Victoria Sponge

Over the past few months Bert has taken to making cakes and usually, they are very good. He started with baked cheesecakes and these were excellent. His Chocolate Guinness has been a big success on two occasions. But... he is becoming over confident, and thinks he can do no wrong. At Christmas his Sicilian Orange and Lemon cake was a flop, literally. It is a tricky one but I've managed to make it work many times. 

Now Chocolate Guinness cake may be easy but the classic Victoria Sponge is not. I remember serving up a failed VS to the children many years ago and Martha asking me,

Granny, why are your cakes always like biscuits?

We are having people over this Saturday (many of them Australian) and Bert is making a Victoria Sponge. This is Thursday. I'm all for getting ahead but I'd have thought the day before would be soon enough. Anyway I've just gone in to the kitchen to check on his progress and he seems to be making a hash of it. I kindly told him so and he assures me that all will be well. He is using cake tins that are far too deep and he has not lined them! 

I am torn between hoping his Victoria Sponge will be successful and wanting it to be a disaster so that I can say,

I told you so!

Here's what I think. He could not care less if his cake does not work out because he wants to eat it immediately, no matter what. 

Mary Berry's Victoria Sponge. Bert has a lot to live up to here. I'll keep you all posted.

No Excitement and a Wee Catch Up

 No Excitement

Someone asked me today if anything exciting going on in my life. I replied that there was not and that I was glad of it.

So, definitely, no excitement to report on the blog since the last time I properly updated and that was the day we found out that quite a lot of people in the United States feel that they had not had enough of Donald Trump. Since then I deactivated ‘that’ platform and have resolved to take a break from the news.

I am also taking a Duolingo break and have been reading more. And sorting books as there are more books in this house than shelves to hold them and I have shelves enough to hold more than a thousand books. It’s going well. I’ve got as far as Proust and Pullman and both those authors are getting to stay. For now. I’ve filled three boxes for Tesco’s charity bookshelves. Keep an eye on the Ballymena store readers, it’s going upmarket.

Wee Catchup

As usual, there were visitors. Stand out was the Saturday that Martina and her children called with us. Despite it being a damp, late Autumn day the kids had a great time swinging, trampolining and feeding Clint’s calves. They are lovely children and I believe they enjoyed themselves as much as their mum used to when she was a little’un.

An evening at Ballymena Academy to see Martha and a host of incredibly talented young people in their school musical, The Addams Family. It was a great evening. Martha had two sets of grandparents, her parents and her sister to support her. Fun fact – every Martha in the school (all three of them) took part in the show.

There were two birthday suppers. Bert made both cakes. A Chocolate Guinness cake (Nigella) for Evie and a carrot and ginger cake (Hummingbird) for Dave. Both were delicious but Dave’s could have done with more ginger. Dave likes ginger.

Then we had a lovely evening at Les and Dawn's. They cooked us delicious Chinese food. And were great craic as always. A good night.

There were two trips to Belfast. St George’s Market on Remembrance Sunday. Hannah drove. We walked past City Hall just before 11 am but were too far away to spot Michelle. The second visit was by train to Botanic. I walked to the Palm House, bought some jeans in the Oxfam shop and did not buy a single book. But I did finish reading The Remains of the Day on the journey back and forth. So good.

Then the snow came. So pretty, so boring. The dogs, especially Chico, adored it and even old Judy had to get out for a jolly good sniff and a plod around. Now we are waiting to see what Storm Bert brings. Leitrim Sister messaged me to say that I should tell Bert to wind his neck in.

Things Bees Know

 

I had a good weekend, busy and productive. Planted tomatoes and lettuce in the tunnel. Weeded like a demon. Prepared ground for new plantings, potted up my bay tree and planted another sumach. Did a lot of birdwatching. There are a lot of juveniles around. Ate a ton of chocolate, made carrot and coriander soup and scones and baked two cakes. Gave away a lot of eggs.

And speaking of eggs, we gave half a dozen to MM and he gave us 30 empty egg boxes and a jar of chilli jam. Even better, we gave another six eggs to EC and he gave us a nuke of honey bees.

