Jenny, Author at Jenny May

Pre-baked Potatoes

I have become mildly obsessed with TED Talks and have to ration myself to only starting one when I know I have time to listen and watch many. Like others might binge a Netflix series, I can do the same for these presentations. And it’s not just about the interesting subjects, it also has to do with a strange fascination I have with confident speakers. As much as what they say, I am drawn to the gesticulations, expression, rhythm of speaking and the movement that goes unplanned with their words. It is something we all do, to a greater or lesser extent and I find it an interesting thing that when (in theory) words should be enough to convey what we are saying, our bodies give these impromptu extras.

Recently, when watching a news presenter giving a report while wearing a face covering, MOTH made a passing comment about the gesticulations looking odd without seeing the mouth moving too. My brain being what it is, I now can’t stop thinking about why and how our brains deliver these non-verbal expressions without our conscious instruction to do them. Have we always done it? Does everyone gesticulate? Do all cultures? What is the impact of not doing so? And so on. Perhaps there is a TED Talk about it. (I’ve just looked. There isn’t. Could someone do one please?) A moment to say, please, please wear a mask. No, none of us like it but we do things every day that are annoying, uncomfortable or we don’t like, so let’s all just crack on with this too, shall we.

Speaking of coverings (yes, exceedingly tenuous linking of thoughts – my mum will appreciate that) it is too blinking hot and I am longing to live in the lightest billowing cotton kaftan that will magically never actually touch my skin- does anyone have one I can borrow? I know I am most likely to be in the minority here, but I really don’t like this extreme heat. As someone who is cold ninety-nine percent of the time, you’d think I’d be happy when the sun was blazing. But it’s as if, when I finally get warm, my body doesn’t know how to cope with it. I literally swell up and ache and get very, very grumpy. (MOTH will attest to this with ‘help, get me out of here’ subtle eye movements.) I am longing for days of rain and snuggling up in a jumper. I am writing this in my study with the curtains half-drawn and a fan on while I am sure most of you are probably sunbathing and maybe even at the beach. The fan, by the way, is precariously close to the hanging tendrils of a flowering spider plant and I am aware that there may be a shower of little white petals blown my way at some point. Still, I usually have bits of garden in my hair or down the back of my t-shirt so it won’t make too much difference.

Speaking of the garden – it is wilting and crisping and we are hoping our main crop potatoes aren’t going to be pulled up pre-baked. We lifted our onions recently and are still feeling abundantly smug about the haul. Quite possibly over one-hundred; and ten garlic bulbs as well. As ever we are running out of ways to eat excessive amounts of courgette, it is currently being added to pretty much every meal – and still they come.

Every year I say I am never going to make jam again. This usually happens when I have been cleaning and sterilising jars, prepping huge amounts of fruit and standing over a boiling pan of bubbling fruit and sugar – all in the hottest months (merely adding to the heat I already can’t deal with – yes, I’m still grumping). Well, I have been making jam. And there will probably be more to come. The first large batch has been greenage – it seems we have a bumper crop for the first time. Most years we barely get any as, just at the point of nearly ripe, every single one gets utterly devoured by wasps. So this year, I took my cue from the stripy sugar-loving beasts and at the first signs of them boring into the fruit, I picked a basket load and finished ripening them in a paper bag. Then realised I would have to do something with them all, now that they were picked. Next up; the plums. And damsons. And apples. And blackberries. Oh dear.

It is amazing how much time it takes dealing with a mass of homegrown produce to make sure it is kept well enough to last into winter and beyond. My grandparents had the most amazing cellar which was full of jars upon jars of bottled fruit (as well as Grandad’s home-made wine – of varying successes) and I can only imagine how much time Grandma must have spent getting everything picked, prepped and stored because I don’t remember there ever being a time when there weren’t fruits to choose from, whatever the season. The exciting feeling and glorious scents of going down into the cellar I don’t think will ever leave me. It was the place where the surplus cake tins were kept, the extra cups, jars, large sieves and all manner of not-quite every day items – including (we found when sorting their estate) a teacup, with a special lip to guard the drinker’s moustache from getting wet. (Here is a
terrible picture.)

