The Apple Challenge

One of my neighbours has fruit trees in his garden. A little while ago, he gave me some cherries, which I put into a cake. Since then, he has given me bits of fruit and I have caked them.

About ten days ago, he knocked on the door in the morning and delivered a plastic bag full of apples for me to cake. And so, the Apple Challenge began.

Day one was an apple bread, a kind of cidery, honey-sweetened brown bread with grated apples that was crying out for some cheese. Day two was an apple crumble cake, which consisted of a sponge cake with apple chunks and slivers of apricot, with a light buttery crumble mixture on the top. Day three was apple scones, which let me down the first day but I attempted them again on day four and hit the nail on the head. Day five was an apple tray bake which had jostaberries and a mashed banana in it. Day six was a nutty appley raisiny loaf, spiced with cinnamon, which filled the whole house with lovely rich aromas. Day seven was an almond tart with apples and gooseberries.

And so it goes on, the apple cakes. Every morning. I get up, bake a cake, leave some on my neighbour’s doorstep then head for Ham House, where I leave the cakes in the mess room for the volunteers to eat.

I have enough apples left for about four more days and I’m running low on ideas. Does anybody have any apple cake ideas? Apple pie and apple crumble are out as they are hard to portion out without getting runny. Tomorrow is an almond cake with apples and blueberries.

But what next, people? What next?! Help me in my Apple Challenge or I shall be ideas-less and I refuse, refuse, to repeat a recipe.

Summer in England

Ah. Summer in England. What a glorious thing to behold. It took a while getting here but now it is fabulous.

The skies are blue. The grass is green. The flowers are emerging.

Trees are a shock of loud greens instead of the twigs they have been during the seven month winter.

Colourful clothing is being worn again. Pale sun-starved flesh is getting an airing with mass shorts and t-shirt wearing.

Iced coffee is fashionable. The new ice cream shop in town finally has customers!

Groups of trendy city-workers let their hair down and drink pink champagne from plastic cups on the green.

My neighbours are feeling happy and generous and I get home to freshly baked biscuits on the doorstep.

We greet each other cheerily across the street, welcome each other in for cups of tea or homemade lemonade. The children who annoyed us yesterday suddenly seem sweet and funny.

We even go so far as to say it feels ‘too hot’! Older men play golf again, younger men get out their bikes again. The outdoor pools are open again and rammed with kids splashing about on sponge floats, almost hitting everyone else.

We drink more tea as, according the age old adage, it actually cools you down….?!

We eat dinner in the garden. We have barbecues.

We unearth the lawn from the general leafy debris that has gathered for months while we looked sadly out from the back window, not daring to step out. We get excited.

We love England. It’s the most wonderful place in the world. There’s nowhere else we’d rather be (except when the winter kicks in and we all run away to take holidays elsewhere).

Q is for…

QUESTION & ANSWER

Readers, we are going to have a little question and answer session, you and I. Well, we’re going to improvise a little. Rather than me actually sit round and wait for you to write questions in the comments section and then only get one anyway, which is like, ‘what’s your favourite colour?’ I’m just going to ask myself some questions that I think you might have asked me.

1. What was the most interesting thing you did yesterday?
Put some paper in the recycling bin out the front of the house.

2. That doesn’t sound very interesting. Why was it interesting?
Because I was dressed in my pyjamas, no shoes on, hair resembling a lion’s mane. And the front door closed and locked me outside.

3. I see. Hasn’t this happened to you before?
Yes. I had a pan on the hob at the time, pickling some chicory. There was no spare set of keys that time so I had to break into the house. This time, however, I knew it would be fine because two of my neighbours have copies of the keys. I specifically gave them to people I know don’t go out often.

4. And did you go and get the keys from one of them?
Well, I went next door first and knocked on her door. When there was no answer, I knocked again. The possibility that she was not there had not even entered my mind. After the second knock and a long wait, it became clear that she was not in. As I went back to my front door to make a plan B, a courier van pulled up outside and a man holding a parcel got out and approached the house. I stood there, helplessly, in my pyjamas and signed where he asked me to. Embarrassed, I explained that I was locked out and took the parcel he gave me, like a right divvy.

