Dripping mad

In my previous post I said "When you get to my ripe old age you realise that nothing much matters..." I haven't changed my mind about that but you can still be surprised. One often says "I've seen it all before, and, equally often, that is true; yes, I frequently use the claim that old age prevents me from doing things I really don't want to do and yes, my slightly crafty and ever so slightly dishonest wheeze gets the required result in that somebody kind and helpful will do that job for me.

But back to the surprise. I appear to have a leak behind the tiles in the new shower room, not a very heavy one but the sort that will eventually cause damage if it isn't rectified. I can hear the steady drip drip when I use the bathroom quietly and listen for it. I have never made a claim on the house and contents insurance and it came to me that perhaps this is a job they would pay for. There's nothing wrong in asking, after all.

Believe me, asking is fine but the reply astounded me. In my innocence I thought that insurance companies either turn you down or they send a workman to check the claim. Was it ever thus? First of all the insurance lady at the end of the phone line, who is so sweet and helpful when it's time to renew my policy was not at all nice now that I was asking for their money. After an exhaustive list of questions which I answered to the best of my ability she ungraciously accepted that my claim might - just might - be accepted but first there were several hurdles to overcome. First of all they'd have to send a building firm who would establish where the leak is. Following that they'd have to send a surveyor who would establish the extent of the job, the probable cost and determine whether the job would indeed constitute a genuine claim acceptable to the insurance company. I would have to pay the builders' fee (£300, the excess on my policy for "escape of water") upfront regardless of my claim being acceptable or not. The final insult was that the company to whom I pay my annual premium is not the company with whom I am insured but is underwritten by yet another company.

To recap, my relatively small claim involves two insurance companies (both well known and reputable), a building company representative who normally charges £800 for finding a leak but whose services I could have for the sum of £300 - I know where the leak is, I told them I know - and an official surveyor to say yay or nay. All want paying, by me, their hapless customer. And there is no guarantee that the claim will actually be accepted.

Can you blame me for erupting? In a nice and polite way, of course. I find that being calm and polite always pays, nobody is going to react kindly to a foul mouthed harridan. I had two subsequent phone calls from two different company employees - I didn't even bother to understand which company either of them represented - and both were most apologetic and assured me that I didn't have to pay anything up front, that they would simply deduct the excess from any services rendered at the final reckoning. Success! Would you have quietly paid over £300 before you even knew if your claim was valid? Lots of people probably will and do and kick themselves afterwards.

I still don't know how this will pan out. The builder is coming on Thursday, but I will most definitely not pay him £300. Come hell or high water (even if it's only dripping).

Paula

Roughly once a month Paula and I meet for supper and a glass of wine in the White Horse. We book a small table in the pub window which seats two comfortably and four at a squeeze and spend several hours chatting nonstop until we’ve set the world and our small corner of it to rights. Paula has been widowed for several years more than me, she is also a good number of years older and wiser. In spite of her great age she has a permanent twinkle in her eye, she enjoys her life and has no intention of giving in to old age. In our rural world clothes are of little importance really, but Paula always makes an effort, uses make up and has beautifully kept nails. Compared to her I am scruffy.

Provision for old age is high on the agenda in our talk. Both of us own our homes and both receive an old age state pension. We also have additional occupational pensions; maybe Paula’s is worth more than mine as she has been a teacher for many decades and teachers’ pensions in the old days were generous. What I am actually saying is that, things staying as they are, neither of us needs worry about putting food on the table. And yet, we worry.

The funny thing is that Paula worries about the distant future. Her usually so jolly face turns serious. “But what if house prices fall when things get bad with Brexit?" she asks. It seems she has worked out how many years the value of her house would safely see her through the cost of residential care. “So, if in a few years’ time I have to go into a home and my house is worth less than now I could only  afford to have care for five or six years.” Paula sees nothing but penury ahead. Although she spends money on holidays she certainly doesn’t spend freely. Apparently her accountant has asked when she intends to spend a bit more, reminding her that she can’t take it with her. And yet, Paula worries. Paula is in her early 90s and fit mentally and physically so there’s no immediate prospect of her having to go into a care home. (If I could be like her I’d happily live into my early 90s too.) The average lifespan in a care home in the UK is between 1 and 3 years. Therefore, ‘in a few years’ time’ plus several years in residential / nursing care would bring her close to the end 90s. True, none of us knows what lies ahead but I think that her house, pensions and savings will probably see her to her end comfortably. When I tease her and ask how long she plans to go on for she laughs ruefully and admits that she’s both over-ambitious and over-careful.

Here’s a question which exercises me too:

do you splurge or do you hoard ?
do you live every day as if it is your last or do you save your money on the chance you’ll live twenty more years ?


PS: yes, I know this is strictly a first world problem and a very nice one to have. So please don’t remind me of the millions of people who have a hard time putting regular meals on the table and would only be too glad to worry about an old age they may never see. That’s a problem I cannot solve.

Did You Know . . . .

that ‘The functions of the Mistress of the House resemble those of the general of an army or the manager of a great business concern.’

I have been dipping into 'The Housekeeping Book' of olden days and all sorts of wonderful information, instructions, prohibitions, advice to young women and new wives can be found within.
I particularly like the capitals for the Mistress of the House and the lower case used for a general and a manager, be they ever so lofty. Mind you, the Vicar of Wakefield had it that : ‘The modest virgin, the prudent wife, and the careful matron are much more serviceable in life than petticoated philosophers, blustering heroines, or virago queans’. (I looked up ‘queans’ - it means an impudent or badly behaved girl or woman, or a prostitute.) Serviceable to whom, one wonders. Independent minded women have always got short shrift from the mainstream of domestic theorists, so many of them men.