Back to the courgettes, because, as any vegetable gardener will attest – they are too numerous to ignore. One approach to use a good amount while being able to hide the quantity from those who are not so keen, is to make courgette potato cakes. Make your mashed potato as usual and let cool. Grate as many courgettes as you think you can get away with and wring them out in a tea towel to get rid of as much moisture as possible. Add the courgette to the potato and season: salt, pepper and chives works well, then squish down into a pastry cutter to create the ‘cake.’ Alternatively, make the mixture into balls and roll in flour. Both of these freeze brilliantly and cook from frozen and you can totally deceive doubters by not telling them they contain large quantities of courgette – especially if they are served with a runny-yolk poached egg on top.

The simple pleasure of a pine cone

This week the weather quite clearly has no idea what it is doing. Or, if it does, it is working to some indecipherable plan that we are not privy to. I had to put a jumper and socks on today, for which I was actually more than happy. The few days we had midweek week where the temperatures tipped into the thirties, were far too much for me; I barely functioned. Perhaps it’s because I spend a good ninety-five percent of my life feeling cold and wearing at least three more layers than everyone else (I have been known to wear seven layers in winter) that when I finally get warm, my body has no clue what to do. After the scorching heat and dragging the electric fans out of the cupboard and discarding the duvet, the last two days have been more bearable, even if a little confusing.

We were promised thunderstorms this week; they did not come – which I was annoyed about. We have had some rain, intermittent sun and
cloud but goodness, a lot of blustery wind. But that didn’t stop me taking a post work stroll on which I experienced hot sun, high winds and rain in regular revolutions.

On my walk I had two incidences where I was very aware of how I am becoming more and more accustomed to simplicity and the pleasure and freedom it brings. The first was when on leaving the house I pocketed only my keys and my phone (and a tissue, but there is always at least one of those resident in any of my pockets). A while back, when we were in much stricter lockdown and supposedly not leaving the house but for the essential shop, I tweeted about noticing that bags seemed such redundant irrelevances. They sit there waiting to be filled and carted about and for some reason they struck me as rather absurd at that point. And I am someone who has far too many bags of all shapes and sizes – just in case! But today there was a feeling of lightness and liberty in the grab-and-go of so few items. (I wonder if this is how men have always felt. Perhaps if decent pockets in women’s clothing had been de rigour from the start we wouldn’t have become so accustomed to dragging bags around with us at all times.)

The second moment was as I neared home. I was mildly grumping at this point as the last public footpath, that takes me across a field to my home, has once more not been looked after by the land owner and is again impassable; so I had to take the road route. But, by doing so I passed some large pine trees under which many cones had been scattered on the ground, most crushed by passing cars but one excellent, fat specimen called to me. As I picked it up to bring home I realised I experienced the same feeling as I have done in the past when buying a new item of clothing or the such. I read a book recently which talked about how we get used to new things so quickly that they lose their ‘spark’ in very little time which is what compels us to then buy again and again and again. It’s why some very rich people have multiple cars of huge value and still never feel satisfied. They are merely looking for the next hit of new. That being the case, perhaps a pine cone really can have the same excitement-producing reception in the brain that a new pair of boots can.

In some ways we have all had to live a little more simply recently and at the beginning I had hopes that this would have a positive impact. But, like so many people, I have been appalled and quite upset at the sheer magnitude of people and the destruction and littering they have left behind at some of our destination spots. I dared to dream that out of this strange time we are living through, there might have risen a more compassionate, thoughtful and caring collective consciousness. But it would seem that now, perhaps more than ever, we appear to be a species divided between those that think beyond their immediate bubble and those that don’t. I find it hard to not fall into the thinking that, I am right and they are wrong, nothing is that clear-cut of course, but I simply can’t understand the continued devastation on large and small scales across the globe of the beautiful world we are lucky to inhabit. Nor the drive some seem to possess to split us into divided groups of people based solely on geography, aesthetic, lifestyle choices and all the things that make us so wonderfully rich and diverse and of these differences that we should be celebrating and sharing.

It doesn’t help that there are so many ways now to see so much of this negative behaviour. Sometimes I have to go on a news and social media break just to give my (admittedly very sensitive) heart and brain a break from it all. I want to believe there is more good than bad. It is always worth seeking out happiness and care and opening our eyes to the little things that can bring comfort and hope, and to find the joy in the simple things.

To this end, my pine cone and I will be quite happy at home. It will sit in my bowl of found natural treasures, all of which make me smile – yes, even the skulls. And if you need a break from the treadmill of bad news, you can join me on a very blustery walk in the video below. The wind shaking the trees and rustling the long grasses speaks louder than I can, but I don’t mind being drowned out by nature.