And speaking of honey bees (and other pollinators) I found out from DR on Twitter that the reason the centres of some of those forget-me-nots are white, rather than yellow is because another pollinating insect has scoffed all the pollen. Bees know this, so they only go for the ones with the yellow centres. How did I get to the age of eleventy-bus-pass without this knowledge? 

Food Critic

Kerry Sister tells me that the part of Ireland she lives is full of people who would begrudge you a compliment. That way of thinking is described in the phrase,

Sure, she wouldn't give it t'ye.

Here, in the North, we are fulsome with our kind words and praises.

Sure your hair is lovely! Where did ye get it done?

You're lookin' great! Have ye lost weight?

Look at ye! You're getting younger looking every time I see ye!

That's the North for you. (Or maybe that was just Sheena?)

Now, Bert. Bert wouldn't give it t'ye a-tall. Especially when it comes to cooking. When it comes to cooking he's a harsher critic even than Martha. Swisser still talks about the time he went to the Sizzlin' Sausage rather than partake of another of her low-fat, vegetarian stews. So, I suppose I should know better than to ask him if he enjoyed anything I've cooked.

Did you like the chicken soup?

It was alright.

What do you mean? What was wrong with it?

I don't really like chicken soup. The stock was cooked too long. It tasted boney.

Or,

What did you think of the pasta sauce?

Too tomatoey.

Or,

Did you enjoy your porridge?

Did you put salt in it?

But we hit a new low the other day. I'd been making beetroot wine using some giant beetroot that Zoe grew. With root veg, I only use the liquor they are boiled in so the pigs get the actual veg.

I asked Bert,

Did the pigs like their yummy grub?

They didn't seem that fussed about it.

I can't even please the pigs with my cooking! I'm going to stop asking him and just sling the hash and let him and the pigs like it or lump it!

Now here is someone who enjoys my food. Especially when it is chocolate Aero birthday cake.

A Fine Autumn Day

Such a lovely day today. Blue skies, temperatures in the low twenties, dry, a brisk, warm breeze. Washing out early, line-dried with no need for airing.

I made an apple sponge with peasgood nonsuch apples and it was lovely. I spent a few hours raking leaves which is a task that I find very pleasurable.

Bert and Hannah took Judy and Ziggy to the vet to have anal glands dealt with so happy dogs too.

Verbena bonariensis still in full bloom.

Just the beginning. Mostly beech. Lots of lovely leafmould in two years time.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

This evening, around the supper table, I made my confession. We were eating a rather nice cake at the time, one from a Mary Berry cookbook, published in 1988 - her favourite recipes no less! But those were the days when Mary Berry was just a jobbing food writer, not the huge celebrity she is today. I expect, back then, butter might have been a bit of a luxury item in the Berry household.

Now, the Nellyberts can afford butter, more especially since one of them (moi) became eligible for the state pension. The problem in the Nellybert household is that Nelly's cakes just won't rise. Martha even asked, a few months back,

Granny, why is your cake like a biscuit?

So, when I found Mary Berry's Favourite Recipes, I knew there would be a method for making a cake that would work for me. I found a likely one and followed it to the letter, right down to the margarine. I chose Stork, a margarine so good that seven out of ten people can't tell it from butter.* Back when I was a child only posh people baked with Stork. My mother, with her seven children, could only afford Echo margarine but, despite this, her baking pleased her children very much indeed. Mrs Hanna from next door always used Stork. I'm sure Aunt Sadie used it too. All the well-doing farmer's wives baked with Stork, never Echo.

That cake mixture creamed like a dream, rose like a cloud, tasted delicious. Twice I've given it to the family with no complaints. This evening was the third time. A plain cake, spread with Lorraine's delectable plum jam, sprinkled liberally with desiccated coconut and served with Bert's famous thin custard. Everyone seemed to enjoy it.

Then I confessed. They started to gag. (Slight exaggeration). The firstborn googled Stork margarine ingredients even though she never uses phones at mealtimes. Obviously, this was an emergency. Turns out that Stork margarine has three kinds of vegetable oil, one of which is palm oil. It has carotene for, without colouring, margarine would just look pale and very unappetising. And it has emulsifiers, a word that always makes me feel like gagging. Oh well. Looks like it's back to butter. I'll let my loyal reader know how I get on.

