tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84634714625224247322024-03-07T05:34:32.178+00:00The Kitchen Bitch PondersErylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.comBlogger322125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-29683880483654001832024-02-21T13:13:00.000+00:002024-02-21T13:13:18.714+00:00Cooking Back<br /><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg288tdgoFMBRvW2I9z4YKa87Yn_URYnDraFOk7SQSeqqMRwn5uthCV3fy4FZ5S5307Av7VmpaEcm80sQNY-nEj4y71owxI7DbVB3AzcQhtdjzixsMieZL7EBbdpw0iqtfVm5zq26DW1eUmmUn_6-6EZo3cotgdLMQ3qjcOjgXWFSPHCVPIFvv__W4hQsg/s2048/WhatsApp%20Image%202024-01-29%20at%2010.32.34.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1443" data-original-width="2048" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg288tdgoFMBRvW2I9z4YKa87Yn_URYnDraFOk7SQSeqqMRwn5uthCV3fy4FZ5S5307Av7VmpaEcm80sQNY-nEj4y71owxI7DbVB3AzcQhtdjzixsMieZL7EBbdpw0iqtfVm5zq26DW1eUmmUn_6-6EZo3cotgdLMQ3qjcOjgXWFSPHCVPIFvv__W4hQsg/w640-h450/WhatsApp%20Image%202024-01-29%20at%2010.32.34.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L-R, me, Angela, Eugene, and Elsa at our cousin, Glenn's, 25th wedding anniversary (25 years ago)</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>My mother grew up in Rangoon, Burma (now Myanmar) where, when she wasn't playing tennis, she liked to hang out with the servants in the kitchen. But, possibly because the family were more Anglo-Indian than Anglo-Burman, and my father grew up in India, she rarely cooked Burmese food when we were kids. Burmese food was for special occasions, and it was mostly my aunt Thecla who cooked it. I loved aunt Thecla's kitchen, and I love Burmese food, as do my siblings.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOby1LCkYjjejgO51SiiiCvVtHAxNK8lBgQLjW7CfhsGgOx1zh3DjyjiaJz44YyX3bknZSgfWEi4kmaMY5Wc7RAYaVMQC_mWen55_GSaYUGRozO3OvUs3CKbdVOZr8IBuUhdFQY3WYgE_9rgx244FuRibTQI7n_GLsKWVJYn3gs1oykLea035InPgYjQ/s1600/Image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOby1LCkYjjejgO51SiiiCvVtHAxNK8lBgQLjW7CfhsGgOx1zh3DjyjiaJz44YyX3bknZSgfWEi4kmaMY5Wc7RAYaVMQC_mWen55_GSaYUGRozO3OvUs3CKbdVOZr8IBuUhdFQY3WYgE_9rgx244FuRibTQI7n_GLsKWVJYn3gs1oykLea035InPgYjQ/w640-h480/Image.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back: Elsa, Lois (Angela's daughter), Angela. Front: Eugene and me on his 60th.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>In keeping with that 'special occasion' tradition, in May 2022, for his sixtieth birthday, which we spent in Cologne, my brother chose a Burmese restaurant to have supper. The two dishes we all remember fondly from our childhoods are: <i>Ohn no khauk swe</i>, a coconut chicken noodle dish, and <i>Mohinga</i>, a soupy fish curry also featuring noodles. They were both on the menu and most of us chose one or other as our main courses. Talk about time travel, we were children again, back in aunt Thecla's kitchen.</p><p></p><p>Four days before my brother's birthday is the birthday of our youngest sister, Angela, so, while we were in Cologne, my other sister, Elsa, gave her a copy of <i><a href="https://www.rangoonsisters.com/" target="_blank">Rangoon Sisters</a></i>. I had not heard of this book and was filled with envy – a Burmese recipe book! – we browsed it together and I promised myself I'd buy it when I got home. But then I didn't. </p><p>However, a year or so ago Elsa gave me a copy as a housewarming gift, not because I'd moved but because after eleven years of living in this house I'd finally had the kitchen remodelled so I could cook freely in it.*</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Y59sAic65xqsBy2-rW4vgyL-SP58elFFysZJBPeizZsyqzscpeYespdk9AW5MiCoLsXfdnJbqI0uvgtwdq1T_qrvasg-1KHh9soBHP1XXxIcsrmmk8x8t40QZoPosObPjuwd7KbH58l-bJc3L_YmIOxb4-M1NXAzVwiBUe5hgTidAyqxB5c_3Imp3JQ/s868/Rnagoon%20Sisters%20book.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="868" data-original-width="658" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Y59sAic65xqsBy2-rW4vgyL-SP58elFFysZJBPeizZsyqzscpeYespdk9AW5MiCoLsXfdnJbqI0uvgtwdq1T_qrvasg-1KHh9soBHP1XXxIcsrmmk8x8t40QZoPosObPjuwd7KbH58l-bJc3L_YmIOxb4-M1NXAzVwiBUe5hgTidAyqxB5c_3Imp3JQ/w304-h400/Rnagoon%20Sisters%20book.jpeg" width="304" /></a></div><p>My husband doesn't like meat or fish and, though <i>Rangoon Sisters</i> does have a few vegetable based dishes and others that can be adapted, I only made a couple of things from it and then, pretty much, left it on the shelf. It's too easy to fall back on the same old stuff or, as <a href="https://allpoetry.com/The-Brain,-within-its-Groove" target="_blank">Emily Dickinson intimated</a>, get stuck in a 'groove' until a 'splinter' knocks you off track.</p><p>On 10 January, this year, a splinter the size of the Eiffel Tower knocked us all out of our grooves: Angela died. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer (stage four) last October and, thanks to our monstrous government and its policy of only funding people who are already super-rich (ie, not the NHS or any of the services and organisations ordinary people rely on) she didn't receive any treatment. She didn't even get decent pain meds until she checked into a hospice four days before she died. Yet she had been going to her doctor with increasingly bad symptoms for months. Eventually her colleagues at work convinced her to go to A&E. Here, in a shambolic, understaffed, overworked hospital she found a doctor with the presence of mind to run the tests she needed. The diagnosis came a few days later. But it was too late, and though chemotherapy was scheduled her health deteriorated too much, too rapidly, for it to go ahead. </p><p></p><p>I am shocked, confused, angry and, most of all, sad at losing her. She was such an important part of me. I feel like I've lost one of my senses, or a limb: everything is 't<a href="https://allpoetry.com/The-Brain,-within-its-Groove" target="_blank">rodden out</a>'.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSBaH2TAPnOvmq_-1e48v0m2UllkZkmXt83LJ28kw7EQAaHTsthjiGlUcTyNov_OWyEczrRKCuhVw5GJ08zYndMnubxkgQVUfGRy-MFDxWKNqopWENzC0PtLHb9SCxrJd33Wl_t3cxExn_kGerCIjApJkL_I0D2HLlrcQvZNG713prSqrePqSvHaydWI/s2048/WhatsApp%20Image%202024-01-29%20at%2010.32.37.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1921" data-original-width="2048" height="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSBaH2TAPnOvmq_-1e48v0m2UllkZkmXt83LJ28kw7EQAaHTsthjiGlUcTyNov_OWyEczrRKCuhVw5GJ08zYndMnubxkgQVUfGRy-MFDxWKNqopWENzC0PtLHb9SCxrJd33Wl_t3cxExn_kGerCIjApJkL_I0D2HLlrcQvZNG713prSqrePqSvHaydWI/w640-h600/WhatsApp%20Image%202024-01-29%20at%2010.32.37.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angela and Eugene at their joint 18th and 21st birthday party</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Angela lived in Kent, not far from where we grew up, as does Eugene. Elsa and I live in Scotland. We both went to visit when Angela got her diagnosis in October; I went back at the end of November and was planning a third trip at the end of January. But Eugene phoned early on January 7: the hospice had, that morning, told them she didn't have long. I phoned Elsa, threw some random clothes into a bag and, along with my husband, Dave, we drove back to Kent. Three days later, at five to ten in the morning, all of us gathered at her bedside, I held her hand as she slipped away. I have never witnessed such grief as I saw on the faces of her children that day, it still makes me cry to think of it. Our concern switched to them. </p><p>As I work as a freelance arty person and, anyway, didn't have any work, I asked my niece, Lois, if she wanted me to go home between then and the funeral, or stay. She asked me to stay. So for the last month I've been living with her in the flat she shared with Angela, her mother. Dave went home for a while, to pick up such things as clothes to wear to the funeral, then returned to us in Kent. Elsa also left as she needed to go back to work. Eugene visited every day after work.</p><p>So, feeling utterly disconnected from my own life, I decided to take Dave to some of the places Angela and I liked to visit when I stayed with her, and many of the places we loved as children. Whitstable; Rye; Canterbury; The Isle of Sheppey; Margate; Allhallows; Rochester... It was incredibly levelling to be able to show him where we used to go for oysters (Whitstable), and the wall where, as children, we used to sit and eat fish and chips at the end of a day chasing each other into the sea (Sheppey). And point out the theatre in Canterbury where Angela had gone to see a musical with a friend which, surprisingly, she enjoyed. And drive past the school where she taught a boy (all the other staff were afraid of) to love Shakespeare and, thus, give him something hopeful to take into his future. And go for brunch in her favourite Rochester cafe, with the rest of the family...</p><p>Now the funeral is over, we're meant to go back to normal, and I'm back in Scotland, miles from those comforting places and the rest of my family. How to continue? </p><p>I don't know the answer, but last week I spotted <i>Rangoon Sisters</i> and pulled it off the shelf. For a few days I merely read it and mooned around. But last Thursday I decided to make <i>Dhaw but pe hin</i> (butterbean stew), a very easy side dish you can knock up in minutes if you have a tin of butterbeans in the house, and <i>Kyet u hin</i> (egg curry). I had made them both before, so it wasn't too taxing (I'm not thinking well at the moment).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl3JDOrUWU0KPx-8U6cFclSR17dDU71fzGcGB6qGRXC_ZRV77S1I_tSEfJR624fPaTShshEJvbdwwhAbVrjIm-7gx7ssSxi7zKd4lcp865ejrXaJY0q9_V7gjT9zlfcN8WuIwoH9gHfeVRwSipbf0Vc4Z0CzuBEh36B0UHcEspUIjOcOB_0sQVjIgAMI/s4032/IMG_6992.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl3JDOrUWU0KPx-8U6cFclSR17dDU71fzGcGB6qGRXC_ZRV77S1I_tSEfJR624fPaTShshEJvbdwwhAbVrjIm-7gx7ssSxi7zKd4lcp865ejrXaJY0q9_V7gjT9zlfcN8WuIwoH9gHfeVRwSipbf0Vc4Z0CzuBEh36B0UHcEspUIjOcOB_0sQVjIgAMI/w640-h480/IMG_6992.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>They are not our childhood favourite meat and fish based curries, but they have those familiar Burmese base notes I love, and they suit Dave's palate. They made our kitchen smell like aunt Thecla's, and I'm positive Angela would have loved them. Right now, that's as good as it gets.</p><p>–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––</p><p>*It was more of a dining room with a few kitchen things at one end before, and was carpeted. I don't know about you but I find the idea of soiling a carpet with spillage as I cook unbearable. </p><p><br /></p><br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-49357341710542513412023-08-18T12:13:00.004+01:002023-08-18T12:14:05.207+01:00Cookout<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilsfFtjLrDGW6G9rL0d2LCaiyixKnNPPvSmuF35BjnMxasxFoEE5jSTHD6AnKxhieCfLGZfORDMpt94I3OHE7kxmbdya_SQtMsZbcv1qASRG_eqg3lWmU3wXXeR8R12z1Qy2O0Dpwkq6B73LU2CFz4GKVrzyYCP2KhdDkWKYhLMOJV_32Z2lvqWyxd-nA/s4032/IMG_6543.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilsfFtjLrDGW6G9rL0d2LCaiyixKnNPPvSmuF35BjnMxasxFoEE5jSTHD6AnKxhieCfLGZfORDMpt94I3OHE7kxmbdya_SQtMsZbcv1qASRG_eqg3lWmU3wXXeR8R12z1Qy2O0Dpwkq6B73LU2CFz4GKVrzyYCP2KhdDkWKYhLMOJV_32Z2lvqWyxd-nA/w480-h640/IMG_6543.jpeg" width="480" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I like this bottle so much I'd have bought it regardless of its contents. Luckily the contents are delicious!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">One of my very favourite things is cooking and eating with/for friends and family. It's not something I get to do much now the children have grown and moved away. My living in Scotland doesn't help, two of my siblings are still in Kent, where I grew up, all my cousins are miles away and, well, you get my drift. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">A couple of weeks ago, however, I had a brief taste of the old days when, as a young mother I could conjure up a three course lunch (or supper) for ten in a morning, and spend the rest of the day sipping wine, eating, and chatting with people I love. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Firstly, on the Monday it was our granddaughter's 10th birthday, and she asked that she we join them for lunch. She lives in Edinburgh, about an hour's drive away, so off we went. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUB7tm4CZQJclJJzRh4-aBjA560wsDUfOcDvEEJ62EGUDFIhLmmGWnc1E0OIV6qj0DwoflSIReseTwPY31nIr9oqU1tSAiXdjBxP1uv1cOnY0GG0HANLQ5lHOuPYavhyPcVR1XU-YfnTAeJTwnNxHbBOM6545u6oWP0CRhFj9KtjFrdNxZUKQBuygVUjk/s3485/IMG_6528.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2828" data-original-width="3485" height="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUB7tm4CZQJclJJzRh4-aBjA560wsDUfOcDvEEJ62EGUDFIhLmmGWnc1E0OIV6qj0DwoflSIReseTwPY31nIr9oqU1tSAiXdjBxP1uv1cOnY0GG0HANLQ5lHOuPYavhyPcVR1XU-YfnTAeJTwnNxHbBOM6545u6oWP0CRhFj9KtjFrdNxZUKQBuygVUjk/w640-h520/IMG_6528.