Grazing Bales

Sunday, late afternoon; I’ve just been out for a short post-work walk and am wondering why I don’t do so more often. I always feel at my best mentally and emotionally when I am outside and in nature.

Today, the weather and scenery were stunning. Having just had several days of rain, (which I was most happy to see arrive after the driest May on record had the land scorched to dust) the sun has returned. Yesterday was all big blue expansive skies that seem to be bigger than they ought to, today the blue has been punctuated with white cloud and a slight breeze.

The route I took is quite short and one I have done many times before. If I don’t dawdle (which of course, I always do, stopping to look, smell, feel and listen to all the wonders around me) I can leave the house and be back again in half an hour – if I rush. But why rush? I’ll never understand people who charge their way through a walk. Why aren’t they stopping to trail their hands in the long grass, to peek into ditches, do they not close their eyes and breathe the fresh air pretending for a brief moment that nothing else exists? I can’t imagine going for a walk and not holding stones or picking up feathers or peering as close as I can at insects and lamenting, as ever, my lack of bird call knowledge when I hear the twittering around me. Although, today, I was quite happy that I was able to identify a chiff chaff.

Not all land owners and farmers are great at encouraging people to walk the public footpaths by keeping them clear and easily identifiable – there are a few round here like that. But, others are very good at it, and my walk begins around fields on a path that is kept mown; wide enough for one, or two if you are very close. I was led initially by several tiny brown flittering butterflies who appeared to skip about only a few inches ahead of my toes. One finally settled long enough on a butter cup for me to take a quick (terrible) picture and I think they were small heaths. The area I was currently walking round has been left to go to wild land and long grasses and the beautiful feathery fronds jigged in the breeze with their soft green and purple hues. Beautiful. But, as with as many places there is talk of it being built on which saddens me greatly. I can see brambles beginning to flower in the hedgerows, bringing promises of delicious fruits to come. I will be out picking and eating later in the year.

A little further along my walk I spot a large black shape on a nettle leaf. Looking closer it is a caterpillar, dark and bristly; looking extremely gothic. As I peer further into the nettle patch, I see that there are in fact many of them, all on nettle leaves, and so once more I take to my books and the internet to find out what they are: the caterpillars of the Peacock butterfly.

The reason I had stopped and began perusing the nettles was because I was getting myself back together after being highly startled by a pair of pheasants. I think though that they may have been more startled by me. I gave my apologies, especially as it was a male and female I had rudely interrupted. They flew off in the clumsy, flapping barking that they do without giving me the courtesy of an apology for scaring the life out of me.

Against all the blue, green and yellow of this early summer day, large shining black plastic greeted me next – the covering for bales of straw. My best friend and I have long loved the sight of bales in fields, particularly as we feel they always seem as if they are grazing. Many a time we have sent each other pictures of such with the caption: grazing bales. I may have tweeted a video at her this time.

My head and heart by this point wanted to continue to walk for hours. Unfortunately my body, with its various ails, does not comply and so reluctantly I begin to head home. I can manage an hour of gentle walking but by the end will still be in pain, so I am learning to take things easier than I would like – learning but not liking – I get very grumpy about this.

But I am blessed, I know, to be able to go out at all and also to be close enough to be out in nature so quickly. I know not everyone can and so I recorded just a short part of my walk, which you can watch below. Watching nature and imagining yourself in it can be beneficial too. When I was going through cancer treatment, I would sometimes close my eyes and take myself off for a walk in my mind. I would imagine every detail from putting on my shoes and picking up my keys, to what I would see and feel out there; and I’m sure it helped me. Perhaps, if you can’t get out, for whatever reason, I can give you this little bit of nature.

All about the birds and a little undead rhubarb

Once again we have reached the point where the areas of our garden we leave wild at the start of the year need taming. I always leave a large patch of comfrey at the bottom of the garden as it is such a good source of early nectar for bees and pollinators, but this pretty, although prickly irritant of a plant, romps away and before you know it, everything has been swamped. Now that the bulk of flowering is over I have begun to reduce the area by at least half – and found a lovely surprise under it all – a patch of wild garlic which I had no idea was there. Next to the fenced grass pile (which has been phenomenal at giving us mulch at this time when garden centres have been closed) there peered up at me some rather light-deprived wild garlic; rather sorry leaves but lovely delicate white flowers. I am hoping it will recover now that it is not weighed down by comfrey and I might try transplanting some to a place a little easier to get to and keep clear.

