Fealte & Rosebud: Footloose and Fancy Free

What is it to be a Mother?? And whose bloody idea was it anyway??

2012-01-12T13:40:00.005Z

What is it to be a mother? This god-like creature, all powerful, all controlling, was this really such a good idea and whose bloody idea was it anyway? To give us females this unbelievably responsible role...And what if your scared of it Can't handle it? Who's going to pick up the slack?

It is too much responsibility and I'm worried I'm doing it all wrong. And what is right anyway? Exactly, who the hell is right? Who is best, who has the answer? Should we really trust ourselves with this shit? Should we really presume to have all the answers in our hearts? And how in hell do you find them in there? I'm looking, and I have been for a while now, but worry I'm missing something I'm looking so bloody hard.

I'm trying to tick all the right boxes and in doing so leaving lots with just a half tick - and who, I wonder, who is checking my boxes? It's just me again, isn't it?

At what point, will I trust myself? Validate myself? Accept myself? And, at what point, will I learn to trust my children, validate them, accept them? Who wrote this complicated bloody rule book? And why isn't love enough - of that I have great oceans full.

HELP!! I'm drowning in my fear of what others think. But no-one else gives a hoot, because they are all too busy drowning in their own self-perceived nonsense!!

And why can't breakfast cereals be a simple choice? Why are there more than 100, when all I want is one that is healthy and filling and good for us all...

Over and out

The Moran Bible

2012-01-10T07:08:00.004Z

"Although I've offered it all round town no-one in Wolverhampton seems remotely interested in taking my virginity, so I have concluded it's one of those things you can only get done in London - like natural looking highlights or dirty martinis. It's a specialist job..."

May I LOUDLY urge all you females out there to RUN to the bookshop and immediately purchase Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman. I have bought six copies already for various friends and if wasn't £11.99, Ebury Press, or even, buy one get one free, I would buy many, many more and give them to everyone I know.

This book is a BIBLE for women and should be read by everyone, the quote above shows just how funny and honest Moran is. But she is also incredibly ruthless in her perception of modern feminism and uncovers the fears and truths we all, as females have, but are too afraid to say out loud or even share with each other, although we all feel the same! She touches on the dark unspoken: abortion, waxing, high heels, sexism, endless self-improvement, weight loss and gain, the media in all its ugly sexist guises.

Look out for the Moran, she is without doubt an important voice and one we should all be listening too.

How to cope with the January Blues

2012-01-04T13:09:00.003Z

If, like me, after a hedonistic two weeks fuelled by bucket loads of cider and great wedges of stilton, you feel fat and miserable and cannot stop farting, something, surely, must change, n'cest pas?

But if, after these two weeks of great character-building, slothfulness, contentedly oozing on sofas, or happily creating large platters of interesting, scrummdiddly little delicacies, the realisation that exercise and fruit will make you feel much happier and look a whole lot sexier, you just lay back and think; fuck it. What can one do?

Here are my five coping strategies for January when its freezing and dark outside and your too bleeding lazy to get your lycras on:

1 - Stuff your face with all the bad stuff left in the kitchen in a bid to get rid of it all in one go. Alternatively, feed it to the dog and or the children.

2 - Open the New Years papers and read all about how you can adjust your, comatose fatboy, mindset just by thinking in a more positive manner. Thus try it out on husband, dog or children: "I really do think your very handsome/fluffy/good. Do you think you could empty the dishwasher for a change?".

3 - Force yourself to smile at all around with that cheerful waft of New Year joyousness slapped on your boat race. Inwardly think good things, don't end up like Mrs Twit going all ugly just because you thought bad things, a lot.

4 - Live in the moment - stop dwelling on what a shit year this could be, with the economy tits up, the environment covered in plastic bags and old lager cans, and no prospect of a decent job or holiday. Consider all the wonderful things you do possess, however simple they may be.

5 - Get your bleeding shoes on and go for a walk - being in the fresh air and surrounded by the countryside is a sure fire way to make you feel so much happier.

Bloglovin

2011-12-02T22:49:00.001Z

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fishface

2011-11-27T22:35:00.006Z

Is there anything more joyful than a can of oily mackerel and some thinly sliced slices of red onion? Oh ho - no no...

It can often be a problem being a Brit and lusting after strong, salty, fishy, garlicky tastes that pervade the breath all day, but yet are so appealing, so mouth-wateringly tasty you just cannot deny the allure.

In Spain - garlic infused toast is a humble staple, France - stinky cheese, a natural member of the family, Germany, Austria all those Nords, well they love a plate of pickled fish don't they? But Blighty, old Blighty, well she would rather eat simple, bashful, old baked beans on toast and, perhaps, go wild with the marmite.

Well, I, very often, like to my allow my senses to steam over me and will secretly slide into the kitchen, can-opener up my sleeve, raw onion poised, waiting to be sliced, naked and alone and ready to eat, atop a crispy ryvita number or maybe some toasted fresh sourdough with said oily fish straight from la can...yooohhooohaaaa - get the fish out, get the oily fishface onto the vessel thus chosen, oh salivATION - go forth...all will be well...

Just so long as you don't go out or see anyone else for the rest of that day.

Yes, you can brush your teeth.

Yes, you can rinse with mouthwash.

Yes, you can brush again.

But why can't everyone else indulge in oily fish, and raw onion for lunch and join the stinking brethren?

By the way Freddie Mercury, whose very voice makes me shudder with appreciation, whose sensual massaging whisper, "who wants to live forever" in my ear makes my hairs stand on end - this genius, this hero, this man who sung for every single heart - with his entire heart and soul, and, by the way, looked fucking great in lycra WITH a moustache, he has been not of this earth for twenty years. RIP Freddie - we still love and adore you.

