Taking things literally...

I rang my youngest sister yesterday – I ring them both from time to time, it’s good to chat and there’s usually a reason too. We shared our opinions on our respective days and I managed all of this whilst carrying out the beginning steps to Jam-Roly-Poly. This morning I texted her so she could call me back (as a penniless author-in-waiting, I have had to go to Pay-As-You-Go and calls cost 25p a minute). She did, eventually (though as I pointed out, if those had been my death throes she would have missed my final words), and her first question was, “Have you fallen out with me?” No, I told her, although had I died I might have thought differently. But this wasn’t her point – she was worried about the night before, and had spent the night worrying about what she could have done.

            “That may be true,” I pointed out, “But, to be fair, you did say you were calling me back later – so if anything, I should be worried.”

            Anyway seemingly – at some point towards the end of our conversation last night (when, in fact, I was approaching the trickier parts of Jam-Roly-Poly construction), I interjected with the words, “I don’t know why I’ve rung you.” and here in lies the dilemma; whilst my sister thinks the words show that I was fed-up with her and don’t know why I bothered to call, I believe that the words were simply recognition of the fact that I really didn’t know why I’d called. Much like when you get to the top of the stairs and find you haven’t a clue why you’re there so you nip to the loo instead, usually to remember – once you are back downstairs and seated comfortably – exactly what you had wanted and it wasn’t a toilet trip. Perhaps her different interpretation is just a sign of her immense youth as compared with my seniority? Or perhaps she has a problem with taking things too literally? Like this guy?

            Anyway, my youngest sister spent the evening worrying about what she could have done to upset me. Or rather, she spent about 15 minutes and then forgot, along with forgetting to call me back, until this morning, when she got my text.

            And the Jam-Roly-Poly was perfect. I share below.

I pinched the pic - mine looked better but I didn't have my camera

Recipe: Jam-Roly-Poly & Custard

Inspired by: My Dad

Ingredients:

For the Jam-Roly-Poly

50g Shredded Suet

50g Salted Butter (cold & cut into cubes)

250g Self-Raising Flour (don’t worry if you’ve none in, add a couple of teaspoons of baking powder to plain)

150ml milk

1 teaspoon vanilla paste or seeds from 1 pod

A few dessert spoons of your favourite jam (don’t scrimp)

For the Custard

Milk (as much as you think)

Egg yolk (1 per two or poss. three people)

A good teaspoon of corn flour per yolk (heaped if you want your custard thick)

A couple of dessert spoons of sugar per yolk

Vanilla paste (if you want vanilla custard)

Here’s What I Do: (You can do all of this in a mixer if you like.) First prepare the roly-poly, rub the butter into the flour until it resembles bread-crumbs, it helps if the butter’s really cold so if you’ve got warm hands consider popping it in the freezer for a minute or two after you’ve chopped it. Next add the shredded suet, give it a few mixes but not too much and then start adding your 150ml of milk, whilst mixing to bring together (if you’re working by hand a palette knife can help at this stage). Pour the milk steadily, your dough is going to be pretty wet but like all baking you might not need every last drop of milk. Don’t over work the dough, you’re certainly going to want to do the last bit by hand if you’re working in a mixer.

            Turn your dough onto a floured surface, at this stage if you think the dough is too wet then flour generously so that it can be worked back into the dough. You need to roll the dough into a rectangle and, as you’re rolling it, it wants to be around 5 or 6mm thick (no more). Spread generously with jam, leaving a 1cm border all round (otherwise your jam will just ooze everywhere) and roll from one of the shorter ends. You need to try and pinch the ends together and you may use a little milk to help do this. Now wrap loosely in greaseproof and then in foil. Remember to fold the edges with a double fold, leaving expansion room. Put the parcel on a baking tray.

            Turn your oven to Gas Mark 4 and boil a kettle of water. Put a roasting tin in the bottom of the oven, when warm half fill the tin with boiling water, slide your roly-poly onto the shelf above and bake for an hour (this does depend on oven accuracy). Have a little peep in the top of the parcel to check the pudding is cooked (mine needed an extra 10 minutes last night), and re-wrap and leave to rest for 5 minutes before serving.

            I like to make the custard in advance then reheat it, so I do this as soon as I’ve put the pudding in. Custard is dead easy to make but very personal so you may want it less sweet (or more sweet) or without the vanilla. Same with the corn flour, you need to mess around with the thickness depending on whether you want thick or thin custard.