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The hilarity of candles.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Obviously, I didn't cook, she requested bao buns from the local take-away, so this was an eating with family event, as opposed to a coking with family event. Together, we looked at the bao bun place's menu, gave our order to her mother, who sent it via her phone. One or two people preferred bagels, so an order for those, from a different place, was also put in. When her father went to pick the orders up, he found the bao bun place shut, so there followed another menu browse and we all had bagels, except the birthday girl who decided that if she couldn't have pork filled bao buns she'd have a sausage roll! </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The bagels were fantastic, and we had a brilliant time. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">That evening, TH's brother and his wife, who live in Southern Spain, arrived in Moffat in their camper-van. They have been travelling round England for over a month and finally got to Scotland. We met them the next morning (Tuesday) for breakfast and on Wednesday they came for supper. I made Carbonara, one of my son's childhood favourites, which I hadn't made for years because TH is vegetarian. To have the smell of bacon frying in my kitchen once more was thrilling, and it was lovely to sit round our table, sipping wine, picking at the remains of the salad, chatting. They told us it was so hot in Andalusia when they left that they couldn't leave the house from about seven in the morning till it got dark at night. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">That evening, my sister arrived in Moffat with her new man. They were staying in a B&B so we didn't see them till the next day (Thursday), when we met them for coffee in a local cafe. They were coming for supper that evening, and I had already cooked the Italian meatball pasta sauce (our house smelt like a Trattoria!), and made the pudding, so all the rushing was over. And, they had booked a tour of the new <a href="https://www.moffatdistillery.com/" target="_blank">Moffat Distillery</a> so we went along too. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAHJ435ZvEl_AU5oscX-2rMvlbEN6GJPu_D9Yx_JixQMisLrBC594jRdxiX2Tzk9JfBk-IUbJOWbr7MJ1eG8Ar4YN_H6QKEU21C_2tAu-FS_oLxOANGUtYtfKCC_211eXugUbEfV76RVTsWeky8k5dEm0khJu5KQB-7Cn0HqXE3CwVq_ILncEDWNwBFY/s3671/IMG_6536.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3671" data-original-width="2618" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAHJ435ZvEl_AU5oscX-2rMvlbEN6GJPu_D9Yx_JixQMisLrBC594jRdxiX2Tzk9JfBk-IUbJOWbr7MJ1eG8Ar4YN_H6QKEU21C_2tAu-FS_oLxOANGUtYtfKCC_211eXugUbEfV76RVTsWeky8k5dEm0khJu5KQB-7Cn0HqXE3CwVq_ILncEDWNwBFY/w456-h640/IMG_6536.jpeg" width="456" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The still, which is the only wood fired one in Scotland (I think).</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRzHbjVuaJ3mHky3I4tNHy29kTK5hcTX4smbGYQogjsHdcjDDy9knSdm6dzJ2XieRbRbMZ_lgrp2fr0HaQv0eIg3l915CCsJrIN1cwtsniIhrZozkkZbpAd-5Hj45keUZlJwJumkgOXu74UHVFhsOl3Duyv_6cXUwjPecVaVgUXMVcW2DTY_73ivBURg/s4032/IMG_6537.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRzHbjVuaJ3mHky3I4tNHy29kTK5hcTX4smbGYQogjsHdcjDDy9knSdm6dzJ2XieRbRbMZ_lgrp2fr0HaQv0eIg3l915CCsJrIN1cwtsniIhrZozkkZbpAd-5Hj45keUZlJwJumkgOXu74UHVFhsOl3Duyv_6cXUwjPecVaVgUXMVcW2DTY_73ivBURg/w640-h480/IMG_6537.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I do love barrels.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1u2tSUecySIFFAvCxAl11CcUCmWXKUPQ_4ozV7FxhRL__aZU_cx98QuuSCQuogMfU-prnrVz30FPKsPxwsdyncPTrvUOzEXhLfv4697tAtkogFI8n3JO5ImY1gQVxE2uxRFkpEfGs0ULQqZFrd4hjiuBftc_RlMEzjK5eR4yF9ee4v6TmHPCK8Tr06ME/s4032/IMG_6539.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1u2tSUecySIFFAvCxAl11CcUCmWXKUPQ_4ozV7FxhRL__aZU_cx98QuuSCQuogMfU-prnrVz30FPKsPxwsdyncPTrvUOzEXhLfv4697tAtkogFI8n3JO5ImY1gQVxE2uxRFkpEfGs0ULQqZFrd4hjiuBftc_RlMEzjK5eR4yF9ee4v6TmHPCK8Tr06ME/w480-h640/IMG_6539.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm not sure what this does, but I like it.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">I won't do a review of the tour, but we sniffed all sorts of interesting things (dried elderberries smell like chocolate dates), learnt something about the workings of a small distillery and the owner, Nick's, vision. Then we went into the very nice bar to taste the wares. I was too occupied to take a photo.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We tasted a couple of whiskies, a couple of whisky liqueurs, and their gin. Because they've only just begun there were no single malts to try, the first one won't be ready for seven years! But Nick knows whisky and he's been buying single malts to make his own distinct, and delicious, blends. I really liked the pale one (sorry, forgotten its name!) who's finish reminded me of pudding. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2oNZqUsou6hVQpzHqAoJnXT3y42hyVxJEkmBHVnQBd2Ai8oSThUle-s5vI6zL8R_VVfZ2bPEkQkR1JKc5rEYyeRrVNyh_rPJp45MBtAsNUxfaL8yM-WNrrDpCS81AfJwlbIpSImdz7MLaAnkhfIfFtugsJf0vPaqpLyo_VqPlTr56PGKPuYFPwdy6TLo/s4032/IMG_6546.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2oNZqUsou6hVQpzHqAoJnXT3y42hyVxJEkmBHVnQBd2Ai8oSThUle-s5vI6zL8R_VVfZ2bPEkQkR1JKc5rEYyeRrVNyh_rPJp45MBtAsNUxfaL8yM-WNrrDpCS81AfJwlbIpSImdz7MLaAnkhfIfFtugsJf0vPaqpLyo_VqPlTr56PGKPuYFPwdy6TLo/w480-h640/IMG_6546.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>But TH doesn't get on with whisky, it makes him feel ill, and I'm not a huge drinker. But I do love a cocktail, and we both like gin. This wood-fired gin is one of the nicest I've ever tasted. Honestly! It has a finish that reminded me of the way babies smell after a bath, once they're all powdered and pyjama'd. I liked it so much we bought a bottle, even though we have about five bottles of gin already. I also bought a bottle of their gooseberry liqueur,* which is not only delightful to sip, it comes in a gorgeous bottle that reminds me of old fashioned grocery shops – the kind from which you can buy anything, from a single scone to a whole ham. </p><p>It was brilliant to spend time with my sister, and meet her new chap, who we liked very much. And a joy to see them both mop up the tagliatelle and meatballs I'd made. I don't know that the <a href="http://thekitchenbitchponders.blogspot.com/2023/07/clutter-fuck.html" target="_blank">pudding </a>was a huge success with them, I'd forgotten Angela isn't that keen on super sweet things, but that was fine because we also had an impromptu supper party the following Sunday.</p><p>TH plays a regular Sunday afternoon gig in the, recently restored to glorious, <a href="https://www.hotels.uk.com/uk/dumfries-and-galloway/hotels-in-moffat/moffat-house.dg10-9hl" target="_blank">Moffat House Hotel</a>. I usually drop in for the last half hour, and on this particular Sunday, a couple of friends were in. I had made bolognese sauce the day before with the ground beef and pork left over from the meatballs and, when they said they were going to get fish and chips for supper, I suggested they come to us. So they did. We made quite a dent in our distillery spoils, K cheerfully said she could happily drink the whole bottle of Goosegog! But best of all they cleaned up the remains of the too-sweet-for-my-sister Crack Pie, leaving me with no excuse to overindulge over the next few days (my waistline really needs that kind of help right now). </p><p>So, a week of hosting like it was 1999, when I was young and had a big enough house to get the whole family round the table. And the first time since I've lived in this house (11 years!) that I've cooked for people of my own generation.** I liked it, a lot, and I have a notion I'll do it more often from now on. It feels like I've broken through some erstwhile impenetrable, invisible wall.</p><p>–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––</p><p>*see header image.</p><p>**we've had the kids for lunch a few times.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-73541344812009571192023-07-30T15:54:00.000+01:002023-07-30T15:54:33.676+01:00Clutter Fuck<p> I'm in the middle of trying to organise my kitchen.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6sKa_84357uDPqKaR4jRYyOlUi4RVPNWji2jx349lmZUBSq6d8LxMPg5TecXnBFGHwTgWbJlnupj5dR1qY-L5luVLriP0lYpmli9lHdgHLiRvix2BacfTyOhzLyPQnGbuJ6asep-1ZFeNvUoKYPQbBiqTYUMON_z_hGlmpjNwBH3Cp07q3kSVLzhSw8/s4032/IMG_6522.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6sKa_84357uDPqKaR4jRYyOlUi4RVPNWji2jx349lmZUBSq6d8LxMPg5TecXnBFGHwTgWbJlnupj5dR1qY-L5luVLriP0lYpmli9lHdgHLiRvix2BacfTyOhzLyPQnGbuJ6asep-1ZFeNvUoKYPQbBiqTYUMON_z_hGlmpjNwBH3Cp07q3kSVLzhSw8/w640-h480/IMG_6522.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>As you can see, it's a mess. And I'm fed up. And a bit sore.<div><br /></div><div>My sister is coming to visit next week, with her new man who, she tells me, loves puddings. Me too, everything about them, making and eating! So, I put together a pudding programme and, yesterday, made the components for <a href="https://milkbarstore.com/blogs/recipes/milk-bar-pie" target="_blank">Crack Pie</a>: the oatmeal cookie for the crust; the buttery, creamy, sugary, powdered sweetcorn, eggy filling. On Tuesday I'll put it all together, bake it, and put it in the freezer – it needs to be frozen and then thawed for the perfect gooey texture, apparently. I've made it once before and loved it, it reminded me of my old school favourite, Gypsy Tart, which I know my sister also likes. It's not identical, for a start it's much denser. It is, in fact, what I would call luscious, its texture being on a par with the gooiest of gooey brownies. Invented by Christina Tosi, of Milk Bar, it's based on those wonderfully inventive depression era pies, often called <a href="https://www.southernliving.com/recipes/classic-chess-pie" target="_blank">Chess Pie</a>, the Americans do so well. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also wanted to make Ginger Parfait, my sister, like me, loves ginger, and I have three bottles of organic ginger juice to use up (don't ask). For this I needed condensed milk, and I was positive I had a can in the cupboard. I remember buying it by mistake, I wanted evaporated milk, and shoving it in there. But I couldn't find it, and I hurt myself looking. </div><div><br /></div><div>Earlier in the year I did something overly strenuous, and dislodged (or pulled, no one seems to know exactly) my <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piriformis_muscle" target="_blank">piriformis</a> and I've had sciatica ever since. It's a lot better than it was, but I can't squat for long without pain, and getting back up is agony. If that wasn't bad enough, I also fell on my knees while walking down a not very steep woodland path a week or so ago, so they are bruised and scabby. Kneeling and/or squatting in front of a cupboard full of things that aren't what I'm looking for, then, is not comfortable. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning I decided that before I do anything else, I needed to better organise that cupboard, so that I don't have to fight past a zillion old bottles of fancy vinegars and oils when looking for an ingredient. Thus I have emptied it, and put everything on the counter, as you can see. While I was about it I also began emptying a smaller one that I'd filled with plastic food boxes and other things I don't know what to do with. I'm now wondering how to go about refilling them in a way that makes finding stuff less of a bother. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8T9mZOHsmk1jRrqlfgTnZLDyv0wllsstUT7xic1TbXyPb2ISqdJLb4w52iH8-jNoU2xr4GlcmwRfyCUmBcpkI-EA_jlru8yi8ytzGJ8YMzjS27dsw8Y6st3LqtfaTX-4qKKSir9oPr95SSsoCG6_zZ5Evb6_yw5CozKXdcNGxNiD6XpxYq0Gz64cHR9M/s4032/IMG_6523.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8T9mZOHsmk1jRrqlfgTnZLDyv0wllsstUT7xic1TbXyPb2ISqdJLb4w52iH8-jNoU2xr4GlcmwRfyCUmBcpkI-EA_jlru8yi8ytzGJ8YMzjS27dsw8Y6st3LqtfaTX-4qKKSir9oPr95SSsoCG6_zZ5Evb6_yw5CozKXdcNGxNiD6XpxYq0Gz64cHR9M/w640-h480/IMG_6523.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The second cupboard.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table>One cupboard is an ordinary under-counter sort, as seen in the top photo, the other is an old bookcase I couldn't fit in the sitting room. I don't have a pantry in this house, or wall cupboards, which can be infuriating at times, but our walls are so fragile I'm afraid to try and install some. All this means I don't have the usual food storage options, and I've had to be somewhat inventive. I just need to solve the last(?) part of the puzzle re cooking in this strange little cottage. <br /><br /><div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com7Moffat DG10, UK55.335207999999987 -3.44033727.024974163821142 -38.596587 83.645441836178833 31.715913tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-478748702750572082023-07-23T12:36:00.002+01:002023-07-23T12:45:53.896+01:00A bush, a storm and a conundrum<p> I abandoned this blog eleven years ago, when my toxic marriage finally imploded. I wanted to escape that – soon to be ex – husband as thoroughly as I could and, anyway, Blogger was being difficult. So I moved to Wordpress. At much the same time a lot of my blogging buddies also moved to Wordpress, so I didn't feel quite alone. But it has caused some minor problems with interacting with friends still here. