, my. How nice it was to be able to fiddle faddle around these shops with friends who chatted and browsed alongside without having to chase toddlers and cut things short. We spent hours looking at cambrics, cottons and silks. I got a yard of a lovely cotton print which will be my first garment when my Ebay target reaches sewing machine level. The conversation was all about what we'd make if... and when... and so we repaired to a boozer and had a sly pint (in the day!) and chatted more. All of a sudden, I wasn't just "mum" I was me again, and even though we did (of course) talk about our children, I was suddenly doing it with friends, and I realised how very much I missed being able to swap chat and ask for advice with friends so easily.I am lonely out here in the wilds. We all madly exchanged stories and did that thing that women do so well, where one raises an issue and all the others say , "well, for me it's" and sudenly the issue is in a context, and it's all so much better. I had to go all too soon, the Fens are just so darn inaccessible (buses from March are not exactly regular. Well, regular like the sunrise, maybe) and I hadn't caught up nearly enough, there was so much more to ask and say. On the train, as I waited to see the turbines that meant I was almost home, I was thinking "Arse! I meant to ask about that...and see about this..." but then, that is all the more reason to do it again. And the extra spring in my step the day after means I will.

Fruitfly genocide

On return from France, we discovered that the house had univited guests. 8 billion of them in the form of the pesky fruitfly. Beloved of scientists on account of their easily managed reproduction and genetics, it is the same trait that makes them hated by me. Fruitflies reproduced within 8 hours. HOURS. And all it takes for them to do it is a merest trace of fruit juice or skanky water. Imagine how many "traces" there are in a house of toddlers (I'll save this bit of banana for later behind my playmobil.. I'll just see what my juice cup does upside down...etc etc). So, not wishing to live in a house resembling a horror flick, I commenced battle. Constantly walking around spraying chemicals is also out in a house of toddlers, so I had to do it by stealth.

Firstly, track them to their source. This is easier said than done. A teeny tiny trace of squished banana is sufficient for them to start their orgy of reproduction. So I cleaned the house, and I mean, cleaned. Then, I checked all the drains. Bleach down plugholes is NOT enough, these eggs are Nuclear war proof. Caustic soda is the order of the day. Then, take ALL food and drink away, and lock it up tight. Now you have removed food sources. Now it's a war of attrition.

Best tackled at evening and night, when the buggers settle. It is then that you realise the true extent of their numbers. Every time you sip your wine, there they are...... My best weapon was apple cider vineagr. Fruitflies are attracted to the yeast in fermenting products, hence the love of beer. So, get yourself lots of tumblers, and a big bottle of apple cider vinegar. It smells nicer than wine vinegar. Then pour an inch in each tumbler. Add 2-3 drops of washing up liquid and agitate. The soap prevents a miniscus forming on the vinegar, so when the little sods land to drink, they fall in and drown. I woke and found the previously pale cider coloured liquid to be absolutely BLACK with flies, a true indication of the problem. Of course, this method is useless if you are soppy about the sanctity of insect life, but trust me, if you have a true infestation, you wouldn't be.

Once you have your weapons, use them constantly. The war needs to be waged for at least 4 weeks, to catch any new hatches. And then, you must always, ever after, wash all your cans, bottles and cups of nice resides before recycling, move your bins FAR from the house, and never ever pour sweet residues of anything down the sink ever again. And even dry up immediately. The drippings of drying plates are manna to the fruitfly. And here is where the original source of infestation came from: bananas. When you buy them, bring them home and wash them. Fruitflies love them, will go crazy for them, and often lay eggs on them to hatch as you get them home. We had banana the few days before our holiday, although we'd eaten them, the eggs had been on the skin and hatched in the fruit bowl. They are so tiny you can't really see them. And then the skin goes in the bin and........9 trillion fruitflies. They also like flowers, and hitch lifts from the garden, wherby they feed off the sulphur in flower water. Plus, they can live on damp mops, sponges, flannels. Even damp houseplant soil. If you've done everything and they;re still coming, repot your plants, and give the roots a good wash.

And I hate their red eyes. I've got another 3 weeks to go before the all clear............

All the fatties in France stay inside.

