Granny Buns

Granny Buns

 

That picture is supposed to be me! I got it as a free add-on from a genealogy site. Upload 20 or so photographs and receive images depicting Nelly through the ages. The one above is a 1950s-style illustration.

The reason I like the image (despite it looking nothing like me) is that cosy, smiling, maternal woman is how I sometimes like to see myself. The sort of woman who makes her own jam and would knock up a batch of delicious scones at the drop of a hat. The kindly person who would never let anyone leave her house hungry. The sort of kitchen goddess who is never happier when cooking delicious food for people she cares about. One of the younger family members used to call my mother Granny Buns because every time she came to visit Matty baked fairy cakes. Perhaps that Granny Buns above is my alter ego.

Instead, I am a woman who has up and down moods. Sometimes I’m lovely and sometimes I’m not. I blame my parents who, when I was a curly-haired moppet would recite this poem,

There was a little girl,

            Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

            When she was good,

            She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

So when I’m feeling frazzled, down in the dumps or ‘horrid’ it affects my cooking. That is what happened last week when I had Zoe and family around. I was out of sorts. The dessert, a simple steamed pudding, turned out well but my potato dish and the broccoli were close to indigestible. Was it me and my glum mood? Or was it the weather in Spain? Maybe it was Brexit. Whatever the reason we all put on a brave face and were consoled by pudding.

So what upset my stomach? Was it the undercooked broccoli, the second helping of pudding or old age? Whatever it was I had a tummy ache, trapped wind and threw up before bedtime. Five days later I still don’t feel right. I may phone the doctor for some magic pills to make it all go away.

Here's hoping that I can get my act together by Tuesday when they're all back for supper. I'm already consulting Feast supplement in the Guardian. There will be no shop-bought broccoli. Go Granny Buns!

Diary Entry #3

 

Hedges, too Presbyterian, silage bales, too shiny, late Autumn light, glorious

Nellybert got invited to lunch this afternoon, delicious food, great company, good time. Met, for the first time, a wonderful pup and for the manyeth time, some wonderful twins.

Diary Entry #2

I met an old friend today. I thought we'd spend a few hours together but she wanted to make a day of it and I'm glad she did because I enjoyed myself very much.

Bert was on his own all day and when I returned at around 5pm he was scoffing a filled baguette and a plate of pickles.

That's a late lunch.

Breakfast, actually.

You're not wise.

I kept thinking you'd be back with something nice to eat.

Why would I do that? Sure our shelves are groaning with food. I thought we had a pact to eat what is actually there rather than continuously buy more stuff?

That is actually true as we are trying to decommission a chest freezer. It is supposed to be emptied by Christmas but it's not going to be easy. 

Charity shop find, a present for my friend

Snark and Sup

 Snark

Today supposedly marks 100 years since the creation of the Northern Irish state. Our council planted several trees in commemoration. Hopefully not placed too near a bonfire site or they’ll not see the next 100 days, never mind years.

Meanwhile, I’m hearing that the council next door planted an entire wood. They always like to go one better.

The anniversary means little to me, coming as I do from the nationalist side of the road. However, it did offer an opportunity to say to Richard and later to Dave,

Happy anniversary, Protestant.

They both took it in good part.

Sup

Winter Cress

This time last week I did not know what that plant was. It just sprang up in the yard, growing through stones. This week, thanks to a plant identification page on Facebook, I know it is winter cress and that it is an edible. I included it in tonight's salad. 

Monday night is Gardener's Supper although the only gardener was Zoe. The girls were riding bikes round the yard, Dave was fixing up the camp and Bert was at the neighbour's assisting with a difficult calving. A two vet delivery, I'm told. Bert held the cow's tail.

The Camp

Maya and I fixed dinner. It was a Chorizo and potato stew and a chocolate sponge. Both served with sour cream. 

Maya, photo by Martha

A Return to Refined Tastes

 

Bert has yet to let the notion of his ‘refined tastes’ lie.

This is a man who refuses to take cold milk on his Weetabix and doesn’t like peppers unless they come from the Polish shop and are marinaded in oil and spices. He’ll only take tiny helpings of pasta and adores pickled fish in jars.

He’ll have mango chutney with all Indian dishes, even when it is not an appropriate accompaniment and adds quantities of soy sauce to any stir fry. When making an Ulster Fry he will often fry a pickled gherkin. He over salts everything.