*1970s advertising campaign

Busy Day

First of all, I baked this loaf. It had been rising all through the sleepy-time hours so I gave it a quick knockback, turned the oven on to high, took my coffee back to bed then baked it for thirty minutes exactly.

Sorted out my chickens, showered and went to Belfast.

Then straight to the Ulster Museum to look at the exhibition that wasn't child-friendly, the Francisco Goya 'The Disasters of War'. It was harsh. I also took another look at recent Irish history section, the part that depicts what some call 'The Troubles'. I have a friend, a Republican and Sinn Fein activist, who finds this part of the museum anodyne but I am always affected by it and often tearful. The so-called Troubles were my entire adult life from around fifteen years old until they ended, if they even have ended. Maybe my friend is right. I'm sad and sniffly at the Ulster Museum but in our other city at the Museum of Free Derry  I was in pieces.

As always it was impossible to resist the Palm House which is so close to the museum and the delights of the exotic and wonderful plants within. Just one niggle - why aren't they named. I always feel I don't know a plant unless I have its Latin name. I knew the Dizygotheca elegantissima, Passiflora caerulea, Crassula ovata and Monstera deliciosa because I have or have had those plants at some time but what's this?

Or this?

No doubt I'll find out some day.

It was a good day. I needed to get out on my own and when I got home the people I live in where in very good form (they had enjoyed a Nelly-free day) and the sourdough bread was very delicious indeed. 


Since posting this I had the following message on Facebook from a South African friend.

The yellow flower is a Hibiscus that is a genus of flowering plants in the mallow family Malvaceae. They grow prolifically in SA.

Look What He's Done To My Bread Ma

I persevered with the sourdough bread, kept the mother going and worked out a recipe and method that works for me. My last two loaves have been excellent. The trouble is, they are so yummy that it is hard to get a photo before the bread is scoffed.

I was going to take a photograph earlier today but it would have meant decluttering the kitchen and today was a gardening day - so no time for housework. If there was to be a picture of my delicious bread then everything had to be just right, perhaps an artfully placed linen tea towel, or a posy of spring flowers, maybe I could even arrange one of the cats to sit on the dresser to add interest to the background. What I wouldn't want is dirty dishes, piles of unsorted laundry and a massive heap of newspapers on my catless dresser. I consoled myself with how very pretty my loaf looked, good texture, unburnt crust, decent shape. With a few slices cut from it would make a very decent picture.

Now imagine how I felt when Bert hacked my lovely loaf to pieces before I had the chance to Instagram it. It couldn't have been less photogenic if a rabid donkey had got to it. Why? He couldn't find the right knife, sure it was only going to be eaten anyway. What did it matter what it looked like?

It's a pet hate of mine when people leave loaves, pies, and cakes looking unpresentable. And, of course, when I say people I mean Bert. Do you know what he'd do if he thought he could get away with it? I'd be taking some delicious baked thing out of the oven and before it even had a chance to cool he'd have pulled a lump out of it to taste it. Sharp rap over the knuckles with a wooden spoon soon put that nonsense out of him.

Anyway, here is a picture of one of my first loaves. The one that got mauled looked better, was bigger and tastier and was going to have a better tea towel. Here's to the next one.

Success (Of Sorts)

When all around the world goes sad, mad and bad, it is the simple pleasures that count - one's chickens, the new calf that was born today - Martha says her name is Ava and we must never sell her. I say that we must but she shall have first refusal. Our other pleasures include friends, family and music.

And, of course, there is food. This weekend was not one of my better ones when it came to home-cooked food. Supper was shop-bought sausage rolls, tinned beans and an interesting salad made from tender leaves of kale (home-grown), olives, tomatoes and little sweet peppers. The dressing came out of a jar. I made (at Evie's request) the steamed chocolate pudding, chocolate sauce and ice cream dessert.  It was the wrong ice cream. Not popping candy ice cream. I made the excuse that I'd forgotten to bring my glasses which was a lie. It didn't matter anyway as Evie had been to a birthday party and was full to the neck of sweets and cake. She didn't even have dessert, said she was 'tired of it.'