            Make a paste with the egg yolk, sugar and corn flour – use really good free-range eggs so your custard will be a lovely colour. Warm your milk in a pan along with the vanilla seeds (if using), just as it begins to boil pour it onto the paste stirring all the time. Now pour this back into the pan whilst re-heating, don’t stop stirring for a second. As it comes back to the boil it will thicken nicely. That’s it. Lovely custard and not a packet of Birds in sight.

I Love Swinging...

I do, I admitted it to Rob one afternoon in Tesco – to approving nods from other shoppers. I especially like it when I get to the bumps but I believe this makes Rob feel sick. And also he says I shouldn’t talk about it in public – apparently people can get the wrong idea.

            I don’t think I’m alone in saying that there are few better delights than going to the local park and enjoying the feeling of lightness and giddiness that rapidly takes over when you get on a swing and swing. I learnt from a young age, thanks to a wonderful Dad who was great at physics, how to propel myself backwards and forwards with nothing but the use of my legs and no need for a ‘pusher’ in sight. I had to learn this because my Grandad (a keen bowler) would take me to the park on our fortnightly visits and leave me at the swings whilst he went and partook in a game of bowls. Yes I was only four and yes he was out of sight but nothing ever went wrong and I had a fabulous time. And learned to swing. And learned to be brave, have initiative and think for myself. And countless other skills that are sadly being forgotten as today’s youngsters are chaperoned everywhere, cushioned from falls and haven’t even heard of the bumps never mind tried jumping off when one reaches them.

            Anyway, one of the best things about nieces is being able to take them to the park so that I can enjoy the delights of (almost) weightlessness. Sadly, as my nieces have grown and progressed to the big swings and, since most parks are equipped with only two of the big swings, I do now have to wait my turn on the swing but I still get to enjoy the moment at least a couple of times a month. And my sister gets sick as she watches my dizzying heights and hopes that her lovely daughters won’t ever learn how to be just so skilled at the art of propelling oneself upwards and outwards on two pieces of chain and a plank of rubber.

            I can get to the bumps (the point where you leave the seat and your arms and the chain make a kind of snapping motion) in seconds and, according to my ever optimistic and equally competitive elder niece, so can she – but actually I am going higher, faster and better than she. And she doesn’t know how to access my blog so she can’t argue.

            But there are things I can no longer do – my teenage years were spent on a whole range of parks seemingly trying to beat the laws of gravity by propelling oneself and one’s friends in a multitude of ways. I’ve jumped off roundabouts as they speed round at 30mph and flown 100s of metres through the air as I let go of the swing right at the top of the bumps and I never so much as stubbed a toe. But can I do it now? No. Instead my knuckles whiten as I secure my grip on the swing and I can’t even manage to get the roundabout travelling so fast never mind let go of it.

            And thinking of things I can’t do – my niece spent 30 minutes trying to teach me how to knee-skid last week and the most I can manage is some kind of feeble, half-hearted affair on one knee. If I were planning to propose to someone (it is a leap-year) then I guess it could be useful but, as it is, I just look like some kind of scaredy-cat-chicken who daren’t give-in to the slide. Peter Kay can do it (and he’s got to weigh a bit more than me) and Bruce Springsteen isn't afraid; so if they can cope without damaging their kneecaps what is holding me back? Surely I’m not turning into a Grown-Up?

