Food confessions

One satisfyingly decorated tree.

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Having reached the end of the road with fairy cakes, I find myself enjoying remaindered jelly diamonds;  the nut-free Christmas cake mixture has matured beautifully (trial cupcake sized selection shrinking rapidly);  luminous pink Blooms kosher viennas for dinner, not sure I've tried them since childhood.

Lousy maths

Nursey held up the unused seaweed in triumph this morning, "See how much less we're using!", so are we down to an eighth, then?  No, a quarter.  But isn't that what you said last week?  So long as it's progressing, I'm grateful.

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My epicurean hosts declined to have last night's feast photographed, on pain of deserting this blog and never returning.  You'll have to take it on trust that it was exquisite.

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Xmas cakes fed again, thirsty lot.  And a triumph!  Constance Spry's 1956 marzipan/almond paste recipe.  She doesn't distinguish between the two.  Far fewer eggs than Delia, and the interesting addition of orange flower water.  What a ridiculous way to spend my day.  Never mind.

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Gripped by, not quite finished 'Cheating at Canasta', William Trevor.  Now there's quality.

Credit crunching at Asda

(or Wal Mart, for my friends across the pond).  In a demented moment, risked Asda for a few essentials.  In recent months shopping has been by internet or at the corner shop, or by bus to Muesli Hill.  Except the car park was half empty, and so were the aisles.  There's no-one out there, and it's three weeks to Christmas.  Something evil this way comes.

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The GGs are putting a chicken in the oven, and my contribution is cupcakes (how did they miss out, when I was making them, surely, daily?).  Asda get the thumbs down for cake decorations.  Very disappointing selection.  I'm a little heavy handed with the icing colours today, trust I'm excused.

Up

Back to feeding the Christmas cakes with M&S brandy (someone's got to support them in their hour of need), and I'll bet there's another Christmas jumble sale out there somewhere for me to rummage.
Uplifting sort of day, yesterday.  Susan Elderkin's final writing workshop at the Haven before she goes forth to multiply;  I realise I compose very differently on paper, should do it more, then stick it on here.  See if you can spot the difference.

SingalongaShabbat service at shul.  Maybe it was a bit born-again feeling, but what the heck. R showed me his beautiful Tai Chi drawings, which someone will surely publish.

Here we go again..

Am boiling 53 fl oz of water in a thick bottom vessel, as per instructions, for upma.
[11ish] Better form today, yoga mat, domesticity, errands.  Sun's out and I'm off to feed the ducks. 

[1230ish] Painkillers again.  Wish I knew why.  Am increasingly tempted to draw dotted line in permanent marker on the bit that aches, and see if it's the same place next time it happens.  All I did was feed the ruddy ducks.  Found myself hopping backwards throughout, no more confident of not being pecked than when I was smaller than the geese on Totteridge ponds.  

Collected seven red rubber bands abandoned by feckless postmen en route.  Never sure whether I'm collecting them for myself or for your eldest, KW.  I don't think you should dissuade her from writing to the Sorting Office, imploring the local postie to drop more on your doorstep.  You never know what you might get back.  

Rest now

Free spice shop calendar for 2009, "No responsibility taken for holidays.  Kindly compare with Govt Gazette".  And my 1975 volume 1 of Somerset Maugham short stories, taken on holiday to Cliftonville aged 12.  Opening it brought flashbacks to Bond films screened on restaurant walls in Super 8, and the temporary stemming of hostilities with my little sister, any ally being better than none so far from home. 
Goa comes to Drummond Street.
Imagine the embarrassed silence when this beauty was donated to the Breast Clinic.  I've been visiting for over a year, and only noticed it today, squeezed into the shadows by the water fountain.

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Check-up done and dusted - all looking good; farewell to Mr Trustworthy Surgeon, moving to Guy's.  If I'd needed more doing, he'd take me with him, but I don't, so I'll stay with the safe hands in manifold departments I now know so well at UCLH.

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Sleep calls.  It's the relief, no new horrors, no winding up needed, just winding down. 

Feeding the meter

Hopelessly attached to my cakes:  to each, its own character, and a weekly slug of brandy. 