Green Man Rocks

2011-11-18T12:26:00.005Z

Independent, family-friendly and nestling at the foot of the Sugar Mountain in Welsh Wales, the GreenMan Festival continues, every August, to draw us into his fluffy green arms.

Yes it's middle-class, safe and full of, probably too much, easy listening folk music, but throw in heaps of kids, large fluffy clouds and a site that is both compact and beautiful and you have the perfect festival recipe for any Observer-reading 21st century British family.

This year the bodacious, hilarious, naughty and very talented Australian comedian, Tim Minchin performed, having never heard of him - I spent the entire time absolutely bewildered and shocked by his unique performance - he absolutely rocked the comedy tent. And had all the white, middle-class, Guardian readers guffawing with his raw cheek and incredible musical talents. Check out Prejudice - an absolute classic tune pitched resolutely at everyone who is not a ginger...

But have no fear, all you resolutely hedonistic types out there, after dark the dance tent throbs and the youths, and yes there is definitely plenty of them, go forth and shake their lithe booty

to some fantastic DJ's including Anonymous Androgynous, Andrew Weatherall (yup he's still going strong), Ewan Pearson, The 2 Bears, Warp Records and Horse Meat Disco.

Next year sees this independent production of festival fluffiness celebrate ten years, and its promising to be a corker.

The Cove

2011-11-16T13:42:00.003Z

Dolphin slaughter. Fancy watching a movie about that? Neither did we, but we found ourselves absolutely hooked while recently watching The Cove, a documentary about the continued slaughter of thousands of dolphins in Taiji, Japan.

The Cove is a moving portrayal of former Dolphin trainer, Ric O'Barry's, ambition to inform the world of this desperately tragic annual death-spree, held in secrecy off the coast of Japan. The Cove, amongst other things, argues how unnecessary and cruel this practice is, particularly considering the high proportion of mercury found in Dolphin meat. According to the National Institute for Minimata Disease, over a thousand residents from Taiji were found to have mercury levels at ten times the national average.

Mercury poisoning can cause damage to the nervous system and for pregnant women can also cause birth defects.

Join O'Barry and Fealte & Rosebud by signing this petition to save these incredible creatures from what could be the beginning of their extinction.

Hip Hop Boo

2011-10-20T11:38:00.002+01:00

Boo - I love you so much.

Boo, apparently, is a hip hop term of endearment, it can also mean girlfriend or boyfriend to a rapper or a street kid...

For me my Boo is my smallest muffin - my Boo.

Mothering

2011-10-20T10:45:00.001+01:00

Falling pregnant with twins three months into a relationship meant that my life as a mother has always been on the fast track. I panicked for the first two years and have always worried: I'm not doing ENOUGH... I happened to fall in love with a good man, who not only helped me to procure twins, but who isn't, like myself, shallow and foolhardy.

He told me, from day one, the best thing we can ever give our babies is love. How right he was, and is, and today, six years and three babies later, I can see that time is right up there with love. Love is, without doubt, the one true gift you can give anyone; from it flows compassion, trust and friendship.

I'm in the minority amongst my peers, and most of my friends with children, in that I am and always have been, more or less, a stay at home mother. But we are without doubt the freaks of the playground. I feel embarrassed that I don't have a job to go to, money coming into the bank and somewhere to go to that isn't the kitchen or the supermarket. We are seriously uncool!

Yet I cannot imagine doing anything else than mothering my three children and feel incredibly lucky to have that choice.

Why is mothering a term of such embarrassment and shame?

When recently asked by an insurance company what my job was, the answer of mother was clearly not on the list on their computer screens thousands of miles away in India - and totally stumped them.

But it is not shameful is it? Surely we should be proud to have one of the oldest and most rewarding jobs in the world, the fact that we cannot switch it off once the button is well and truly pressed is unique and life-changing. To experience unconditional love is mindblowing, to feel such anger to tear the house down and fear to the pits of my soul if ever my children were lost or damaged is achingly impossible to describe, yet, we live it...every single day.

So it was with great pleasure, when a fellow stay-at-home mamamia, told me about Naomi Stadlen and her new book; How Mothers Love and How Relationships are Born. Her beautifully simple premise is the fundamental use of love in mothering and how important listening is.

I've spent this week listening to my children a lot more than usual and we have had so much more fun - they are, of course, clever, articulate, funny and wonderful founts of random information.

More than that, we have an incredibly important role in society and a great many people must be grateful for us stay at home mothers, notably; delivery men. We support our local communities, the schools, the nurseries, the libraries, the coffee-shops and help keep alive the simplicity of humankind...I hope.

The Snowchild

2011-10-18T07:24:00.000+01:00

I just adore, The Snowchild, by Debi Gliori, her gentle tale of Katie, a little girl with, apparently, no play-mates, who is always: "On the shut-out rim of one game was a small girl called Katie. Katie left-out. Katie-who-didn't-know-how-to-play."

Sweet Katie, why oh why are children so tough on each other? Gliori's delicate book carefully nudges this miserable subject, a child left out by everyone else. Until eventually one snowy day in the park:

"...full of friends, snowfriends, snowchildren, real friends, real children. And Katie wasn't watching them from the shut-out rim. She was there in the circle, playing with her new friend."

Her use of the hyphen I think is just perfect, sewing her thoughts together gently pulling us into her world.

The illustration is old-fashioned, evocative and very tangible, full of detail, so that both adult and child can look and look and look.

