More from Mog and Me

We spend quite a bit of time together, Mog and I, usually when she is unwell and the Little Princess is in school. It's nice, except the her being unwell part; tLP is naturally hugely exuberent and generally manages to ensure most of the attention is firmly fixed on her when she is around. Without her, it's Mog's choice of music, or peaceful silence. Or, of course, the suction machine, the siren song of the SATs monitor, the Grump-hiss of the oxygen concentrator and the steam train breaths of a rather poorly child. But still, it is as a rule a more restful environment when tLP is elsewhere.

tLP and I get our own time together when Miss Mog is in respite, and the dynamics are different again; freed from the necessity to compete we get silly giggly spontaneous expeditions or calm uninterrupted cuddles, and occasionally a swim, although these are trickier to sort out now that swimming lessons are back in session and pools are closed to the public after school. We get to go for walks holding hands, sneak out for fish and chips, or just sit and chat. And always, she likes to phone Mog at respite, and check up with the nurse that all is going well.

But this was a different kind of tLP free day; Mog and I went into Oxford to the Magic Cafe. And as I sat and stuffed myself silly with enjoying a tofu chana daal with cauliflower bhajis, Mog's other Mum entertained us all with a lovely selection of songs. Beautiful singing, a fine pianist, and Mog providing backing vocals where appropriate; a lovely way to spend a lunchtime. Even if the people at the table behind us seemed completely oblivious of the fact the music was live, and determined to talk on ever louder to drown it out. 

Didn't put Mog off though, although the change of pianist half way through did disconcert her a little.

And then Mog and her other mother went for another music session of a rather different kind, and I had a whole two hours to myself, to be spent pootling along the Cowley Road. Dipping into Oxfam, I found a book I'd been hearing good things about and thinking I ought to read, a copy of Swallows and Amazons, identical to the one I had loaned out several years ago and never had returned, and slotting beautifully into my newly pruned bookshelves beside the rest of the series, and a new Kipper book for tLP. And then the cashier disappeared with my books, returning after five minutes with an apology, and a discount as one had been wrongly priced. Hurrah!

A bit more of a wander, and the shops began to pall, so I slipped away from the traffic and into one of the more peaceful spots on this planet.

Closely supervised by a very nosy, but very upside down squirrel, I meandered through the churchyard and cemetary

propping myself up on a tree trunk to read a few chapters of my new book

and enjoying the beauty, and the greenness, just a solid brick wall away from the hustle and bustle and fumes of the roadside.

It's an odd place really. Where else would you find four bicycle shops all within a few hundred yards of each other? Twelve different barber shops, cuisine from around the world, little shops selling okra and yams and sharan fruit and rice, university students and staff and young families, two hospices, a couple of convents and some very adult shops and bars, all side by side with this peaceful woodland memorial churchyard and cemetery in the middle?

Old graves and newer graves, beloved husbands and mothers and children. And this:

"Not forgotten", says the inscription at the bottom. And, louder than the words, "Not Forgotten" proclaims the geranium clipping newly placed in a neat little pot. Not wife and mother now, but daghter and sister? Brother and son? Two deaths nearly a century ago, and someone still remembers. I hope they have the comfort of hoping for a reconciliation.

And so I think of Goldie. I don't visit her grave; she is not there; it is not a site which has much meaning for me. And it is, in any case, far more important to her other family, and it would only cause extra grief if we were to meet there unexpectedly. There are other places which are far more Goldie-ful than one small slice of earth. We will meet again one day, and what an amazing meeting that will be. Meanwhile I'll catch her echoes along school corridors and in quiet spots at church, in photographs and with friends and in the sudden wave of recollections which wash up,  released by a phrase or an expression or any one of a hundred unexpected things.

Never Forgotten.

So I paused to photograph the marker, and then paused again when I came to write this as to whether I would include it. It is, after all, someone else's story and not my own to tell. So I hope the flower-giver, the rememberer, will forgive any hurt if I have intruded upon his or her grief. And I hope those friends I have to do visit graves - and how can it possibly be that I have more than one set of friends who nurture a too-small grave? - will also understand that I mean no disrespect by not visiting, and cast no criticisms their way either. We just mourn differently. 

And then, because life's like that, and because time runs on even when it feels as though it has stopped, I walked back to one of the hospices, collected a happy singing Mog, and drove back home, picking up a very contented Little Princess on the way. And there was tea, and there were bedtime routines, and there was much silliness with the cat, and it was a good day.

Tia

Blackberrying.