At the same time, I had to re-find the access to the grass pile as the hedge next to it had bulked out somewhat. A lot of people will think I am mad, but I always cut my hedging back by hand with secateurs (although MOTH does do the hedge at the front but only after I’m convinced nesting season is over). Cutting by hand may take longer but to me it feels so much kinder and less intrusive and I am more convinced of that now as, once more, I was given a wonderful surprise. As I edged along gently taking pieces of hedging away, I came across a well-hidden nest with four beautiful small bright blue eggs – a dunnock’s nest. Naturally, I immediately backed off and I am happy to report that I have seen an adult on the nest since, so I am no longer worried about having disturbed it.

The line between gardening for us and for nature is weighted heavily in favour of nature at the front of our house too (much to the neighbours’ horror I’m sure; those that allow nothing for wildlife save an extremely mowed lawn).
We always get a bit of a meadow of dandelions and do you know what – I leave them. The bright yellow is simply gorgeous to see and they are great for pollinators. When their heads turn to clocks, I still can’t get rid of them because when I look out I can see many goldfinches perched on the stems pecking away at the seeds that are attached to the iconic, delicate parachutes. I was watching a line of goldfinches on the telephone wire connected to our house the other day and they were themselves acting like parachutists. All in a row, one by one they dropped off, straight down to the awaiting dandelions below.

As an aside, did you know that the name dandelion comes from the French, ‘dent- de lion’ – lion’s tooth, although, apparently this is not what the French call it, their name for dandelion is pissenlit. The attached name ‘clock’ which appears when the head dries and turns to delicate seeds, has its root in an old bit of folklore when to divine how long you had left to live, you would blow upon the clock and count how many seeds still remained attached.

The song thrush is in full evidence – but this time, not only in its absolutely bonkers song; the garden is littered with smashed empty snail shells, the remains of the mollusc homes left in pieces on paving stones and large rocks. And it is no surprise there are so many takeaway shells about, because we now have two thrushes, the juvenile of which is often hopping about the pots on the patio looking exceedingly pretty and plump.

More elusive birds this week have been the stunning kite that occasionally does a fly-by over the house but which never hangs around long enough to be captured on camera other than as a tiny speck in the blue and also the unseen cuckoo whose call I heard this week for the first time of the year.

The enormous and increasing number of wood pigeons however, I shall not be waxing so lyrical about, although one did entertain me the other day be seeming to get stuck on the second part of its infamous call: whoo whoooo hoooo hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo…

The house martins are about more, flashing their white stomachs as they zip about aerial feeding, I saw a swallow sat on a telephone wire over a field, the great tits with their Pulp Fiction ties are feeding heavily again, the male blackbirds are scrapping at every opportunity and we have two plump juvenile blackbirds always bobbing about the garden together, rotund and with thin little legs, they remind me of Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum; the garden is busy!

But I promised you rhubarb, and if only I could actually give it to you. There was a rhubarb patch here when we moved in. Not being the biggest fans of the vegetable, I have tried to remove it several times; believing last year that I had finally succeeded – but no; it lives again, rising from the earth with triumphant red arms, defiantly waving enormous leaves at me. And so, as I write this, I have a huge amount of rhubarb chutney simmering away as well as three crumbles ready for the freezer. It is the spider plant of the garden – un-killable!

In comes I, in search of a surprise angry panther

This week has included St George’s day, a day for which I have no particular affiliation, but I do have fond memories. Anyone who has read past blogs will know that I grew up in the folk world with all its wonderful, and yes, quite frankly odd, traditions and practices. One of which is the performing of mummurs plays: folk plays by amateur ‘actors’ (see, more often beer happy folkies) that usually contain within them, a sword dual, a dragon slaying and a quack doctor who would bring the slain hero back to life. (Although there are many, many regional variations.) As ever, they were often an allegory for the fight between good and evil as well as for the seasons and crops returning to life after winter.

When a character enters the scene in a mummers play, he (and traditionally it was always men) would announce themselves beginning with, “In comes I,…” and the discourse would often be held, in a strutting and goading manner and usually in rhyming couplets:

“In comes I, Saint George! An heroic man,

With steely sword, my shield in hand.

I fought the fiery dragon

And sent him to the slaughter,

And for this deed I won the hand

Of the King’s beautiful daughter.”