Published in 1994 the book is timeless.

Farewell sweet summer

2011-09-28T14:20:00.000+01:00

I adore Autumn; its throbs of juicy blackberries cluttering the bushes, trees twisting to umber and all around, the soft delicate colours of summer ebbing gently away...blowing her last kiss.

This summer we moved into our new nest, and we are achingly lucky, although, we have no sofa, grubby carpets, not a shelf for a book nor a cupboard for our clothes - we are blissfully happy.

Perched on the top of a hill, Tutton no less, we have a stunning view of the valley and the mornings often give way to this, a sea of mist below.

Framed by our neighbours roofs and enthralled by a lone starling starting up the day for me on its morning maiden voyage.

Bean endowment

2011-09-20T10:59:00.000+01:00

Broad beans, carrots, plums, pears, apples, runner beans, cauliflowers, cabbages, potatoes, the bounty dripping off the vegetable plot at my mum and dads house this summer has been melodious. We have feasted like kings on great bowls of fresh runner beans steamed and lathered with melting butter and a frolicking of french sea salt.......scrummmdiddly.

The children love it too and, to be frank, nothing tastes more wonderful than a freshly picked pea or a head of cabbage, as we should all know by now if we listen to the vast array of chefs who continually intone; seasonal, seasonal, seasonal...

I love to get the children involved in picking, plucking and podding. I send Fealte up the pear or plum tree if there is one particlularly perfect looking specimen waaaay above my head and Betty-Blanche prefers nothing better than digging in the mud for potatoes, or carrots or beets.

As we have just moved into the house of our very dreams, I thought, really too late in the year, that I should get down and groovy with my new, small, veg patch.

So I spent a full day turning over the soil and removing a whole host of strange looking, seriously stubborn green beasts, and with a profound sense of pleasure and achievement I planted a very small courgette plant. One I had procured from an honest lad at the school fete; he had grown it from seed and I was heartily impressed with his apparently blasé success.

So in it went, tucked up and fed with a great drink of agua. The next day I went to visit my newly planted green baby, already fantasizing about the courgette glut I was so obviously to expect, as it is, according to my veg book, a bloody easy plant to grow.

But, yeeuuuuuuchhhh, it's leaves had been eaten by foul slugs and slimy snails, ergo I put loads of slug pellets down and went about my business, pretending to myself I was and am the keen garden professional and this is one small setback in my plan to...succeed.

The next day I went to view yet more dead snails and slugs, and the next day more, and more and really my veg patch has become a graveyard to many, many molluscs and my courgette plant is a yellowed and wilted affair from far too much rain and too many mollusc munchers, which quite frankly are putting me off my pathetic attempt at vegetable domination.

What on earth should I do next year when I really would like to achieve some kind of vegetable production on the very simplest foundation.

Any mollusc murdering advice greatly appreciated.

R.I.P Sunny

2011-09-06T11:04:00.000+01:00

Death, has become a hot topic in our house; as our children have grown they regularly discuss everyones mortality...

I have a theory that I should always be honest when discussing anything with my children...which I instantly regret when put upon to chat about the end of life as we know it with two six-year olds. However, I have to be realistic to them and to myself - death is part of life.

One fateful day this August we fell upon Sunny; a tiny fluffy hen chick racing down an empty lane towards, apparently, nowhere. My daughter picked him up and...instantly fell in love. As did her twin brother and younger sister. We spent the rest of the afternoon trying to locate Sunny's mother, siblings, the farm or house he came from, but, alas, no-one seemed to own him.

So, we realised, he was now our responsibility. We got a box, some hay, a sheepskin, some water - mashed some vegetables up, we tried, in vain, to feed him, to make him drink water. We shone a lamp on him to keep him warm, we wrapped him in wool but alas all to no avail - Sunny cheeped endlessly for his mother. My daughter, miraculously, managed to get him to sleep and we all went to bed worrying for his welfare.

The morning brought us terrible news, Sunny could barely stand, he was bedraggled and, quite simply, dying - he held out most of the day until he finally surrendered and departed this life.

Blimey - what a black day that was.

So we had our first taste of death and Felix (6yrs) was distraught, Millie his twin sister appeared more tough and Betty their 3yr sister wondered why Sunny slept all the time.

We created, naturally, a shoe box tomb. Filled it with pictures, a fat ball, a toy soldier to protect him and some wool to keep him warm. My children worried desperately about his welfare in death; and heaven and its bouncy fluffy clouds offered them great comfort.

Thank, God - there is some consolation to offer a grieving child. The concept of an all-encompassing god-like father figure out there ready to comfort and cuddle with a whole host of big fluffy clouds for little chicks, and grandpa's, to bounce on was a great relief all round and helped ease the pain of their new-found grief.

If only, I wish to myself, as my father battles against cancer, this could be true.

R.I.P Sunny, bounce on for us.

Crackerjacks RULE, as do Crispy Cakes...

2011-07-12T13:14:00.000+01:00

Beautifully simple, a winner in every child's heart, cheap, cheerful, plentiful and the kids can easily make them.

Crispy Cakes rule.

My mum confided in me that when she hit the school system and was suddenly immersed in the politics of PTA's and cake baking; her mother told her: "get yourself known as the crackerjack woman, make them everytime - their easy and quick and the children love them".

Considering my Grandmother learnt to cook very late in life having spent many years pampered by others, and sent all her kids to boarding school, it is something of a miracle that she knew anything about these delectable sweet treats at all.