Having had little interest in new clothes for the past two years this interest was rekindled when I had a very close look inside our closets and wardrobes and chests of drawers; Beloved’s stuff has all gone now, apart from his dressing gown, a summer anorak and a couple of his favourite shirts, all items I now wear. Ditto some of his thickest and warmest socks, which will come in very usefully during the winter. However, my own clothes are sadly lacking in shine and rather shabby after years of wear and needed replacing. I get fashion catalogues and emails sent from fashion houses and department stores, all unsolicited (I may possibly have bought items in the past), so I consulted these. I hadn’t purchased new clothes for so long that I was horrified to see the prices. Nevertheless, a few tops, shirts, trousers and leggings (for the gym) arrived in due course and I admit it feels good to be wearing something that isn’t falling to pieces with age. I like the look of myself again, too.

Be that as it may, the activity of purchasing does not please one lady author, who had this to say: ‘This ranging from shop to shop has given origin to a fashionable method of killing time, which is well-known by the term “Shopping” and is literally a mean and unwarrantable amusement. I wonder if she would absolve me from blame, as I did my “Shopping” on the internet. I wish I could amble from shop to shop, all along the High Street, and take my time, browse around a bookshop, have a meal somewhere, linger over a cup of coffee and watch the world go by. I may be fancy-free and independent, but I am still accountable to Millie. Poor dear Millie, she is quite decrepit now, although her steroid medication has given her a renewed lease of a semblance of a doggie life. Her hearing is gone which makes her difficult to organise; I also think she has dementia, she does not want to let me out of her sight. Leaving her alone is a problem, there are just two houses where she knows her way around and feels safe, my friend Jay's, who is dog mad and Millie’s best friend and my other friend Ralph’s, who bosses her around in a nice way. I am having the suspicion of dementia being present because all her routines have changed, whereas before she had regular favourite bedtimes, doggie beds and toilet habits she is now all over the place. And yet, she still has a reasonable quality of life and eats well and happily, is fully continent, and appears to be happy provided I’m close. If I have to leave her alone it’s usually for no more than a couple of hours.

My leg is getting better. The swelling is now confined to the ankle and heel and even there disappearing noticeably, almost by the day. I have had all these weeks of mostly sitting and reading with the odd little Millie walk and a potter in the garden. When the summer was at its hottest I reclined gracefully and read novels, taking sips from cooling drinks. I am glad, that by living long after The Housekeeping Books’s strictures, I escaped its censure of indulging in the much decried pastime of reading novels. Apparently, young ladies were wont to indulge and could therefore not hope to achieve the heights of the housekeeping skills necessary to make a good match and thus become serviceable in life.

Well, there you are then . . . .

yet another reason to smile.

We made marmalade,

14 jars of it.

Although it’s a bit late in the year for making marmalade,

this lot should see us through to the end of it.

I use thinly cut Seville oranges which are at their best in January.

Mind you, it’s perfectly alright to cheat and use ready cut prepared oranges too.

Bittersweet and sticky,

marmalade on hot toast is real comfort food.

Sunday Sunday

“What’s libertarian?”  Beloved couldn’t give me a definite answer. We were both guessing.

It’s late Sunday morning and we are having breakfast. I must hurry because I want to watch a programme on German TV at 10 am our time, a weekly discussion on socio-political and cultural topics. At breakfast I invariably open my IPad to check the day’s news: on the BBC, The Guardian online and HuffPost. The three teenaged girls who appear to have run away from home to join ISIS make the headlines. They’re either still in Turkey or have crossed the border into Syria by now. Their families are distraught.

“Authorities Failed Girls”, screamed one headline. Instantly I get cross. Is no one responsible for themselves anymore? Or have fathers and mothers abdicated responsibility for their underage children and expect the authorities to take over?

So then I thought of Libertarianism . I looked it up on Google. I often look up definitions on Google that I used to look up in dictionaries. I don’t think I like it. I like the idea of the weak and helpless being safe in the arms of a benevolent society until such time as they can help themselves again.

Getting back to the three teenagers. Apparently there are dozens of young people from European countries following the call. We all know that ISIS revels in unspeakable acts of cruelty and barbarity. They say these young people are brainwashed into joining; what kind of mental deficiency allows them to overlook these acts? We all have this pat little phrase: ‘I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy’. I expect we even mean it some of the time. If these girls and others like them know what they’re doing they deserve everything they’re going to get.

The discussion programme on German TV was on the Police. Your friend and helper in times of trouble on the one hand and the abuser of power on the other. It was a lively programme, spoilt for me by the sole politician member who tried to monopolise it by dragging party politics into it. I shout at the screen: ‘yes, yes’ we all know that’, 'you are repeating yourself', 'that’s not the point’, but he paid no attention to me. Politicians never do. The moderator wagged his finger at him to shut him up. Do these people not know how annoying they are? Hides like a rhinoceros, politicians.