The reason I have fond memories, is not just of watching many of these plays at street fayres between bouts of morris and clog dancing, but of being in one during a solar eclipse – many years ago. We were in Devon, or Cornwall, or thereabouts (I think) so many folk camps blur into one homogenous folk life. On this day most of the campers made their way to the top of a hill to witness the mystical event and as the time drew nearer, a group of us set about a mummers play.

As strong as my memory of the beauty and awe of the eclipse and how everything fell silent as the shadow descended, and as much as I remember the strangeness of the feeling of such a magical moment; I just as much remember that the huge men’s trousers I had borrowed for the play, that were held up only with string, kept threatening to fall down as I proudly introduced myself: “In comes I…” and then very nearly, out went dignity.

In the current situation, I have structured my time so that I work at my desk every morning, garden usually in the afternoon and if I have any energy left after cooking tea, set about my personal work later. As such, the garden is getting more attention than usual. This week, I have been on the hunt for a surprise angry panther. Let me explain. Last year, a flower emerged from amongst an area of, well, chaos, in one of my borders, that I couldn’t quite place. Popping it on twitter and asking for identification help, a gardener friend of mine replied that it was an agapanthus, but an unusual looking one. The best thing though, was that they told me that they called them angry panthers, and to this day, that is what I call them too. I know roughly where it is located but the ground covering mat of ajuga, pulmonaria and creeping cinquefoil, has hindered any precise pinpointing – hence the search. So far, the angry panther remains elusive, but I live in hope.

Talking of elusive nature, the orange tip butterflies are a cheeky bunch fluttering about but never landing long enough to take a picture. And, I am pretty convinced I found badger poo in the garden. When I told MOTH to come and see something interesting, he was not at all convinced when I said it was poo, until he saw it and reluctantly had to agree that it was, actually, interesting. I have seen a badger in the garden before, so it is quite possible.

Other garden activities have been checking each morning whether any new veg have begun to poke above ground – potatoes, onions, climbing beans, courgettes and garlic are romping ahead leaving the peas and spinach wheezing and panting at the back of the pack. The weather is proving glorious for us humans, but as a gardener I am feeling the pain of nature trying to compete with increasingly parched earth. We have four water sources available in a variety of locations for wildlife, but it is the plants I feel for, trying to push through baked clay – and we are only in April! Perhaps I should write and perform a one-woman mummers play to the rain gods to see if we can entice them to show our land some mercy. Six weeks into isolation – this doesn’t sound quite so mad an idea.

Rooks, kites and curious bees

Last week I had a conversation about the plague doctor before eight a.m. Oddly enough, it wasn’t brought about directly by the current situation, rather in a more circumvent way. With both the lack of being able to physically meet and the want to find things that can be done ‘together,’ especially if they are a way to boost morale a little, it was suggested in one of our family chats that on national bird day we all draw a bird to then share with each other. Which we did. I put my hand in the air though to admit that I forgot to do it on the day in question and so on the morning of sharing I hastily and with many smudges, scribbled a terrible rendition of a rook. (It may also have suffered the addition of some spilt almond milk.) This was in fact what started the plague doctor discussion as I have always been reminded of such by rooks, because of their lighter coloured beaks. They remind me of the masks worn by the doctors treating sick people during the bubonic plague. These masks included a long hollow beak stuffed with highly scented herbs with the thought that this would purify the air. The rest of their costume was often made up of a long heavy coat and gloves and a stick to keep the sick at bay. There was mention that many or all of these things could be useful when doing the weekly shop at the moment.

I am sure I am not the only one who has found that the first few weeks of lockdown was followed by an almost panicked rush of on-line chats and video calls as well as an inordinate amount of chat groups on various platforms, both work and social. Whilst this has been amazingly lovely and I am entirely grateful that we are able to do so, I have to admit I have found it a bit exhausting, as I know many others have too. It was almost as if, for two weeks I did nothing but chat in various forms.

I read an interesting article on this subject and apparently one of the reasons we find these video calls difficult, is seeing ourselves as we talk. We never normally have this phenomenon, unless we only ever talk to someone with a mirror placed behind them and we are constantly looking over their shoulder.

Another reason is that our brains and bodies are getting mixed messages: the brain says that we are in the company of another person but the body knows that it physically isn’t; this dissonance causes a friction that can make us feel at odds. It has been recommended that when on these talks there are things we can do to minimise the strangeness; we can not look directly at the camera and screen the whole time, allow yourself to look around you, gesticulate – like you would in a normal situation; you wouldn’t usually spend an entire conversation staring directly into someone’s face (weird). The other is to not show yourself on the screen. This is also an advantage when you are ignoring the fact that you haven’t brushed your hair for three days. I wonder if, when all this is over, we’ll only recognise people by their under-chins and will have to ask them to look upwards for confirmation of who they are – having got so used to the dreaded video call angle.