There's something about Autumn which brings out the dormant domesticity in me. After a summer of shoving stuff here and there and settling for satisfaction when the piles aren't higher than my head, the girls go back to school, and the sharp September sun shows all the dust and detritus.

I suppose the sensible and truly domesticated woman would take advantage of that sharpened sight, and get tidying. Well, I did, for a while. But between starting this post a few days ago and basking smugly in the newly clean and polished sitting room and kitchen, reality rudely reintruded, and now the house is more or less back to looking well lived in. But that's ok; we do live here, after all.

And anyway, this weekend we just had to get going on a more interesting and definitely domestic job; rumour had it the blackberries were ripe. And ripe blackberries wait for no woman.

Memories of childhood, empty ice cream cartons, a field with nosy horses in it, and endless brambles, twice as high as my head. Sweet juicy berries, staining fingers and clothes and lips a rich deep purple. And then a kitchen with jams bubbling in the preserving pan, and the promise of blackberry and apple crumbles, sponges and pies in the months ahead.

It's a little bit more complicated these days. Heavy traffic on our previous roadside stops; dangers and probably polluted. And the fields with their horses and cows all accessible only by wishing gate or stile, which is to say, not accessible for our family as it stands.

We headed for Jarn Mound. Many brambles, most accompanied by stealth nettles, but very few ripe berries. Still, by picking diligently, we were able to keep more in tLP's bucket than she was able to eat; retreating to the car after an hour with enough for a couple of crumbles if nothing else.

And then, honour satisfied and memories built, the girls and dropped the grandparents off at The Spot (Field at the top of Sunningwell for locals interested!), and drove slowly from the top of the field through Villages and winding roads to the Village Hall at the bottom of the field. And there we found the mother lode. Branch after branch, bursting with berries, at a height lockable from wheelchair or on foot, no need to shinny up fences or bend double. And by the time Mum and Dad had picked over the top field, we'd very nearly filled our own bucket again.

So hurrah, a freezer full of blackberries. Top tip: when freezing blackberries, spread them out in a single layer on baking trays, freeze them like that then put them in a freezer bag. They stay frozen singly rather than all clumping together, and I can now shake them out half a dozen at a time for smoothies if I wish. Perhaps I'm the last women in the western world not to know this tip. But in case I'm not, and on the off chance the one remaining didn't-know-that woman is reading this, I offer a further top tip. Before carefully and lovingly spreading out the blackberries in a single layer on your baking trays, check that the trays you are using will fit in your freezer. Thank you.

So, the house is dusty and cluttered once more, but motivation is somewhat lacking as it is about to be torn apart in order to give us a functioning boiler once more. Hot water and heating are kind of useful these days. There are tufts of wool lying around because I've finally finished Great Grannie's birthday present. There may be the odd gingery clump of dough in a corner somewhere, from where tLP made off with the remains of the gingersnaps. But for today I'm looking at the memories and the coziness, not the lack of polish. I hope the girls are too.

Yum

This week's fruit and veg box looks particularly appetising, perhaps because I now have the leisure to decide what to cook and when without a small voice informing me of what she does and doesn't want and like and need, and without the constant CBeebies chatter. It's almost enough to make me want a giant bowl of vegetable soup with a banana, mango, and pear smoothie to finish. Almost...

It is, however, really satisfying to be able to cook for all three of us these days. To take some fish from the freezer, add fresh potatoes and leafy greens, scoop some of that into Izzy the Whizzy, and know that all three of us are getting what we need from things I can see and touch and smell, not from a bland, artificially scented, powder.

Oily fish tonight with some nice dark leafy veg. Chicken yesterday, with roasted roots. Leek and potato frittata tomorrow perhaps. Antioxidants, omega oils, minerals, vitamins, natural fibre. Different colours, different smells, different feels in the stomach. One and a half of us will be getting food through a tube rather than chewing and swallowing, but why should that mean different food?

I must go; the veg box came with a recipe for Carrot Muffins and it is calling my name.
Tia

Playing with photos

It's Monday. The girls are back at school, Great Grannie is back at home, and I have the house to myself and no special agenda beyond making bread for 25 before we go to Helen House. And I have 130 photos from our week away.

I have been playing.

And, after several hours of tweaking, I have finally beaten the printer into submission, forced it to talk properly to the computer, and persuaded the pair of them not to auto-crop my photos into the shapes they wanted to make them.

Hurray for quiet days.

Thinking though of friends whose days are not so quiet at the moment; ill health in themselves, their children, their parents, complicated legal stuff around the world and closer to home, and I wish I could send them all to a quietly empty autumnal coastline for some rest and refreshment.