I was glad when it was time for Sunday lunch. We have a thing about Sunday lunch. It’s special. I cook meat and several vegetables, roast in winter, and there’s often a starter and aways a pudding. Wine at lunch is not a good idea because I must walk Millie in the afternoon but the weather was foul and I knew I wasn’t going to go far, so I treated myself to an extra glass. Beloved has sherry beforehand and wine with, but then he only has to fall into his chair afterwards, where he promptly nods off. I like our Sunday lunches, they are cosy and companionable, with a table cloth, good china and glassware and candles on dark days. We had roast pork, roast root vegetables and apple tart today.

The bottom field was awash. Sue was sloshing through with Jake, a gorgeous long-haired golden retriever, about 100 years old. Jake never misses plunging into the river, Sue was racing ahead, waving at me from a distance. Normally we stop and chat. Not today. Brian was throwing tennis balls for his two collies, Murphy and Badger - Brian likes Irish stout. I lifted my golfing umbrella slightly so I could see him. ‘Filthy weather’, ‘that wind goes right through you’, etc. "Go on, get on home. Have a nice cup of tea", Brian advised me. Nice cups of tea figure high on an Englishman’s list of priorities on a day like today.

Millie didn’t seem to mind having her walk curtailed. Poor girl has to go in for yet another operation next Thursday. A growth on her belly, not a fat lump this time. I’m being extra nice to her, feeding her lots of biscuits. If she gets too fat she can’t have an operation, so I’d better watch it.

J.K. Rowling has written a couple of thrillers. I finished one of them lying on the sofa, duties done for the day. I never read her Harry Potter books, nor ‘A Casual Vacancy’, her first book for adults. The latter has been turned into a TV series; I saw the first episode, didn’t like it, and gave up on it. The thrillers aren’t great either but, what the heck, I’ll try anything once.

Which brings me to supper, very light because of the large lunch, eaten in front of another German TV programme, a cop show. English cop shows are cosy and bloodless and usually portray genteel murderers in picturesque villages, solved by bumbling policemen with a side kick who makes inane remarks. German cop shows are nastier, grittier, full of big city realism and the kind of murderer you want caught, hanged, drawn and quartered. I know which one I prefer. The English variety is soporific, asks nothing except suspension of disbelief, an ability to overlook wooden dialogue and looks pretty. What more could you ask on a wet evening in February.

There you have it, Sunday chez Friko. It might make a fitting punishment for my worst enemy, being bored to tears should describe it adequately.

Swings and Roundabouts

Did I sound just a tad smug in my previous post almost a week ago? Being self-satisfied and boasting about how good things are never pays off. Not for me, anyway. This week has been a humdinger for stumbling blocks and domestic misery.

Paul the gardener called for a morning’s work; hardly had we got started when heavy clouds chose Valley’s End, and my garden specifically, to shed their load. Paul carried on regardless, so I couldn’t chicken out. We adjourned to the compost heaps under some large trees - the rain was less wet there - and chatted while we worked. Suddenly Paul burst into tears. “Sorry”, he sobbed, “I just don’t know what’s wrong, I’ve been very weepy and desperately depressed for days.” He knows that I understand, being a depressive myself, so I let him talk and made appropriate noises. There’s nothing else you can do. Eventually he calmed down and we continued working.

I spoke to him a day later and he said that the cloud had lifted, he felt much better and hoped he wouldn’t need to weep into my compost next time. I suggested that peeing into the compost might be better than crying. We also agreed that it would be more productive if he didn’t top himself until he’d helped me to lick the garden into shape. Gallows humour. Depressives find that sort of talk funny.

Then the dog came home with new lesions on her face. The last course of treatments was to have sorted them out permanently. Back we went to the Vet’s Surgery. “Come back in the morning”, Sarah said, “and let George have another look at her”.  George had seen her before, as had Anne and Percy, two other Vets. So that makes four opinions altogether, so far. George said all that remained to do was to take blood samples and undertake a biopsy under full anaesthetic.  Millie has become a very expensive dog, and there’s no end in sight to the Vet’s bills. But we love her.

She had her op on the same day as Beloved had to be taken to hospital for a consultation with another one of his many specialists. This pretty much meant that I was on the road from nine in the morning to near six in the afternoon, ferrying Millie and Beloved around. I get tired and a long day’s driving and hanging about is not what I had planned for my old age. I was exhausted at the end of it, looking forward to some time off.

Then, out of the blue and without any prior warning, two basins in the downstairs loo and bathroom seized up. Nothing would shift the water. A plumber was called and his attendance promised for the following day. And the day following that day. He still hadn’t called this morning. We have other wash basins, so the lack of these two in the bathrooms was inconvenient rather than serious . . . . . . .

. . . . . until the boiler which supplies hot water and heating for the whole house packed up. It sits next to one of the basins.  One minute Beloved was doing dishes under running hot water, the next the water turned cold. The boiler man from Bosch was called and his attendance promised for next Thursday.

“What?” “Next Thursday?”

We had only just had a service done and paid through the nose for it. Bosch is a very reliable firm and they pride themselves on the perfect workings of their product. We wouldn’t dream of having any other boiler, and the only engineer we would let near it would have to be a Bosch trained one. They are expensive, but worth it for the peace of mind. Until something goes wrong . . . .

“Calm down”, the lady at the other end said. “That’s just for the records. I will of course, right now, see if one of our engineers is in the area before next Thursday. I’ll be in touch”.

She was as good as her word. The engineer called this morning. “Nothing much wrong with the boiler”, he said. I’ll fix a new fan, it sounds a bit rough. Still, while I’m here, I’ll have another look”.