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ooHRuF4uV4j5VnLfELOieMx1cpcow0P_SPBb-l4TB968g2bOgByeTL_ImhZsymA6XF4k1R69dYtZffN6ihMvme58jZWUeq7PF10Wn-QMCR3QWRwuvPEfIPJJsg-QqwmX8dlYMhRnPyCud035gfbaVeKQT-QknSM54Wim5I4Ruuoj0Rg6gzm-nk8WblU/s4032/IMG_6359.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ooHRuF4uV4j5VnLfELOieMx1cpcow0P_SPBb-l4TB968g2bOgByeTL_ImhZsymA6XF4k1R69dYtZffN6ihMvme58jZWUeq7PF10Wn-QMCR3QWRwuvPEfIPJJsg-QqwmX8dlYMhRnPyCud035gfbaVeKQT-QknSM54Wim5I4Ruuoj0Rg6gzm-nk8WblU/s320/IMG_6359.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A random photo of a rather nice bush at Rockcliffe</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The friends who migrated are now considering moving back to Blogger because Wordpress has become difficult in certain ways. As this blog is still here, alive but in suspended animation, I thought to have a test run at reviving it to see if it is a nicer experience. </p><p>In the time I've been away, I've seen my son marry and move to the other side of the Atlantic; done a bit of travelling; remarried; been given two utterly delightful step-grandchildren; and discovered I'm autistic, amongst many other things I may tell you about at a later date. </p><p>Anyway, one of the things that has recently irritated me about Wordpress is that they now want me to 'upgrade', ie pay even more than I already do, before posting a video. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzOye9AMeaRm_hFoxvhNbRs0NV8Ge2AVGnRvuIZ4xRidx0yxLsiIVWClFbON1D7pinZowPrFR25d1Q-e3c3KA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">While the rest of Europe stews in its own juices thanks to the heat, we have this!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div>And, it seems, Blogger doesn't ask me to pay anything at all. I concede, it is possible to have a free WP blog – I pay so I can use my own URL – but not if you want to post videos. <p></p><p>Okay, I'm going to press 'Publish' and see what happens.</p>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-38670638127738173482013-01-17T23:30:00.000+00:002013-01-17T23:30:30.898+00:00End NotesAs I began to wake this morning I remembered that it's coming up for six years since I started this blog. I did so at the suggestion of <a href="http://kimayres.blogspot.co.uk/">Kim</a> in order to practise my writing. But it's been much more than that.<br />
<br />
It got me though the hardest five years of my life,<span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span> providing me with community, friendship, and a reason to write about positive things. It helped me find goodness in my darkest hours, and I found it enormously beneficial as I struggled to process and harmonise all the conflicting elements of my life. And, crucially, it drew interesting, artistic, engaged, engaging people which allowed me to believe I couldn't possibly be as dull as I'd thought I must be. Or as monstrous as my husband tried to tell me I was. For a long time I thought it would always be my only social life.<br />
<br />
But then I was asked to set up and run creative writing classes for community learning and development, and I met actual people in my home town every bit as interesting, artistic, engaged and engaging as those I met on the blog. The classes were a success and I was asked to do more in another nearby town too. And those people were great. And the odd thing was all of these people seemed to like me. I started being invited out for coffee, to lunch, and to the pub after classes. And there I met Dave, last January, on the very first post writing class pub visit.<br />
<br />
By this time I knew my marriage was over (thanks to very illuminating relationship therapy sessions), but assumed I'd live alone. I have never lived on my own, and was really looking forward to it, even though I had no illusions about it being in anything other than a low-rent bedsit. I had talked to my sister about moving back to Kent where I grew up, and was positively salivating about being so near to London, so falling in love with a bloke four doors down came as somewhat of a surprise. Him falling in love with me even more so, and when he asked me to move in, and I heard myself saying ok...<br />
<br />
2012 was my year of magical living, if I'd been given a year to live at the start of it I wouldn't have chosen any other way to spend it. Now this blog has done its job. I should probably have put it out of its misery last spring, yet I kept it limping on. However, for various reasons I will do so now. This is to be my last post here. Thank you for reading, commenting, and sharing your lives with me. Thank you for your support, and friendship. I see many of you on Facebook where I have more control over who can eavesdrop on conversations, and I have email contacts for some of you as well, so I'm not abandoning the friends I've made here. Should anyone not yet a friend on Facebook want to become one you need only ask, and I can also be found on Twitter and Pinterest where I indulge in different types of dialogue (Twitter, for me, is mostly about trying to save the world, Pinterest is about luxuriating in it).<br />
<br />
Here's one last photograph:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_wj27OT8Qxg/UPiHcbkCQrI/AAAAAAAACos/qVbbAMozox0/s1600/River+with+Dave+1-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_wj27OT8Qxg/UPiHcbkCQrI/AAAAAAAACos/qVbbAMozox0/s640/River+with+Dave+1-31.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snowy Sunday on the river.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Bye, bye.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*You know the story: husband's long term affair discovered; attempt to repair marriage; philosophy degree; masters degree (creative writing); realisation that marriage wasn't responding positively to fixing attempts; frantic rethink about repair methods; near death experience; realisation that I wasn't able to help husband...</span>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-9785516352257950802013-01-09T00:49:00.000+00:002013-01-09T00:49:48.916+00:00It's arrived<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZl_htfGLZlrv-w5XtO8JsBLPiikwcfEsa9nqj4AqkX_G148vkBzARDkCb3FUhQTNFOnmZV5VPZ1pCtxykDCuvglaxOwIXRaUkCVmfUKrnR_CHHFYBhVVyxGQ88GOGx0L1-ErrtgbBXY/s1600/IMG_1498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZl_htfGLZlrv-w5XtO8JsBLPiikwcfEsa9nqj4AqkX_G148vkBzARDkCb3FUhQTNFOnmZV5VPZ1pCtxykDCuvglaxOwIXRaUkCVmfUKrnR_CHHFYBhVVyxGQ88GOGx0L1-ErrtgbBXY/s640/IMG_1498.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
and even better, the exam papers I'm to spend my every waking hour marking for the next week or so haven't. Which means I've had time to play today.<br />
<br />
Dave answered the door to the postman yesterday morning, and was handed a package for me! I was still in bed so he brought it up and when he realised what was in it went and got coffee (and the camera), climbed back in beside me, and together we attempted to work out how to use my new lens. As it's second hand no manual accompanied it. However I found a very basic one online, so we at least worked out how to turn it on before I had to get up and go to work.<br />
<br />
Here's a first attempt:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqWga_ldr2tfn9zVlc8zVlrFZJw7qENdLJ01i7d7cVUEyst5Q8U_GWGjjWbYo-lrxu_88SV97fXMcBnZZjSx1SyzsgIEzqHdOzSKWPR8O5ZFlHQznj1W4WBVVxP9hCcsYxKD3P5Z_yWk/s1600/Dave+close-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqWga_ldr2tfn9zVlc8zVlrFZJw7qENdLJ01i7d7cVUEyst5Q8U_GWGjjWbYo-lrxu_88SV97fXMcBnZZjSx1SyzsgIEzqHdOzSKWPR8O5ZFlHQznj1W4WBVVxP9hCcsYxKD3P5Z_yWk/s640/Dave+close-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monday morning close up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I've spent most of today reading the camera manual, and scrolling through the menus trying to work out how to do with the lens what I want. That is autofocus but manual everything else. I think I have finally managed it. And I found a group on Flikr dedicated to this lens which I've now joined. I'm hoping that by placing my own photos alongside those of other people using the exact same equipment I'll learn something. Fingers crossed it's dry tomorrow so I can go out and find interesting things to photograph, and get some proper practise in.Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-89097030736785300202013-01-04T20:57:00.001+00:002013-01-04T20:57:59.494+00:00Play TimeThe boyfriend destined to become my ex-husband thirty three years later bought me my first SLR camera for Christmas 1979. It was a cheap, store brand but perfect for someone who'd never even touched such a thing before, and I loved it. I replaced it with a Pentax a few years later because the mirror kept jamming, and I never looked back. I still have that Pentax, though it hasn't been used for some years, film is so expensive.<br />
<br />
I went through a series of digital point and shoots until my son bought me my beloved Olympus EPL-2 for my fiftieth birthday a couple of years ago. Because he couldn't afford a lens as well he bought a converter so I could use my old Pentax lenses.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERqmdiPgp9APB5LFmiAksn-zCB60ltuliEBZD1poYwIQ49agR6ywbtVPStmI7hSV0p_fC2_LXG5lc6ZaN766flbgRsLlAYvydH-DDCGlC8jKoz1VpIYEIkRSqjfZ_b5V0oTiIbJLA6aY/s1600/IMG_1497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERqmdiPgp9APB5LFmiAksn-zCB60ltuliEBZD1poYwIQ49agR6ywbtVPStmI7hSV0p_fC2_LXG5lc6ZaN766flbgRsLlAYvydH-DDCGlC8jKoz1VpIYEIkRSqjfZ_b5V0oTiIbJLA6aY/s640/IMG_1497.JPG" width="548" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Super toy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This combination has worked pretty well for me, but because of the way SLR lenses deliver light I struggle in less than brilliant lighting conditions. And these days I'm often to be found in low lit rooms. Not a problem when I'm shooting food as I can use a tripod, but when my subject is thrashing his guitar in a crowded pub it becomes one.<br />
<br />
I'm not a wealthy woman, what I earn in three months tutoring at the university has to last me the rest of the year (though I'm exploring other ways to earn at the moment), so buying myself anything at all feels like a huge extravagance. And it feels hideously selfish. If I run out of money before I can earn any more, Dave will have to feed me. I already live here rent free. So I don't buy clothes, or shoes, or make-up unless I absolutely have to, or they're very cheap. I considered replacing my five year old, almost daily worn boots this sale period, but decided they'll be fine for another year. I do buy books, though I've just managed to break my Kindle so that temptation has been removed, and food, and cigarettes, and the odd bottle of wine or drink down the pub, but all these things can be, and are, shared with Dave. They all contribute to our shared life, and chosen lifestyle, so I can, to myself at least, justify them. Not so easy when it comes to a new lens.<br />
<br />
And believe me I have tried! For the last several months all sorts of dubious reasoning has been filling my head. The best I've managed is that Moffat Music Live uses my shots to promote its doings, as Dave's on the board he gets some benefit from my hobby, and a new lens will mean better photographs for their posters. But it's pretty feeble. Not quite as feeble as me though, because I fell for it.<br />
<br />
However, it did take a while, and I wandered between yes I'll definitely get one, and no no, don't be stupid you don't need one, for weeks. And once I'd decided to allow myself to look it took even longer for me to decide on which sort. For ages I got hung up on sharpness, one of the things that really irritates me about my photos is that shot through a dirty window look. They too often tend to fuzziness, but I'd have to have been Hitler to have been able to convince myself to spend everything I have on a super-duper prime lens. So I read a lot of reviews and articles, thoroughly considered the type of photography (and environmental conditions) I indulge in, and veered between a wide 12mm and a 50mm, both fast.<br />
<br />