This week has also brought out the curious bees. MOTH and I were digging a new vegetable patch (we may never stop, one day we won’t have a garden, just an allotment – suits me) and all around us we could see bees hovering in the air at about head height. They seemed to be assessing, looking, taking the lie of the land, which in fact is probably what they were doing. Bees do send out scouts either to gather foraging directions or they go out on mass to find a new home when they leave their old hive. Being so many, I wonder if we witnessed the latter. Other curious bees this week include the ones that are impatient to get to any freshly dug earth; perhaps they are also looking for a new nesting site.

In other exciting nature news, we have robins nesting and I am fiercely protective over them. I can see their nest from my study and I have, on more than one occasion, been known to abandon my laptop mid-sentence and bolt downstairs to shoo a cat away if they were getting too close. I also had a lovely few seconds of pure joy when I saw a kite lazily flying overhead in perfect blue sky. We regularly have buzzards circling about nearby, but this was my first kite spot.

With the current imposed lockdown, there has been much talk of nature having a bit of time without our constant interference and there appears to be an upswell of interest in the natural world. I hope this continues when we are all set loose again. It seems to be giving so much to us in terms of comfort, pleasure, interest and lifting spirits; I hope in turn, we will give more back to it.

Observations on a week including athleisure and cake

I find I have been regularly wearing my running leggings – with absolutely no intention of going running whatsoever. Let’s face it, with the way things are at the moment, no one is going to see me, I could just as well be wearing a shark costume and party hat for all anyone would know. But they are comfortable and there is always the possibility that I could, if the spirit took me, spontaneously launch into exercise (pause whist taking a moment to haul self, up off the floor from laughter at this idea.)

A year or so ago we saw the spread of athleisure and I, like many, scoffed. But frankly, right now I see the appeal. Clothing, athletic in its heritage, but worn for leisure and comfort. It reminds me of a black and white tracksuit I had when I was about eight, I loved it. I don’t know why as, although obsessed with ballet, I wasn’t exactly sporty even then.

The odd thing is, even though I have in the past been out running in my sports leggings, I still wouldn’t conceive of just popping out casually in them. Why? Surely jiggling about, wobbling uncontrollably in them would be worse than just wandering down the high street (ok, a notion not on the cards right now anyway) and yet it feels as if it is okay to show every bulge and bump, as long as it looks like you are making an effort to do something about it.

I am also at this juncture, once again marvelling at the truly frightening way advertising manages to hack right into life because, of late I have had many adverts turn up anywhere I log on line all luring me to buy leg sculpting, bum lifting, waist restraining sports leggings How? I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’ve haven’t written or looked at any before now, but merely mentioned them in passing to MOTH who wondered if I might be about to do something dangerous, like jog. And, as much as I would like a pair (for the aforementioned possibility of spontaneous sport or for ignoring such) this is not a time for frivolous shopping. If any companies spot this blog and want to send me some for free, fair do’s otherwise, it’s the old faithful pair and stop showing me things I am not going to buy. Stop it!

But I am also hankering after a house coat for completely the opposite end of the wearing clothes spectrum. Before we went into lock down, I was making a concerted effort to wear some of my nicer clothes more often, particularly dresses. But I am a clumsy person, to say the least. Despite craving clear surfaces, calm rooms with no clutter and an easy way around the place to just ‘top-up’ clean – I am, by nature a creative mess maker. And clumsy. Very clumsy. Hence, the fancy for a housecoat. But a nice one – with pockets. Something I could feel almost as glamourous in as a nice dress underneath. Actually, I’ve always been quite taken with 1920’s fashion and so a pair of flouncy silk day pyjamas under a fabulous housecoat (with pockets) would be ideal especially now it is a rare occasion to leave the house.

Speaking of housework. With us all in lockdown and the weather flip-flopping between spring and winter, it feels as if it is the perfect time to have a good old sort out of the house. Overflowing cupboards, wardrobes and drawers could be purged and the house given a jolly good spruce up. But, there is one huge flaw in this plan. What to do with all of the things you decide to get rid of? We can’t take things to the recycling centre or to charity shops and unless you are lucky enough to have a spare storage shed sitting empty to stash it all in, the only option is to have it hanging around in boxes and bags getting in the way – or just putting it all back where it came from.