“Funny”, he said, "the boiler seems to be full of water. Did you say this basin is blocked?”

It turned out that the boiler is a condensation boiler and needs an outlet for the condensation it produces. (Aren’t I clever, I understood that!) And its outlet was blocked.

I was ready to go spinning down the plughole myself by now. The plumber supposed to come and fix the blocked drains still hadn’t called. I rang Kevin, his boss, the owner and slave driver of the building company involved and complained - well, threw myself on his mercy. Beloved says I’m good with people like that. Besides, we frequently use the company and always pay our bills on time.

Kevin came within the hour, had a chat with the boiler man who was just packing up his equipment and set to work.  He took apart pipes in both rooms, found nothing, opened manhole covers outside, found nothing, and scratched his head. “I’m going to have to take the bath panel off and see what’s under the bath”, he said. He did, found the blockage in a complicated junction of pipes from several directions, removed it, replaced the pipes, fixed the panel back into place, and after a bit of a clean and tidy up, you wouldn’t know anything had been amiss.

So there you are, keep flushing your pipes thoroughly, and all will be well. I wish the same could be said for Millie and Beloved. Not to mention my own pipes.

Blogallimaufrey - A Weekend in August

Sometimes, I just potter. Days without plan, without purpose,

days when I can land on any activity I fancy, at any time, suit me well.

They don’t come around very often but this weekend was a real treat.

Digging around in the ‘spare’ freezer I came upon two bags of last year’s plums.

This year’s crop is all but ready to pick, so what to do with them?

Why, make a few pots of jam, of course.

o-o-o-o

And then there’s the garden, an hour here and there is always a pleasure. It’s neither hot nor cold, fairly dry, perfect weather for some pruning, chopping back and even a touch of weeding. The clumps of daisies, faded now and wilting, have gone, weeds have been pulled from cracks in the paths and a few shrubs have been thinned and pruned. The currently freshly filled compost heap is gigantic; it’s needs turning and shovelling into the one next door, which is still filled with ripe and ready compost. That’ll be a job for Paul when he next comes.

But there’s been a lot of standing and staring in admiration as well. The flame bush is out, the shrub border which has lost all its flowers is looking very interesting and the flower border proudly presents an attractive display of late summer flowers.

Yes,  for once  I am pleased.

Just look at clematis ‘Abundance’, climbing high up into the plum tree.  It’s name is a fitting one.  In one season, after being cut right down to the ground the preceding autumn, it climbs and rambles and spreads itself without thought for any other plant in its path; even a tree doesn’t stand a chance. Up and over it goes. The flowers last for weeks, right until the early frosts. Anyone who has a tree that looks better dressed up could do worse than try ‘Abundance’. It’s fully hardy too.

Not a bad show for late summer.

Yes, I am quite pleased, for once. 

I complain too much about weeds and mess and disorder,

I should take a step back and look at the overall picture more often,

forget about weeds.

o-o-o-o

A neighbour came to collect Millie for an hour’s walk this afternoon.

Splendid!

That meant that we could take our time over Sunday lunch

and enjoy the best part of a bottle of Merlot with our meal.

But I didn’t want Millie to feel abandoned by her mum so I gave her a very thorough brushing in the garden when she came home. That is a big pile of dead fur. During her last illness, which was most probably due to a deep seated infection caused by mites getting into the skin and erupting into small, bloody, craters all over her nose, she was on steroids and antibiotics and parasite repellent for her coat, all of which came with nasty side effects, making her feel a bit sorry for herself. The medication didn’t improve the condition of her coat either. But she’s getting better and the thoughtful expression on her face is mainly due to the close attention she is giving to a large treat in her mouth, which takes some serious chewing.

o-o-o-o

The rest of the time I have been reading. A never ending yarn of 832 pages, ‘The Luminaries’ by Eleanor Catton, a hugely entertaining novel about the New Zealand goldrush of the 1860s. It’s a fascinating story of hardship and skullduggery,  a consummate literary page turner, intricately crafted and beautifully written. But it definitely requires staying power. I have reached page six hundred and fifteen.  An awful lot of words.

Fruit Harvest Time

Mushrooms in hollow trees and as anklets around fenceposts.

 I shan’t be eating them, mind you.

Paul is picking plums.

He doesn’t know about the blog and has no idea

that he is making a personal appearance. 

 

I will certainly eat the plums.

I have already processed them for freezer (in flat packs - some stewed and a few pounds raw, cut in halves) and larder, with just a few punnets left to eat.

My thumbs are sore - and black - from de-stoning them and my tummy is sore from eating too many raw.

Apples next. Most of them are still awaiting processing. They are not very good, the trees are old; I expect lots will go to the birds. Or the compost heaps. But I will bottle the best as stewed apple for winter breakfasts and accompaniment to roast pork.

As every year, Beloved has picked elderberries for making wine. He already has several demijohns on the go . The berry harvest is so great this year that he has decided the birds can spare him a few more ounces and he is busy topping up our supply of gravy wine. I think home made fruit and berry wines import a gorgeous flavour to gravies and sauces. Personally, I don’t drink these ‘wines’, but I always have a lavish hand tipping them into stew pots.

It’s Our World Tuesday again.

This is my world today, for other bloggers’ contributions,

please click on the link.