I’ve said to him (often) that it’s not ‘refined taste’, it’s impaired taste from years of smoking. Of course, he disagrees.

An example of his refinement.

The other day we had a proper lunch so decided on tuna and onion sandwiches for supper. I made the filling, tuna, finely chopped onion, tomato and mayo. I split a soda farl, halved it, buttered it, plonked the filling in my half and went off to eat it. The Refined One was left to assemble his own. It was a work of art. An open sandwich, garnished with spring onion, and served with black olives and a sliced pickle.

He mocked my sandwich. Said it was like something you’d take to the bog for a day castling turf. I said his food looked like something served up to Oberon, King of the Fairies, the only thing lacking a scattering of borage flowers.

What’s really going on.

Bert’s mother was a terrible cook so from about the time he was twelve he prepared most of his own meals. Because his mother was useless in the kitchen he had no idea of how to make nice food and relied heavily on shop-bought sauces and seasonings. He got a taste for them.

Of course, since then, he became quite a capable cook, despite his propensity for adding unusual ingredients to food. He is completely banned from interfering with my cooking. I don’t care what he adds when it is on his own plate but not while it’s still in the pan.

Christmas Eve

It's seven o'clock and I've had four hours sleep. Awakened by Roy barking to be let out. I'm not pleased. I look outside, then I go outside to look at the sky. Sun's not up, the moon is waning gibbous but so bright. There is a passenger jet blinking past and Venus is dazzling in the east. I think it's Venus. I decide to have coffee and keep and blog Christmas Eve even though I've already got plenty to do. Who hasn't?

Who hasn't? Well - Bertram for a start but he'll find something useful to be getting on with as the day progresses. Just like yesterday when he took over my kitchen to melt beeswax, something I think could have been postponed until the festivities are done.

Blog excerpt from ten years ago.

And on the home front, Bert has embarked on his traditional Christmas preparations. This always involves a large, messy and thoroughly non-urgent task that he has been putting off for at least three years. I think it was last year he decided to demolish the turf shed and this year he’s building (from scratch) a sliding door between the scullery and the hall. The house is knee deep in sawdust and I’m terrified the kitten is going to decapitate itself on Bert’s Makita.

Two minutes past eight. The eastern sky is brightening and I'm off back to bed with another coffee. I won't stay long.

Just long enough to read another few pages of Fire and Fury. I've got to the bit where Bannon's still in the West Wing but teetering.

By nine o'clock I had the Heavenly Chocolate Pudding on the hob. It's Evie's favourite. Bert is still in bed but awake. I asked him, ever so nicely, not to embark upon any project that encroaches upon the domestic sphere. He promised he wouldn't. Actually, he said he might stay in bed all day. Surely in jest?

Twenty-five past ten. I'm tired. Hens fed and watered and a Christmas gift from one of the red girls. A big brown egg. They've all been off the lay for weeks except for the white one and she lays out. Her current nest is underneath the palm tree which is very inconvenient as collection entails having to kneel in the earth and stretch in to lift them.

Eleven forty-five. Managed to get Bert (he did get up) and Vancouver Brother out of the house for an hour or two and am eating a favourite breakfast of toast, strong cheese and my own chilli jam. I have produced a giant bowl of breadcrumbs for the turkey stuffing. I still haven't laid eyes on the bird.

A quarter to two and the boys are back after breakfasting at Grafters. I've had a shower, read a bit of my book, took some photographs with my new (to me) camera, cleaned out the fire and peeled a dozen onions. I am at present drinking a cup of peppermint tea and feel very tired.

Much more practice needed with this camera

Three hours later. Nearly 5 o'clock and I have a new lease of life. Trifle started - the fruity, cakey alcoholic bit and with the help of Vancouver Brother vegetables and meat prepped for tonight's supper. Melanie has just arrived bearing gifts. I got two geranium Rozanne. Apparently I said on this very blog that I wanted those. Who needs letters to Father Christmas? I just tell the blog and I get everything I want. Martha, Evie and their parents will be here any moment. Aha! That's them now. It will be a few hours before I return to blogging.

A quarter past seven. Listening to Dixieflyer (our brother-in-law) on Mad Wasp Radio. We've eaten, exchanged presents and said goodnight to two extremely excited young women. Supper was good, sausages, mash, veggies followed by my choc pud, Bert's ganache and vanilla ice cream. Banjo Man has been and gone and I'm not the slightest bit tired.