However, suffice to say my mum ruled the school when it came to crackerjacks and myself and my three brothers and sisters often gorged on them, we always had them at our birthday parties and learnt how to knock out at a batch at a very young age.

I still make these sweet beauties for school gatherings, Cafe Swainswick, birthday parties for adults and children alike and they continue to win over hearts and minds without fail.

My recipe has changed slightly to my mums and my grandmothers - something my mother does not approve of - but that is the wonder of evolution and I look forward to what my own daughters will create on the foundation I have given them.

A whole batch of Crackerjacks or Crispy Cakes:

Cocoa powder - I personally prefer a dark cocoa like Cadbury's Fairtrade Bournville

Golden Syrup

Butter

Cocoa Pops (or other cereal of your choice - a classic is cornflakes)

Melt the cocoa, syrup and butter - when you have a shiny, smooth chocolate mixture take it off the heat and add a good load of the cereal, mix until all the cereal is covered evenly, if you have more mixture at the bottom of the pan - add more cereal until all is mixed in. Place into cup-cake cases and decorate or not!

You can throw in real chocolate to the mixture if you want to - to make them more indulgent - decorating with sweeties make them perfect for parties, fetes and festivals!

Bon Appetit!

Winkle on...

2011-06-23T16:22:00.000+01:00

Tucked behind the ferry port in Poole is, quite possibly, one of last remaining local fishmongers - one that has been running for over 100 years.

Frank Greenslades sells a wide range of fish, mainly caught in the local waters around Bournemouth and Poole, including lobsters, crabs, scallops, sprats, oysters and winkles.

Winkles and I go back a long way; when I was just knee high my dad taught me how to winkle out the meat from these tiny black lustrous shells with a pin. Armed with pins and a large bowl of fresh winkles we would happily wile away several hours on a Saturday afternoon. My pops would pile them on a thin piece of finely buttered white bread making himself a winkle sandwich.

Growing up the last of eight children for my dad treats were far and few between; every morsel of food was protected and devoured as quickly as possible. After her weekly shop in Tunbridge Wells their weary mum would arrive home laden with food and if they were lucky four pints of winkles for the children to winkle out all Saturday evening and eat with fresh bread from the local bakery.

Today winkles are protected around the UK with many local councils regulating a closed season from mid-May to mid-September.

A few week ago we enjoyed a large bowel of fresh winkles curtesy of Frank Greenslades. My dad was transported back to his childhood, as was I, and my children got to enjoy them for the first time. We briefly boiled the winkles - for literally minutes, just to kill them - then ate them fresh and briny straight from their shells - divine.

Stilton & Broccoli Soup

2011-06-21T10:22:00.000+01:00

It's mid-summers day and its drizziling I can see a patch of blue peering through the grey clouds; summer in Blighty.

For a taste sensation, to warm us up and for a deep and rich soup; stilton and broccoli rocks, it is always a winner and the children adore it.

A good English stilton has a cheeky edge to it, a creamy depth that is set off perfectly with its tangy mouth-watering blue veins. As it is crumbly and creamy it is great for cooking - and melts easily into a dish.

My perfect Stilton and Broccoli soup begins by gently cooking and softening an onion, one leek and two garlic cloves with a glug of olive oil. Leave it to sweat gently for a good five minutes. Add a good handful of diced and un-peeled new potatoes or one large spud - stir into the dish and let the spuds sweat gently for a moment before adding a good litre of bouillion. Let the dish simmer until the potatoes are cooked - about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile wash and chop up fairly small a good fresh head of broccoli - add to the soup when the spuds are cooked and simmer for a few mintues. Crumble in a good hunk of stilton - maybe 100grams - let it melt in. Take the soup off the heat and whizz it up with a blender until it is an even rich green. Serve hot with salt and pepper and my home-made olive-oil croutons.

Grab some stale sourdough - cut it up into even cubes - turn the oven on, in a oven-tray add a glug of olive oil and a smattering of sea-salt. Throw in your bread cubes and with your hands roll them around in the oil and salt. Put into the oven shaking the pan and checking at regular five minute intervals - you do not want them to burn, just toast evenly. Serve in a bowl for everyone to help themselves.

Enjoy!!

The Real Deal - simple parenting

2011-04-06T12:22:00.001+01:00

Simple parenting - does such a thing exist? Where a toddler can spend many a happy hour with a bag of walnuts, some wooden spoons and a plastic bowl? Have you seen a grubby kid recently - with mud on their jeans and holes in their pockets?

It’s bloody hard to bring your child up simply in 21st century England. To shield them from the vast array of plastic tat covered comics and endless rows of chocolate and sweets all teasing them with their garish colours and perfectly angled at nose-peering height.

My twins Fealte and Rosebud turned six this year – April fools they are born in the wee hours of April first.

For the first time we looked at alternative venues to (to our current too-small rented home) hold their party - an idea I had always poo-pooed thinking it a cop-out not to throw a personal gathering.

However, we found this amazing venue on the heart of Bath, a beautiful Georgian pile with the most stunning huge garden, filled with blossoming trees, climbing frames, swings, tricycles, boats, sandpits and every conceivable toy a small child would adore to play on while the sun shines in their childhood.

Arriving with our marmite sarnies, pass-the-parcel, pink and blue number six cakes and a whole heap of games, toys, stickers and plans we set the children free and barely saw them again.

I kicked myself when I enjoyed the simplicity of that party. As the sun shone, the children screeched in delight and the adults sat back and watched with pleasure enjoying a cold glass of beer to boot - what could be more perfect?