Dark Days

From light to darkness - how soon things change. Before you know it black clouds roll in and overwhelm you.

Up until a few days ago I felt quite happy. It seemed that several longstanding problems melted away with the judicious application of tact and a small handful of folding money.  I had found a man with a van to collect and dispose of heaps of garden debris; I tried out a new helper in the garden and Gardener seemed to be pleased that the hardest tasks had been done in his absence. There was a spell of warm sunny weather to aid the passing of summer. My son and his wife came and mended a wardrobe whose door had not shut for a twelve month. An electrician fixed lamps and light switches and promised to return and repair the outdoor lights on the drive. My daughter-in-law asked me for family recipes, writing them down there and then. “These shouldn’t be lost”, she said. I had never known that she considered my cooking memorable, so I was highly flattered. I was quite overcome and gave her my mum’s dough kneading machine, which I had never used.

It felt good, things were falling into place; I don’t find happiness easy, bubbly is not the word I’d use to describe me; for me quiet optimism and contentment are very desirable mental attributes.

But now the rains have come and a dark cloud has settled on my mind too. For several days the AGA has refused to stay alight, which means the kitchen is cold and I cannot cook anything at all. We live off microwaveable ready meals and pub lunches. I have yet to find a ready meal we actually enjoy and the allure of pub food palls when you depend on it. Two supper guests programmed for tonight had to be uninvited. The repairman called twice: "short of a miracle the burner unit in the AGA has had it, it’s old age,” he said,” there’s nothing I can do.”  A new one will be £700 incl. of labour.  Ah well, if all the ailments that come with old age could be fixed with pennies and pounds we’d all save up and dance a merry dance instead of rubbing our creaking joints with arnica massage oils, hoping for relief from nasty arthritic twinges.

You may say why does this depress her so. After all, it can, and will be, fixed. Well chaps, there is something else, something that cannot be fixed. I found out this week that somebody whom I have known for over forty years, somebody very dear to me, actually deeply dislikes and resents me. True, we have seen little of each other for several years, and the relationship has cooled. But to learn that she has been keeping a careful tally of grievances and grudges, not only against me but a number of other people, with me as the main culprit, was a body blow, wholly unexpected, leaving me gasping for air.

The dark clouds have opened and shed their load; it’s raining outside and inside too.

Do Those Chips Need Oscillating ?

The Martyrdom of St Lawrence 

Tintoretto - Christ Church, Oxford

Yesterday was St Laurence’s Day, not a feast day with which I am particularly familiar; apparently he was a Spanish deacon supposedly martyred at Rome in the year 258 by being roasted on a grid-iron. This grisly fate promptly qualified him to become the special patron of confectioners, bakers, and cooks. Obviously. Stands to reason.

I came to cooking late in life. Before I met, and threw in my lot with Beloved, cooking was something confined to tin opening, defrosting and maybe frying in a pan. There was little time to produce elaborate meals, even had I known how to. The kids were home two hours before me and my shouts of “kids, I’m home” were drowned in a great rustle of biscuit wrappers hastily being brushed under the beds as I shut the front door behind me. I always found them at weekends, when I did the cleaning, but couldn’t very well complain. They were old enough by then to make themselves a sandwich, but when do kids do the sensible thing? Most of the time I felt guilty for leaving them home alone to earn our living and couldn’t get up enough steam to make our evenings miserable by wasting time arguing with them. Yes, yes, I know; say what you like, such was life in those days. And, no, neither of them has robbed a bank or become an axe murderer. Yet.

My mother taught me how to make stews by default. It wasn't that I ever paid any attention at the time or that she made a point of explaining what she was doing, but somehow, in spite of our mutual lack of interest in handing over the few secrets of her culinary expertise to the next generation, I picked up the odd pointer here and there which stuck. I suppose being in the room in which cooking is done, automatically leaves an impression on the bystander, particularly when the process is repeated time after time during childhood. Mum wasn’t a bad cook, just not an inventive or adventurous one. She knew her dozen or two recipes, the food she produced was good and tasty, and my dad loved it. Which is really all that matters.

Markham (1568-1637) in The English Huswife has it, that “the cook must be cleanly in both body and garments. She must have a quick eye, a curious nose, a perfect taste, and a ready ear; and she must not be butter-fingered, sweet-toothed, nor faint-hearted. For the first will let everything fall, the second will consume what it should increase, and the last will lose time with too much niceness.

Note how even then it was the male who told the female how to execute her duties. And not a word about showing her how it’s done.

The title question is a Beloved special: the chips were coming to the end of their time in the oven and this was his way of gently reminding me not to forget them.

Tables

I am from a poor people’s kitchen with a large table . . . . . . 

What has happened to tables? In particular kitchen tables? What has happened to the idea of sitting around a table for meals, for work, for conversation? A place for families to sit at the end of the day and exchange the day’s news, to air small hurts and share happy moments, at eye level, as equals. The anchor that provides a safe place, a place where body and soul find nourishment.

We had supper at a friend’s house not long ago, six of us sitting around a large kitchen table. There would have been room for at least two more, but as it was, we could  spread ourselves and when wine and conviviality loosened our tongues, there was plenty of space for elbows leaning on the table and hands gesturing to make a point. I remember how happy this expansiveness made me feel. I was also aware that there are now very few houses where sitting in such comfort is possible. Many younger people go without tables and eat their food from a plate held on a tray, even in company.