Great-Uncle Eamon and the noisiest girls in the world.

Nearly half-eight. I've had a glass of wine, courtesy of The Bun, and a little doze so now it's time to load the dishwasher and make the turkey stuffing. Bert has offered to chop onions and grate carrots. The turkey has been weighed. It's a big one and will need the most of five hours in the oven .

Half-past nine. Eamon and I finished making the stuffing, Bert cleaned up and we completed another stage of the sherry trifle. The men are cooking the ham and no doubt they'll eat a whack of it after I go to bed. But that's OK. They're good fellows, they deserve it.

Wishing everyone who visits the Garden a peaceful Christmas.

And hit publish.

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.

Wednesday Catch Up

Not much blogging last week reason being that this damn Bert Flu really kicks in at night and that's when I usually sort Nelly's Garden out. And I'm too tired and worn out to do it.

The news is, we had a Musical Evening on Saturday. Well, Hannah did. There were four or five guitarists, a banjo player, a violinist, a harmonica player and a clarinettist. There were several very good vocalists. There was someone playing the kazoo but he got a mild telling off from the gipsy jazz guitarist. It was very enjoyable but oh so tiring and Nellybert weren't worth tuppence on Sunday.

Monday was Back to Gardening Monday. No Dave, as he is Game of Throning in Moneyglass. Just Zoe and the girls. I made spaghetti meatballs and a Golden Syrup steamed pudding. Had a kitchen meltdown (too many people in it) and then got over it. Rod came out to see the dogs and brought me a bottle of wine. Most welcome.

Yesterday I pottered.

Today I finally got round to re-sowing chillis, this time in my brand new propagator that I bought on Saturday morning at Montrose Garden Supplies. The first lot I sowed before I went to Norfolk and they did absolutely nothing. Hopefully, the new lot will be more successful. Hannah headed off to Belfast as the first leg of her holiday. She's heading for the Canaries tomorrow.

Now the sombre news. We took Roy to the vet today as he had some sort of spot on his bum. Turns out it might be cancer. He has a course of antibiotics to take, then back to the vet next week to discuss his options. When he came to us we knew he wasn't neutered and decided not to do it because he was over ten. Turns out that if he had been neutered then he'd have been at less risk for this cancer that he might have. Anyway, we'll see. Dogs get old so fast. The poor old fellow also has mild heart disease which was diagnosed at his last checkup.

A Sociable Weekend

Nellybert have had a particularly sociable weekend and have not let the snow keep us back. Not a bit of it.

On Friday I went for coffee with one of my co-grannies. For thanks to our modern ways (divorce and re-partnering), many of today's children have more than the requisite two of each. Later that evening I met up with two cousins, one from New Zealand and one from Hong Kong and their respective husbands. Also, there was a second-cousin and his wife that I was meeting for the first time. We had an excellent evening of eating, drinking and generally catching up. No photographs were taken by me. 

Maybe I was just a wee bit tired the next day but not too tired to take a walk up the snowy back lane with four dogs and a cat. See photographs.

In the afternoon we were visited by co-grandparents Mick and Linda. No photographs were taken by me.

Today we called on some friends who were trapped in their house by snow. We brought some essential supplies and were given coffee and wine. I took this photograph of their Christmas cactus which is splendid enough to be given a place in the Palm House.

While we were there our friends were called upon by a young, red-headed man who was delivering a tonne of firewood. The young man was unable to drive his van up the steep, slippery and snow-packed driveway. Our friend ( a frail pensioner) had been trying to clear the drive of snow but the young man (still shaking from the great feed of rum he had imbibed on the previous night) took the shovel from him and cleared it in quick time. It was amazing. Now our friends aren't snowed in anymore which is good as they have invited us for supper sometime soon and I'm looking forward to that unless Mrs, who reads this, tells Mr that I called him a frail pensioner. Only joking Rob! Sure you're only two years older than I.

Off home again to cook a plain man's dinner of mince, carrots and onions, boiled spuds and steamed broccoli with apple crumble and custard to follow. We had two plain men coming, one whose wife never boils spuds and another who only knows how to cook potato dauphinoise. Hannah is not a meat eater so I served her a healthy little dish of egg and chips which I believe she enjoyed. The meal was a great success except that Bert has started to crake on about never getting potato dauphinoise. No photographs were taken by anyone.