I decided on just a few simple party games and party foods - to keep things simple and to avoid throwing too much out. Here are my tips for a top simple party:

Find a large safe space to accommodate your short guests.

Party games:
Pass-the-parcel - a classic and a favourite. Wrap your toy in multiple layers of newspaper - placing a small sweet in each wrapper.
Musical Statues - the kids love this, get the tunes on and get them grooving. I chose animals as a theme to their dancing and the best worms/monkeys/tigers/fish etc won a medal.
Hide & Seek - I placed one small wrapped chocolate in simple spots and se the children loose finding one each and helpign their siblings or smaller friends find each one.
Stickers were awarded to helpful, kind and good children.

Tea:
The less choice the more food eaten. This year we decided to give each child a small bag with some small marmite sandwiches – no crusts naturellement - a small bag of crisps, a tangerine and a beaker full of squash. The children, all 23 of them, were very chuffed to get their own bag of goodies – they ate all the food including the fruit! After that we passed round crispy cakes and biscuits and finally we brought out the pièce de résistance – the cakes!!

Image: nuchylee / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Phlegm - beautiful illustrator

2011-03-15T12:09:00.001Z

Been looking for an illustrator to work on some children's stories I have written and asked the fabulous UK graffiti artist Phlegm if he could help me out.

Sadly the Sheffield based creator is waaaay too busy creating his incredible and unique work.

But I thought I should share his wonderful images with you anyway.

http://www.phlegmcomicnews.blogspot.com/

Dead Moles called Barbar

2011-03-14T19:29:00.000Z

"We called him Barbar", they said as they ran in.

Barbar was a very tiny still mole, long snouty nose and very much dead. Fortunately no gaping holes, maggots or innards - just whole mole.

Boo put him in a toy car and pushed him around, "he's sleeping mummy". We transferred Barbar back to his natural habitat and washed our hands.

I admire the innocence and curiousity of small children, their natural loving and nurturing sense and their sense of sweet justice, for Boo: 'he's just sleeping'. For Fealte: 'has he gone to heaven mummy?'

World Book Night - Success@!

2011-03-08T14:29:00.000Z

'Do you read?', was my opening clanger, of course you do, but do you actually read?

For me reading is as important as breathing, having a stash of books by my bed is a must, so to be given a book, recommended a book is always a great pleasure, it is one of the enduring features of many of my friendships. World Book Night was created to celebrate just this, the love of reading and the importance of sharing great books.

As one of the army of 20,000 volunteers who on Saturday night was enlisted to help hand out 1,000000 books across the UK, I took to the streets of Bournemouth and also this week Bath.

A lot of people answered no to my question of do you read, as I stood clutching my book. In fact I was shocked at the sheer number of people who just do not read books. However, the folks who did after realising that I was not pushing a pseudo religious text they were genuinely very grateful and even excited.

I adored the experience and will definitely apply to be a volunteer again next year.

World Book Day and Night

2011-03-03T13:04:00.000Z

Dressed as characters from favourite stories to celebrate World Book Day; our 5-year old twins skipped into class this morning; just two of a handful clutching home-made cardboard and glue costumes and accoutrements the others could have walked out of the Disney store just five minutes beforehand.

My boy is hot with the scissors, glue, stapler and cardboard.

Today is World Book Day and to celebrate Pirate Flinn attended school; chosen from the brilliant Captain Flinn and Pirate Dinosuar stories written by Giles Andreae, how I wish I had had that simple yet genius idea. Also in attendance was Hans Christian Anderson classic; the Princess and the Pea. My daughter dressed as the forlorn princess who became black and blue all over, having spent the night on top of a pea covered by 20 feather beds and 20 mattresses, proving she is indeed a 'real' princess, she went in clutching her home made box which had perched atop a small, tissue-paper, green pea.

The class was peopled with an amazing amount of princesses this morning, another Pirate Flinn, a tiny Angelina Ballerina, Aslan, a cheerleader, a witch, Buzz Lightyear and a varying assortment of unidentifiable book characters.

On World Book Night, this saturday, I have been selected as one of the first members to give away 48 copies of Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, this was the title I chose from a host of amazing books.

The event is aimed to allow enthusiastic readers to give away copies of a favourite book to fellow-book lovers and also to people who may not have come across it. I am really excited about collecting and handing out my books. I shall keep you posted on my distribution. For more info check out: www.worldbooknight.org.

Home Ed Hell II

2011-02-28T12:27:00.000Z

Since September home-education has been where I'm at. But honestly I have found it infuriating and hard-work.

Motivating my five-year old twins, Fealte & Rosebud, to sit down and listen to moi - resulted in a myriad of hours lost to sulking, shouting, storming off and stress!

When I first went along to my local Home-Ed group I was shocked by the amount of mothers who informed me, when I asked how they actually home-educated, that they really didn't do that much.

With an air of foolish superiority, I thought them lazy, envisaging myself doing daily classes of English, maths, nature, foreign languages - maybe even a spot of science? Where my twins, enthralled by my knowledgeable voice and gentle nuturing teaching, would quickly understand and lap up letters, numbers, reading and the like.

Hmmmm, yet here I am several months later and I find myself doing less and less, as every forced lesson is fraught with anger and frustration on both sides. Uber-mum/teacher I am not, was I ever? I thought so for one brief donut moment. And yet now I understand why all those home-ed mums did so little, because it's like banging your head against a brick wall and unless you are supremely patient it is a hard task to take on...

Pea.s, for all those uber-mums who are home-educating can I please recommend ABC Reading Eggs - bloody genius ozzies.