Am I just showing my age again, lamenting the demise of shared meals round a table? In my childhood and my children’s childhood the kitchen was the centre of the house. When I was small we had what was called a live-in-kitchen, a large room with a table and chairs in the middle, a cast iron range to one side and a dresser to the other. Lifestyles have changed and I am not advocating a return to the ‘olden days’, far from it. I am very grateful I no longer have to work as hard as my mother did early in her marriage.

If the kitchen was the centre, the table was the heart of our home. We had our meals at it, father spread his newspaper out on it and I did my homework. Extended family discussions were held here, fists banging the table for emphasis when the talk became heated. The few visitors we had were invited to take a seat, and uncles and aunts had their own regular places. I took my books here, from colouring and picture books to  reading books. In the evenings mum and dad and I played cards or board games, and after I had gone to bed they would still be there, finishing off their day. When we moved from the country to the town and the old table had to go because there was no room for it in the new home I missed it terribly.

We have five tables now, too many you might say. If ever we decide to downsize, several will have to go. But three at least have a history and losing them would mean the loss of that history.

Beauty And Kindness All Around In My World

It’s wonderful when I have to eat my words!

No matter whether I complain about the weather, tiresome people, the boring place we live in, or my own shortcomings, before I can turn around, somebody or something smacks me right between the eyes to prove me wrong.

Dark rain clouds and snowy skies hang heavy over the valley, draining the spirit of man and beast. And then the sun comes out and Wham! the gentle world surrounding me is transformed into one of beauty and joy.

Just when I finished telling  Mary D of Stalled at Twelve, a blog I never miss, how I admire her for her humanity and wish I had a little more of it myself, she writes to praise me for having loved, learned and understood much in my life; she has only my blog to go on and if that’s the opinion she has, I am grateful.

Nobody can be in any doubt that I do not find the entire human race likeable. I am not proud of it but I don’t consider it a failing either. But I don’t often enough expect people to be kind and helpful without ulterior motive, until somebody’s selfless act of generosity brings me up short in amazement. This is what happened this evening. Beloved came to me, greatly disturbed, showing me the dead transmitter for the central heating boiler. “I never touched it”, he was really worried that I'd blame him - his eyesight is too poor to recognise the symbols and he’s got it wrong before now. I fumbled and fussed with the thing, it wouldn’t work. I tried the batteries, dead, and no working ones as back up in the house.  We were just accepting that we’d have to be without heating when I decided to ring my neighbour and good friend Sally for help. “I am sure we have spares”, she said immediately. “I’ll have a look for them and bring them over”. It was after nine pm and pouring with rain, the way from her house to mine goes through a dark field and is 200m or more. I protested that I’d come to her house. “No no”, she said, “I’ll bring them over.” Which she did, within ten minutes, dripping wet in her anorak and armed with her flashlight. With the new batteries I  could re-programme the transmitter and we are once again cosy in a warm house. Thank you very much, Sally. We couldn't ask for a better neighbour.

Would many people be as kind as Sally? I don’t know. But I’m learning to expect - and ask for and accept - the help people in this little place at the end of the valley, this tiny town I call My World are willing to give.




For more contributions to Our World Tuesday click on the link.

O Joy !

You might ask what’s changed since yesterday : weatherwise it’s all the same. In fact we’ve had more snow today and the going is getting tougher. 

But, and it’s a major BUT,  there’s been contact with the outside world. The postman called for the first time since last Thursday, bringing me some of the books I ordered last week. He struggled up the 200 metres of the drive on foot (we’ve never actually measured it, but 200 m seems to be the consensus in this house). The podiatrist came too. we spent more time chatting about weather conditions than anything else. She visits many houses in this very rural area and tells a tale or two about the average English person’s fascination with all things weather related. It seems I am an apt pupil.

Comfort food brought pleasure too, mashed potatoes with Cumberland sausages and frozen peas. An excellent lunch, quick and easy to prepare, with enough zing in the sausages to tickle the tastebuds.
The groceries were delivered, which is a major worry off my mind; we were down to the last three portions of Millie’s food, not a comfortable thought.
The lady driver helped us transport the delivery to the house from the road. She too didn’t want to risk the drive but very kindly took hold of a large and heavy plastic box and pulled it up by means of stout string Beloved had tied round the rim.
I was pushing the wheelbarrow and Beloved carried plastic bags filled with lighter stuff.

A lot of dissatisfaction with the status quo - any status quo - for me derives from lack of control over daily life. Frustration overwhelms me and suddenly it feels like the world is 'ganging up on me’. Not a rational reaction at all, I know.

Beloved was becoming quite depressed himself when he saw me turning listless so we had a rummage in the wine racks and he came up with two very elderly bottles, the remnants of a once proud collection. There are other single examples of the noble vintner’s art left from years gone by, but these two will do to begin with. A Chateau des Graviers, cru artisan Margaux from 1999 and a Hering Gewuerztraminer grand cru Kirchberg de Barr from 2002. Both bottles are covered in dust and cobwebs. When we bought them and their fellows they probably cost only half of what they would go for now. We kept them for a special occasion and more or less forgot about them. I am very glad the weather turned me into a moaning minnie.

What I need now is for the snow to settle in for the duration, or at least for as long as there are bottles remaining which need urgent attention. Cheers!

Humdrum

is quite often oddly satisfying.

"Did you see what I did last week? Did you notice the sparkle?"