Just back from a lovely week in Normandy, staying in a chalet and wandering the beaches of Omaha, Gold, and Arromanches. The kids built sandcastles on endless empty beaches, that were there to play on because of the bravery of the men who died, landing on them. The Mulberry harbours are still there, boats darting in and out of them. Poignant, but somehow uplifting. The small towns and villages along the D-Day coast are so welcoming, everywhere there are messages of thanks to the British, American, Dutch and Canadian soldiers that liberated them. The graves are spotless, and very thought provoking. We did not have to fight on our land. I hope, that if we had, we would have had as mcuh respect for the soldiers that helped as they do.

So it was a week of eating, sand, and wandering, encouraging the kids not to be petrified of the large mouse thing (poor French girl in a suit in 30 degrees) that was put on to entertain / scare them. I managed a morning away, wandering Bayeaux (skipping the tapestry, seen it already, though it would stand 20 visits), and having a long lunch. Then it struck me. There are no fat women in France. This despite the fact that EVERY meal and snack is 90% fat, even the salads come drenched in oil. The portions are larger than your head and everyone eats 3 courses every meal. Wandering a supermarket, I was dumbstruck by the aisles ans aisles of chocolate based snacks, and it was impossible to find cereal that wasn't chocolate. Even the Special K came with chocolate in it. Bowing to the inevitable, we purchased a tub of Nesquick for the kids milk. On getting back to the chalet, we found it was.... wait for it....BABY nesquick.

So where are all the fat people? All the young women are skinny, skinny, skinny and dressed in taupe. All the elderly women are skinny, skinny, skinny, suntanned and have small dogs. It's the 30-45 women that are gone. I think they all suddenly put it on around the waist when they hit their thirties, have a decade eating inside, saying "sod it" in French, then spend 5 years on exercise bikes in front of TV drama before emerging thin again.

a thrift life

Over the past few weeks, I've been busy sorting things, late Spring cleaning and ebaying for my sewing machine fund. I've been turning my fiver a week on tat to good use. The local Sally Army shop can be a thrift treasure trove, everything is cheap, and if you rummage and are lucky you can find some gems.

Over the past few months, i've noticed a lot of West German 1950's and 60's stuff in the shop. It started with a little Bay Keramik vase I found, and since then i've picked up some Emsa eggcups and bowls too. Emsa is eminantly collectable and very rare, if you see some with cursive joined up script logo, get it, it is pre 1971 at least. Early stuff is very sought after, particularly in the USA. It is just the sort of stuff that gets chucked or given to charity, but 50's and 60's plastic kitchenalia is VERY now, there are scores of collectors who love this stuff. Actually, I love the eggcups. How great is it that they stack up? Then some lovely late 50's Arcopal (very early French shatterproof), just begging for iced cupcakes and serviettes in candy colours, in gentle opalescent glaze. The colour deepens when there is warm liquid in the glass, just darling. And some 1950's USA CorningWare, in blue cornflower, hardly ever seen here and mostly a USA obsession. The Sally Army gets some house clearance willed to it, I have in my mind now a house that was in the forces, moved through France and Germany in the 50's and 60's, maybe friends with a USA family who gave them some corningware. Either way, it's been quite pleasant and sad at the same time to think about. However, the stupendous amount I won for the Arcopal and Keramik vase have helped to ease the melanchony and edged me nearer to my Janome of choice, which was more than my mother was prepared to stump up for, though she has helped!

I have been melancholic, in the true sense. Weepy and fretful, awaiting scan results and so on. I'm all clear from severe nasties, which leaves me with the horrid probable outcome of early menopause. I'm 38! I know it is linked to my thyroid condition, so i'm steeling myself for the worst. I've been referred to hospital again to check me out further. If someone could give me the choice between being baldy and menopause, I would take baldy, I think. I know menopause doesn't have to be terrible, but as i'm so early, and my medication precludes HRT, I can safely say that everyone who knows me would be far happier without me being hormonal, they'd learn to love me bald in preference to having me going crazy at them and then weeping while sweating.