Image: Vlado / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The wrong trousers

2011-01-12T19:46:00.000Z

Should a pair of trousers see you reeling in revolt and crazed, coffee-induced, anger? Does that Farah look from his schooldays - work on the modern man?

Since hitting his middle moment last January (40yrs) and since we produced children trois - he is, naturally - forever trying to spank our financial straits straight. My honeycake has taken to schmoozing a kind of dark corporate Gerry (and Margot) look. As an artist, a designer, a great lover of being on the road and someone who has a deep passion for dangerous machinery and music I have always felt he lived on the edge and admired his paired down and stylish look.

But recently he has turned some kind of alternative corner, one I do not wish to follow. Is there a point in a marriage when the girl gets to dress her man, just like a doll? I keep asking, but I keep being rebuffed.

Should I do as he? As I age disgracefully, consider hiding my pins, stop shopping in Topshop and dust down the twinset and pearls? I shudder at the thought and plan to remain a fashion slut, until I lie down dead.

When we first met in Barcelona, he strolled into a cafe, and my life, wearing white birkies, old jeans, a simple tee and a very sexy dark green jacket, he was slim - nae skinny, tanned and his head of red hair shone in the sunlight - he was, so I thought, not my type - but I thought the boy tres fly.

Yet six years on and he's embraced farah and marks and sparks and my favourite vintage Hawaiian shirt of his has not seen a night out for neigh-on a year or so.

Are you allowed to complain in a relationship about each others look? I mean generally you connect because your on the same level - right? Not just emotionally and physically but tribe-wise too - so what happens when one takes to goth and the other to Laura Ashley - does it spell the end of an otherwise beautiful union?

Or perhaps it would be simpler, for me, and my sanity, and my marriage, to just loose said items of clothing..?

Bleak, Austere, Welcome to 2011

2011-01-04T08:35:00.000Z

There is something very cleansing about stumbling into a cold bleak January after the outrageous indulgences of Christmas and New Year celebrations. A long random and biting walk along a cold empty and windy beach is the very tonic to help you think about the year ahead and what you could, possibly, achieve.

So instead of the removal of things, as in the traditional New Years resolution; stopping smoking, cutting out sugar, being nicer, more thoughtful and then a few weeks down the line failing miserably; lighting a fag whilst shouting insults at the boy next door, it is perhaps more pertinent to add things.

To enrich yourself with a new talent, a new skill, to indeed try and be nicer and more humble - shouldn't we be trying to do that anyway?, but to also learn to knit a scarf, sing a new song, design a cool tee-shirt, learn a new yoga pose, make the perfect oat cracker. Indeed this is what I shall set to this year.

Dungeness, apparently one the largest expanses of shingle in the world, is a unique and mysterious location in Southern England's Kent. Home to not one but two power stations and a thriving community of artists, fishermen and twitchers.

A cluster of Nordic looking wooden huts sit looking down onto the ice-cold grey English Channel, the isolation and desolate beauty of the place makes it an inviting destination for anyone wanting to escape the perversities of 21st century capitalism.

Or even to take a long walk on a cold new years day...and watch the sun dip into the sea.

Food glorious food

2011-01-03T10:11:00.000Z

God Bless Delia, and all who sail in her. This year I urged my beautiful mama to have a Christmas drinks party. For me the build up to Crimbo is far more fun than the actual, exhausting day.

So I sent her, to the best salon in town, spoilt her with a facial, a hair and make-over and then made her invite her friends for mulled wine and nibbles by the fire.

The thing about Christmas drinks is that it is always short and always sweet. You can dictate the time to arrive, the time to leave - leaving you with several hours filled with the finer things in life hand-made canapés and ice-cold Prosseco or home-made mulled wine - a tradition in my house.

The canapés were simple but oh so delicious and in the main from Delia's Christmas book; a bloody useful tome indeed. Hand made cheese and pistachio sables - the perfect party nibble - mouth-melting delicacies and super easy to knock up.

Grate a strong hard cheese; cheddar or parmesan, add some flour, some cubed pieces of cold butter, a good pinch of cayenne, s&p, and some crushed pistachios - rub into crumbs and mix until you have a dough. Roll it into a sausage shape and then put it in the freezer for half an hour, then carefully slice into small rounds and bake in a hot oven for ten minutes or so. I also served the best cocktail sausages (Speldhurst Sausages) daubed in local honey and french mustard and served hot and sticky with napkins and cocktail sticks.

My father, an international fly-fisherman, this autumn caught a large salmon in Scotlands' River Tay, he had it smoked and we all got to enjoy it. I served it piled up on made-made garlic croutons, with a generous blob of crème fraiche mixed with horseradish and plenty of dill.

Home-made cheese straws, mince-pies and a rich mulled wine spiced with nutmeg, cloves, oranges and soft brown sugar made the evening another indulgent moment amongst the festive season.

The Festivities finally, end.....

2011-01-03T09:52:00.000Z

So the glutinous hugs of alcohol-fueled festive love have finally let go of their tight hold around my, now rather jaunty, stomach.

The time of celebrating is, thank god, over. I find Christmas hard work, the enforced familial joviality squeezed into two long days, the pursuit of drunken oblivion and eating till death hang over me, until, I can take it no longer and my heart sinks at the thought of another morsel of ham daubed with mustard.

However, despite the family arguments, the outrageous cost, the consumption of material crap, the loosening of belts, the traffic jams, the disturbing darkness of shoppers hell bent on sales, time spent with people you truly love and who genuinely love you is something you can never have enough of.

Truly spoiling the people who truly deserve to be spoilt is, quite simply, the best thing that you can do.