The Right Decision

I find, that when life is full and complicated, it's far harder to make the time to write this blog. So. What's been going on? First of all, I spent a lot of time with small children, the majority of whom were not even related to me! Martha and Evie on Thursday, all day because their school was closed for voting day - then their friends Caitlin, Cara and Maria on Thursday afternoon.  Five girls altogether.

I stayed up late on Thursday evening then got up very early on Friday morning to check the election results. Roughly four hours sleep in all. The results were better than I expected. A hung parliament. Exactly what we needed. No landslide for the Tories, no improved majority, a good slap up the bake for Mrs May. I allowed myself to feel pleased until... this.

Company expected on Friday afternoon, one of Hannah's friends and her little boy. Not quite three, he was a live wire who spent almost the entire visit 'adventuring' with Hannah.

Saturday was sleepover day with the girls. Zoe brought them out mid-morning and we were all very excited. The girls because of all the telly they were going to watch, me because I haven't had them for a sleepover for ages and Zoe because she was going to get some uninterrupted sewing time. She had hardly left when she was back with the saddest news. My brother-in-law had just returned to Kerry after taking a stint on that journey and he had also spent part of three previous summers rowing the naomhóg from Dublin to Spain with Danny, Liam Holden and Brendan Begley.

On Sunday I brought the girls to Cara's party where there must have been at least two dozen children in full roar. I surprised myself by actually enjoying it.

Come Monday I was exhausted. Girls and their parents for tea. I cooked something cheesy and spinachy (Jamie Oliver) that was delicious and Sticky Toffee Pudding (Nigella) that was a bit overdone. Can't wait to get it right as it was still yummy. Monday evening we settled down to watch Better Call Saul and I fell asleep on the sofa and missed the best bit, a scene with Mike in it. Watched it again this morning.

Then to the internet where I found out that a former boss from my days in the hostel in Spide City had died. For so often, these days, that is where we first hear this kind of news. It wasn't a shock for I knew she was very ill and I arranged to go to her funeral. Then Jazzer rang. She had an urgent appointment  in a Belfast hospital and wanted me to go with her for support. I explained about the funeral and she understood. I carried on with my day but something was nagging at me, I felt anxious.  And I did what I always do when I'm anxious, ate a lot of food. Then it came to me - Anne, the woman who had died was a famously kind person who cared very deeply for her friends and family. If I could have asked her about my dilemma she'd have told me not to be so silly and take my friend to the hospital. So that's what I'll do. It feels like the right decision.

Sourdough Wars

The husband is in my bad books. First, he suggests that I can keep my egg money. I reply that I’d rather not as he buys the chicken feed, so he should keep it. He says it would be handy for you, give you a bit of independence. I say, what is the egg order again? Two and a half dozen. That's £2.50 a week. A generous allowance indeed. Go on Bert, you can keep it.

Did I ever mention that I am one of the multitude of women caught out by the rise in the pension age? There are women I know, only a few months older than I am who have been receiving their pension for over four years now which is very galling.

Yet, it was very unfair that women reached their pension age five years before men but it doesn’t stop me wishing that they’d waited until I got mine before the rules were changed. Still, I’ll probably get a pension some day and with me being the frugal sort, it will seem like a fortune when it comes. Unlike my poor children who will be quite old before their pension day arrives.

Now, back to my devilish husband – for there were two things… now, what was the other? Oh yes, sourdough bread and the imaginary competition between Les and Nelly. It was Les originally piqued my interest and was quick to offer recipes, advice, and encouragement. Les has created a great many loaves and is close to perfecting his method. I know, because he has shared those loaves with us. I, on the other hand, have been successfully feeding the ‘mother’ but have actually made just three loaves. For life gets in the way. Then Bert goes to Les for music practice on Tuesday and comes home raving, raving about the awesomeness of Les’ latest loaf. And there is half of it sent home with him and it’s true, the bread is sublime. Bert goes to check my ‘mother’. His verdict? Not as good as Les’ ‘mother’, too watery, needs more flour. Then there is the way Mrs Les served the bread, oil and balsamic vinegar, sea salt on the side, bet you’ve never even heard of that? Heh, Nelly?

Nelly raging, says,

Of course I’ve heard of it. Why, I was reading an article in the Guardian about that just weeks ago! I’m glad you enjoyed it because that’s what you’ll be getting for your supper all week! Bread, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sea salt! We’ll see how you like that!