one child booty

Husband took son up to Yorkshire with him today. For the first time since she was born, 15 months after son, Daughter is enjoying the status of the firstborn: mummy all to herself, all day and night! And my goodness, one is SO EASY! She is napping now, I am writing and sipping a glass of wine (naughty!). We took the bus to Ely to avail ourselves of the toy shop there, and have returned laden down, partly because at the back of the toyshop there is a superb haberdashers. I now own, along with a vile looking Barbie doll which daughter weeping, refused to leave without, a cutting mat and rotary cutter and 5 fat quarters that I just picked up and didn't need, but which will now have to be made into something. I have never used a cutter or mat before, all previous efforts have been manhandled using the kitchen tiles as guides, and cut with (whisper it) kitchen scissors! When daughter goes to bed (and i'm expecting that will be late, as a treat we will stay up and watch the recorded Trumptons she is obsessed with, and eat eggy toast with too much sugar), I will fuss and cut and chop the squares for son's quilt. I am making the pattern one rectangle two squares to each patch rather than the nightmare of oddments daughters was. Then I plan to finsih her dolls house. Today I bought permanant markers to do the little plug sockets and switches with, and teeny pots of Humbrol to paint the details with, flowerpots, roof tiles and decorations.

I am stunned at the difference one child makes. We had an entirely civilised cafe lunch, lit a candle in the cathedral (SO cool today in the heat, it was mobbed!) and wandered the market and river. Then we did the essential girly thing of buying her new shoes (she has short fat feet like mine, so there was weeping when the shoes with houses on were too big, but she copes when the silver and pink sparkly sandals came out, sigh. ) Nary a row, nary a squabble and a bus ride to boot. I'm expecting she'll be missing him by bedtime though, and in truth, so will I be. It's too quiet!

Ladybird chickens

I have been amassing a collection of vintage ladybird books, and selling them off on ebay one by one once I can't bear reading them anymore or the kids have lost interest. I pick them up for 10p, good ones can resell for upward of 30 quid. A "Well loved tales" Cinderella series 606D can go for 50 quid or more if it's in good nick. I love the illustrations, they are so evocative of my own childhood. I'm just about to post one off to an ebay buyer, it's "The Farmer" from the "People at Work" series, illustrated by John Berry. Narrating the farming world of the 60's, the combine pictures drew sons' interest briefly before he became motorbike obsessed. I love the drawings of the hop pickers, presumably some rough old cockneys employed at slave wages in yesteryear, but I love best of all the chickens and the text alongside that describes their lovely life in the shed: "In batteries and deep litter the hens are kept warm, well fed and have plenty of light": yes, for 24 hours! See how happy the battery hens are! See how they love their lives in the shed! Forever! Till they die prematurely!

I have a coop waiting to be built. I was hoping for hens this year but we have too much to do beforehand, a fence, a lawn. Our garden is 250ft long but mostly gravel for now as the previous owners of the house had 5 cars and a love of long driveway from the rear access. We stupidly thought it would be a quick job to do a lawn, now we know it will involve a mini-digger hire, which son will love. So the hens are next year. How happy they will be, though, to be garden hens and not ladybird battery hens.

little morrocan-ish meatball stew

This recipe is ideal for me with meat-loving veg hating boy and veg loving meat-hating girl. I simply dole out different bits from it onto cous-cous and hope that meat-loving gets some veg juice that way and veg-loving gets some meat juice that way. It is a bastardised Nigella one, smaller in scope (she always cooks enough to feed a film crew, and they do live with her, I suppose)and less fussy, with the addition of pulses for awkward daughters protein intake, and different veg entirely. I also add the meatballs to the stew to cook, I think it makes them smooshier, if that is a word. I don't normally like her, as I couldn't get over the vision of her sitting in a London bus looking exactly as if she'd never sat in one before, pretending she had, in the last series, and I can't read the chumminess of her books without wanting to shake her. Give me the Hairy Bikers anyday, but she does do the odd good recipe, if you just read the instructions and not the waffle about her terribly lovely life. The only way I would really like her is if she revealed she was bald. Anyway....
To make the meatballs:
1 pack of lamb mince (500g)
1tsp all-spice
1tsp cumin powder
very finely chopped spring onion
1 tsp cinnamon.
1 beaten egg
Really, it's a kids recipe in the sense that even they can do this bit. Smoosh it all up, that's it! Then the difficult bit comes when you have to roll the meatballs up. Usually I would go for bigguns, but in this instance I advise going for teent tiny 1/2 teaspoon sized ones. You should get about 50 out of 500g. Then, a quick flip on either side in the frying pan to firm them up. This takes a short while and I usually end up with about 5 less afterwards as I eat them. Set aside.
For the stew:
1 green pepper
1 yellow pepper
1 butternut squash
1 can chickpeas
1 onion
3 cloves garlic
2 cans chopped tomatoes
1 chicken stock cube or stock from freezer.
1 tsp ginger
1 tsp tumeric