Let it snow

2010-12-07T08:08:00.000Z

When I was a kid every Winter seemed to bring bucket-loads of snow. Annually we would dutifully trudge across several snow-filled fields dragging tea-trays, animal-feed sacks and scarves behind us eager to get to our mecca: the sledging hill. After many thrilling fear-filled hours we would trudge back home, tears of wind stinging our eyes, toes frozen and numb through our welly boots and hands pink and damp with the biting cold. Getting into that deep fluffy bath after you have removed each layer of sodden clothing was painful, your ice-cold toe stinging as it hit the hot steamy water - but boy it was always worth it.

The last few years have bought that kind of Winter back and last week we took a gang of children sledging. Although our previous mecca: the sledging mountain, was definitely nowhere near as big as I remembered it, for the children it was thrilling.

Our motely selection of plastic lids, planks of wood attached at the side and plastic sledges did the trick and these days the kids are much more organised with full snow-proof outfits. Unlike me.

A plastic box we had heralded for the occasion saw me take to the slopes more than twenty-five years later, it cracked and died on its first mission. No matter, my particularly rubbish job was to run down the hill and drag heavy sleighs back up...

The kids loved it, as did I, the frosty air left our eyes shining and our cheeks pink with pride. Home, hot chocolate and a big fluffy bath ended a perfect snowy day in December.

Its fishy

2010-11-23T07:22:00.000Z

Last week we had a dinner party for some delectable folks, one, my brand new goddaughter Alice May, peach that she was, she didn't drink a drop of proffered wine, insisted quite simply on her mother's finest homebrew. Meanwhile, however, the rest of the bunch well possibly just moi and one or two others got completely plastered.

I know it is the responsibility of the hostess to stay focused and deliver fine food to her invited guests. Yet somehow I always seem to get overexcited and drink rather too quickly, is this just me - do I have some genetic cog that makes me quaff booze faster than others, there is a history of hard-boozing in my family so I cannot rule it out. Others who seem to be able to slowly drink a glass of wine seem incredibly controlled and, quite possibly, dull. Does that mean its better to be a lush and get pissed - of course not, i just enjoy tossing these theories around to make myself feel more, well, enlightened.

I had one vegetarian, so rather than knock up one veggie dish, I decided to do the entire meal vegetarian. A good idea? Well maybe. Being an old school Brit born in the 70's I subscribe to the need to feed people MEAT at a dinner party. The idea of doing an entire fish based feast was, in short, exciting and for a moment I thought I would rise up on my meteoric hostessing star and provide an abundance of delectableness....

I forgot that I always get pissed.

The starter was fine, smoked salmon, served with julienne beetroot, a dollop of creme fraiche with horseradish and vodka and sprinkled with dill - easy and sublime to boot. This is easy I foolishly thought.

By the main course it was nigh on ten o'clock and several people were seriously starving. I had chosen to serve a tomato-based paprika-ed fish stew. But decided first to smoke some kind of fags - a ridiculous idea and one I always regret the next day. The fish and prawns in the fish stew were actually perfect I cooked them to perfection terrified of over-doing them. Sadly the stew was a disaster for some daft reason I did not follow my normal rules and barely cooked the tomato and chick-pea stew. A tomato based dish must always, always be cooked slowly and gently for bleeding ages to allow the tomatoes to mellow and to give the dish some depth.

Fortunately for me, my honey tends to stay focused at these occasions so he took it upon himself to blast the stew up for another half hour or so. Pudding I managed to pull out of the hat, coffee creams with chocolate orange sauce, courtesy of that old Brit pack Gary Rhodes. beat mascarpone with some 85g of caster sugar, stir in several tablespoons of cold expresso - to taste. Whip some cream and fold it altogether. Make the sauce by melting dark chocolate with a drop of butter, mix in some orange juice and orange zest for a divine sauce - drizzle over and serve.

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Frosty beginnings

2010-11-15T08:35:00.001Z

Stunning frosty morning this November and joy - no rain.

A walk early doors, to breathe the cold snappy air, crunch through the stiff crispy leaves is a promising start to the beginning of a new chapter in our lives...

A Fowl weekend

2010-11-08T13:50:00.000Z

After a super healthy stroll through the stunning forest that is Bedgebury National Pinetum. A perfect spot for super healthy families; you know the type: with long-haired dogs, bikes, helmets and matching rain jackets for all the family. Though we, sort of, try our best to be 2.4, the truth is I am not a good or even a bike-rider at all, and only learnt whilst heavily up la duff with twins in the fifth month of my first pregnancy age thirty. (When I did finally get on again about a year later I fell off and cut my ankle and have been a total wuss ever since.) We do not own good raincoats or even coats that match, more a medley of wool and second-hand adidas macs - that look good - but do not keep the rain out.

Anyway - we needed that healthy walk and the need to feel a part of the ordinary human race, becuase we'd got horribly plastered the night before. We peaked too early for our weekend together with delicious and divine buddies. Consuming buckets of vin rouge, beer, and my new favourite tipple Disaronno - an amaretti liquor which is beautiful with a rich chocolate mousse - gently flavoured with Disaronno and served with crushed amaretti biscuits on top and an ice cold Disaronno on the side.

Anyway, the point is we needed to be good, we needed to air our brains, stretch our legs and feel nature around us. It worked we felt so fabulous and damn well for being so conformist that we immediatly set off for the pub.

To find a decent free-house in ole Blighty is almost impossible these days, but they do exist and they are of the roaring fire, hairy dog, friendly locals variety which are invariably the best for Autumn in Blighty. In the car-park outside the pub we met a hunter who was waiting for the game butcher to turn up so the two could exchange dead fowl for live cash whilst enjoying an al fresco pint of ale.