It was Kelly's morning for cleaning. As I was about to remove myself, out of her way, and disappear into the garden,  her question arrested my flight. Like many women, I feel guilty about employing another woman to clean up after me, and like to pretend it's not happening by being really busy with something else, but Kelly is totally matter-of-fact about it and cheerfully admits that she needs the money. I hovered, uncertain what it was I should have noticed. On her previous session I had had to take Beloved to the eye clinic for his sixth poke in the eye with a sharp object, and we'd not seen her at all. Kelly knows where the key is and we trust her to get on with the job while we're out.

"Didn't you notice that I cleaned the cooker surround? I took your pottery down and gave it a good scrub and I did the tiles too. It was really greasy everywhere."

"Oh, thank you, Kelly, of course I noticed it, you did a grand job. You made such a difference."

I took a closer look and the tiles really did seem clean. and the pots had lost the fuzziness that comes with sticky dust. A little ashamed that I hadn't even noticed before, I repeated my thanks. Every job well done deserves appreciation and all too often I forget how important this appreciation was to me during my own working life.



This time Kelly had to clean up after a pair of
plasterers. The builders finally arrived to attend to the
damp and mouldy patches which we had ignored
for far too long.



The damage under the eaves was due to
a leaking roof and has been steadily getting
worse over the past twelve months. We've had
enough rain for the house to float, like
Noah's Ark, down the hill and away with
the river and we were quite relieved to see that
there was no rot in the timbers.




It was Kelly who noticed that the
broom cupboard downstairs was peeling
off the wall. I tend to see such things with
only half a mind; I hate repairmen in the
house and any job like that will probably
cause upheaval, mess and great expenditure.




But when the leak seeped all the way into the
downstairs bathroom something had to be done.

Considering that it takes even the best regulated
firm of builders many months to turn up, it might
have been been more sensible to get on to
them a bit sooner; but now the job is done, there's
only the painting to come and the pressure is off.

We haven't had the bill yet.


I told the chap in the first photo that I was
taking his picture for my blog.

"What's a blog ", he asked.

"A kind of online diary. - ok, so mine isn't really,
but  it would have taken too long to explain the 
convoluted nature of this particular example of the
genre -. There'll be people on other continents reading
about you and they'll see your picture".

"Really", he said, "cool".

He might have been humouring me, the client; the 'cool'
made me stop and wonder. He was at least in his thirties
and nobody older than thirteen should use this expression, but he was a nice chap. They both were, and they managed to work all day without a radio blaring pop music. They also cleaned up after themselves, leaving plenty of surface dust but no real mess. If anybody round this end of Shropshire reads this and needs a building contractor, I can recommend them.


And finally, humdrum is as humdrum does; it is a quick walk I take on so many afternoons of my life here in the Marches, but no matter how often I retrace my steps around 'my' castle, the pleasure never wanes. But then, you've heard me brag about this many times before.

Of Cabbages And Other Cranky Crinkly Creatures

Wirsingkohl - Savoy Cabbage

"You're making some wonderful smells again", Beloved says, coming into the kitchen from outside.
"What is it?"

They say  'The way to a man's heart goes through his stomach', and Beloved is no exception. Always good and appreciative of food, in spite of being on the thin side, his tummy is very important to him and he likes my cooking.

I agree that the aroma of gently frying sliced onions, lardons (bacon cubes) and a squashed clove of garlic or three sets my own gastric juices flowing. I start off nearly every casserole dish this way, adding browned beef or lamb and their requisite herbs and spices as I go along. A generous slug of Beloved's home made fruit wine serves to deglaze and braise the whole thing. I use very heavy black cast iron pots and pans; I now need both hands and a fair bit of hefting to get them out and into position. They have  tightly fitting lids, preventing flavours from escaping during the process of slow-cooking.

My mother taught me how to make stews by default. It wasn't that I ever paid any attention at the time or that she made a point of explaining what she was doing, but somehow, in spite of our mutual lack of interest in handing over the few secrets of her culinary expertise, I picked up the odd pointer which stuck. I suppose being in the room in which cooking is done, automatically leaves an impression on the bystander, particularly when the process is repeated time after time during childhood.

Mother had had to learn to cook early, her own mother died young - I never knew her -,  which meant her cooking was poor people's cooking. Although grandfather kept geese and chickens and cultivated his own vegetables, mother, as a child, lived through WWI and grew up between the wars; at neither time was food plentiful in rural villages.

Girls and women learned to adapt. The area of the left bank of the Lower Rhine is a fertile plain, to this day it is agricultural in character, in spite of the nearness of the industrial Ruhrgebiet on the other side of the river. Main crops were potatoes and cereals like rye, barley and oats as well as the king of local produce, the humble head of cabbage, white and purple and savoy, the absolute staples without which rural populations wouldn't have survived. Cabbage is nourishing, it is full of vitamins and minerals, and filling to boot. An essential vegetable to help poor people to survive lean times. I made its acquaintance after WWII and, although I never thought of it as a delicacy, I got used to it and ate it without complaint.