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Hooked on Charlotte Mendelson's 'When We Were Bad'.  Irredeemably dysfunctional rabbi and literary family, imploding in the eerily familiar Hampstead/Fortis Green/Gospel Oak triangle.  The central character's mystery stomach pains are making me feel a little uncomfortable.  Hoping for miraculous denoument.  If you've read it, don't tell me.  

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Bazaar at the lovely St Andrew's Church Hall this pm, where I used to teach an unfortunately timetabled yoga class (always began by sweeping up splinters and dog hair - dog handling, alas, was a few hours before me).  They've had a revamp since, but I bet the same stock comes out.  Have been accepted on an in-service training course, teaching yoga for cancer.  It's a year away.  But a good thing to have on the distant horizon.

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Sainsburger's online grocery ordering has crashed - the only thing the system is allowing anyone to purchase, is a chicken.  

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Weather good enough for gardening.  Time for a symbolic snip or two.  

Essential foodstuffs

Recognise next year's cover girl?  And she's signed away her photo rights.  I thought I was rubbish at business.  Softy.
First attempt at coffee-flavoured buttercream:  it curdled.  Do you suppose anyone will notice?  Lemon, chocolate and lavender a lot more successful.  S Opp got me started on this whole cupcake obsession, after all, and it's her birthday.

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Chicken soup simmered down enough for the lid to fit on the pan now.  Those little feet sticking out the top could almost turn me vegetarian.   Nah, been there, done that..

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Next door's cat is sitting on my compost heap, yawning.  My dear, delapidated Tiger hasn't a shred of seniority left in this neighbourhood.

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Someone emailed me 'Dear TOFF..'.  And how exactly did I deserve that name?  Realised, sinkingly, I chose it for myself, didn't I?  I've been living with it since August and never even noticed.  

Battery Depleted

No photos today, 'Battery Depleted'.  That makes two of us.  It seems half the nation is being kept awake by a hacking cough and a temperature [think of all the money saved on unused blusher].  Unwelcome tradition:  sister + Little Boy due = always feel ill.  Would love things to be more balanced.

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Drozdze Babuni from the corner shop [couldn't resist cute packaging and 29p].  Hadn't a clue what it meant, but thought an online dictionary would soon fix that.  Apparently it means 'Yeast Babuni' [tried rival translation device, no help:  'Did you mean baboon'?]   Maybe it's yeast and I'm finally going to make bread, though the package illustration appears to be a large jelly mould.  And something else that had better be butter [illustration of full milk churn, I must have got that one right..]

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Now have company for all November and December appointments.  Thank you, Team.

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Sorry I forgot your little one's birthday, KW.  Card in post today. xx

Scrambled brain

Stumbled to Nursey's this morning, mercifully crossed paths with no-one I recognised.  Not a pretty sight - precious little sleep last night thanks to a racking (what a fine old-fashioned word) cough.  And somewhere during my through the night mental ramblings, I realised that marzipan was out because of young E's nut allergy, as was almond paste, but, oh bugger, what about the nuts already in the cake mixture.  Another batch of child-friendly Christmas cake mixture is underway.  Do you suppose it'll work in fairy cake sized morsels?  Individually iced?  So long as they don't burn while baking, it should do, shouldn't it?

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The garden centre went to the trouble of making me sign a disclaimer:  I hereby agree to your ridiculous new terms of carriage, I will ensure that I leave enough room for a juggernaut outside my house, and that your staff won't cross my threshold.  Except, when he arrived, it was the same perfectly lovely old bloke who delivered last year's supply plus Christmas tree, "Same place as usual, love?" and stacked 20 sacks of logs in and around as per my inclinations.  Excellent.

Look! Almost a Christmas Cake!

The first one is out of the oven!  Only two to go.  Slight dread of re-enacting mistimed baking events, staying up half the night in Dean Hall [ah, student life, where did it all go wrong?], waiting for hefty puddings to cook, and waiting and waiting and waiting.  Going back to bed, putting the alarm on, heading down to the basement kitchen to check again, and again, and again... Greenwich raised millions selling those glorious, grand Halls of Residence off, and no wonder.

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Poring over diverse cookbooks for decorating suggestions.  Fanny Cradock (OK, I won't go there, but I did love her biography, she was some girl) suggests a little rose water and noyau (had to look that one up) plus an entire coffeespoon of cloves.  She was notorious for getting her quantities wrong, according to her detractors, who may have had a point.  Meanwhile Delia tells me I can make poinsettia leaves out of almond paste - but doesn't everyone think poinsettias are just a tad ugly?    Having said that, this is rather a cute crochet poinsettia, after all..  Not my doing, needless to say..

