Category: Home

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.

If it’s not on the list, it’s not going in

A couple of days ago, I found myself getting rather irate with teabags – and I  don’t even drink tea; well, black, green or white anyway. I do like a black coffee, but long gone are the days when I could swig it back without a care and now it is just the one; the glorious first thing in the morning life-affirming, granting, saving cup that I allow myself.  Unless I’m feeling daring, then perhaps two. (Any more than that then I have to have a shaky lie down and pep talk from MOTH to assuage the jitters.) In lieu of these staples then, I amass a large selection of herbal teas because, although many of them are very nice and I do enjoy them – mostly; they are just not as satisfying somehow and can become, quite honestly, boring!

But why have they annoyed me so much of late? Well, apart from the frankly quite ludicrous price of some of the trendier branded ones, it’s because I rather naively have spent the last couple of years putting them on the compost heap.

Now, before any more-experienced composters (compostitioners? Compostees?) out there start tutting and shaking their heads, this is still quite new to us and yes, there were mistakes. I don’t know why, but I had mistakingly assumed that teabags would decompose thinking they were made from paper. They do not. They are not. Bah!

I have been feeling the rise of gardener’s itchy fingers; not an ailment requiring medical attention, but more the pricking of the yearn and need to be out awakening the garden from its winter sleep and readying it for the year ahead. I feel as if I am in the blocks, sweat band on, starting pistol raised – and yet, we are not quite ready for the off. I may be thinking of potato chitting and seed sowing, but not only is it still slightly too early, I don’t trust the weather. This time last year we were being hounded by The Beast from the East and after what has felt like an incredibly mild winter, can it really be that the worst is done?

So instead of the fun stuff, I have been doing some of the less exciting jobs; including sorting out the compost pens – back to teabags. Our first year’s compost is ready to use; it is dry and crumbly, fragrance free – perfect – apart from one or two things that have now solidly entered the banned list and will never be going on again. The reason I will be particularly firm on this is, that I sifted through every spadeful that came out of the pen and removed the non-decomposed detritus. In the rogues gallery, first and foremost we have teabags, followed by corks (again, naivety came into play where I thought cork, that’s natural, it will  be fine – nope!) and mango stones. Due to having a prolific plum tree, the prep for pies and preserves producing mountains of stones; this year, I will also not be adding  all these to the heap for their tendency to hang about somewhat.

But, it wasn’t having to sift out the teabags that annoyed me as such, it was realising that they were not biodegradable. A quick look online and it seems as if in the UK alone, there are around 62 billion cups of tea drunk a year – 96% of which are made from teabags, which begs the question: where are they all now?

Like so many people I am sickened by the sheer volume of rubbish and waste that we produce as a species and, although we are not huge consumers and take care to recycle as much as we can, MOTH and I are increasingly trying to put into effect where possible, the two factors that are even better than recycling: firstly – reduce, secondly – reuse.

The first point is one that is getting a lot of people up in arms because it feels as if we are fighting a losing battle sometimes. When even a pomelo (a fruit which comes with THE thickest natural wrapping) comes in shrink wrapped plastic, then what chance do we have? Our weekly food shop is fast becoming a time of exasperated swearing and huffing.

The second point can at least be a little more fun; or if not fun, perhaps satisfying and you should never underestimate the creativity people can muster when they put their minds to it.

I am madly obsessed with Pinterest at the moment – a place where there is something for everyone and you can end up chasing down a glorious rabbit hole of interests. If you want to be inspired about things you can re-use, regularly thrown away items for, I very much encourage you to look around. There is everything from sublime works of art made out of pre-used items to practical, useful objects or cleverly mended and altered clothes to extend their life.

Have fun and in the meantime, I will leave you with a few of my own.

The Heartbeat of a Tree

I felt the heartbeat of a tree today. Now, before you think I’m mad, of course, I know that I didn’t really (or did I?), but for a moment my own heart skipped because, it really felt as if I had.

It has been a day where, although it is cold and the wind is blowing well, the sun is out and the sky is that kind of huge blue which occurs in expanse, in winter. I have a stinking cold but despite this, I cannot help but be drawn outside.

Having perambulated the garden, having a nosy at how things have fared over the weeks in which I have been too busy to be tending to things of flora (perhaps months, is a more accurate time-frame), I dragged one of the garden benches from beside the increasingly falling apart shed, where I had secured it against stronger winds the previous year, and planted it in the sunniest spot at the bottom of the garden.

Wrapped up warm against the cold (apart from my feet which, no matter how many layers I wear just will not defrost) I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. My eyes did not stay closed for long as I became distracted by a bird somewhere nearby making the most amazing array of noises. I first thought it must be the song thrush that lives at the end of our garden and is often seen whacking snails against old exposed path slabs (now mostly sunken and grown over by grass and moss). But it wasn’t, it was one of our darling starlings that continue to keep us entertained. I have written before about the immense range of noises and imitation sounds that starlings are capable of, and this one was giving me a good earful of his portfolio.

To my left, roughly four metres away, there is an apple tree. Every year I tell it, it will be its last as it is leaning closer to the ground with each season that passes, but it still bears fruit; an apple somewhere between a cooker and an eater and with which we made Scandinavian apple relish this year, for Christmas presents. I always leave some fruit on the trees for wildlife and today I was rewarded for doing so. As I sat attempting to breathe some fresh air into my cold-stuffed head, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A beautiful female blackbird, feathers a glossy dark chocolate brown, was perched atop one of the hanging apples having a good peck at it. She didn’t seem to care at all that I was so close and neither did the blue tit who alighted on a different apple above her and began pecking away.