I thought I’d found a perfect thing to crack on with sorting out that wouldn’t cause too much excess to get rid of. That was to finally gather up all my hand-scribbled recipes, together with those I have torn out of magazines or printed off and get them sorted and all in the same place in some discernible order. And that is what I did. Or rather, that is what I started. Two recipes written up neatly and then a glance at the huge pile to go and I gave up. And wrote this instead.

But, one of the two recipes I did manage to write up was for what I am calling, ‘Molly’s Muffin Loaf.’ For the recipe and to find out why it is called that, just click on the link here.

Molly’s Muffin Loaf

It was my niece’s birthday recently but with us all in lock down we were, of course, unable to be with her. But, that did not stop cake in our family, oh no. It merely increased it. We held a remote family bake off with the theme of ‘fruit’ chosen by the birthday girl. We shared pictures of ourselves with whisks and spatulas held aloft and aprons donned as the start time approached and then many, many more as the baking continued. In all, seven bakes were made – one even all the way in New Zealand. The thing we all came to realise though, almost a week later, was that not being able to share our cakes with each other, we had to eat them all by ourselves. Oh well.

Here was my contribution which only seemed fitting to be named after the birthday girl.

Molly’s Muffin Loaf: An orange, blueberry and cinnamon muffin cake with orange glaze – gluten free

Ingredients:

170g (6oz) gluten free plain flour

50g (2oz) gluten free oatmeal

170g (6oz) butter

170g (6oz) soft brown sugar

3 eggs

2 tbs flaxseed

1 ½ tsp gluten free baking powder

1 tsp cinnamon

Pinch of salt

Zest of 2 large oranges

Small punnet of blueberries

Method:

Cream the butter and sugar together

Beat in the eggs, one at a time

Fold in the dry ingredients and then the orange zest and the blueberries (I like to slightly crush the blueberries to make sure some of the juice mixes with the cake.)

Bake in a oven pre-heated to 160°C (fan) for 45 minutes, or until knife comes out clean

While the cake is baking, simmer the juice from the oranges with some brown sugar until it is thicker. Remove cake from oven and prick all over with a fork then spoon the glaze over. Leave in tin for ten minutes to really soak in.

Thoughts on a pause

I am a writer. Words are my tools of trade. But despite having had the want to write about the current situation we are all trying to come to terms with, I have struggled to find the words; or rather, pin down the right ones.

What I usually hope to do with my writing is to entertain, soothe and inform gently but with the current pandemic, words suddenly seem so small, genuine expressions of care appear inconsequential and as for giving information – no one can give directions with an uncharted map.

The speed with which the whole world has been touched by this virus took us all by surprise and by doing so, we have been caught off guard. Human nature when faced with danger is to react with fight, flight or freeze and I feel we have seen evidence of these in inherently natural initial reactions such as panic buying, blame pointing, denial and other individualistic self-preserving behaviours.

But this is unsustainable and a large part of what makes us human is our ability to take control of our own minds, to stand outside ourselves and reflect. Now we are starting to see the more beautiful and positive side of our species and it feels as if we are on a cusp, we are at the dividing line between two very different states and we are poised to write our own preface. We have been disorientated, but in this moment of pause we are beginning to look beyond ourselves alone. People are campaigning for the rights of others. Communities are creating networks to look after those in most need. Friends and families are calling and checking in on each other in a way we always had the chance to before, but didn’t until we were shown the importance of the act by the threat of not being able to do so.

We have a long way to go. We have barely begun in fact and the repercussions of this world-encompassing event will last for generations; but we have a choice, in large, as to what those repercussions will be.

We can choose our behaviour to be that which is best for everyone not just for us; but we can also choose to forgive those who have not yet found their way to doing so – they are scared, perhaps unwilling to face the reality of their world turned upside-down and hating them won’t change them. Show them with your actions the kinder way to live. They still might not change, but your efforts will be of greater good than hating.

We can choose what we share and how we share it. When you are poised to forward a link, press post or send; think before you do of what reaction it will provoke. If all it will do is make people feel worse without providing any course for positive change, then perhaps it is not helpful. I’m not saying ignore the injustices, we must get angry about some things and hold certain people/governments/businesses to account for their behaviour; but sharing negative things with shouts of bad and boo hiss will not change anything. Ask, what can I/we do? If there is absolutely nothing you can do to influence positive change in a situation, perhaps put it to one side and look for something you can help with.