Plenty of time to make my mind up.  If I resort to ready made Santas from Sainsbury's you'll know I gave in.

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The last Christmas cake I made was one autumn term, in Cookery, at school.  Every Wednesday, we fed it (stingily) or decorated it (clumsily), and the one thing I have no memory of, is eating it.  Hateful Cookery classes:  for a start, Wednesday was a really bad day - Biology homework meant carrying a heavyweight hardbacked textbook, not to mention a packed lunch, and all the ingredients for Cookery.  I can remember one particularly large red nylon roll-shaped bag with a solitary canvas strap, that would roll from one side of my body to another, and the tins would smack into my legs.  It was all too clumsy, too heavy, too miserable.

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Every Cookery class recipe seemed to start with 'Take equal quantities of lard and Stork margerine' (always ruddy Stork;  I do believe we were conned into paying that school for copies of the Stork Recipe Book).  Being a nice, Jewish girl, we had neither of these mysterious fats in the house.  I used to cut up and pointlessly, individually wrap, (Ok, be honest, my mother used to ...) 1 ounce each of Tomor kosher margerine (convincingly white) and President French butter (spectacularly yellow).  This seemed to keep the system quiet.  God knows why I didn't take two ounces of butter and be done with it.  Apologies if you were looking for a quick resume of my health issues.  Not this evening.

Plump

I was just getting geared up for a good sulk [why is my stomach still hurting, and have I got a temperature, and the garden centre won't cross the threshold to deliver my logs "Health & Safety, we're not insured", well bloody get insured, and I missed a special delivery and I'm not well enough to drive to the sorting office and..] when dear Pp (go on, applaud me Pp for that stupendously imaginative crowning leap) phoned.  She'll accompany me to Mr Trustworthy appointment on 18th Nov, full of news and ideas.  Lovely.

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Two mixing bowls full of dried fruit and peel have (so far) absorbed over a litre of brandy.  Have they no shame?  And the sultanas still look like Joan Collins' hands, and have clearly a way to go.  Sling on some more and wait, then.

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Nice chap on the Broadway endeavoured to replace my lost poppy while refusing money from me.  One could tell he hadn't a background in sales.

Couldn't resist..

Slicing angelica.  Very satisfying.  Quite like the look of this set.  And I didn't even get the piping bag out.

Hope you all have a lovely weekend.

Alex Haley

One day, I'll get back to my roots (yeah..), but for now, they keep on coming to me.  Love my corner shop.

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All's well with me at Nursey's.

Home

2 1/2 hr wait with my Torygraph held high to avoid eye contact with Needy Nutter No.3 (they were everywhere today) to see Mr Trustworthy Surgeon - all's healing well, next appt in a month; Nurse Amelia is engaged after an 8 month courtship, wedding in the spring (that's the spirit); Mr Trustworthy is moving to Guy's Hospital but will let me go with him.  

Home; fell asleep immediately; woke for tea & two cupcakes - Cakeadoodledo woman is very canny:  I've been using her recipe to the letter; yet hers taste better.  She's crammed extra egg yolk and vanilla in, somehow.  And I salute her reckless use of colouring - had to rinse off splendidly stained fingertips.

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Where did today's visitors materialise from?  Who do I know in Yogyakarta?  Lively writing workshop yesterday;  conjured up dialogue with neighbour as couple having sex in a lift.  Felt like kids passing notes in class, momentarily forget it was so legitimate, we'd even paid for it.

Finished another Muji passport notebook with character sketches on journeys to & from hospital.  Struggling to read my speedwriting now.  What does "hoodie/cosy/robots" mean, exactly? Displacement, don't you love it.  It was when I stopped to scribble on a zebra crossing that I realised things might have gone a little far.  There's no money in writing, is there?  Even Ian Fleming never let the day job go.

Riches!