Then I woke up yesterday morning and thought: 'Eryl, you're such a plank!' So I ordered a second hand, 12–50mm, 3.5–6.3 zoom. And no sooner had I done so when an email led me to an article by a professional photographer about why, and how, kit lenses are much better than their image leads us to believe. He showed lots of examples of splendid photos taken with his kit lens, and linked to a blog post by a fashion photographer in a similar vein. I'm not a professional, and never will be, so don't need high end equipment. I just need something to play with. Something to explore with.<br />
<br />
An email arrived this afternoon to say my order's shipped. I'm so excited I can barely sit still. I can't justify spending nearly ten percent of my entire year's earnings on what is, ostensibly, a toy. But I've been looking at the world through a lens since 1979, it's one of the things that makes me, and I love it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aoXB1129jUM/UOdAnLRZmJI/AAAAAAAACl8/gGAJZbYFzDE/s1600/51MKM2cB+dL._SL500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aoXB1129jUM/UOdAnLRZmJI/AAAAAAAACl8/gGAJZbYFzDE/s1600/51MKM2cB+dL._SL500_.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squeak!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sometimes you just have to admit to, and feed your passions. <br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-4278998625780885322012-12-18T21:21:00.000+00:002012-12-18T21:21:07.226+00:00Title, what title?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HCoDZ01_pE8/UNDda5t-KmI/AAAAAAAACkU/b-eB3tDR9HM/s1600/2-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="402" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HCoDZ01_pE8/UNDda5t-KmI/AAAAAAAACkU/b-eB3tDR9HM/s640/2-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random Christmas photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
It's really hard coming back after so long, I've been trying to write a post all day. Mostly it was about Christmas, and how odd it is finding myself without my old seasonal anchors. But I couldn't seem to say what I wanted to without sounding whiny, or over-explaining. Apparently that's one of the problems new writers have: over-explaining. </div>
<br />
So, fuck it, I'm just going to say hello, and beg for favourite non-meat Christmas recipes. For years Christmas for me has meant roast goose, but Dave doesn't like meat so I need to make something marvellous without it. I'll do goose too, and am hoping I can find a less than whole one so I don't have to eat it for a year, but it would be great if the marvellous non-meat thing could be the main focus.<br />
<br />
I meant to make Nigella Lawson's <i>Marzipan Fruit Cake</i> today, as a substitute for my usual boozy, dark fruit cake which I didn't get round to making in October. But I didn't have any orange flower water so it will have to wait till Thursday. Annoyingly I have orange flower water in my old pantry, just up the road, but my ex has moved away and added an extra lock to the front door so I can't get in. I've been trying to get a key off him for five weeks now, so have taken legal advice. I'd be well within my rights to break in, it is my house after all, but I'd rather not have to.<br />
<br />
Anyway, this is turning into a whine again so I'll go. But before I do I'll say I'm meeting my best friend tomorrow, about which I am very excited as I haven't seen he since July. And Christmas looks set to be fabby, especially if I can solve the food conflict.Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-87776560494825526722012-11-11T16:28:00.001+00:002012-11-11T16:33:41.291+00:00Too much, too soonI've taken on far too much work. But the seasonal nature of my job (university general teaching assistant) means that what I earn in three months has to last me the whole year. And this year, not wanting to be parasitic on my new love, I felt unable to say no to everything that was offered. So I'm teaching three courses: my usual one; a political philosophy course, and academic writing skills. This is still not full time hours, but the travelling and time between classes makes it feel like it is. And now I have a huge pile of essays to mark, which is killing me.<br />
<br />
My problem here is that I'm working with someone else's material, so when a student uses a term, or launches off on a discussion about something, I'm unfamiliar with I can't assume they've made it up, and have to scour the course reading to see if it exists. I don't want to penalise someone for my own shortcomings. This means it can take hours to mark an essay that someone who knows the subject intimately could mark in forty minutes. And it means I don't get paid for nearly the hours I put in. I can hardly charge the university for my lack of knowledge. Though, of course, I inevitably find the term, or discussion topic, isn't in the reading material. But what if the student has read books I haven't? What if they have read round the subject and gone much deeper than I have?<br />
<br />
All this marking has to be done at my desk between the back of Dave's tv and the window in the sitting room, because feedback has to be typed onto a specific 'feedback sheet'. So I can't do it between classes, GTAs don't have offices and I don't have a lap-top I could work on in the car or coffee bar, and have to wait till I'm at home in the evenings (and at the weekend (I should be doing it now!)).<br />
<br />
I had the day off on Friday. The class I teach on Fridays is having a 'reading week'. I planned to spend the whole day marking so that by now (Sunday afternoon) I could start work on lesson plans for the rest of the week. So, what did I do?<br />
<br />
Because I've been working on Fridays I haven't been going to the music sessions in the Bull of Thursday nights. Dave hasn't been going either (not because of me), but he decided to go this (last?) week. And I went too. And it was so nice: the music, the buzz, the delight on people's faces to see us again after so long. The white wine spritzers. The red wine someone brought back to our house after the session... It's safe to say that I let of steam. Too much of it, and too long before I really should have.<br />
<br />
The eye-popping, gut-scrunching hangover the next day wasn't so nice. Nor was it conducive to marking essays on the effectiveness of Monbiot's argument from analogy and use of authority in the article...<br />
<br />
Last night I was up till 3am trying to catch up. I failed.<br />
<br />
This morning I worked on making sure I was as familiar with the material as I possibly could be, and that I understood every possible way Monbiot's arguments could be interpreted by eager, unpractised students.<br />
<br />
Now I am going to get on with the job of preparing a plan for tomorrow's class, and then I'll start on the essays once more. Probably I'll get everything done. Maybe I won't, and if I don't maybe the university will never employ me again. And if the university never employs me again maybe Dave will identify me as a parasite and throw me out of his house. And if Dave identifies me as a parasite and throws me out of his house I'll still have had the wonderful experience of being loved by him all this time. And a great night last Thursday.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6SAoM5wcLfUQSOKcM1uAtfYbi3_z-6RXcWTg7K8OM6Uiw-4z4hPU3LcARSg9pzi2bYU3-rbELfWGO8zPiB7kAqYRZWAopsvfF0he8SiY-tD7pmwANc2vqsKpoCnJJHiCbbD4JsIYMiA/s1600/IMG_1388.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ6SAoM5wcLfUQSOKcM1uAtfYbi3_z-6RXcWTg7K8OM6Uiw-4z4hPU3LcARSg9pzi2bYU3-rbELfWGO8zPiB7kAqYRZWAopsvfF0he8SiY-tD7pmwANc2vqsKpoCnJJHiCbbD4JsIYMiA/s640/IMG_1388.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My desk the morning after a similarly raucous, but nowhere near as affecting, night. Sometimes I can handle it, sometimes I can't. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-55111157049850624972012-09-19T23:27:00.001+01:002012-09-19T23:27:59.387+01:00WeightedThe university has reopened for students after the summer break. The autumn/winter semester has begun and next week sees the start of seminars and, thus, work for me. This year, as well as the textual analysis course I've been doing on and off for a few years now, I'll be tutoring another two. The first is called Issues in Contemporary Society which is, pretty much, applied ethics. And the other is an academic writing course for students who need a little extra help when it comes to using formal, academic language and structure.<br />
<br />
As with everything there are good and bad aspects to all this working. The main good will be having a bit of money. There are several things I could do with that require more than I currently have: new spectacles, for example. I can feel that my eyesight has deteriorated quite far since I last had my eyes tested: reading hurts, and I don't recognise people in the street until they are upon me which can get me into, not trouble, but difficulty. I seem constantly to be saying, "Do apologise, I'm blind as a bat!"<br />
<br />
I could also really do with a couple of jumpers (sweaters for those of you across the Atlantic). I meant to get some last winter, but everything I earnt went into a joint bank account and I never saw it again. The last time I bought any warm clothes was 2009, and, quite frankly, they're looking a little shabby now. It would be nice to have at least one fresh looking woolly.<br />
<br />
I'm running out of face cream, too. And I can't remember the last time I had decent shampoo. So all that will be jolly good.<br />
<br />
Another biggie for the goods is that I really love teaching. There's something incredibly vivifying about seeing the pennies dropping one by one, often quite slowly, sometimes all of a sudden, in the students' eyes. The change in their understanding, and ability to debate points reasonably by the end of the course is usually huge, and it's always a joy to think: "I helped them get here." <br />
<br />
On the less good side: no more Thursday night music sessions for me until the Christmas break. No more lazy mornings in bed with coffee and Dave tales, during the week, at least. And I'm likely to be tired, and sometimes a bit grumpy, because the workload is large and can be stressful. Especially when it comes to marking essays. Dave is going to see a different side to me. Relaxed, playful Eryl will be replaced with fraught, efficient Eryl. I hope it doesn't put him off.<br />
<br />
Here follows some random photographs that show what I've been up to in my last couple of weeks of creative freedom:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5YbdMrolKcjfQrdUaH_AObqeOoibLFsEVBtCd8tW1c6BMk-Nn9CKqTgpg4b4P4nJAWEqBK3QtZsnVMESkMCTRAzgZsoFyQ1LW-yq_i2A75LqLAY3wzDQCbrGwbD10GeGYjmelYtci38/s1600/B&W+split+tone-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5YbdMrolKcjfQrdUaH_AObqeOoibLFsEVBtCd8tW1c6BMk-Nn9CKqTgpg4b4P4nJAWEqBK3QtZsnVMESkMCTRAzgZsoFyQ1LW-yq_i2A75LqLAY3wzDQCbrGwbD10GeGYjmelYtci38/s640/B&W+split+tone-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Globe courgettes, courtesy of my boss, Katherine, at the book shop who has an allotment and found herself overrun with them. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MEbemCJ_lis/UFpDhBsfRiI/AAAAAAAACik/WW0krTGymhs/s1600/Chanterelles+B&W-9021995.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MEbemCJ_lis/UFpDhBsfRiI/AAAAAAAACik/WW0krTGymhs/s640/Chanterelles+B&W-9021995.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chanterelles, courtesy of a local beech wood. I cooked them in just a little water and a drop of red wine vinegar, as advised by a friend of Dave's who lives in France, and they were scrumptious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mqa7sXCqga8/UFpD_IicfmI/AAAAAAAACis/uKO3Eksy__M/s1600/Ian+1-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mqa7sXCqga8/UFpD_IicfmI/AAAAAAAACis/uKO3Eksy__M/s640/Ian+1-4.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ian, of Moffat Music Live, and the Bull sessions, in the Annandale Hotel on Sunday. I've been trying to get a decent picture of him for ages, but for some reason he's never around when I have my camera. So, knowing he'd be there on Sunday I took it with me especially. Moffat Music Live uses my photographs for publicity, and they didn't have one of him, which was a bit of an omission, really. Now rectified.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-15535578414424999752012-09-08T20:48:00.002+01:002012-09-08T20:48:28.756+01:00Day Tripper, Yeah...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEyi4SPfVUqNtrOr_qewUh_B_7s8SyHPx3TP5M_nzGAPQOWVv9lUFVxDNUUfg4FPS3pTNU-Nk_VeT0AH3PN8IBFd4Dla7500o-K5Ml4L3ig7kAEXuN0ugDG7-nAQytZR_ql15kjZ5KtA/s1600/IMG_0966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEyi4SPfVUqNtrOr_qewUh_B_7s8SyHPx3TP5M_nzGAPQOWVv9lUFVxDNUUfg4FPS3pTNU-Nk_VeT0AH3PN8IBFd4Dla7500o-K5Ml4L3ig7kAEXuN0ugDG7-nAQytZR_ql15kjZ5KtA/s640/IMG_0966.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Some years ago my sister in law told me she'd heard there was a village in Scotland whose architecture was Dutch in style. She couldn't remember what it was called, or where in Scotland it was, but thought I should search it out. I asked a few people, got blank looks, and then pretty much forgot about it.<br />