He says,

Well I won’t if it’s Mother’s Pride bread!

I bet you all never knew how hateful he can be.

Anyway, I started another loaf on Wednesday. Assembled it yesterday, left it to prove overnight. It looked very promising this morning and I baked it at lunch time. Slow bread. Put the oven on high, placed a bowl of water on the bottom shelf, put the bread in, forgot about it, burned it slightly.

Had some with my homemade chicken broth made with own leeks. Tough crust but good flavour. Had some with Bert’s omelette at supper time. Made with own eggs, own broccoli, and own chives.

Later on we had some broken up and dipped in balsamic vinegar, olive oil and sea salt. Accompanied with glass of own rhubarb wine. Very nice but wouldn’t want to eat it every evening. (Unless it was Les’ sourdough loaf.) Did I mention I am turning into fat, bloated, sourdoughy lump? And it’s not even Easter yet.

Les and Bert

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.

Every Picture: Chocolate Face

The Heavenly Chocolate Pudding went down well even though it stuck ever so slightly when I was sliding it out of the pudding basin. I use, on Nigella's recommendation, a plastic bowl with a lid and I expect I didn't butter it enough. This would be Ben's fault as he stayed here on Saturday night and ate, in addition to his evening meal, his mother's entire chocolate stash, a loaf of bread, three-quarters of a pound of butter and nearly all the cheese. That's teenage boys for you. So, the pudding was not quite as photogenic as the one in my previous post and there was me with yet another pretty narcissus plate to pose it on. That will be one for another time.

Nevermind food photos. What could be more photogenic that Miss Tis cand her chocolate face? Much nicer that any daffodilly pudding plate.

It's Martha's turn to pick the menu next week. She just wants beans then a sponge pudding covered in whipped cream and sprinkles. We will add sausage and mash to the beans for a more balanced meal.

When it is my turn to choose (I'm last because I'm the oldest) there will be plum torte for dessert.

Every Picture: Heavenly Chocolate Pudding

On most Mondays, I make dinner for Zoe and family and last year I came up with the idea of letting people choose, in turn, what I should prepare. It saves me having to rack my brain wondering what to cook. Monday Dinners are seasonal and tie in with the gardening year. They usually finish in November and begin again in February. Tomorrow, the first dinner of the year will be Evie's choice and we have already discussed the menu. We're having pepperoni pizza and Heavenly Chocolate Pudding. Evie always chooses chocolate pudding and there must be lots of chocolate sauce as that is her favourite part.

Other accompaniments have been added as time went on. She asked for ice cream and that was very good. Of course, I chose vanilla but Evie found this rather dull so now we have steamed chocolate pudding, lashings of chocolate sauce and popping candy ice cream. It's very easy to prepare too. Can't wait for tomorrow although I'm not convinced about the popping candy but, it is Evie's choice.

Here's one I prepared earlier. If I remember I'll see if I can get a picture of Evie's chocolate face for tomorrow's post. Cannot wait for February to be gone so I can have a day or two off blogging.

In other news, would you ever let Quinn babysit your kid? Homeland this evening was nail-bitingly good.

The Pig's Head

Tonight I prepared French Onion Soup, probably for the first time in over forty years. I don't know why I left it so long because I remember thinking it was rather fine the last time I made it, in Domestic Science (Home Economics) class, Antrim Technical College sometime in the 1970s.

The teacher we had, she was only a young girl, in her first job and she had very grand ideas about cooking. No plain soups or puddings for the pre-nursing class. We made chocolate profiteroles and other fancy stuff. Before Christmas, Miss S, to impress the other teachers, had us cook them a four-course lunch, turkey, ham, every imaginable trimming and a well-laced sherry trifle for pudding.  The centrepiece of the table was a pig's head, boiled and glazed with the traditional apple in its poor, murdered mouth. This was a feast very far from the simple (yet delicious) Christmas dinners enjoyed in our happy home on the Murphystown Road.

I'll never forget the sight of those teachers sitting down to that meal, averting their eyes from the pig's head and recoiling at the sherry trifle. I believe many of them were teetotallers and would have considered that dessert a sin on their souls. I only remember a few of them, John Bell, the headmaster, a Miss Something, horrible old cow that she was, Miss Law, best teacher in the school, a Mr Anderson, Math and Economics, jolly and sinister. Miss S, the Domestic Science teacher I remember very well but I daren't name her for fear of a libel suit. She was a card. Invited a group of us to her parent's house for coffee and homemade petit-fours and turned out to be an anti-Semite. I was shocked. She didn't last as a teacher after she developed a tremendous pash on a boy of seventeen, who she first tormented with smouldering glances and later with love letters. He was afraid of her and told his Mammy. Miss S was history.