Tia

November

Recipe for a quiet blog

Take one Grandad, and post him up a tree
Spend the next three weeks converting the apples into a whole lot of this
and a freezer full of puree, and friends avoiding me in the street in case I try to shuffle another box of beetly apples into their car; apple lemon cakes, an intriguing apple curd recipe cooling on the counter as I type, gingersnaps (as a break from the apples), pumpkin pureeing and pumpkin seeds roasting (ditto); short pauses only when absolutely essential and mainly governed by when the food waste bin is full and can't take any more parings.

Combine with the need to swap thisfor this
and the hunt for a settee to fit opposite it;

Add in the most sociable month we've had in the past seven years, with friends for weekends and friends for sudden overnights, and friends on the phone and friends on Skype, and escaping for a few days,

Combine with two children slightly under par, one of whom has managed to set my phone to look like this
Leave in a cosy but somewhat cluttered house and bake at room temperature for several weeks.

Normal service may be resumed shortly. And is more likely to be resumed if I ever manage to work out how to get the new wireless router working. In the meantime, excuse me please.
Tia

Harvest

I recommend raspberries. Buy half a dozen canes, poke them into holes in the ground, and then enjoy a sprinkling of raspberries for breakfast every day for several weeks in the summer. Chop them down when they've finished fruiting, and watch them grow again the next year. Until finally one day you manage to collect more than just a sprinkling. Six whole juicy ounces! Finally, a picking too large for just my hands.

So, what to do with them? Not really enough to freeze down, not enough to share around, not enough for jam or a crumble.

And every recipe I can find suggests pairing them with that most evil of pretend foods, white chocolate.

Until I decided to search through The Pioneer Woman's Tasty Kitchen and came across these rather delicious-sounding Cheesecake Brownies.
Looking good!
Tia

Puncho, Mamma!

"Hey! Grass!"You leave a soil bed when you go to school in the morning, and when you get back in the afternoon someone has laid a green carpet. No warning, not fair!

She wouldn't repeat her hands on hips utter outrage pose for the camera, but she stayed fairly bemused all afternoon. "Oo, you've planted a tree," said our carer - who was a little embarrassed when she realised that bit had been there since January and only the grass was new.

"Puncho, Mamma!" called Little Fish as we walked into the house, "Puncho, Mog! Mumma, Mamma, say Puncho me!"

Puncho?

Tick, tick, what might she have been learning today.

Ah - "Bonjour, Little Fish!"
"Puncho, Mamma!"

Bitty day

One gardener turned up today- the first fine Wednesday since Autumn! Little Fish was very keen to supervise him, and he seemed surprisingly pleased to have the company. I'm not sure what the world thought about her refusal to eat lunch if she couldn't watch the gardener.But hey, she had someone else to whitter at for two hours; I'm not complaining!

Gardener very excited about the new front garden and will be coming back next week with turf. The cats very excited about the newly dug over front garden, and are coming back frequently with full bowels and bladders. Fertiliser?

Tia

Rumours of Bluebells have been greatly Exaggerated.

We went in search of Spring this afternoon.I think
We may
have
found it!
Photos (mostly) by Little Fish
who seems to be proving the need for the brace she's getting tomorrow by resting her head on her armrest most of the day.
She didn't do badly though!
No bluebells yet, but the first picnic of the year, in idyllic and almost empty Harcourt; just ourselves, the peacocks, and a handful of other visitors. After climbing the hill we had the place to ourselves, except for one man who appeared just as I was pointing out the "pretty cowslips" to the girls, at which point he snuck up behind me, said "Primroses" in a firm but even tone, and walked away again quickly before I could deck him with one of the coppice trimmings. Oops.

Tia

Just Because

So, today , as I cleaned the third cat turd from the bathtub in as many days, I decided that things really couldn't carry on as they are. No, we didn't rehome the cats; I went to the petshop for a catflap to fit our current cat hole. They didn't have an exact fit, so I settled for a large cat/small dog flap, stocked up on a few other essentials, arranged a second mortgage to pay for it all, and left the house.

We came home, and I opened the catflap box to discover the instructions consisted solely of indecipherable little pictures. And a circle which I needed to cut out of the door. Our current cat hole is U-shaped; I'm not sure why a U-shaped flap needs a round hole, but hey ho, I have a saw and I'm not afraid to use it.