London Calling

Great things to do in London
As I mentioned yesterday, I adore London. There is so much to do and no matter how many times you visit there is still something new to see. I realise Londoners themselves may not feel the same but actually my dream-job would see me with enough money to rent an apartment in Southwalk with a view of the Thames – just for a couple of years, not forever – I think two years would sate my appetite for the lifestyle and then I could retire somewhere quieter. Feel free to email me if you think you have the job for me!
​For those of you who haven’t been for a while I’m including here two of my favourite venues – one free, one paid-for. The best way to do London is via train, look for the cheap first-class tickets that are sold on the weekend, then stay a night in one of the cheaper hotels or simply return on the late train. If you are driving then you can get great deals at even the better hotels (Holiday Inn Express for instance) just around the outskirts – choose the most appropriate stop for you. I chose Watford Junction which has great access from the North of England (via the M1), London is then just a 20 minute train journey away. A day travel card will cost you around £15 and covers you for train, tube and bus. There are plenty of good eateries nearby (we went to a fabulous Indian) or you can eat in London and catch a later train back. If you are eating in London then the pubs around Leicester Square do great deals on pie and bottles of wine and London has got to have some of the best pubs in the world (in terms of olde-worlde architecture and atmosphere).
​We started Sunday morning at Leighton House, via the underground stop at Notting Hill Gate. It’s a long detour, down Portobello Road but well worth the walk if you haven’t visited the area before. Portobello Rd itself is full of great shops at knockdown prices – I bought a lovely dress there – just beware of the prices in cafes. We stopped in a lovely deli and had the best espressos since returning from France and shared a pastry. The bill for this meagre treat was £12.50! Should you wish to take the shorter route to Leighton House then get off at Kensington High Street. The house was the former home and studio of the leading Victorian artist, Frederic, Lord Leighton (1830-1896) and ticks all the boxes when it comes to interior decoration and artwork. I much prefer to see art in-situ rather than in art galleries where I feel bombarded by the information. Yes the Louvre and the National Gallery have their place but in houses like this you can while away an hour or so and get a feel for the life and times rather than just admire the artwork. The downstairs is amazing, The Arab Hall is (exactly as the website describes) the centerpiece of the house and we lingered by the fountain for an age – it would certainly be a great place to visit in the heat of summer, naturally cool and stunningly beautiful. It’s £5 per adult but well worth the small expenditure
​Our afternoon was spent at The Wallace Collection; housed in Hertford House on Manchester Square. It’s open 10-5pm and is absolutely free. The square is just behind Oxford Street, if you nip up the side of Debenhams and stick to Maryleborne Road then you can’t go wrong. Everything is stunning in there, we have now visited twice and will definitely go again – you cannot possibly take in everything in one go. If we lived in London I’ve no doubt we’d go every fortnight. The rooms are opulent, the furniture and clocks are a delight and the vast array of ceramics, paintings, miniatures are impossible to view in even 5 visits. The Armoury includes two and a half thousand items – the most exquisite collection of guns, swords, shields you can imagine. I am not the kind of person who spends ages in such rooms, I’ve whipped through the armoury at The Tower of London and I believe there’s a small one in Lancaster Museum which I’ve also found uninspiring but this collection is quite something else. Each piece of weaponry is outstandingly beautiful, you could visit for an hour and never leave these rooms. If you only have one day in London, you absolutely must add The Wallace Collection to your itinerary. It’s free, easy to find, close to the shops and extremely absorbing.
​I am writing today’s blog on the move. I will add links, photographs and a recipe tomorrow.

The Mint Paramedic

I love London, it is definitely in my top three of favourite cities. Bangkok is also there and I’m leaving room for the third as I haven’t quite travelled the whole world yet. Like Bangkok, if I can find an excuse to go to London I will. This time it was for the France Show at Earl’s Court. The show itself was possibly a slight disappointment, the catering was most un-French – lots of queuing, no seats and plastic cups. Ok, the coffee, when we’d finally got to the front of the queue was good – but drinking it standing up (as most were) or guiltily sitting on a seat, unable to talk to your fellow show-goers as you battle courageously in a vain attempt to avoid eye-contact with the thousands of seat-less coffee drinkers (as approx. 57 people were) rather marred the experience.

We met one very engaging man – and if you’re at all interested in French properties in the South West then I’d recommend his website and, other than that, spent an hour squashing around the French market, gazing with some small amount of interest at the overpriced ceramics and marvelling at the interesting array of dresses and shawls that make-up the total of French fashion. Parisians may dress well – the rest of France tends not to. Rob then queued for twenty minutes to get us an overpriced bowl of boeuf bourguignon and a large glass of wine each, and I took in the delights of the rather fractious British public; all of whom were too hot, too tired and just a little bit miffed at the dire catering. This show had been billed as a ‘Slice of France in England’ and it wasn’t.

At 2pm we had our wine tasting. It was informative and passable but, after six of some of Bordeaux’s finest I can still say quite safely that I’m a Burgundy fan. Apart from the Sauternes at the end which was delightful – and frustrating. Around 80% of the audience left their Sauternes but it just didn’t feel right to dash round the lecture theatre quaffing the dregs from others’ glasses.

Whilst the day started disappointingly the rest of Saturday was fabulous. We watched a very entertaining string quartet in the middle of Covent Garden market, and then drank very delicious coffee to the beautiful songs of a pretty skilled busker. His rendition of Mad World was inspiring and had me jotting ideas in my notebook for future writing. The café had outdoor heaters, so we sat outside in order to benefit from the atmosphere – and regretted it, no heater in the world is match for the fierce North wind which was ripping relentlessly through London on Saturday.