5. But Laura, of course you were wearing lovely pyjamas, weren’t you? Think Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and I’ve got it, right? Cute, delicate, a bit sexy?
Readers, this is where I must disappoint you for this is far from the truth. Only a blind person would think that my pyjama-ed state yesterday morning resembled Audrey. For the truth of the matter is that I do not lounge around the house luxuriously, wearing eau de parfum and serenading playboys who live upstairs. I do not wear ‘silky numbers’ or sheer satin which clings to me in all the right places. The truth is that yesterday morning I was wearing a desperately unflattering pink number. I had long dark pink shorts, of a kind of cottony material which loses its shape after a few washes. They had a silly pattern of kiss marks all over them and were saggy around the knees. The t-shirt was probably the most atrocious thing about this outfit. It had once hung nicely and not made me look awkward and ill shapen and saggy-boobed. Once. But now it is old and faded and does all of the above. It also makes me look like I weigh about fifteen stone.

6. What did you do after you got the parcel?
I dumped it outside the door and faced the truth that I would have to go to my other neighbour’s house to get the key. Off I went down the road, shoeless, wild-haired, ugly pyjama-clad, in search of a key. I knocked at the door and my heart started to sink as the pause grew longer. I looked for his car, which is always there as he never goes out. And yep, sure enough, today was the day he had gone out.

7. So what did you do next?
There was only one thing for it. I needed to be able to call Danda and ask him to let me in. But I didn’t have my phone with me. I would have to walk to the end of the road, go in the deli (where I work, by the way) and use their phone to call Danda. Off I went again. And I’ll remind you again of my attire. Wild lion hair? Check. Saggy t-shirt which makes you look obese? Check. Stretched out pyjama pants with kiss marks all over them? Check. No shoes? Check. O, and I should probably add here, a little fuzzier than I’d have liked. My little stubbly legs stuck out the bottom of my pink shorts, pale from 7 months of winter and not yet defuzzed for the approaching summer. So there I am, like the trampiest hobo you ever seen in your life ever, walking down the road to the deli. I bit the bullet and just walked in, head down, and headed through the shop, inbetween the tables of coffee drinking mothers and espresso drinking suit-wearers having business meetings and went straight to the stockroom. The staff in there turned and, inevitably, fell about laughing, probably shocked at what a tramp I clearly am at home. I used the phone and called Danda, back to back, about five hundred times. Because, obviously, the one time in the day when he’d left his phone somewhere was the time when I needed him. He was in a shop and his phone was in his cab. He eventually picked up and said he’d be ten minutes. I waited in the back then heard a beep as he pulled up outside so I ran, with what dignity I had left (none) and jumped into the cab and was sped off home to pretend this all never happened. Danda, by the way, laughed uncontrollably when he saw me.

8. Good one. I had no idea you were such a nonce.
Well, readers, there you have it. I am, in fact, a big fat nonce. And when I got home from this pyjama-related trauma, I had a text from a friend saying ‘Good look.’ It turns out he’d been in the deli and witnessed my indescribable shame first hand. Brilliant.

9. Is there a silver lining to this story?
There is. I am going to Italy tomorrow and I think, with distance, I can start to heal. I’ve unofficially diagnosed myself with Post Traumatic Pyjama Disorder. I think that’s an illness, right?

The Game

There was a girl who lived on my road when I was growing up and we would always be playing out together. One time, we balled up loads of grass from the green in the middle of the cul-de-sac we lived on and ‘painted’ the road sign green. I remember there was definitely a distinctly green tinge to it for a few days afterward.

Another thing we did was pretend we were estate agents and go round the road ‘selling’ the houses to each other by loudly proclaiming what a ‘wonderful gold letterbox’ this one had, for example.

We had lots of games of this sort. But at some point we came up with The Game and honestly must have played it for a few years. Whenever we were playing out or at each other’s houses, we’d check we were out of earshot of everyone and start playing The Game. It was top secret, although I’m not really sure why.