Chop everything up, you want it a little bigger then the meatballs for a nice mouth feel. The squash you can leave quite big as it's nice to have big chunks of it along with the teeny meatballs. Fry it all with the garlic, tumeric and ginger for a wee while till getting soft-ish, then add the tomatos and chicken stock cube, along with a tin can or two of water, depending on how runny you like it. Add the chickpeas, and stir, then add the meatballs and stir. Set it all to a slow "blurp" on the hob and leave for however long you like, really, I usually give it 45-60 mins, but you can turn it off, leave it and reheat it if you like. Serve it with a dollop of cous cous and some toasted pine nuts and pomegranate seeds on top if you want to be posh. There are no pictures because I ate it all before I thought about it.

If you are me, place meatballs and cous-cous in one plate, assiduously removing all veg, and veg and cous-cous on the other, removing all meat. Wonder why on earth I do this fairy-tale like task every meal time. Next week: spinning grain into gold.

Servalan

Ok, I've found a short haired lady icon I like. It's Servalan, evil nemesis of Blakes' Seven, lady of infinite wardrobe and short hair, with big guns. I'm showing my age, but I did love her fighting with Avon ( that's a lady cosmetic provider! But not in a sci-fi series where a box with widgets took up half the story). Me and my dad spent hours in a weird sci-fi fug that my mum just didn't get watching Blakes 7 and the original "v". This lady was a proto Sigourney.

hairless wonders

This week I was shouted at by some boys in a souped up vehicle (shortly, one imagines, to end up in the firty foot drain), who threw the words "lesbian" at me as they sped up the road. Unfortunately, they were going too fast for me to explain the whole idea of sexuality to them, in small words they would understand. Even if i'd held up a copy of "Razzle" and shouted "There's more to it than this, honest!" they'd still not have understood. I wish I could have pointed out to them the remoteness of the possibility of finding a lesbian who has 2 children in the Fens. Or how attractive they suddenly made the prospect of lesbianism seem to one who has a daughter here. God forbid she should be limited to the genepool round here.
The reason for the outburst is my hair, or lack thereof. My hair is currently less than an inch all over, and shorter in places. It is greyer than it used to be, finer than it used to be, and about 2/3 lighter in weight than it used to be. There is none up front, less up top. I am going bald. So I must be a lesbian, for who else would refuse the peroxide lock, the wavy perm, the waist length look? (Small guilty pause possibly, by the weediest boy in the car. Maybe she had (gasp!) CANCER!). No, not that either. Nobody knows why my hair falls out, it could be thyroid disease, or any number of other autoimmune things my body is being tested for, but the fact remains, ladies wihtou hair are WEIRD. And I am very hairless, no body hair and half eyebrows. The first time it happened, I was bereft and wore headscarves and lipstick to compensate, until I realised people thought I was dying and looked sadly at me all the time. Now I just brazen it out, and look strange. But I do have the odd weep in the shower.

Women and hair: we spend years of our lives shaving it off, dying it, tweezing it, wishing it was straight when it's curly and vice versa. With it in the wrong places, we are unsexy. Without it in the right places,we are unsexy. me? I'm sexy when i'm not too knackered from the kids and forget I don't have hair. I struggle to reconcile myself to its' loss, and get a lot of hair satisfaction from daughters flowing locks, but I confess to worrying at how i'm going to approach the Summer months, hatless. I spent an hour looking for sexy short haired or bald ladies on the web and found an odd fetish site (it may come to that yet) or pictures of Demi Moore and that weird one from the Star Trek film. That's it! Ladies who browse my blog: find me a short haired or bald lady I can look at with pride. There's no pic of me, but I might be brave enough soon.

minature gardens, puffers and spanakoppitta

A frantic weekend here already.