Breakfast was Kellogs Variety Pack and Peppa Pig on Netflix. I wasn't part of it as I was reading The Guardian in bed. Some lad from Buckna was supervising the young'uns, helping them eat Variety and watching Peppa Pig. Lunch was (hang my head in shame) shop-bought pizza. I attempted to jazz it up with extra toppings and Lidls mozzarella cheese. But then, my triumph, the food that made up for all other culinary shortcuts and shortcomings, my first successful sourdough loaf. For, even though the first attempt resulted in rolls that could have served as missiles, I kept the mother going and made this...

I know it is boastful but that loaf was not my only success this weekend. At Martha and Evie's storytime I selected a book of fables, beautifully illustrated by Janusz Grabianski. But one forgets how shite fables are. There is no real story, no satisfying ending, no resolution. The one I chose was about a fox who fell down a well and couldn't get out. Said fox tricks a decent old billy goat to jump into the well and help it escape. Then, the fox being wily and all, fucked right off mocking the billy goat for his gullibility. And that was the end. So I said to the girls,

I didn't think much of that story! I think I could make a better job of it!

So, putting down the book, beautiful illustrations and all, I finished the story bringing in two brave young animal rescuers called Martha and Evie, a grandfather (Bert) with a length of baler twine in his pocket, a lovely woman called Denise who was in need of a billy goat, then a billy goat in a new home in The Parks with two wives and four lovely kids (three girls and a boy) and a nasty fox who called round and ended up getting butted over a hedge never to be seen again while everyone got to live happily ever after. I believe I enjoyed telling it far more than the girls enjoyed listening to it. My reward came this morning when Evie joined me in bed and said,

That was a good story last night.

Thanks, Margaret Green (and Aesop) for the beginnings of the tale and thanks to Janusz Grabianski for the wonderful pictures.

Christmas Eve Baking Sesh

Nellybert baked three cakes today. To be more precise Nelly baked two, Bert baked one and Martha helped. At first Martha was not impressed with the process. She wanted a special spoon to stir the ginger biscuit crumbs and no spoon we could offer her was special enough.

Bert thought that a taste of Nigella's Orange-Chocolate Cake mixture would cheer her up. After all, Nigella's always licking the spoon and she always looks happy.

I think Bert's ploy worked. Martha identified the chocolate but did not pick out the orange (marmalade) flavour.

Afterwards I suggested Bert help us clear up but he demurred.

I'm away out now to dung out those calves.

And you're not expecting any help?

Not a-tall.

That'll do then.

Christmas Update

Martha and I went grocery and wine shopping yesterday. I usually hate this sort of shopping but Martha's delightful company made it very bearable indeed. Lidls did not disappoint but Asda had no stem ginger! Can you believe it? What sort of people must shop there? Later I heard that they had actually run out of Brussels sprouts. Obviously I have my own, thanks to the Springhill Gardening Club, even though it wasn't been the best year for sprouts. But imagine the people of Antrim buying every sprout in Asda? Most folks don't even like them although they are one of my favourite vegetables. Pity you can't make wine out of them.

After shopping we went to visit one of Matty's old friends. The minute I drove on to her road I felt myself well up. It was just as well Martha was there to help me keep it together. At Mum's friend's house she was a little delight. She chatted away, displayed her lovely manners and made her Granny very proud of her. We drove past Matty's house on the way home. I did not look.

Back home Martha and I decorated the Christmas tree but I sensed Martha was not impressed with it. I'm sure I heard her say it was too small.

I was back in Tannaghmore today visiting my cousin. He has not been well but his form was good and I'm sure I was there at least two hours. The craic was, as they say, mighty. I went home the long way as I couldn't bear to pass Matty's road again. She is very much on my mind at the moment - first Christmas without her and all that. But I am intending to enjoy Christmas anyway. It's the only way to go.

Tomorrow will be my baking and cooking day. I forgot to buy bread for making stuffing so fingers crossed will get that tomorrow. Bert will be sent out on that mission. The lovely Mel is coming to visit and I'm sure she'll be keen to get her hands covered in flour, chocolate and lemon zest.

And speaking of messes - I was multi-tasking earlier on. I was making mince pies at the same time as cleaning a (dogshit) soiled carpet in the wet room.

Horrors! You say. How unhygienic is that? But do not worry. I was very careful to wash my hands thoroughly as I moved from one task to the other. After all, the last thing I'd want is to get sweet mincemeat and flour on my Ikea carpet.