The basic outline of The Game went like this. We were grown ups. My friend was married to Gary Barlow from Take That. I was married to Mark Owen from Take That.

And that, in essence, was the whole game. I remember that we both divorced our husbands later because they were cheating on us. I think my new husband was called John. I remember my friend being more ethnically enlightened than I and calling her new husband Ahmed, or something like that.

We both had children with our first husbands, I think I had a girl. Mark was constantly trying to win me back but I was happily settled with John. At one time, there was a heated moment when my character in The Game, fell out with my friend’s when she and Mark fell in love briefly and tried to have my child taken into care.

We clearly had both been watching waaaay too much Eastenders….

I was very shocked when I heard my friend announce that, as a grown woman, in The Game, she was not going to wear any make-up! But all grown up women wear make-up, don’t they?! It was the first time I had ever heard the idea suggested that a grown woman was not going to wear make-up! I just thought everyone did it.

One time, when we played The Game, we were teachers in a school and spent the whole time speaking in robot voices. I’m not sure how the two are connected, teaching and speaking like robots. Maybe that’s what we thought they did….?

The secret of The Game was highly guarded. My brother once hid in my wardrobe in my room so that when my friend and I went in there to play, he could listen in and discover the secret of what The Game was. Except that day we decided to play Neighbours instead, so I was Gabby and my friend was Lauren and we picked up from the last episode which had been on. After ten minutes or so, my brother burst out of the wardrobe, laughing and saying he knew what The Game was! We were like, ‘The joke’s on you actually, because we were just playing Neighbours. We weren’t even playing The Game!’

But now I’ve blurted it out. I’ve just said it, as though it wasn’t the most closely guarded secret of my childhood. I feel a bit bad towards The Game, that I’ve blogged about it in such a casual manner. Well, I had to get it off my chest. The weight of carrying the secret for so long was becoming too much…..

Freedom rules!

It’s Rambler5319 again today, the regular guest blogger.

 

Another possible oxymoron? How can there be freedom and rules together? Surely freedom means not having rules? Or might it just mean freedom is the best thing? Obviously it won’t be possible to do in a few blogs what philosophers and the rest of mankind have pondered over for thousands of years but let’s see if we can discover anything of interest. I’m going to do a quick general overview for this opener. Next time I hope to do something on the concept of freedom as found in popular music, then literature/films and for part 4 maybe tackle, in more detail, the awkward bit about the rules and their interpretation.

On 6th Jan 1941, Franklin D. Roosevelt spoke about looking forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms:
1. The freedom of speech and expression – everywhere in the world
2. The freedom of every individual to worship God in his own way – everywhere in the world.
3. The freedom from want – everywhere in the world.
4. The freedom from fear – anywhere in the world.