I have a fasting blood test designated for Thursday, so I had already planned to make 2 spanakoppitta to gorge on prior to it. Having thyroid disease and some (as yet unspecified ) other autoimmune disorder is a bit rubbish and as far as i'm concerned a weekend of eating cheesy spinach things was my just and right due.

However, before I could crack open the wine and eat more than the crunchy middle bit pictured here, I was on the phone to the ambulance men and women of Fenland to come see to son, who went from ok to REALLY not ok within about 45 minutes. He developed extreme asthma in March for no apparent reason, and this was his second big and very scary attack. The ambulance man and woman were fab, fast, kind, professional, and extremely glad not to be in Peterborough city centre on a Saturday night. They stayed till he was stable and safe, and what lovely people they were. So Sunday was spent in the FANTASTIC cottage hospital-ness that is Doddington, as the paramedics had advised, while son sat so good and sweetly under the nebuliser mask that I wanted to weep. So awful to see a child so willingly submit to a mask because they know they need it. But he is well now, albeit due to steroids and puffers for weeks ahead, and we spent the afternoon making mini gardens and hosting fairy tea-parties. So much fun, making mini-wee things.

And now i'm going to eat ALL the spinach pie.

The recipe is here: and very fine it is too, if I say so myself. You can't just have a little bit. Probably not authentic, and no specific amounts, but this is how it's made in this house.

Ingrediants:

1 pack spinach (usually about 250g)

I pack filo (thawed, usuallu about 6 sheets)

1 pack feta

pine nuts to taste

1 sweet onion.

2 eggs

a good glug of double cream.

nutmeg, pepper, oregano.

Fry the onions till soft and clear. Add the pepper, oregano and nutmeg. Meanwhile, wilt the spinach and squeeze as much water as you can out of it till it is pitiful looking and you wonder what you paid for. That's the way of spinach. Crumble the feta and beat the eggs. Mix the whole caboodle together and shove in the fridge for a bit. Find a nice dish. Butter it. Then melt some more butter, more than you think you will need. Place one sheet of filo in the bottom of the dish, the edges over the side. Your aim is to place 4 layers of spinach / cheese mixture on top of 4 sheets of filo, so divide your mixture into 4. After you've spread the spinach mix, fold the overlap sheet down over it, like making a bed, then lay another sheet down. Brush some melted butter on each sheet as you go. Your last layer, you have two sheets left over to scrunch on the top for topping, add liberal butter to these so it's nice, tasty, and bad for you. Bake in the oven for about 40 mins at Gas 6, or until the middle has set and it's nice and crunchy on top. Eat it all secretly by yourself, or with lambchops.

Fen Runners

Just a quick blog to heartily recommend this book, Fen Runners, to anyone with teens who like a read. Or adults, like me, who like a read too. In my days as a kids librarian, a book that treated young adults with respect was always welcome, and this one, a spooky tale of ghosts, maybes and growing up in a small Fenland town is perfect. Eerie, full of sense of space and self, it perfectly captures the area whilst spinning a tale of past and present in the manner of "Toms' Midnight Garden" , only a wee bit scarier. A rare sympathy with the young, and a good yarn to boot. Makes me want to strap on a pair of "Fen runners" , as ice skates were locally known, and seek out the dykes and the monsters therein myself.

And another recommendation that has popped into mind again is this: "Can any mother help me?". It's come to mind since doing this blog, as so many nice ladies have pitched in and sent me goodies. It tells the real life story of post war women who responded to a plea in a womans; magazine, asking "can any mother help me?". A woman was lonely, stuck at home and going crazy, and as a result of the response, women formed a round robin magazine that spanned decades, and covered domestic life, personal life, politics, everything, in the most interesting way. I felt that I knew the women involved after reading this, and it gave a fascinating insight into the situation of women post-war. Read it!

gravel animal mounds, rabid Tory hating and fat quarters

Since my nan passed, the kids have been obsessed with the idea of burial. Every day this week I have found another farm animal that's succumbed to the toytown Foot and Mouth and has been haphazardly buried in the driveway with a ceremony involving sprinkling bits of my best thyme plant onto its' plastic corpse. Of course, they are children and it's an imporatnt element of play to use it to come to terms with things but finding half interred animals everywhere is beginning to freak me out.