We can choose, as a species, to reflect on not only where we are, but where we want to go when we are through this. We have all become hyper aware of what are our fundamental basic needs: healthy sustenance, a roof over our heads, nature to see and breathe, family and friends, good health, education, work. These are what we NEED. All the rest: consumerism, air travel, stuff, stuff, stuff – how important do these things feel now?

I am not saying what has happened is a good thing, not in the least. I have family working front line including in hospital, and others in the highly at risk group – and I am terrified for them. But I dare to hope in these difficult times that the majority of us will choose to be kind, will choose to fight only with positive action for positive change, will choose to look at need over want, will choose to share what will help instead of what will cause distress and will choose always to be ‘we’ not ‘I.’

I wish everyone the hug they need right now or a cheesy thumbs up, a shoulder to cry on or a laugh to be shared. Stay home. Stay safe. Be kind. We will get through this.

A Dog with Three Tales

No, this isn’t some kind of story about an inverted universe Cerberus, but actually a tree or shrub.

At this time of year we can be lacking in colour; from the interminable grey of these early months to the not yet burgeoning flora. But, there are a few exceptional bits of winter colour to find, including that of the dogwood. We have a dogwood shrub; Cornus alba, and the bright red stems are always a welcome sight throughout winter. But despite always admiring its striking scarlet limbs I’ve never really thought about its name before. And so, I did a little rummaging around.

The dogwood comes as either tree or shrub and there are quite a few myths around them – and wide-ranging at that. But three stood out as the most often recited and each has its own message to us.

One tale about the dogwood tree is that it provided the wood for the crucifix on which Jesus died. The story goes that, at that time, the dogwood was the tallest and strongest tree by far and having the sturdiest timber it was chosen to be made into the cross. The dogwood felt such sorrow and anguish at the task to which it had been made to perform that Jesus, dying upon it, felt the pain it experienced and as a kindness changed its kin so that all dogwoods would forever grow small and twisted and never be made to carry such a burden again. When Jesus was resurrected, the dogwood bloomed and blossomed in celebration. At the centre of the flower, there is a cluster of green which is seen as representation of the crown of thorns that Jesus wore upon the crucifix. Many people acknowledge the dogwood as a reminder of Jesus’ love and sacrifice.

Another tale regards Hectate, the goddess of protection and hidden knowledge. She was said to bring daily blessings and prosperity to family life and was herself a lover of solitude, never wanting to be centre of attention. Her symbols were dogs, torches and the new moon. But, that old rogue, Shakespeare was to be her undoing for he mentioned her name in connection with ‘dagger,’ most well-associated with MacBeth. At the time, daggers were often made of dagwood tree; the name, later changing to dogwood. The association of dogs, daggers and the dogwood tree and therefore with the goddess Hectate, meant that the damage was done and her mythology forever influenced. She became thereon to be perceived as the goddess of witchcraft and her name even became the root for the word, ‘hag’ meaning witch. This story of misrepresentation is used to warn us of how easily our characters can be destroyed through distortion. The dogwood here, is used to serve as a reminder to be alert so we are not taken advantage of by those who seek to betray or deceive us. But also to encourage us to view and experience our surroundings in quiet observation and that we can learn much about ourselves and others, by watching.

A third tale is one which came from among the Cherokee who told the story of a race of little people who lived in the forest and protected the tribe; they were the Dogwood people. These beings kept the children and elders safe, always with benevolence, not asking for anything in return and they were there to teach about being in harmony with the earth. Here, the dogwood spirit is associated with random acts of kindness.

The origin of the name, however most likely came about from the smooth, straight and incredibly strong limbs which were used to make skewers, daggers, arrows and the such. Skewers used to be called ‘dags’ or ‘dogs.’ The word ‘dog tree’ can be traced back to 1548 and later, in 1614 it was changed to dogwood, when it also acquired a secondary name of Hound’s Tree, the fruits of which were known as dogberries or houndberries.

Whatever your beliefs, I can’t see anything wrong in all of us taking heed of the stories and messages above: that there can be such empathy between humans and nature that it can be felt and acted upon and that great love will make sacrifices; that we should be alert to those who wish to harm us, but also to observe quietly to better learn about the world around us; and there is importance to being in harmony with nature, that we can act with benevolence and that random acts of kindness go a long way.