We made our way to Leicester square safe in the knowledge that you can always get a decent pie and a bottle of wine in one of the local pubs for under £30 for two. But it was Saturday and the theatre doors hadn’t opened so there were no free tables – then we spotted the posters outside St-Martin-in-the-Fields advertising a Vivaldi by candlelight – something I’ve long dreamed of.

The recital was lovely, only tainted by the fact that our seats were unreserved so we had to arrive at 7pm for a 7:30 start and then they didn’t start till 7:40 but the atmosphere and acoustics promised to make up for the long hours sitting on a fairly uncomfortable church pew. For the first 5 minutes. Then things started to blur, I spent a while squirming in my seat – half in the hope that that would make me feel better and half from the stress of knowing how embarrassing it was going to be if I had to leave mid-concert. I was sitting at the front and there was a door just to my left but this seemed to be for musicians only so my only exit was the huge doors right at the back of the church. Eventually I had to leave – you know something is wrong when you put your fingers to your face and it feels like you’ve plunged them into a sink, you also know something is wrong when other members of the audience lean backwards at your approach in a desperate attempt to keep as far from you as possible. My exit from the church was faltering, rather hazy and every bit as embarrassing as I’d imagined. The doors at the back-right of said church swing shut with a resounding thump preceded by a sharp intake of breath from the freezing outside – just as if the doors are sighing in disgust.

Fast-forward fifteen minutes (I’m sure you don’t want to know the details of my demise) and, after sitting for several minutes in the church entrance revelling in the cool breeze from outside, there was a lull in the music and I silently inched back in. Not feeling 100% but fairly confident that I was no longer facing my imminent death.

Both Rob and the lady next to me were sympathetic and very concerned. And then the lady offered me first-aid Little Britain style. And for all you that watched the mint paramedics and scoffed, let me tell you it really works. So I’m not sure who I should thank especially – the kind lady from Northampton with the mints (she insisted I had two based on her diagnosis) or David Walliams himself (clearly the founder of said technique) but either way it worked.

I’ll be back tomorrow with details of two wonderful places to visit whilst in London and a delicious recipe.

Ergo, I can drink more units of alcohol per week…

I am a health freak. I have to be. I fully intend to live until 115 with all my faculties; partly in the hope that travel to the moon will become regular and affordable in my lifetime and partly so that I can annoy the hell out of people (think Jenny Joseph’s ‘Warning’ multiplied by ten). In Tuesday’s Guardian, Dr Luisa Dillner published a thought provoking piece on ensuring your new-found health-regime (assuming you added such a thing to your New Year’s Resolution List) lasts beyond the end of January.

            In November my own GP suggested I try having two to three alcohol free days a week. I embraced this eagerly – both with gusto and mathematics. My normal waking day (I’m not including any insomnia here) is approx. 16 hours long, giving me a waking week of 112 hours. I only generally drink between the hours of 6pm and 8:30pm and this is slow, refined drinking of good quality wine of course – no greedily quaffing pints of beer or the like. So, I only drink for 17.5 hours a week. As most people don’t drink in the mornings, the number of possible reasonable drinking hours is 35. As you can see, I am only drinking for half this time and therefore I’m already exceeding my doctor’s well-meant recommendations. Aren’t I?

            Perhaps not. All joking aside, since December I have been sticking to 2 alcohol free days a week – mostly – sometimes it’s 1 and a half (I mean I really, really only have one tiny glass of red on that half day).

            Dr Dillner also recommends the two alcohol free days a week mode of living – it’s getting a lot of press lately, so it must be true. She also says that watching TV shortens your life. Apparently, every hour of television watched over the age of 25 reduces your life by 22 minutes. According to a report in The Guardian in 2010, the average Briton will watch 4 hours of television a day. As I haven’t had a television since 1992 I clearly have gained a lot of extra life. According to my excel spreadsheet (email me if you’d like to see my calculations) I have gained a total of 1.069 years life since the age of 25. Now surely this means I can have an extra glass of wine or two?

I thought I’d leave you with a recipe, a healthy one, to make you feel good about your health-regime. It’s also very, very quick – easier to grab the ingredients at your local supermarket then head home and cook it, than it is to queue up in the local take-away.