My very own Cakadoodledo selection!  Thank you, our J.  Because without their delivery man, I might still be in bed.  Hideously overslept after several hours alert between 4-7am, trying to sort my brain/future out.  If you were here, now, Dr JS, I wouldn't be writing this, I'd be on the tube to UCLH.  Proper replies to manifold family e-mails on return.  Thanks, all.
Ever had one of those "I've got one upstairs" moments during Antiques Roadshow?  Got briefly excited by the prospect of making a mint from my New Whole Duty of Man (1730-something edition).  Google is a cruel but honest friend:  took all of 30 seconds to discover it on sale for $150.  Still, a small profit since purchasing about 25 years ago from 2nd hand bookshop in Finchley that sold books by the yard, with noose hanging from ceiling, "Shoplifters will be hung".  Couldn't afford CCTV, I suspect.

The Prince of Gardenia, and other stories

How could anyone absorbed in tales of seduced typists on the Balkan Express be en route to a Writing Course at the Groucho?  And yet..  Hope I don't need painkillers before I get there, but I don't think I'll get away with it.  Reassuring Nursey this morning.  More hospital tomorrow.  Onward and upward, as they no doubt still say at Camden School for Girls (always preferred their motto to our 'Serve and Obey'.  Miserable lot.  What wretched ambition would that match?)

Rissotto doesn't photograph well.  There's an inevitable anaemia to it.  And it makes me wonder whether I'm morphing into Auntie Anne.  The worst of recycling.

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Cut some of the elderly clematis down this morning.  It's going to fill bags and bags.

There now

You didn't think I'd be able to resist photographing them, did you?  The suspiciously similar pink ones are meant to be rose scented, pink and red.  I'm improving, slowly.

Don't get excited..

.. because I know no more than I did this morning:  I've been thoroughly interrogated by a gastro-enterologist, who has lined me up for a series of routine tests, which he'd give anyone complaining of pain where I do.  One more MRI with Secretin, to check liver/pancreas function;  7 blood samples sent off, testing for metals (some bodies have a hard time disposing of them), Hep, and antibodies (in case I'm rejecting my own liver - highly unlikely, as I'm feeling fit as a fiddle today, give or take understandable tiredness from a full day in town).  

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Consultant was everything you'd expect of a gentleman from the Orient:  discrete, mannered, mildly incomprehensible, never animated, until on the subject of complementary therapies, and he was off...  Clearly thinks they're all very, very dangerous, and should be banned forthwith.  Should have suggested he lunch with my radiotherapy and oncology teams, who encouraged the Homeopathic Hospital visits in the first place, referred me even.  Don't tell me those little sugar pills have gone and harmed me.  Piffle.  Shall cease consumption, just in case. 

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Rested a good long while here with a Peyton & Byrne cake or two.  Heal's tea room, dingy lighting, all furniture - except sofa - better suited to child's tea party or Rasa Express, where KW treated me to fine lunch.  Sorry about photo quality, prioritised health and conversation.  She's looking as svelte and swish as ever, despite protesting otherwise. 

Most unfortunately, en route home, fave Drummond St store was out of instant Badam mix.  My hot milk will never recover.

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KW - please visit me at home some time and I will make you up a sample pack of all things Indian:  home-toasted ghee, rose cordial and a spice mix come to mind for starters.  Early to bed for me now.  Love to everyone indoors.

Saffron slut

I'd thought they'd closed the restaurant down - anyone with half a mind could have picked up all they needed to start another: plates, air con unit, table cloths...  Then an apronned employee appeared, cuckoo-clock-like, out of a doorway and added more to this pile while I avoided being run over, photographing it.  Did she shoo me away?  Did she hell.  Will think twice before eating there.

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Mind you, my own kitchen sluttiness knows no bounds.  Cat turned his nose up at 3-day old chicken in his bowl (and there's me thinking, 'treat').  The rest of the bird is becoming risotto as I write (reliable Delia again).  And finally a use for that tiny salt cellar spoon - it fits easily into the saffron bottle, and I'd assumed there was no 21st century use for it unless and until I developed a monstrous coke habit.

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I'm too new to this ipod game.  How do people manage not to dance?  Tom Jones on the way home tonight.

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Celebrating: an entire day on only two paracetomol.  Could have done with more on the tube, but I was out of water, and haven't yet mastered the art of swallowing those fat codeine tabs neat.

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Have just done a £15 deal (thank you, Beverley of North Finchley) for a 1972 Singer sewing machine.  

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And an illuminating afternoon in Soho, writing.  Sick of your own voice?  Try the third person.  Now why ever didn't I think of that before.  Liberating.