Otherwise, I have been restraining myself from waiting in the Budgens newspaper aisle and shouting at Daily Mail readers "IT'S YOUR FAULT!". I've exchanged emails with our one of two Lib Dem councillors who is optimistic that the coalition will work, but really, where do the two councillors now stand in a sea of blue? I really don't think they'll be upholding the left-leaning (as was) principles of the Lib-Dems (as were) now they're in bed together. It depresses me looking at the new cabinet, grinning to themselves. Nick Clegg has effectively overseen the death of the third party. The new push to alter the number necessary to dissolve Parliament strengthens the Tory hands, not to mention the proposed boundary changes and alteration to the number of MP's, both of which seek to ensure a Tory stranglehold for the forseeable. And for this Nick got, what? A few cursory measures agreed, a cabinet seat, and a positive surety that Cameron will dump him as soon as, leaving us with no credible third party at all. Over 3,000 people rejoined Labour in the past 2 days, and I am betting this defection from the Lib Dems will run and run. If he had listened to the Lib Dem peers and pursued a policy of supporting the minority government in applicable measures, he might have have some credibility left. As it is, he is Cameron's fag.

Anyway, nice things. This postcard sent from sweetiepie50, a fellow fenland blogger. How nice to recieve parcels and post from other Fenland ladies, it makes ones cockles warm. I have found it hard settling here after the bustle of London and Cambridge, this has quite perked me up.

And new fat quarters for sons quilt. Suitable dinosaur, tractor and plane motifs with some nice brights and seagulls to boot. I am thinking of doing large pieces this time round, and maybe I ought to hold off till I get my machine. There is a nice freebie pattern on the Michael Miller page with chunky squares that seems doable, the Paula Prass one. Otherwise I might go freehand again.

Finally, (bit of a curates' egg this post) a recipe for a frugal supper that does just as well cold the next day. It's called Briam and is Greek.

Ingrediants: potatoes, x 2 bigguns

6 garlic cloves, crushed

2 courgettes, sliced

3 assorted peppers, sliced

1 red onion, sliced

as many tomatoes as will cover the top of your dish

can of tomatoes

thyme and parsley

Plonk a layer of potatoes on the bottom of your dish. Slice them first, using the slicing bit of a cheese grater so they are thin slivers. Add some garlic, some thyme and parsley. then add everything else in layers. Between each layer add garlic and herbs. Top off with a layer of sliced tomatoes and a big glug of olive oil, then add canned tomatoes to the top, spread and seal with foil. Plonk it in the oven for 2- 2 1/2 hours at gas 4. I like to add some feta and parmesan to the top and brown it before eating. This tastes lovely cold too. I like aubergine added to the mix but the kids definately do not, so, heigh ho. Smashing with a lamb chop or on it's own with some spinach. Makes enough for 2 adults, 2 kids, and 2 adults and 2 kids the next day too.

eggs, parcels and boobs

A nice day today to assauge some of the election bile i've been feeling. It's like i've had permanent PMT, i've not been able to talk to ANYONE who's the slightest bit blue without wanting to rip their heads off and- well, I won't even say it.

So, some nice things. Bantam eggs. Look at this lovely lot, all different shades and slightly different sizes, a quid for a dozen at the farmers market. They have a much bigger ratio of yolk to albumen than normal hen eggs and as such make the best scrambly egg for the kids. But they are almost too pretty to use. The one at the front is a wooden toy egg, the kids keep trying to trick me.

And a parcel for me from Angela at the Fenland Textile Studio, who has very kindly sent me not just the CD she promised me of the V and A quilt exhibition, but lots of quilting magazines, freebie thread and material to boot! I suspect that, just as when you are trying to give up smoking and someone is always there to offer you a fag and a beer, when you start sewing and quilting there are kind ladies who pop up touting swatches and fat quarters, knowing that you will get hooked. Thanks Angela!