<br />
A day or so before his first (bi-monthly) visit to his mother after I'd moved in, Dave suggested he could drop me off somewhere along the way. After considering this for a while I thanked him but declined. The only place I could think of was Edinburgh and because I hadn't yet acclimatised to my new impoverishment I couldn't imagine spending a whole day there. My usual Edinburgh day trips consisted of either going to an exhibition or mooching round the sites and shops. Both these options included at least one stop for coffee, and another for lunch. And I couldn't imagine not doing those things.<br />
<br />
Fast forward five months, to the end of July, I had become quite used to existing on bugger all, and my horizons had expanded. I could now quite happily spend hours in the countryside and eat nothing at all. So I asked Dave if he could recommend anywhere of interest that wouldn't take him too much out of his way when his next visit was coming up. He gave me a few examples, I googled them, and found a link to Culross. When I clicked on this link I realised it must be the place my sister in law had mentioned all those years before.<br />
<br />
It's a National Trust restored medieval village that was built on trading links with the Low Countries. What made it perfect for me was that as well as being picture book pretty it's on the coast, and is surrounded by modern industry. Across the river (Forth) is the huge and spewing Grangemouth power-station. Driving through the landscape to Culross you could be in a Terry Gilliam movie, and then, pah dah! you're in the illustrated Hans Cristian Anderson. Culross is all painted houses and hanging gardens.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AxTzr1AkVG0/UEuQNf1IY1I/AAAAAAAAChQ/9umt8Tj_jUk/s1600/IMG_0967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AxTzr1AkVG0/UEuQNf1IY1I/AAAAAAAAChQ/9umt8Tj_jUk/s640/IMG_0967.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
There's a pumpkin coloured palace (I didn't go in as it cost nine quid but was told by a couple of lovely chatty women who live nearby and visit regularly that it was lovely inside);<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV0BwvS_qh2dhaPGzF4XedeyFEbJmyCaIE9UPbk_mTkqmCgNAtD0anfbbqzHZUq4bXPZNHC_FoS0nQVGczIPCAIYNK9fMLefGwa0XNVp4UYz2YxKswxaLWTtVNfmAFYtcqGSoOKOdT6A/s1600/Town+view-7241686.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV0BwvS_qh2dhaPGzF4XedeyFEbJmyCaIE9UPbk_mTkqmCgNAtD0anfbbqzHZUq4bXPZNHC_FoS0nQVGczIPCAIYNK9fMLefGwa0XNVp4UYz2YxKswxaLWTtVNfmAFYtcqGSoOKOdT6A/s640/Town+view-7241686.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
which you can look down on from the back and out to the power station; <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OMQDUicv0w4/UEuVgnxELbI/AAAAAAAAChg/E13lzCyqffk/s1600/P7241775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OMQDUicv0w4/UEuVgnxELbI/AAAAAAAAChg/E13lzCyqffk/s640/P7241775.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
a ruined abbey;<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMiYKlFe-fPbhtKEUEkHPQzhOOdXNzX3MvlV-33Dfw_XqtVyHxAO-7czc32EdL12tT9Oi-KU1fyloiHRZa8LvJFCvLWjkCKQ5hpsoSWiwE43eg6QtfmUzHHcbS0PPq59Dnbsg1PChyc8/s1600/Parley+Gardens+-+wall+fairy+-7241737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMiYKlFe-fPbhtKEUEkHPQzhOOdXNzX3MvlV-33Dfw_XqtVyHxAO-7czc32EdL12tT9Oi-KU1fyloiHRZa8LvJFCvLWjkCKQ5hpsoSWiwE43eg6QtfmUzHHcbS0PPq59Dnbsg1PChyc8/s640/Parley+Gardens+-+wall+fairy+-7241737.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parley Gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
a lovely garden with some interesting art work. I chatted at length to a very old man who told me it used to be the place where the donkeys lived before they were moved to a sanctuary. It's is now owned and run by his son who keeps it open to the public so everyone can enjoy it. It was free to enter and had a tin in which you could donate to the British Heart Foundation, which I did.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gY6ccEh1hjM/UEuav6m0A6I/AAAAAAAACh4/7Yg6dL26Gtk/s1600/IMG_0972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gY6ccEh1hjM/UEuav6m0A6I/AAAAAAAACh4/7Yg6dL26Gtk/s640/IMG_0972.JPG" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There's also a wonderful pottery/gallery. I had to force myself past almost everything it sold.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYJCtGsOYD0GVsLgHNTah5lZguXXW_6sWWuN1dq0Kcd78F4_LT6OfUC9uowDe4gK5Raeix6DQnD6oiJHlVRaAF0RMVxJuJMp7L3iS_qPy5eL9YQt0ac2-fIY5hZq4eZdY1pBM5tRxmEw/s1600/IMG_0974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYJCtGsOYD0GVsLgHNTah5lZguXXW_6sWWuN1dq0Kcd78F4_LT6OfUC9uowDe4gK5Raeix6DQnD6oiJHlVRaAF0RMVxJuJMp7L3iS_qPy5eL9YQt0ac2-fIY5hZq4eZdY1pBM5tRxmEw/s640/IMG_0974.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
Luckily it has a garden tea room<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hmWTdn9RJwY/UEubEpzLBPI/AAAAAAAACiI/Xp3O6x8E5P4/s1600/IMG_0975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hmWTdn9RJwY/UEubEpzLBPI/AAAAAAAACiI/Xp3O6x8E5P4/s640/IMG_0975.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
where I did stop for coffee and cake.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCx_HD-QwkUprIrCT-d4OmlQSPyTJrzuP4c3Kd-2ONQDF7hNpbgCR-ZDY-7mok7vL8d4ac5FvvqYtJ0Y4OPArZb-N6plHqmld6CLEOcL8GwGtbYYAqaq4_32wUlADPDtAdaGrek3nLxys/s1600/Pier+b&w-7241641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCx_HD-QwkUprIrCT-d4OmlQSPyTJrzuP4c3Kd-2ONQDF7hNpbgCR-ZDY-7mok7vL8d4ac5FvvqYtJ0Y4OPArZb-N6plHqmld6CLEOcL8GwGtbYYAqaq4_32wUlADPDtAdaGrek3nLxys/s640/Pier+b&w-7241641.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I had a lovely day ambling up wonky streets, past multicoloured houses in the sunshine. But I think the broken down old pier was my favourite bit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-50358587524658640422012-09-05T19:29:00.001+01:002012-09-05T19:29:35.383+01:00The PresentApparently there's no time like it so here goes.<br />
<br />
I keep beginning to write posts; then I get tangled up, too much to report, probably; then I get distracted: Dave comes home, the phone rings, someone knocks on the door, I feel hungry...<br />
<br />
So, here's a quick list of what's been happening in the hope it might help disentangle my thoughts and allow me to move on.<br />
<br />
I continue to explore the world of vegetarian cooking and expand my active repertoire. In order to help me remember what I can do I've propped a small blackboard on the kitchen radiator.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Gb_yY8v_0y1UH-34URiz2XjmeDHBVgi56tMEvEF_Rq3asGJxIukrykO_-4zL4JATzv_gi7lTnZ1018boabkXDf1NzUOZMlr0AlsMEqyDlMwNeNIF3455IIzxng5eTlwPHIV0_ao_R1Q/s1600/IMG_1122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Gb_yY8v_0y1UH-34URiz2XjmeDHBVgi56tMEvEF_Rq3asGJxIukrykO_-4zL4JATzv_gi7lTnZ1018boabkXDf1NzUOZMlr0AlsMEqyDlMwNeNIF3455IIzxng5eTlwPHIV0_ao_R1Q/s640/IMG_1122.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Thus I don't have to wrack my brains too much when thoughts of supper take hold. Though I find, on the whole, vegetarian food takes much longer to prepare so I to resort humus wraps more often than I'd like. At least I make the hummus myself, mostly.<br />
<br />
The first ever Moffat Sheep Race took place on August 12.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d0Nw85vVW2I" width="480"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
Organised by by ex next door neighbour it was a roaring success. I was in the bookshop, but I could feel the jolliness and in between races people came in and told me all about it. Dave was playing in the Ewe 2 session in the <a href="http://www.annandalearmshotel.co.uk/output/home.asp">Annandale Arms Hotel</a> so once I shut up shop for the day I joined him and the boys in there.<br />
<br />
On August 9, Dave had a gig at the Edinburgh Festival, in the marvellous <a href="http://www.edinfilm.com/locations/St-Brides-Centre">St Brides Centre</a>, so, obviously, I went up with him. In the afternoon he had a sound check so I went to the <a href="http://www.nationalgalleries.org/whatson/exhibitions/picasso-modern-british-art#.UEeTDaSXTzc">Picasso exhibition</a> in the Modern, which was marvellous. I didn't see half of it, though, so must, must go back before it ends in November. Meanwhile I'm trying to decide if I can afford to send off for the catalogue which I browsed in the shop and am desperate to read.<br />
<br />
August 25 was a day of particular goodness: it marked our half year together. A whole half year! I feel a bit like a three year old saying that, but I can't believe he's put up with me that long. That we've had six whole months and, apart from my lack of funds, everything's been great. I don't think I've ever met a more tolerant man. And romantic, too: every morning he brings me (and himself) a cup of coffee, and we sit in bed and chat about this and that. On this morning he also brought me<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BYHAQPLSahl62ewG_hmpJ_CyWYQ-ViUFoub1jdfBcuGP0FP00dDy1Mue5wT_1wZEjiOBbhyphenhyphen6xgaHWBIofOxyPOjfdcXdq8QdHKVEnQ9C40GdSeu-xT1V4bfMFLLecChkNkCpYbsvlFQ/s1600/Green+drops-8311982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BYHAQPLSahl62ewG_hmpJ_CyWYQ-ViUFoub1jdfBcuGP0FP00dDy1Mue5wT_1wZEjiOBbhyphenhyphen6xgaHWBIofOxyPOjfdcXdq8QdHKVEnQ9C40GdSeu-xT1V4bfMFLLecChkNkCpYbsvlFQ/s640/Green+drops-8311982.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm thrilled not just because they're gorgeous, but because he wanted to mark this six month anniversary.<br />
<br />
Other news: it's Bob (my son)'s birthday on Friday. He'll be 27. I won't get to see him, but I saw him a few weeks ago and hope to see him again before long.<br />
<br />
I've only got about a month to go before I start back at the university for the winter semester. This will give me a little money for a little while. Hopefully the house will sell and sort me out for a bit longer.<br />
<br />
And that's it. Dave's key is in the door and now I want to talk to him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-57922384587846238902012-07-16T23:08:00.001+01:002012-07-16T23:08:24.669+01:00Starting with PieWith over thirty years experience I used to be able to knock up supper without a thought. Then I moved in with a vegetarian. It's true, Dave would be happy if I served up Bombay Potato every day, but I wouldn't. So I'm trying to teach myself how to cook without meat and fish in a way that satisfies my craving for the textures I've rarely found in flesh free fare. The kind of texture chicken stock gives to risotto, or non-lean minced beef gives to chilli, or that comes from frying very thin slices of streaky bacon in a smoking hot pan. I don't hold out much hope but I reckon I'll give it ten years. <br />
<br />