I am ashamed to say that one of my first thoughts was that I wished I had my camera with me and contemplated the possibility of a phone picture showing anything discernible. But I knew that even if I did have my camera or tried to take a picture on my phone, the movement itself would frighten away the two diners. And then I was struck with an interesting thought: I was glad I wasn’t able to take a photograph because that meant I just sat there, watching and fully enjoying the sight. I love beautiful and inspiring pictures, but sometimes I wonder if we fall into documenting things rather than experiencing them.

We have been lucky lately in that starlings have been performing murmurations over our garden (I like to think as a thank you for the sheer amount of mealworms and fat balls they’ve had from us). The first time it happened I filmed as much as I could. But the second time, I just watched and in doing so I didn’t just see what was happening I heard the flap and dull thud of wings and feather as they turned, I felt the breeze that they were moving within, I became aware of the cold air on my cheeks and the smell of damp earth and the winter world outside and I noticed the varying hues of blue, grey, pink and purple which made up the palate of the fading sky.

I am currently reading a book called, ‘The Running Hare, The Secret Life of Farmland,’ by John Lewis-Stempel. It is a gorgeous book documenting the life of an agricultural field being given back to nature. But is is also very sad as it clearly exposes just what we as humans have done to the land and all that lives in and on it, by means of intense agriculture. As a race, we have learned how to dominate nature. I believe we now need to learn how to share with it. My apples left on the tree may only be a small give-back, but I feel that I got the bigger reward from the action.

The wind blew harder and colder, snow has been tentatively mentioned on the forecast and almost as if in synergy, I spot a clump of snowdrops that are hanging their white heads at the base of a rose.

Heading back to the house, I stop to touch the warm trunk of our smoke bush. The bark is rough and looks like elephant skin. I turn and place my hand on the clean-cut end of a branch I removed from smokey’s neighbour; a cotoneaster (who has grown considerably out of hand and is still in full, green leaf) and that is when I feel a thud. Thinking I was mistaken I close my eyes and press my hand flat against the wood and there it is again: thud, thud, thud. I smile, I laugh at myself a little because in a fraction of a moment it felt as if I was feeling its heartbeat. Common sense kicked in just as quickly; it was just a vibration caused by branches much higher up moving in the wind. Surely?

There’s a monster in my dining room

It is mischief night, the night before All Hallows Eve and so I thought I’d tell you about our very own monster who lives with us. He almost touches the ceiling and with each year that passes, he takes over more and more of the room. When we’ve had guests round for dinner he has been known to poke them in the back whilst sat around the table. He has also made a terrible mess of the paintwork on the walls.

But, we love him and he has certainly become one of the family. Known to us as Edam, he is a Monstera deliciosa (aka a cheese plant). MOTH bought him 24 years ago, little understanding then just how big he would grow. When we first moved in to this house three years past, we initially housed him in the conservatory on the back wall thinking it was the only area that could accommodate him. But guilt set in when we saw that he was not faring well at all. Too cold through the winter and too scorching hot in the summer he began to look decidedly unhappy. So, into the dining room he went and my-goodness, he preferred that. He has since sent forth several new leaves, each bigger and higher-reaching than the last.

It is quite fascinating to watch these leaves come into being. They appear, one at a time, from each previous leaf. A small section begins to peel away from the stem and out of this split comes an unfurled flag of green. As it un-rolls it spreads out and up, to become the leaf from which the next new one will spring.

I have always had houseplants, not only do they look nice but they are very healthy things to have in your home. I have had successes to greater and lesser extents, mainly because I am not one for mollycoddling*. I like a good robust plant that doesn’t demand specialised attention and can just get on with being, without too much fuss. But I never thought I’d have a plant that I could stand under without stooping and it still loom above me.

The thing about Edam though, is that, he seems to have become more than just a houseplant. Perhaps because of his size and therefore sheer presence, I find I feel very kindly to him and even chat to him on passing. “Good morning, Edam.” As I wander through to the kitchen to get the breakfast things out. “Good grief man, will stop growing just for a bit!” Pretty much every time I look at him. I’ve even given him a dust on occasion followed by a spritz of water and asked him if, “that felt better, now?” Is this better or worse than talking to the cats, I wonder? Perhaps I just need to get out more. But to have a living thing take up a quarter of a room and be with you for so long and that you see responding to the care you give it – how can you not treat him as more than just a thing?

I’m not quite sure where all this will take us. We have recently had to rearrange the whole dining room just to accommodate Edam and I wonder if, one day, we will come downstairs, struggle to open the door and fight our way though to find that there is a jungle to negotiate before we reach the kitchen. And do you know what, if that is the case, I can’t help thinking that we would just create a path through as best we could, gently chastise our ever-growing monster and carry on as normal with the cats prowling about their own personal indoor forest.

 

*I thought, having written it, I would have a look at the term mollycoddle. It seems, it comes from the seventeenth century and was used as a derogative term for someone, particularly an effeminate male, who has been overindulged and overprotected. The Molly part taking reference from the slang term of Mary which was given to low-status, often prostitute women and the coddled part is, ‘to treat overly carefully,’ often used in cooking, as in coddling an egg – to boil it very gently.