Unfortunately I'm not especially competent at using it either.And after a lot of huffing and puffing, and a fair bit of polystyrene blowing across the garden, I decided perhaps fitting cat flaps not my forte, and that I could probably live with a cat hole for a little longer. So, I left the hole unblocked and waited for the cats to discover it.

And they did. Grolly was the first; she went out, ran in circuits around the garden, sat down in the wet grass, rolled a few times to get thoroughly muddy, and then bounded in to sit on my lap (something she never does) to tell me all about it. Great. One cat hole, one wet and muddy cat, and now one wet and muddy lap too.

Gotcha went hunting next. And decided he really was a Forest Cat. A very happy, very stuck, Forest Cat.
Joy.

So after he'd cried for rescue, I scrambled up after him and tipped him out. Wondering as I did so why I was letting a cat not known for his ability to groom himself mix with moss, lichen, and mud. I'm still thinking on that one.

But, after their tree adventures, they both bounded around the garden for another twenty minutes, looking more like excited puppies than cats, sniffing everything, running back to check we were still around, then bounding around and over and under things again until the clank of dinner bowls indicated there might be better things inside.

The girls had a good time too.
Little Fish beetling in and out to report on progress and tell tales, Mog outside for a while and then inside to plot evil deeds.
And now both cats are sitting on the windowsill, watching the leaves blow around outside but no longer desperate to chase them. No signs of outdoor widdles either, but hopefully they'll discover this pleasure shortly.

Tia

Our glorious natural world

Yesterday, I woke up, drew the curtains, and saw a heron, half a dozen geese, same again of ducks, a coot and a moorhen (we think - one had a white beak and one a red, were we right?), two rabbits, a handful of squirrels, a mountjack deer (muntjack? Not had my morning coffee yet), and some goldfinches. By the time I'd grabbed the camera, I had a blurry hero , and S managed a deer's rear end.

So, today I was prepared. Camera in hand (and switched on too, be impressed given above-mentioned lack of caffeine), I quietly drew back the bedroom curtains. To be met with this:

The best laid plans...

A nice day yesterday; visiting friends and an instant playmate for Little Fish. Some fabulous hot salt baths which pickled us all nicely, pancakes for Shrove Tuesday, and more playing. Mog less happy, lots of twitching and some very bubbly breathing in the evening. Delayed effects from the previous night's diazepam? Too much pool water? A cold? Pass. We'll take things easy today and see how she goes.

We must have been in the water a long time; Mog's feed pump was still running when I went to bed, and kind friends switched it off for me at 11.30 or so, all without me stirring. Oops. The morning started with seizures, but morning meds and the next feed seem to have calmed things down again. She's now snoring, and Little Fish Is still out for the count. Peaceful mornings, one of the very nicest holiday treats.

We have the important things set out for today - supplies for a cooked breakfast ready and waiting in the 'fridge, soup on standby for lunch, swimming at some point during the day, and I expect the rest will fall into place nicely around that.

Odd to be morning blogging, but nice to be sitting chatting in the evenings.
Tia

Weather the weather...

Whether the weather be hot
Whether the weather be not
We'll weather the weather whatever the weather
Whether we like it or not.

And it's or not at the moment.

Yesterday I left the house in sunshine, and in the ten minute walk to school I found hail, sleet, snow, and rain. And a very unnecessary lazy wind.

Today a fine fresh morning; I cracked the window half an inch to blow the cobwebs away (that's my kind of housekeeping). Having cleared out a pile of clutter from my bedroom, and impressively managed to unpack two boxes which were apparently untouched since our house move (2003?), I sat down with my lunch and a book. And the wind blew, and suddenly a fine line of snow hit me across the head and drizzled over my potatoes like a line of expensive rock salt.

We were sent a tree before Christmas. It lived for a month in our cloakroom (this being the coldest room in the house) before the ground thawed sufficiently for me to be able to dig a hole and bury the roots. It was then promptly buried in three inches of snow, and has been subject to alternate flooding and freezing ever since. Despite that, it appears to have grown three inches in the last three weeks. I'm a little scared - the tree info said it grows to 9 feet, Wiki says 22 yards. At this rate it looks like being house height by Autumn, and I'm thinking the neighbours possibly won't be too happy about that. On the plus side, if it survives this weatherly weirdness, I guess it is indeed the hardy easy growing model it's supposed to be.

I have three different weather sites up at the moment. Our town is supposed to be sunny and cold, snowy with sleet, or cloudy with much rain. Can I take the first option please?