Last Thursday we had Jim, Dave's musical partner, down from Glasgow for the night. He's not a vegetarian and I wanted to make something that didn't smack of 'ism': there's nothing more off putting than being served a movement by a strange cook. So I adapted Nigella Lawson's Supper Onion Pie (from How to be a Domestic Goddess) to suit my current passion for goat's cheese.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">Onion and Goat's Cheese Tart</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AyKTZtwUYGY/UARxc210oGI/AAAAAAAACdo/DygjKqJ4Xtw/s1600/P7121555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AyKTZtwUYGY/UARxc210oGI/AAAAAAAACdo/DygjKqJ4Xtw/s640/P7121555.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take four large onions</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1IphnLvK4TA/UARygXs29kI/AAAAAAAACdw/C3AwGylZnX4/s1600/P7121566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1IphnLvK4TA/UARygXs29kI/AAAAAAAACdw/C3AwGylZnX4/s640/P7121566.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And four sprigs of thyme</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16huJe-FObYnTlUcQGasTlcGqXzouokNryo5yLc5OSzJZ7RoLrTPE9XOt816wnZal2Hcx45e2rjSISbppDLh0QNf2foBZT4cZyYQ13ssDShld-hSgRTzm9Yy-KmTJgy0Ahq8OPZf9LKc/s1600/P7121568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16huJe-FObYnTlUcQGasTlcGqXzouokNryo5yLc5OSzJZ7RoLrTPE9XOt816wnZal2Hcx45e2rjSISbppDLh0QNf2foBZT4cZyYQ13ssDShld-hSgRTzm9Yy-KmTJgy0Ahq8OPZf9LKc/s640/P7121568.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cut the onions into chunks, and in a 23cm, or thereabouts, heavy bottomed shallow pan that can go in the oven cook them with a tablespoon of olive oil and 25 grams of unsalted butter until very soft and lightly coloured. Add the de-stalked thyme leaves and season with salt and pepper. Crumble in 100g of goat's cheese. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ok6NyZdnH_U/UAR26fA7THI/AAAAAAAACeE/pIOW8JmqTAo/s1600/P7121561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ok6NyZdnH_U/UAR26fA7THI/AAAAAAAACeE/pIOW8JmqTAo/s640/P7121561.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Make the scone pastry by sifting 250g of plain flour, 1 teaspoon of baking powder and 1 teaspoon of salt into a large bowl. Crumble in 100g of goat's cheese. In a jug mix 100ml milk, 40g melted butter, a large egg and a teaspoon of English mustard. Pour this onto the flour mixture and stir together until you get a sticky dough. Turn it out onto a floured surface then just press it out until it's the right size to fit your pan.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ttvpYfLa8os/UAR87liyJtI/AAAAAAAACeM/pi5E9Dmg-LU/s1600/P7121570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ttvpYfLa8os/UAR87liyJtI/AAAAAAAACeM/pi5E9Dmg-LU/s640/P7121570.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Transfer the dough to the pan and cover the onion and cheese mix tucking it in around the sides. Put it in the oven at gas 5 and cook for 20 minutes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRTbi1OH-Vv37EuuitwPfvVdbAR20sBhPh_cip5iSh-SgkbC4kl84ioTXe2U3xW3lleT0EsSTqeet8iRia6q9hpsI19vQvxifJ8peOmKt2iJH-c8rEWiPB5a3cbnu7__zaOyuWuIV0aC0/s1600/P7131579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRTbi1OH-Vv37EuuitwPfvVdbAR20sBhPh_cip5iSh-SgkbC4kl84ioTXe2U3xW3lleT0EsSTqeet8iRia6q9hpsI19vQvxifJ8peOmKt2iJH-c8rEWiPB5a3cbnu7__zaOyuWuIV0aC0/s640/P7131579.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leave it to settle for five minutes before turning it out onto a flat plate. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I served it with potato salad and tiny tomatoes dressed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. And it was a mighty success. As was:<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y4xGL_GahPMlCOzuGtVhLQz0Yd-XF9RMNuN54EP0iUBVbOOE3wTI1ddalY2KEqqJ576flzeFqu__VRwt0YaUOLl_UnCjIP2A4tWohzFQGvY5Mso0fLIusQSwCkx8NWydecitavbalzk/s1600/P7131583-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y4xGL_GahPMlCOzuGtVhLQz0Yd-XF9RMNuN54EP0iUBVbOOE3wTI1ddalY2KEqqJ576flzeFqu__VRwt0YaUOLl_UnCjIP2A4tWohzFQGvY5Mso0fLIusQSwCkx8NWydecitavbalzk/s640/P7131583-001.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pudding</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;">I've given you my cheesecake recipe before but I can't find it to provide a link, so if anyone wants it let me know and I'll give it again. </span>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-71719552162824085072012-07-02T20:05:00.000+01:002012-07-02T20:05:05.733+01:00Fitting inJust stepped in from a spot of gardening because the rain's come on. Our garden is a low ledge that runs along the front and (one) side of the house. We have nothing at the back, a neighbouring garden comes right up to our kitchen window.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hEeTIMeqouY/T_HQLNm1pXI/AAAAAAAACdM/uGl3bmmTAL0/s1600/P7021521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hEeTIMeqouY/T_HQLNm1pXI/AAAAAAAACdM/uGl3bmmTAL0/s640/P7021521.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Apart from space its main shortcoming is light. The house faces north, so most of the plants get very little light and almost no sun. The side of the house faces east so we do get some morning sun, and thanks to the close proximity of the house opposite, at this time of year, in the middle of the day, some of the plants find themselves able to enjoy sunlight reflected off its windows.<br />
<br />
Because I like to cook I want to be able to grow herbs, and today I bought sage, mint, parsley, and oregano. I already have chives, rosemary and bay. The bay tree is doing marvellously, the rosemary less so. I may have to move it, though I suspect it's the constant rain that's causing the problem. I hope I've put the new herbs in spots where they'll get some sun when it shines, I'll have to keep my eyes open to their needs and move them if necessary.<br />
<br />
On another note: I'm about half way through reading my novel; it's nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be and I'm actually quite enjoying it. The basics are there: the idea seems sound, I stick to the theme, the characters have all the necessary dimensions and, crucially, it has a narrative thrust. I think I now know what I need to do with it and sketched out plans for a major rewrite this morning but will finish reading it before I begin all that. It's getting quite exciting.<br />
<br />
Reading, noting and sketching I do in bed, but once it comes to the rewrite I'll have to go (all the way downstairs!) to my desk everyday. <span style="background-color: white;">Luckily I've found a cosy spot to put it.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d56d3Ul0Vbo/T_HlNyYeexI/AAAAAAAACdU/CDvHWz8-tlk/s1600/P7021535-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d56d3Ul0Vbo/T_HlNyYeexI/AAAAAAAACdU/CDvHWz8-tlk/s640/P7021535-001.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My workspace: between the window and fireplace, and behind the (man-size) TV.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Not that it's mine. It once belonged to an aunt of Dave's and so is really his, I've just borrowed it for the time being. As you can see I've covered it in the debris of my existence, and I feel quite at home sitting here at it, typing this post. I have my own office chair (which was once Bob's), my computer, pens, pencils, notebooks and knick-knacks. And, when he's not out fishing, I have Dave sitting at his desk on the other side of the stove working on his own (second) book.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nkj49ZDwT4M/T_HsdUhzzQI/AAAAAAAACdg/71lrp2ywQ-U/s1600/P7021533-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nkj49ZDwT4M/T_HsdUhzzQI/AAAAAAAACdg/71lrp2ywQ-U/s640/P7021533-001.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
If anyone out there has experience of gardening in heavy shade areas, and, thus, any tips to share please do.Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-31418572703309618322012-06-25T22:14:00.002+01:002012-06-25T22:14:47.850+01:00Every day's a school dayMusic, birds, Scottish culture, biology; these are some of the things I'm learning about just by being in the presence of Dave. In the morning he gets up, puts on some music, makes coffee and comes back to bed. Mornings have never been my best time and he just seems to understand that. So he talks, I listen. If he tested me afterwards I wouldn't be able to answer a single question about what he's said, but I'm beginning to notice it is sinking in. I can now distinguish between the sounds made by robins, chaffinches, and sparrows, and (from walks rather than bed chat) tell a buzzard from a gull in flight. I've learnt more about Scottish culture in the last four months than I had in the previous twenty seven years of living here. As for music, well let's just say my ears have been opened. And if that wasn't enough I'm also indulging in a bit of active self instruction too.<br />
<br />
Since the age of six the only meat Dave's eaten is rubbish sausages and haggis. And the only fish he can stand is haddock, because it doesn't taste fishy. So, because I like to cook (and feed), I have been trying to expand my vegetarian repertoire. Luckily like me he loves spicy food and is bonkersly grateful for my efforts. Some of which have been distinctly odd. But not so today.<br />
<br />
Today I made dal flavoured with coconut milk and Indian five spice. Which I adapted from a recipe for Murkha Dal because I didn't have the fresh ginger that recipe required, and I fancied using the five spice mix my brother gave me when we were in Kent for his birthday. We thought it a roaring success so here's the recipe should you want to try it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoGt_Xc_-6M5WlT7gbhs8pKt-saM2xJrFiy3dSpe9jHLtzZgtt3U5jBm72httb9eMgLQBOylTApfAonUw-i7oXNhJ-ADBY5sTgYCUKGrdW6nQak5miM0nVHWbrwjNTgQQvAv0VnfmYfA/s1600/P6251516-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVoGt_Xc_-6M5WlT7gbhs8pKt-saM2xJrFiy3dSpe9jHLtzZgtt3U5jBm72httb9eMgLQBOylTApfAonUw-i7oXNhJ-ADBY5sTgYCUKGrdW6nQak5miM0nVHWbrwjNTgQQvAv0VnfmYfA/s640/P6251516-001.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Untitled Dal No. 1<br />
<br />
1 onion finely chopped<br />
2 cloves of garlic finely chopped<br />
1 scotch bonnet chili (or any chili you want to use) finely chopped<br />
1 tablespoon Indian five spice (these are the whole the spices: fennel seed, black onion seed, mustard seed, fenugreek and, I think, black mustard seed)<br />
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional, you need to like it hot hot to add this)<br />
1 teaspoon ground ginger (an inch or so of fresh would probably be even better)<br />
1 teaspoon ground turmeric<br />
50 grams of butter<br />
1 cup of red lentils<br />
3 cups of water<br />
1 tin (about 400 mils) coconut milk<br />
1 teaspoon of salt<br />
<br />
Melt the butter in a large pan (I used a big frying pan) and when it's hot add the five spice mix. Listen out for the mustard seeds popping and when they do add the onion and garlic. Let them catch and brown a bit then add the chili and cook for five minutes or so until it goes translucent. Add the ginger, turmeric and cayenne (if using). Cook for a minute and then add the lentils. Turn them about in the spicy butter and when they gleam add the water, coconut milk and salt. Bring to the boil, turn down to the kind of simmer where the odd bubble pops on the surface and cook for about 40 minutes. If it gets too thick add a little more water. All this can be done well in advance and reheated.<br />
<br />
We just ate it with wraps which I'd heated in a dry frying pan, but you could serve it as part of a larger meal with other curried things, and/or rice or chapattis. I reckon hardboiled eggs would be a nice addition, as would, for the carnivorous, leftover roast chicken. Or even some sort of firm fleshed fish. You could also add a cup more water and have it as a soup. <br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-67107779505470367382012-06-11T23:11:00.002+01:002012-06-11T23:11:51.566+01:00Hurrah!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvioIZeprTSf498_wuOehF5RwiLlq6gWA3NxQMUAJFCNtuExVecLcsfvlHbTaUCbHtQIIsXJz1YJqRBJ0BWUpXD5qlasy8Et2Iv3-PsiDrecjFhfYwFrWJPvhf1DTDlPy4nDYSirORf5Y/s1600/IMG_0713.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvioIZeprTSf498_wuOehF5RwiLlq6gWA3NxQMUAJFCNtuExVecLcsfvlHbTaUCbHtQIIsXJz1YJqRBJ0BWUpXD5qlasy8Et2Iv3-PsiDrecjFhfYwFrWJPvhf1DTDlPy4nDYSirORf5Y/s400/IMG_0713.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cake I made my brother for his birthday (I know, I forget the corners).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Thank you all for your well wishes, and apologies for not replying to individual comments on the last post.<br />
<br />
We've now had two weekends of flinging Dave at my dearests. On Saturday we met my two bestest friends. And the weekend before we drove to Kent (as you know from the previous post) where he had to undergo the scrutiny of a good deal of my family.<br />
<br />
All of this seemed to go extremely well: I noticed no active disliking on either side, and he rather hit it off with the few key people he got to actually have conversations with. My sister Angela particularly impressed him with her love of theatre as did my cousin Wendy with her dedication to music. And on Saturday he talked with Rhona (a friend to whom I am so close we don't actually have to speak to communicate) for hours. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UZvjtscr0n1iXEE8Tq3bpbls6EskJcQM8ep8YFSyNfqAn5bh7-186kN0C8vM2zjbheTa0D51oCmkFwV_40I13V5LXya5Xl8sFpuFqy5dYgOvZrUdugmdLdcXHvsXgVssoUgG4oogIjk/s1600/IMG_0764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UZvjtscr0n1iXEE8Tq3bpbls6EskJcQM8ep8YFSyNfqAn5bh7-186kN0C8vM2zjbheTa0D51oCmkFwV_40I13V5LXya5Xl8sFpuFqy5dYgOvZrUdugmdLdcXHvsXgVssoUgG4oogIjk/s400/IMG_0764.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kelvingrove gallery, Glasgow, where Rhona, Dave and I spent a lovely couple of hours between lunch and tea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm feeling altogether much more settled: last week I finished my part of the research project on which I'd been assisting a couple of the lecturers at the university. That in itself was a huge relief, but it was topped when at the final meeting I was offered some work tutoring in the autumn. This means I won't need to injure myself trying to find another job over the summer, which, in turn, means I now have time to get on with the first rewrite of my novel. The novel whose first draft I finished over a year ago but haven't been in a fit state to sit down and look at since. <br />