I wonder if you remember when you were younger words or phrases that were used to extol the perceived virtues of say footballers, singers or other heroes from the past and present.
Many who passed through the student ranks of tertiary education will remember the ubiquitous and iconic red & black “Che” poster which adorned the walls of theirs, or their friends’, rooms or the T-shirt which adorned the budding Marxist chest. Ernesto (Che) Guevara (1928-67) was a Cuban Marxist revolutionary – a ‘hero’ to many; he represented the way to fight for freedom from an oppressive regime. The Bolivians didn’t agree. Their armed forces captured and killed him in 1967. (He had been trying to stir up the Bolivian people up to rebel against their government.) On 9th Oct 1967, in La Higuera, Bolivia I wonder if Che realised that, co-incidentally & quite bizarrely, Engelbert Humperdinck was at the end of a 5-week run at No.1 in the UK Charts, with the song The Last Waltz? (Its first line reads “Should I go or should I stay?”) Probably he didn’t! Dodging bullets was definitely a higher, but unachievable, priority.
As I grew up, I remember seeing instances of graffiti, on walls, bridges and flyovers with the words “Liverpool or LFC Rules, ok!” or “Everton or EFC rules, ok!” or “Kenny (as in Dalgleish) rules, ok” and a number of others. They all wanted the viewer to know that their team or hero is the best.
Another type was painted by people who felt injustices had been done to an individual or group of people through a court sentence: for example in the UK, “Free the Birmingham Six” (given life in 1975 but freed after an appeal in 1991) and “Free the Guildford Four” (life sentences in 1975, freed after appeal in 1989). In these two examples the freedom is clearly from a prison cell; for Che & Fidel Castro it was freedom from the rule of a government they did not agree with.
Perhaps you hanker after a freedom closer to home: freedom from parents, parental control or from a bossy sibling. Would you like there to be more freedom in your school or place of work because you feel too restricted the way things are? We’ve seen in the press over many years cases where a pupil in a school wants the freedom to wear something or follow a fashion trend which flouts the school uniform rules. Should they be allowed to? Shouldn’t they? They want to break the rules, often in the name of freedom?
There are also cases of religious objections. For example, here in the UK, a Sikh can by law, wear a turban whilst riding a motorcycle instead of a crash helmet. A number of Christians have been in the news because of clashes with their employers about wanting to wear a crucifix (cross), as a symbol of their faith, in the workplace. And so it goes on with many different cases on our TV screens and in the press. Does this mean religious freedom trumps the law of the land? Sometimes, it does! Is it right to do so? I’ll leave that one with you.
Suppose you own your own house. Do you have the freedom to do whatever you want either with the building or in terms of the activities that take place there? Clearly not. For instance, you cannot play your music at full volume. Why? Because it causes a nuisance to neighbours. In other words there are rules! You cannot use it for business unless it has been authorised. Why? Because the rules say you can’t. What about your neighbour’s freedom to have peace and quiet? Do you see the problem? The use of your freedom may infringe someone else’s. Maybe that’s where the rules come in but who enforces them?
Think of those early pioneers in the 1960s Hippie movement. Freedom from society and its restraints was at the top of their list. However it doesn’t take long to figure out that this is an impossible lifestyle without money. If they work they follow the rules of their employers, if they don’t work they get benefits but either way they need and obtain money to fund their alternative lifestyle. Freedom costs!
Remember the bravado in words of the chorus to the song, “Society” about being free to go it alone, from the biopic, of Christopher McCandless’s life (1968-1992), Into The Wild:
“Society you’re a crazy breed
Hope you’re not lonely without me.”

Are you beginning to see the problem? Freedom does not, and cannot, mean freedom to do anything you want; and it cannot be achieved without monetary resources of some kind. Now what sort of freedom do you really want for yourself and others? What types of freedom are actually possible across the world? More importantly what are you, and others, willing to give up in order for more freedom to exist?

The difficult choices you have to make

The subject matter for today is something I spent a lot of time and thought on when I was younger. It’s the really big things in life that I used to debate in my mind. I was quite philosophical as a child, as you will see. These are some of the things I weighed up…

Which would be worse?
Never seeing my family again vs Never seeing Neighbours again

Which would be better?
A mobile phone vs A mobile TV (to watch Neighbours on)

When we’re playing Neighbours at school, which character do I want to be?
Beth vs Lauren

Which superhero quality is better?
Invisibility vs Flying

Which is my favourite colour?
Purple vs Orange?

Which is my second favourite colour?
Purple vs Orange?

Which would I choose to be?
A centaur vs A flying lion thing (Narnia characters)

Which should I visit first?
Narnia vs The island in the Famous Five

Which Famous Five member do I like the best?
George vs Julian

Which Backstreet Boy do I like the best?
Nick vs AJ

A few of these I’ve now settled in my mind for, being more grown up, I can obviously see that flying is a way better superhero quality. Just like purple is definitely the best, centaurs are amazing and George is the coolest member of the Famous Five. Phew, I’m glad I’ve got those things decided, because I now find more pressing things take up my time, like whether I prefer brownies or blondies and whether peppermint tea is better than spearmint. We all have our difficulties and I guess that’s the thing I’ll have to live with. Hard times.