I worked hard in Domestic Science and still failed the 'O' level, despite excelling at my practical. Miss S had neglected to put us through the less glamorous side of Domestic Science and I got a long question on drainage systems that I totally flunked. Most disappointing.

There was one other thing. We all broke up for the Christmas holidays after that lunch and somehow the pig's head got forgotten about. When we returned in the New Year, the stench that wafted down the stairs from the Domestic Science room was abominable.

Antrim Technical College as it was when I attended. It has since been demolished.

Best Bits

Another day, another dinner. Seven round the table, Jazzer and I in charge of the catering. Banjo Man, Jazzer's hubby says we bounce off each other, Jazzer says she defers to me as the head cook, I say I defer to her, either way, we seem to work well together. We had roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roasties, cauliflower cheese, parrots and carsnips, Brussels sprouts, gravy and steamed jam pudding for afters. There are three/four musicians tonight but they are all too tired (or stuffed) to play.

So, Happy New Year to everyone. 2016 had its moments but it was generally a bit too divisive, too alt-right, too Trumpy-pumpy for my liking. Glad to see this new year come in.

Two pictures that summed up the wonderfulness of my past year, a couple of 2016's best bits.

State of Play

Well, here we are - the last evening of 2016 and the 31st blog post in a row. We are expecting a quiet one. Our Godson is here and we hope for two extra guitar players. There are already two extra dogs. I had my first glass of wine at 4 pm and may well be asleep before midnight. I have made a coconut loaf and am in the middle of preparing a sausage casserole.

Here is a picture.

Nothing could be better than listening to and enjoying, in one's own home, live and beautiful music. This has been our pleasure in 2016, in all the years before and, I'm hoping, in all the years to come.

Happy New Year. No matter what, there will always be music.

Waxing Religious

To pot has gone this diet! But at least no turkey was wasted. We got an 11 pound one from Clint, got two good days out of it and then three days of (amazingly good) turkey broth. Swisser called this evening just as we were serving the last of it for supper and there was me worrying that we mightn't manage the last two bowlfuls. Swisser took care of them, no bother. I love it when all the food gets eaten, especially when it is good food.

Hannah and I took the girls to a Hipster cafe in Ballymena today. Couple of coffees, 2 kiddy meals, and one bowl of soup and the bill was eye-watering. And it turned out they hadn't even billed us for Evie's French toast! We got that one on the house which was very Christian of them. The place was full to the rafters and they must be making a small fortune but, fair play to them, moustache wax ain't cheap.

There were a couple of fan boys sitting next to us and I was eavesdropping like mad. Turned out they were very interested in the twirly-whiskered one. One asks the other,

What church does he go to?

I didn't catch the answer. They then proceeded to have a conversation about St Thomas Aquinas and how the prayers add zest to a plainer diet of general Bible study. It was only marginally better than listening to the girls bicker and fight. What is happening to young people today?

Boxing Day Chillfest

First Boxing Day in years that I haven't cooked a three-course meal, instead we had a hot, peppery soup and delicious potato soda bread. Desserts were the sherry trifle and the Sicilian Orange and Almond Cake. I have to say that this has been the best Boxing Day ever. Here are some pictures to remind me...

Martha and Fergus working on 'You Are My Sunshine'.

Roy wanted to duet with Hannah but he stank of dead sea bream.

Evie just wanted Fergus to read her a story.

Alan and Jess began the love affair of the year.

The Day Arrives

I have noted some folks posting their Christmas table settings on social media and very lovely they were too. In fact, I was almost tempted to post my own but, instead of that, I will describe it. The tablecloth was the chicken one I bought from the packman, the plates were my best Poole Pottery ones, just the three of them. The cutlery was lifted pell mell from the drawers and left in a bunch, there were no ornaments other than a jar of cranberry sauce. We helped ourselves from the kitchen island, piled our plates with traditional fare, turkey and ham, brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips, gravy, stuffing. The peas did not work out but there was no room for them anyway.

It has been a pleasant, stress-free and chilled Christmas, just as it should be.