<br />
So today, in order to create a comfortable space in which to work, I mostly (with the help of a friend) shifted furniture. More of which next time. Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-81244947618244218462012-05-30T22:14:00.000+01:002012-05-30T22:14:13.366+01:00Um...Every time I begin to write a post I get in such a tangle I give up. So much happening, so much new. New home, new friends, new jobs. I don't know which to write about, and I never have much time, thus the long silence.<br />
<br />
But here's something:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yPMhB3PP_MM/T8Z3BTvStsI/AAAAAAAACcU/kiDH1LjAyoo/s1600/IMG_0679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yPMhB3PP_MM/T8Z3BTvStsI/AAAAAAAACcU/kiDH1LjAyoo/s640/IMG_0679.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm now working in the local book shop for a few hours on a Sunday, which is lovely. On my first day a man came in looking for books on Africa and was delighted to find one about the region he grew up in that featured the story of a man he'd known as a child. We had a very cheerful chat about that. The next week another man found a book about the house he got married in, more delight. Last Sunday a lady from Wales talked for a good half hour about her favourite authors, and went away with an armload of books.<br />
<br />
Friends pop in and chat, kids tell me their favourite stories, all number of people recommend titles or authors. And pretty much everyone who comes in finds something to take home and snuggle up with. As I get to know the stock it becomes easier to direct customers to their area of interest, and this in itself generates conversation. But, best of all, in quiet moments I can take a book off the shelves and read. Last Sunday I read a bit from a textbook on Socio Linguistics. If it's still there next week I'll read some more.<br />
<br />
This weekend I won't be in the shop as I'm taking Dave to Kent to meet my family. It's my brother's 50th birthday today so a Gasper (my maiden name and possibly the reason I got married so young) celebratory fling has begun (work etc commitments mean we can't go until Friday). No doubt this will involve a lot of food and a lot of chat, not particularly garrulous as individuals we become so when together. I'm slightly trepidatious: I know they'll love <i>him</i>, but how will he feel in a house full of people who've known each other inside out for most of their lives? Will he see me from a new and horrifying perspective? Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-40047166393030137582012-04-30T11:45:00.001+01:002012-04-30T11:45:13.937+01:00ExperimentIn bed with a bug, not serious but limiting, I've been exploring the functions of my phone for the last few days. All those apps I'd downloaded and not had time to play with have been tickled. So, still here, I thought it might be interesting to try a phone post. So here one is. *
I got this phone for its camera and all the camera apps I'd noticed other people using, and immediately downloaded a ton of them. My favourite thus far has been instagram, as anyone who sees my Facebook feed will know. When I say 'favourite' what I actually mean is it's the one I've been running with. I'm very much a one thing at a time sort, which is probably why I'm not good in a crowd, and why I can't have a conversation when a tv or radio is on. Now I'm nicely familiar with instagram, and I've had idling time, I've had a look at the others at my disposal and settled on one called true HDR. If I was at my computer I might attempt to give you my understanding of HDR (high dynamic range), but my fingers are already stiffening so...
Anyway here are a couple of my first attempts:
Bugger, it wouldn't let me do it! Okay, that's it then, a semi-failed blog/phone experiment.
*if it works.Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-53597069787371531052012-04-22T21:13:00.000+01:002012-04-22T21:13:46.118+01:00A New Normal*Two months (minus two days) since I shifted lives and I'm beginning to settle. For a while I felt in a land so exotic all I could do was point and say "wow!" Everything seemed new and so exciting I could only react, like a tortoise who'd found itself in a meadow full of delicious wildflowers after years in the desert: amble, sniff, graze, sleep. But my cognitive faculties are wakening now and I'm starting to process again. And feel creative. This means writing and taking lots of photographs. <br />
<br />
Today we went to <a href="http://www.craigieburngarden.com/">Craigieburn Garden & Nursery</a> for a bit of light wandering and a delicious lunch.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j08wQwW22lI/T5RdEWzqkrI/AAAAAAAACR8/sY2alq37Fqc/s1600/IMG_0544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j08wQwW22lI/T5RdEWzqkrI/AAAAAAAACR8/sY2alq37Fqc/s640/IMG_0544.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ham and asparagus quiche.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZeGRn5dTsM/T5ReTout7GI/AAAAAAAACSE/mPwUYkedOto/s1600/IMG_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZeGRn5dTsM/T5ReTout7GI/AAAAAAAACSE/mPwUYkedOto/s640/IMG_0558.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vista with prayer flags.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EzhTQE4WI7g/T5ReiGmB5mI/AAAAAAAACSM/bTm8wC90Ud8/s1600/IMG_0566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EzhTQE4WI7g/T5ReiGmB5mI/AAAAAAAACSM/bTm8wC90Ud8/s640/IMG_0566.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lenten rose. I love these.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0y5vrnCWYAI/T5Re4u6FoiI/AAAAAAAACSU/4VrExeZj1ao/s1600/IMG_0570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0y5vrnCWYAI/T5Re4u6FoiI/AAAAAAAACSU/4VrExeZj1ao/s640/IMG_0570.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lichen in the grass, growing, Dave tells me, on a tree root.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sgnS5wmAlME/T5RfZPjQfjI/AAAAAAAACSc/uSidkHkBtNI/s1600/IMG_0554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sgnS5wmAlME/T5RfZPjQfjI/AAAAAAAACSc/uSidkHkBtNI/s640/IMG_0554.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elegant undulations.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MhsBB8oOwSo/T5RgdfH6d7I/AAAAAAAACSk/LLOx6Z5GQfI/s1600/Chocolate+cake-4221110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MhsBB8oOwSo/T5RgdfH6d7I/AAAAAAAACSk/LLOx6Z5GQfI/s640/Chocolate+cake-4221110.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate cake that was so good I continued to stuff it down when I was in danger of popping.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So far writing is limited to jotting down notes in my journal. This I mostly do in the mornings while still in bed, and it's jolly nice. I had vaguely wondered if I'd ever write again because it's been months – at least six, probably nine – since I've been able to, or wanted to, really. But now ideas are filtering in and growing, and the urge to write is back. Must be all this stimulation.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Thanks to <a href="http://rochambeau.typepad.com/my_weblog/">Constance Muller's</a> father for this thesis.</span>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-87453837255198001572012-04-17T19:58:00.000+01:002012-04-17T19:58:11.273+01:00QuickieJust to let you know I'm not dead here's a ten minute post.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Life is full of good things at the moment, like a well stocked pantry. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This weekend was the Moffat Music Festival, just about every pub in town (four, it's a small town) had some musical activity going on within. People came from far and wide, and I had a marvellous tim<span style="font-size: 100%;">e. Here are some photos:</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2RyAgvU8cQs/T42dxGoiOKI/AAAAAAAACMM/WGlQ0L7vog8/s1600/Dave+and+Jim-4141013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2RyAgvU8cQs/T42dxGoiOKI/AAAAAAAACMM/WGlQ0L7vog8/s400/Dave+and+Jim-4141013.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wing and a Prayer, aka Dave (my man) and Jim in the Annandale Arms Hotel for a Blues session.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732403988743579970" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wu5Nh2aoE8I/T42XDmIX6UI/AAAAAAAACME/ieIlHf_5n6I/s400/Susie%2BJones%2BB%2526W%2B1-4151022.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; height: 314px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 400px;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Susie Jones and band play at a concert in the Buccleuch Hotel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M_GhSh0E5QI/T42uJpvWCzI/AAAAAAAACMU/eFWE2TYIz9M/s1600/In+the+Bull+on+Sunday+evening-4151082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M_GhSh0E5QI/T42uJpvWCzI/AAAAAAAACMU/eFWE2TYIz9M/s400/In+the+Bull+on+Sunday+evening-4151082.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunday afternoon in the Black Bull, just after the accordion player left and the double bass arrived. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My ten minutes was up about an hour and a half ago. I had to go and take a loaf out the oven and, naturally, I had to eat some of it too. Then Dave got back from fishing, and after hugs and chat I remembered I had work to do. It's so easy to be distracted these days... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-66943875505700677232012-02-19T16:09:00.000+00:002012-02-19T16:09:10.109+00:00Word Verificationhas become ghastly. How the hell do I turn it off?<br />
<br />
And:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1080kwFubhQ/T0EXevESxoI/AAAAAAAACLk/DMBgusSJENo/s1600/Lightroom+developed+(1+of+1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1080kwFubhQ/T0EXevESxoI/AAAAAAAACLk/DMBgusSJENo/s640/Lightroom+developed+(1+of+1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eowyn Ivey (left) with Liz Roberts.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
last night's book event was marvellous. Ivey, as you can see from the (terrible quality) photograph above, read a couple of passages from <i>The Snow Child</i>, answered questions (posed by Liz Roberts and the audience) with candour, and generally charmed. At one point she told us that every copy sold of her book brings her a little closer to getting a well (she currently has to haul water daily to fill a tank in the basement).<br />
<br />
Circumstances conspired to stop me buying a copy of the book: the UK cover isn't nearly so appealing as the one in the post below, and the women from the bookshop that were selling it couldn't be bothered to get their debit/credit card machine from the car: "There's a cash point just outside." One of them said.<br />
"Is there?" I asked Marilyn who was standing beside me.<br />
"Yes, well, it's the one at the bank in the high street." She told me.<br />
"Bugger that!" I said, "I'm not walking all the way over there."<br />
I would have walked all that way to get my hands on that cover, but not this one:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hEq8C5KvQFg/T0EeOyV3OoI/AAAAAAAACLs/UCKmuzqCPfc/s1600/Uk+ed+The+Snow+Child.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hEq8C5KvQFg/T0EeOyV3OoI/AAAAAAAACLs/UCKmuzqCPfc/s640/Uk+ed+The+Snow+Child.jpg" width="452" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So I'll get it for my Kindle.Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-40635535665873829122012-02-14T13:49:00.000+00:002012-02-14T13:49:20.218+00:00BuzzMoffat suddenly seems to have become the place to be. Thursdays at the Black Bull are a must for music lovers. A recent concert sold out in hours. Brodies, the restaurant/cafe/bistro whose cakes and dishes I've been posting shots of for a while now, is constantly packed with friendly munchers and sippers (they already have only two tables left for Hogmanay!). And now a major new Alaskan author is coming here as part of her five day UK book launch tour.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nXY1VdYXL_M/Tzpf5EWkdNI/AAAAAAAACLc/z6ao89HiKBU/s1600/snowchild-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nXY1VdYXL_M/Tzpf5EWkdNI/AAAAAAAACLc/z6ao89HiKBU/s1600/snowchild-lg.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.eowynivey.com/">Eowyn Ivey</a>'s book has been selected by <i>Oprah Magazine</i> as among 10 titles to "Pick Up Now" in the February issue; by Waterstones as a UK Waterstones prestigious "11" award; as a book to watch by all number of newspapers including <i>The Independent</i> and <i>The Times; </i>will be Radio 4's Book at Bedtime in April,<i> </i>and is already a bestseller in Norway.<br />
<br />