White cabbage was shredded and eventually became Sauerkraut, red cabbage was braised with apples, a small handful of raisins, a few cloves, a dash of vinegar and a teaspoonful of sugar. These would be served with potatoes and some kind of pork produce, like Speck, (bacon), Eisbein, (pickled pork knuckle), or Bratwurst  (German sausage). Savoy cabbage, on the other hand, became a meal in itself. A braised onion and as much bacon or ham as you could afford were the base for the shredded, crinkly, deep green leaves. Mother stirred the pot until the cabbage had wilted and the slivers of meat and onion were evenly mixed. If she had a ladleful of stock - or a dissolved stock cube -, she added it at this point, as well as a diced potato or two layered on top. It took about an hour at the lowest heat to turn these ingredients into a steaming, fragrant mush; if necessary, she'd help it along with a deft twist or two of the masher. There was never any of that nasty, disagreeable stink of cabbage, that is said to hang about for hours, denoting squalor and poverty.

Long after I had left home, and after my father had died, it was aunt Josephine's favourite meal. Mother and Josephine didn't really like each other very much, but they lived within easy cycling distance of each other.  Josephine was an invalid - although mother often complained that she was making the utmost use of her disabilities - and my father's sister, tall and thin, with a black-eyed stare that could pin you down and render you immobile as surely as a lepidopterist does to his moths and butterfly specimens. Several times a week mother cooked lunch for Josephine; she'd rush the meal over to her in a basket hanging from the handlebar of her bicycle, then rush home again to eat her own meal, which she'd kept warm in the oven. I never asked, nor was the information ever offered, why the two old ladies didn't simply eat together at Josephine's. In fact, I've only just realised how ludicrous the whole situation was. Aunt Josephine was well off and could easily have ordered in food every day, but she said nobody could cook the old-fashioned dishes like mother. Mother frequently complained that the whole thing was getting too much for her but still she complied.

I have never preserved Sauerkraut and rarely cook red cabbage. We eat both, but I prefer to buy the finished article in jars imported all the way from Germany. But, like mother, I cook Savoy cabbage myself in winter. Beloved, who is a true Englishman and therefore dislikes the thought of boiled cabbage, eats this Eintopfgericht  (One-pot-dish) with pleasure, provided I don't present him with it too often during the cold months.

Throwing My Life Away

"Sorry for not replying to your chatty letter sooner but we've been rather busy. We've finally had to put Oma Hannah into a care home, we just couldn't cope any more." (1991)

"Clare and I have been for a lovely day out in London last Tuesday, such a pity you couldn't come. We had a great time on the South Bank, snooping around the book stalls, looking in at the Gallery and having lunch at the Festival Hall. Clare was fine . . . . " (1989)

"We have to cut back on holidays this year, the economic downturn is taking great bites out of our budget, John's job is by no means secure and I'm facing short-time work myself." (1997)

'How hard can it be to throw away old letters', I asked myself. I'm never going to have biographers clamouring for every word I've ever written or received. No one I know will ever end up in the archives of the British Library, their  literary legacy examined by future historians. 'Get rid of the stuff', I told myself, and Beloved too, of course. Stacks of A4 envelopes crammed with letters in bursting box files, in the drawers of desks and on shelves in various rooms, gathering dust. 'But these are of great interest to me',  my Inner Hoarder whined, 'a chronicle of my life'. 'Sentimental claptrap'. I said. (I can be quite brutal with myself sometimes.)

Or how about this: For many years I have kept brochures and throwaways from every place we've ever visited, neatly (I am neat to a fault) filed, again in A4 envelopes, with the name of the country/county written on the outside for easy retrieval. I am not talking here about solid guide books - I have them too, of course, but they have their own shelves in the book cases -, but flimsy, mostly free, local maps, town plans, what-to-see and what-to-do in Upper-Micklemuckle-on-the-Mildew. "Surely you are not expecting me to throw them away too? They'll come in handy, you'll see'. The Inner Hoarder is still at it. But I am on a roll, the Hoarder doesn't stand a chance. Out with them! Papers, brochures, letters, going, going, gone. And no, I am not going to stop and listen to the ever fainter voice of the Hoarder; 'Just a tiny little peek, there might be something important in that lot'.

Next up are the boxes holding recipes ripped out of magazines over many years. I used to kid myself that I would certainly try the stuffed shoulder of lamb and the cream-laden marquise very soon and dazzle dinner guests with my culinary skills. Fat chance. I have my repertoire of tried and tested dishes, the kind of dishes which always work, popular and pleasant to look at; who needs recipes where even the ingredients require a special dictionary and a trip to the most expensive delicatessen in town. Besides, most of our guests have my kind of digestive system, the sort that complains when food is too rich, too spicy, too fussy.

Not only have I made a start filling the paper recycling boxes but I've also taken those embarrassing chick-lit novelists off my book shelves - there are more to come, but withdrawal from any drug is meant to happen gradually. Tomorrow the dog lady is coming to collect the ramp we borrowed to help Benno climb into the car during his last six months on this earth. The dog charity runs a shop selling donated gifts, books and household items of good quality. They will be very happy to receive them, as well as more than half of my entire stock of preserving and bottling jars. Time was when I filled them, year after year, with jams, jellies, fruit, vegetables and even preserved meats. No more, Been there, done that; it's time to broaden my horizons and take up hang-gliding instead. Or perhaps I'll join the Women's Institute and learn how to stuff a mushroom.

All this new-found desire to de-clutter is not because I've had a sudden rush of blood to the head but because I saw a friend of mine, who had moved house, stand in the middle of an unbelievably chaotic jumble of stuff in her new house. She was quite cheerful, considering; in her place, I'd have been ready to join the Foreign Legion and go to war in the desert.