It’s been ages since I posted a “Someone’s Mum” recipe, those recipes from my many binders that I have no idea where they originated from and yet they remain stalwart favorites. I must confess that I absolutely love beets (or ‘beetroot’ as they are better known in the UK); I’ve always liked them, even when the only way that I knew was pickling. (Oh, the innocence - but to be fair, I was only six at the time coaxing those slippery purple orbs out of the jar). Continue reading
I was thinking of a family story when I woke up yesterday, one of my favourites and never ceases to delight me. I’m not sure why I enjoy the story so much but I suspect it’s because it illustrates the stark differences between my parents so vividly. My father, a short-fused, A-type personality was a man who got things done, was always early for appointments and had no tolerance for anything or anyone that had a whiff of “idleness” about it. (I have put idleness in quotes because what he, and many others, considered to be “idle” in wartime Lancashire could easily include pausing to draw breath). I often think he would not do well with the current avalanche of self-care books available because he literally, would not understand the concept. Continue reading
Not sure why, but I notice that my reading tastes have been rather mired in memoir of late: The Fish Ladder (Katharine Norbury); Drinking the Rain (Alix Kates Shulman); Are you Somebody (Nuala (O’Faolain); Leaving before the Rains come (Alexandra Fuller); and Hourglass:Time, Memory, Marriage Dani Shapiro) with just a brief recent hiatus into the new Julian Barnes, The Only Story. Barnes is one of my favorite writers although his talent and intellect always leave me feeling distinctly lacking. (Not unlike a dinner with my brother Spock but that’s another story!) Anyway, I have taken to jotting down vocabulary I am not familiar with from his books lest I am ever in attendance at a clever party with him. This will never happen - obviously - but I like to pretend, in case someone drops “atavistic” into the conversation or mentions their vast collection of embroidered “antimacassars.” (Which sounds painful but really isn’t …)
The door has just slapped shut behind me and already I am shouting the news of my latest find, toeing off my shoes and undoing the paper parcel I’ve been carrying under my arm. My final sentence, delivered in breathless excitement is the price - only forty-five pence! My father however, looks up from his paper with the critical eye of a perfectionist and wants to know more before he will commit to an enthusiastic response: “Let’s have a look at that seam.”
It’s true. There is a thick, ugly smear of amber coloured resin which bisects the young girl and her cloak. It’s also tricky to guess what the original colour of the statue would be, since the overall effect is an oily grime and my hands still feel mealy just from handling her in the shop. The antique store owner, a Mr. Corrin, is a friend of mine if that is what you call the relationship between a fourteen year old girl and a 76 year old respectively. Mr.Corrin is tall, stately and wears a never ending series of silky cravats. His thick, wavy white hair is always combed straight back and he has recently confided to my mother (over a cup of tea in the shop, served in vintage china cups) that it was refreshing to see such a girl as myself, always polite, well spoken and genuinely interested in antiques. “Not like some of them around here,” he intoned darkly, patting his hair in place with an exaggerated shudder. Continue reading
I was never The Master Gardener in my previous life. I always loved the garden and had distinct ideas about what was swoon-worthy (tangled drifts of blue and white flowers; nothing too contrived; no tight dots of military arranged begonias). However, the reality was, I placed no real value on my own contributions and it was simpler to pass the reigns to my husband as he strutted through the garden with Napoleonic control, instinctively knowing what should go where and why certain colours were superior to others. My role (which we joked about frequently and the word “navvy” was often playfully supplied) was to clear out the weeds, bag and bundle the branches he tossed aside and make sure there was a pitcher of martinis and an elegant meal ready at the end of the day. Continue reading