This is what her website says about the book:<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">In <i>The Snow Child</i>, a couple creates a child out of snow. When she appears on their doorstep as a little girl, wild and secretive, their lives are changed forever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Alaska, 1920: a brutal place to homestead, and especially tough for a couple who have never been able to conceive. Jack and Mabel are drifting apart—he breaking under the weight of the work of the farm; she crumbling from loneliness and despair. In a moment of levity during the season's first snowfall, they build a child out of snow. The next morning the snow child is gone, but they catch sight of an elusive, blonde-haired girl running through the trees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This little girl, who calls herself Faina, seems to be a child of the woods. She hunts with a red fox at her side, skims lightly across the snow, and leaves blizzards in her wake. As Jack and Mabel struggle to understand this child who seems to have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, they come to love her as their own daughter. But in the Alaska wilderness, life and death are inextricable, and what they eventually learn about Faina changes their lives forever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Eowyn was inspired to write the novel after she discovered the classic Russian fairy tale of the snow maiden. She was shelving books in the children's section of Fireside Books when she happened across a copy of Freya Littledale's retelling of the fairy tale with illustrations by Alaskan artist Barbara Lavallee. The story haunted Eowyn with its loneliness and magic in a landscape so similar to the one she grew up in. She spent the next few months researching the original tale, and depictions of it in Russian art work, before she began writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The Snow Child has been described as a "remarkable achievement", "stunningly conceived" and "enchanting from beginning to end."</span><br />
<br />
How fab does that sound?<br />
<br />
The event takes place at <a href="http://www.moffathouse.co.uk/">Moffat House Hotel</a> on Saturday 18th February, from 6pm. Tickets are a mere seven quid. I'll be there with fellow members of the new Moffat Writing Group (name yet to be decided) whose inaugural meeting is this Thursday, 7pm at the school.*<br />
<br />
So, musician or music lover, writer or book lover: rather wonderfully I seem to find myself living in a town full of fellow tribesmen.<br />
<br />
*<span style="font-size: x-small;">This group follows on from the classes I've been teaching.</span><br />
<br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-23302370032507312392012-02-07T23:08:00.002+00:002012-11-11T16:37:06.078+00:00Ten Minute PostHere's the deal: I keep not blogging because I keep thinking I don't have time. I have a billion-squillion things to blog about but... So, I've put the timer on and will allow myself no longer than ten minutes to say something.<br />
<br />
What? Lord knows. But I have only 8 minutes 39, no 34, 32 seconds left.<br />
<br />
Jolly marvellous week last week, I did none of the things I mentioned in my last post. Well, I read a bit. Was that one of the things though, can't remember and don't have time to check: 6 minutes 38 seconds left.<br />
<br />
Hebden Bridge, bloody marvellous place. We landed there quite spontaneously last Wednesday evening. Husband had to go to the Lakes then on to Bolton on business and would spend the night in some roadside hotel. Again! I said. This seems to be becoming a thing. Come with me, he said. So I did.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V76q4ZClRVM/TzGthfrPVjI/AAAAAAAACLE/OBjgvxjyON0/s1600/IMG_0158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V76q4ZClRVM/TzGthfrPVjI/AAAAAAAACLE/OBjgvxjyON0/s640/IMG_0158.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZjCoYTnWHS4/TzGtofU5uuI/AAAAAAAACLM/1ZfqwvCUlxY/s1600/IMG_0133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZjCoYTnWHS4/TzGtofU5uuI/AAAAAAAACLM/1ZfqwvCUlxY/s640/IMG_0133.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My breakfast in what must be the world's friendliest hotel. We will go back</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiespTFEsUF7cxjUYkKSDlBg0LNcP397npTU6QHJMRFcLi4IfUB5K9-DDHdDXpAXD0mASE-UQroQnvh9WYV5c5l3qinclCMWtM-6NPvGGqzqJ5WYsPRu63rPB_PpFHcdslKqDVZL85FYOU/s1600/IMG_0190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Obviously I didn't want to stay in some corporate sleep-hole, so he unbooked the hotel and looked for another. Where do you want to stay? He asked. Hebden Bridge, I said. Where's that</a><br />
I told him, and we went. We ate the best Thai food ever that evening, and the next day (after his Bolton meeting, and my breakfast) explored the town. I want to move there. Before I run out of time (just over a minute to go) I'll find a photo. <br />
<br />
Shit, time's up and I seem to have turned some of the text into a link, but to where? Excuse the typos...<br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-85846886434910726312012-01-26T20:43:00.000+00:002012-01-26T20:43:51.167+00:00Restless<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pGxGKsHvLVk/TyGyKTiQRZI/AAAAAAAACKs/ykb0lzfZ-8s/s1600/Airy+sanctuary+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pGxGKsHvLVk/TyGyKTiQRZI/AAAAAAAACKs/ykb0lzfZ-8s/s1600/Airy+sanctuary+.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my garden, sadly.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Like a wasp at the bins of an amusement park cafe who can see a can of <i>Raid</i> on the windowsill, I buzz but don't dive in.<br />
<br />
The research assistant position is mine. It involves interviewing eleven students for an hour apiece and then transcribing those interviews. Having worked in recruitment for a number of years the first part shouldn't be too difficult once I've dealt with the rust. The second part, one of my bosses was at pains to point out, will be arduous. Hours of listening, rewinding, straining, and typing. But he gave me some tips and I expect it will be fine once I get used to it. Time consuming but rather interesting. Next week I'll do a practice interview on a willing student, and then begin in earnest. So I have a week of utter freedom.<br />
<br />
From my list of 'really want to dos' I'm at liberty to choose. But which one?<br />
<br />
I would like to tackle my manuscript and begin the rewrite. I've been itching to do this for a while, but I know I'll need absolute isolation. If I do this I will do nothing else. I'll have to be able to utterly immerse myself in the task, and I fear a week won't be long enough. Time enough to read the thing and make a few notes, though. Should I do that, make a start?<br />
<br />
I'd also like to get on with my Burma Book. Dig out the notes I made when visiting my aunt last summer, make the dishes she taught me, take photos, write more notes, before it all becomes a haze. Also, I'd like to have a mini version done by the end of May for a particular purpose I can't tell about just incase a particular person reads this.<br />
<br />
And I'd like to work on my photographic post-processing skills – or lack thereof – in Lightroom. I'd also like to read the dozen or so books that have piled up on my kindle. And bake a coffee cake. And finish the few small jobs left in the bathroom (I still haven't chosen flooring, and there's a bit of grouting that needs to be seen to).<br />
<br />
The garden needs some attention. The kitchen floor is crying out for a fresh coat of paint. This room is beginning to resemble a junk-shop again.<br />
<br />
Ice-cream, cheeseburger, ketchup coated chips, jelly tots, iced bun, chocolate coated melting moment...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JkMJUT6ZPUg/TyG5WYRS3pI/AAAAAAAACK0/cEr59zWT650/s1600/Raid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JkMJUT6ZPUg/TyG5WYRS3pI/AAAAAAAACK0/cEr59zWT650/s320/Raid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8463471462522424732.post-24078631779270118942012-01-25T02:07:00.000+00:002012-01-25T02:07:36.195+00:00The Shrinking of the List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v_AzkJ8xAX0/Tx9a4K2vxUI/AAAAAAAACKM/f4wzBeOFD_c/s1600/PC128961-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="408" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v_AzkJ8xAX0/Tx9a4K2vxUI/AAAAAAAACKM/f4wzBeOFD_c/s640/PC128961-2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Today I completed the last of my 'for other people' tasks. Teaching over, I provided feedback on the last student story, and emailed it to her immediately, before I felt compelled to read it again and add to my comments. Jobs like this could go on indefinitely if I allowed them to.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiXWV12NqrXx1USldeIWcURDej1wQCR5Rz2gX_-nZomPKLTQzXpz-tzscnH4WakN7rJ0RGw6UpBD-iaQU2NVr-lGDkp1UUTqCHM_wwhYbwomvPIeKX1r0biwbNC9TVvtsfZwtFn2BysVk/s1600/Lightroom+developed+%25281+of+1%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiXWV12NqrXx1USldeIWcURDej1wQCR5Rz2gX_-nZomPKLTQzXpz-tzscnH4WakN7rJ0RGw6UpBD-iaQU2NVr-lGDkp1UUTqCHM_wwhYbwomvPIeKX1r0biwbNC9TVvtsfZwtFn2BysVk/s640/Lightroom+developed+%25281+of+1%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
And I, finally, finished editing the images from an overlarge, overindulgent, photo shoot.<br />
<br />
Our local blacksmith plans to clean up the front portion of his workshop and turn it into a showroom for the stoves he sells. So he asked me, through Stevie, if I'd take some photos before he does so. Yes, I said, I'd love to. The place is astonishing, filled with all sorts of tools and boxes, old signs and crates. Buried amongst the drill bits I was sure I'd find the very story of blacksmithing. How could I say no?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UP3KFaSvIJc/Tx9bTHG6TGI/AAAAAAAACKU/dBzk5HLY7gw/s1600/PC128940-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UP3KFaSvIJc/Tx9bTHG6TGI/AAAAAAAACKU/dBzk5HLY7gw/s640/PC128940-1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But I'm no professional photographer, I'm just a woman with a camera who likes stories, so off I went with my non-professional camera, a tripod, and one light, and snapped away for about three or four hours. It wasn't until I uploaded the shots to my computer and looked at them that I thought, 'shit!'<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEq5gF0jOBiwYk0GsC61jMiXy8KOZSr8pkCitTkUvJB_ATqX3MoLUE_URYbg7Slwp3MKsWNfuqB48p09i5IjSO3zTzFjkYP7zpFFk_pW2_kBXz6f1bkk7Uaq-EkvGiDxUQMJWoy0cV_YA/s1600/PC128957-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEq5gF0jOBiwYk0GsC61jMiXy8KOZSr8pkCitTkUvJB_ATqX3MoLUE_URYbg7Slwp3MKsWNfuqB48p09i5IjSO3zTzFjkYP7zpFFk_pW2_kBXz6f1bkk7Uaq-EkvGiDxUQMJWoy0cV_YA/s640/PC128957-1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's taken me over a month to go through them all and decide on which ones to give him and which to discard. I'm crap at post production, photoshop fills me with dread, so apart from a little cropping and lightening/darkening if a photo isn't any good when it comes off the camera there's nothing I can do to save it. The other problem is I worry that the story in my head, and that comes out in my shots, isn't the same as the story in anyone else's. I worry that the photos I take will be boring for everyone else. So one of the reasons it took me so long to edit this batch was that I spent hours staring at each one wondering if this is what he, the customer wants. That I haven't asked for anything in return, let alone money, doesn't render an affirmative answer to that question any less important. I really don't want to give him a pile of disappointing images. But what can I do, the photos I took are the photos I took?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KqprE2KFK6I/Tx9fV8IrvoI/AAAAAAAACKk/h_guOvCnAHU/s1600/PC129064-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KqprE2KFK6I/Tx9fV8IrvoI/AAAAAAAACKk/h_guOvCnAHU/s640/PC129064-1.JPG" width="538" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Now my 'other people' tasks are done I am free to do my 'me' tasks. Though tomorrow (actually today now I see the time) I have a meeting at the university about a research assistant position that has come up. If they feel I can do it, and I feel I can do it this free time will be short. While it lasts I'll come and read as many of your blogs as I possibly can, and finish my book (that's the one I'm reading, not the one I'm writing which will have to wait a little longer).<br />
<br />
P.S. Did you hear that Pure by Andrew Miller, which I read during my book a day challenge (see last post) and loved, has just won the Costa?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Erylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06008344023000459577noreply@blogger.com18