And then 2 hours without the kids. A whole 2 hours with them in a free creche courtsy of our Surestart Centre (PLEASE don't cut them, Cameron, you t**t). They had a lovely time, and I tried very hard to concentrate on the work and not on the tea,coffee and biscuits. I am getting free training to be a breastfeeding peer support worker, the rates of breastfeeding are terrible here and support is sorely needed. I will never forget the midwife who sneakily gave firstborn a bottle without my say so when I hobbled to the loo. If I hadn't have been attached to a drip, and weeping already, i'd have brained her. Thankfully support was available from a peer worker, so he got going despite her efforts. You can't beat boobs. Although I wasn't too sad to hang my boobs up, metaphorically (let's face it, if I did hang them up, they'd look better now), after 3 years of constant milk producing, from one kid to the other without a break. I am very glad I did it, not least because the money I saved on formula can now be put to much better use buying bits of fabric. And pretty eggs.

Just look at this ad arguing for greater rights to breastfeed in public. Of course, it's not from the UK, but Oz. And this one, just fab. We've a long way to go.

pillowcases, votes and wishful machines.

Well, it's a good job i've been practising being frugal, as we enter another Tory era. They were not kind to me last time around, with lots of job loss, pain, and an 80's spent listening to my mum cry and scrape together meals from anything left in the cupboard. I am utterly unconvinced by the "compassionate" conservatism Cameron is touting. Still, we maybe get the government we deserve. I truly feel that many people have started taking for granted the things Labour have given us. A period without tax credits, family credits, help for the elderly, help for the poor, and cuts in education, health and ...er... everything will maybe open up eyes again. Those young people who have grown up taking all these things for granted will experience a rude awakening as they are told to "get on their bikes", and there will be precious little safety net for the middle classes if they come a cropper. This article about the Council Cameron touts as being the model of Compassionate Conservatism says it all. Don't be old, sick, or unemployed, people.

It could have been so different: we are now such a media entrapped country that I honestly believe Labour lost because Gordon simply isn't "media". He's a bit portly, he's got a wonky eye and a weird grin, and he couldn't ( and rightly, wouldn't) roll out his family for the press every 5 minutes, as Cameron did. I feel very sorry for him, he seemed almost a man out of time to me. I tried listening to him on the radio, and avoiding tv, and without the media spotlights he came across as a good orator and deeply principled. The principles I will miss in future.

Anyway, enough already. Onto making stuff.

Pillowcases! My local charity shops punt them out at 20p. As a result I have amassed this fine collection of vintage and cheapo cases. Poor daughter is going to be in pillowcase dresses till she is 18.I am particularly keen on making this dress out of the racing car pattern. I am looking at patterns, I want an adult pillowcase top! Someone find me one, please. Suggestions for easy-sew pillowcase patterns win a quilt made by me and finished in, er......2050 probably, if the last was any guide. Which leads me nicely onto.....

I must get a machine because handsewing takes too long! The elderly ones I have amassed are beyond help, my mum has offered me £150 of filthy lucre towards a new one providing I do all her seamstress jobs. SO i'm on the lookout. Currently veering towards Janome, but as a complete and utter novice suggestions keenly garnered. I will need it to be idiot proof, with easy instructions, the worlds' easiest bobbin loading, and threading, and good support and servicing. It's an investment though, i'll be needing it to sew cardboard into clothing after a few years in the new regime.......

quilt 1, done

Finally finished, the everlasting no-pattern-scrap-insanity quilt. Constructed from scraps, charity shop pillowcases, and old clothes, backed with an old fleece and bound with an old sheet. Randomly put together into a sort of rectangle sized for a cotbed, and wadded with cheap stuff from Dunelm.Quilted with charity shop embroidery thread and sewn by a madwoman who had no idea what she was getting into.

Things I have learned from this:

Next time, i'll use a pattern

Next time, the pieces will be a uniform shape and size, not any-old-wonky

Next time, all the pieces will be of similar material. Stretchy pillowcases and old silk ties are hell to join together.

Next time, i'll use a ruddy sewing machine.

More than three beers means you have to use the seam ripper.

Still, i'm proud of it, my first made thing of size. Now son wants one. By Xmas, maybe.