Of Little Calves And Sausage Rolls And Snowy Woods

All that worry. And at the heel of the hunt it was all pretty much unnecessary. That situation that has caused me so many restless days and nights is close to being satisfactorily resolved.

This weekend has been good despite not going anywhere except to Cully and getting a hand taken out of me by the butcher.

I want some sausage meat.

Certainly. How much would you like?

About enough to make a dozen sausage rolls

I thought he was giving me rather a lot but I didn’t like to say. And you know – he was right. It was enough to make a dozen sausage rolls – if each sausage roll was a foot long! Still Pearlie can eat the surplus. She likes a sausage but always complains that we don’t skin them for her. And what is sausage meat but unskinned sausages?

Then we’ve all been agog with Northern Ireland’s latest political scandal.

Iris Robinson should take a leaf out of my book when it comes to the younger man. Instead of seducing her young man and setting him up in a cafe she should simply bake him a nice plate of scones and bask in the glow when he says,

Honestly Nelly I’m not just saying this but those were the nicest scones I have ever tasted – in my whole life!

Maybe not as exciting as an illicit affair but I bet I’m feeling a whole lot better today than Mrs Robinson is.

That sweet compliment wasn’t the only lovely thing to happen this weekend.

Bert and I took a walk this evening. If there is one thing I like about this snow stuff that is its effect on our 12 acre wood. Ah sure it’s only a baby wood but right now it looks like Narnia. Going for a tramp through it just before it gets dark is a delight. The snow is more than a foot deep in places. Foxy’s tracks were clearly visible and we kept rising woodcock. The long-eared owls live in the Scots Pines at the edge of the wood but sadly not a glimpse this evening.

And it might seem strange to have taken pleasure in this, but yesterday one of our two new calves gave Bert the slip and took to his little clackety heels. He needed to be caught before he made for the road so Bert gave me a shout. There was no way the little devil was coming quietly so we got him haltered and he bucked and leaped while I held him (Bert had him by the tail) and at one point I nearly went down but we got him back in and I was ever so pleased with myself because a few years ago I wouldn’t have been fit enough to manage it.

So what shall I worry about now? Oh yes. There’s that matter of Hannah heading to the Americas next weekend. Weather permitting.

Bunny Girls

I hadn't a spare minute to blog this past weekend because I was cleaning and baking and walking and stuff. And Mel was over. And Ganching.

Inspired by Ganching's recent hosting of an 'awesome' birthday tea, I fell 'til a marathon scone, cake and bun-making session helped by Miss Mel and Miss Hannah. While I was supervising the oven and making the sandwich fillings, they decorated the cup cakes. I think you'll have to agree that their efforts were both tasteful and restrained.

Ganching was most impressed. She agreed that it was an 'awesome' spread and said as much. Although she did add that at her birthday tea, she didn't expect the guests to actually prepare the food.

I Am A Domestic Goddess And I Am Drunk

Swisser called in last night, on her way back from the airport, after collecting her son Conor who was back from his first term at Glasgow University.

She said on the phone,

He's malnourished you know. Living on rice and pasta. I was eating a pear while I was talking to him on the phone and he said, 'What are you eating?' and I said 'A pear,' and he said, 'I haven't had a pear for months!'.

So I decided to give myself a wee break from the studying and lesson preparation and do a bit of baking. There's nothing an ould doll like myself enjoys better than cooking for an appreciative (and hungry) young fellow. I baked an apple tart, a pineapple and coconut sponge, cheese scones and apple and cinnamon scones. I knew that Conor would go mad when his mother suggested calling in with us.

Mother! Nellybert is so boring! I want to get home!

There will be cake. Nelly is baking us cake.

Alright then.

When Swisser saw the spread I'd made she said,

Don't leave it all out at once. He won't be able to control himself.

I said,

Let him eat away. Didn't you say he was starving?

He spilled through the door. He is six foot four. He is a man now although a man newly hatched. He ate and he ate and he ate. I packed more into a box and sent them home with him. For his brother. His brother will be lucky to be left a morsel. When he was leaving he said,

Thanks for the cake.

The cheese scone was awesome so I made it again tonight. And I made curried parsnip soup. Apart from doing that I worked all day long at my studies. Then I decided to fall to the drink. Why not?