Tia

This green and pleasant land

A heavy rain to melt away the snow, and then a beautifully sunny afternoon. Only one thing to do - drive over to Blenheim Palace for a walk around the grounds. It's possible the most of the county had the same idea; we certainly found three sets of friends just in our little potter around the lake.

I am intrigued to know what lies beyond this gate - a different world perhaps? And with ice still curling around the edges of the lake, I'd like to know how these fishermen got their boat out onto the water.
There's something deeply peaceful about Blenheim.
And although Woodstock itself was full to bursting, although all the carparks inside the grounds were heaving too, somehow the grounds accommodated all of us, leaving plenty of breathing space.
Peace.

Tia

Going Local part two

Stuffed marrow. Even better the second day; Mog fighting for a bite and Little Fish taking a mouthful, then gasping for a sip of water to take the taste away, and then turning round to smile at me "deeelishus Mummy, thank you for cooking that for me."
We made her day and did some cooking.
A blackberry and cocoa pudding
Which looked rather gorgeous to start off withAnd tasted even better than it lookedMarrow stuffed with chili beans and sweetcorn, and a pudding piled high with blackberries. Little Fish has finally achieved her five a day, with only a little sneaky fruit juice through her tube to boost it. She's also managed quite nicely on the dairy front, having raided the 'fridge when I was with Mog, leaving the 'fridge door ajar, and a trail of empty yoghurt pots dripping and festering across the hall and sitting room floors. Nice.

I'm still trying to work out her thought processes. Tonight I gave her her suppository (yes, we've moved on from the food, this is now a poo post, feel free to stop reading). She looked very thoughtful as I inserted it, gently posting it up as far as possible. "You reading my bottom, Mummy?"

It took me a moment to work out what she'd asked, and I checked with her. She confirmed the question. "That's a weird thing to ask" I replied intelligently.

She nodded solemnly. "It's a weird thing to do, Mumma" she confirmed. Some days my life borders on the surreal.

Tia

Going Local

Blackberries and apples picked from a friend's garden in the morning and baked for tea that evening. A stuffed marrow; also from a friend's garden, and we're good to go.

I could make that sound really fresh and wholesome and down-t0-earth wonderful couldn't I? Did I convince you? It's not quite true... We did pick the blackberries and apples, and we did have a rather tasty stuffed marrow, but pudding was a very labour intensive dish; I had to open our pantry cupboard, break off a large piece of chocolate, and divide it up between us. The fruit looks beautiful; is beautiful, and will be cooked in the morning. I'm thinking of competing with Trina's Blueberry Cobbler.

Tia

In my little garden

Now promise you won't laugh.
I haven't many flowers*And I haven't cut the grass.

But now I'm going to dig and plant
And soon I'll have a show
With a bit of sun and a bit of rain I'll have a lovely showOne potato, two potatoes, three potatoes, four,
Five potatoes, six potatoes, seven potatoes, more;
One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes, four
Five potatoes, six potatoes, seven potatoes, more!

Which is great and marvellous and wonderful, but where do I put the compost in the meantime?
Tia

*but the ones I do have are jolly pretty, don't you think?

Practical Parenting?

I had a garden last year. It was beautiful. Young, not perfect, but a lovely place to slip out to in the early morning before the girls were awake, and a peaceful spot to sit in once they were settled at night. And an excellent spot to eat lunch in and not have to worry about crumbs.

I had plans this year. And good intentions. A spot of early pruning (thanks, Dad), some early spring planting (thanks, Grannie), and some vaguely defined plans. And then it rained. And then the Wahooligan came, and life got busy, and then we went on holiday, and then the Wahooligan returned, and suddenly my lawn was 4 foot high in places and the thought of doing anything to it was a little overwhelming and definitely not a priority.

And then along came Mum with their superduper lawn mower, and we went from this
to thisand from this

and this
to this

Thanks Mum! And thanks, Dad, for strimming too.

It's a long way off perfect or even good enough yet. There's hours of weeding to do, and a fair bit of planting up too. But it's manageable now, and that's what we needed.

A gardening question - why has my apple tree not blossomed yet?

A gardening note: throwing mouldy and sprouting vegetables into the compost bin and then letting the wind blow the lid off and let the elements in has its good points - we now have a crop of potatoes and celery blooming nicely in the compost bin. This is not wholly good though - we now have a large and growing mound of compost where the mint used to be (self seeded, beside the compost bin), in order not to suffocate the potato plant. It's all very well saying leave it undisturbed until September, but...

And in unrelated news, Little Fish has today been practicing her quiet voice very happily, and ate three pieces of asparagus for tea. Hurrah.
Tia