Recipe: White Fish with Tomato & Chorizo Sauce

Inspired By: Good Food Healthy Eating App

Ingredients:

Thick fillets of white fish (one per person)

1 x small chorizo (cut into chunks)

1 x packet of chopped tomatoes (serves up to 4 people)

Chilli flakes (one pinch)

Garlic (one clove)

Olive oil

Greens & Barley Risotto to serve (for an easy meal buy the ready mixed risotto and follow pack instructions)

Here’s What I Do:

Prepare the barley risotto as per pack instructions (this will take around 20 minutes). Fry the chorizo in a splash of oil until it starts to release its own oils. Chop the garlic and add this to the pan (with maybe a tad more oil) until it is just becoming fragrant. Add the chilli flakes and stir for a few more seconds before tipping in the tomatoes, let this simmer until you’re ready to serve. About 5 minutes before the risotto is ready rub your fish with oil and season to taste. Grill until cooked and flaking (some meatier fish will take longer than 5 minutes) and don’t forget to cook your choice of greens.

            Enjoy, with wine – unless it’s one of your alcohol free days.

Something Staggering and the Most Beautiful Post-Christmas Sight Ever

My only race of the year

Even though I say it myself, I am staggering – and I say this with 100% conviction. I proved it on 27^th December when I decided to start the New Year with the New Me. Okay – so it wasn’t actually New Year but I couldn’t really wait until the auspicious date itself and, given that apparently most people abandon any New Year Resolutions by the end of January, avoiding said date didn’t seem much of a problem. Needless to say, the decision to start my new-life followed a very low day on the 26^th.

            I gave away my bathroom scales some months ago when I recognised that, having reached the state of weighing myself twice daily in a desperate attempt to understand any fluctuations and/or see if I had lost weight that day by abstaining from my mid-morning toast, I was indeed desperate. Or deranged. I’d read that you should weigh yourself no more than weekly – perhaps even less than that – but I understood myself enough to realise that I would never avoid the lure of the scales were they to continue to reside in my house, so I gave them to my sister. I can now weigh myself weekly (though admittedly no longer naked and first thing in the morning when I’m certain I weigh my least) and my sister is beginning to revel in the delights of my former addiction (though I don’t think she’s reached the twice daily stage – yet). So it was that, scaleless – and having avoided the lure of my sister’s scales for several weeks – I came to dress on the 26^th and found that, despite an extensive wardrobe, nothing would fit. Seemingly, my now sedentary life as a professional (though currently unpaid) writer and my eschewing of most forms of exercise (barring the occasional mile-swim or yoga lesson) over the December period had finally led to a weight gain of preposterous levels. Given the unpaid nature of my work, buying new clothes was out of the question. The only answer was to recognise that my new profession inherently means less calories consumed in day-to-day work and, having fully recovered from my November ill-health, I should really be exercising much, much more.

            It was December 27^th then, that I realised just how staggering I am. Or certainly was that morning when I staggered round the 6km run which is one of my local favourites, all the while berating myself – shouting at my rather larger than usual shadow and lamenting the pitiful slowness with which I tackled the hills. This is the woman who scaled Tower 42 in February 2010, conquered London Marathon for the second time in April 2010, completed three triathlons in summer 2010 and did the Great North Bike Ride in September of the same year. To be fair I tackled only one race in the whole of 2011 and found myself driving to work with my bike in the back of the car most of that year – going out on feeble 15 milers after work (if the weather permitted) – if I’m honest the only staggering thing (apart from my ludicrous, stumbling gate as I forced myself round my ex-rave run) was that I hadn’t gathered what was happening earlier.

            However, even the most troublesome run can transform itself into the most beautiful. My favourite lane – the part after the killer hill – is always tranquil and that morning it was full of winter beauty. And the best bit – my weakened state meant I became more aware of my surroundings, had more time to take in the noise of the birds singing in the trees – and therefore tuned into the sound of a chicken being unceremoniously strangled on a beautiful Tuesday morning. Hmmm? Unusual, I thought.

Given that any excuse to stop was highly welcomed, I stopped and peered – cautiously – through the gap in the hedge. Sure enough, I was faced with a field of chickens – though none of them appeared in anyway distressed by the intense and rather peculiar gobbling sound that I could hear. And then I saw it – the most blessed post-Christmas sight of my life – a turkey, beautiful, resplendent, regal – proudly strutting, in fact commandeering the field of chickens – head held high. I could go on (but I shan’t) and indeed I took a long time enjoying the welcome break from running and this wonderful sight. The post-Christmas turkey. The one that got away.

            I’ll be back tomorrow with some of my latest recipes – all healthy but extremely tasty.