The image of the ducks and pheasants strung up in their deathly beauty struck me as unique and darkly beautiful.

Buying houses - playing poker

2010-11-08T11:52:00.001Z

Why is buying a house such an almighty headache? The game of stoney-faced poker one has to play whilst either buying or selling is so exceptionally stressful. To take part you must be a bloody good liar. Lying about your income, your deposit, your state of play, how much you don't like something, when secretly you do. It is a nightmare and I for one am totally crap at it. You look around the house with the estate agent, generally a spotty teenager, who aimlessly wanders about 'showing' you the bathroom or bedroom - I mean how hard can it be?

However, when you do get out there and nose around other peoples houses you realise just what incredibly bad taste people have. One house we visited, their child owned some kind of animal in a cage. The stench in the room was unbearable; a sort of sweet, warm, acrid urinal scent mixed in with rotten hay - we could barely breathe and could not wait to get out of that house - we mumbled something sufficiently polite to the estate agent and legged it.

In the shed of another house the owner had a, not so, secret obsession with trains - the shed housed hundreds of model engines. Even those with pots of money to splash out on a decent bathroom or kitchen still show no signs of having any kind of simple taste with vast swathes of chintz curling creepily and suffocatingly all over the walls, sofas, windows and beds.

When we found the house of our dreams, which we did tucked away on a beautiful hill overlooking the Box valley - the owner took it off the market unable to part with her home. And for us, although we could barely get the cash together to buy it anyway, we were still absolutely gutted to lose the one house we fell in love with...

However, coming down a peg or two in your financial reality is no bad thing - and something we must all embrace if we want to stay buoyant - so when we stumbled across a crumbling Victorian town house in deserate need of some serious love, cash and work spent on her - we realised this could be made into the dream...given plenty of time and deniro....So we lied about it and pretended to show interest elsewhere all the while, weighing up the pros and cons of living in another old house in need of constant attention and furthermore being in town when we had wanted to be in the country. But the grass is always greener right?

No sooner had our hearts become immersed in this property, we, now foolishly I see, applied for local school places assuming that it was in the bag. Oh how wrong we were, just weeks later moments before the contracts exchanged our sellers bailed out - leaving us very much high and dry once more.

Despondent and dejected we have returned once more to the drawing board.

Pear & Plum Chutney

2010-11-08T10:16:00.001Z

The thing with chutney is you never know truly how good your batch is until several months after you have made it. Maturing is the name of the game in chutney-making. And the more mature the better the taste, so patience is indeed a virtue.

With a glut of Pears on the trees - I made it my mission last month to not allow them to rot and got the old man up the tree and picking away. We had several basketfuls, enough for about ten pots of good rich chutney perfect with cheese, cold meats, in sandwiches and as presents for Christmas.

The other thing you need for chutney, alongside patience, is time. Chopping up many many pounds of onions, pears, dates, apples and plums, into small uniform pieces is seriously time-consuming and often exceptionally dull. But well worth it when you line up your jars of home-made pear chutney and see your stellar effort.

The recipe I followed was a basic one to which you add whatever ingredient you wish. Mine included: 1.5kg pears, 500g plums, 500g apples, 500g mix of onions and shallots, 250g stoned prunes - to this mix I added 500g soft brown sugar, 650ml of organic cider vinegar, a pinch of salt and a good amount of chilli-flakes. My spice bag held plenty of bruised fresh ginger, peppercorns, mustard seeds and coriander seeds.

After several hours (3-4hrs) cooking very gently my pear chutney was thick, glossy and ready to pot. The chutney is cooked when you draw your spoon through it and if the channel does not fill with vinegar then it is ready.

An initial taste test proved that the chutney had a definite spicy depth to the mellow sweetness of the pears and plums. It is currently being stored in boxes under the stairs waiting for its debut as Christmas presents in December when I shall finally allow myself the chance to taste it...watch this space.

Someone small kept munching all my pears..

Our house

2010-10-28T09:30:00.000+01:00

We closed the door of another chapter in our lives this evening. Our very first family home. The house where my twin babies learnt to eat, to walk and to be part of a community. It is the house where my handsome boy put on his whistle, dusted down his shoes, trimmed his beard in a wing mirror, before dashing with his dearest oldest friends, to church, to meet me; his future wife.

It is the house where we conceived our final baby - Betty-Blanche, whose first cries filled the house the very day she was born. As I pushed her out my screams and her cries still hang in the soul of those walls. She curled up and suckled as we lay in bed together and her twin brother and sister raced to meet her for the first time hours after her arrival. Toasted with champagne by her grandmother, and lemonade by the twins.

It is the house in which we have danced and laughed with so many friends, old and new. Within which meals have been lovingly made and shared, drinks toasted, cigarettes smoked under the stars and giggles felt until way into the wee early hours. It is the house we filled with love, family, friends, champagne, and hand-made delicacies in the honour of the christening of our littlest baby girl.

It is the house we left forever tonight, it's slugs in the front garden and unstoppable vine in the back garden. It is the home whose brass door knocker I shone, whose fence I painted, whose windows my husband replaced and I cleaned, whose floors we sanded and walls we painted, whose bathroom we plumbed in and kitchen we designed, shelves we put up and books we filled, and...it is the house, now of someone else.

May they love it as much.

Apple and Blackberry Jelly

2010-10-10T20:00:00.000+01:00

An Autumnal delight of a sweet translucent scarlet jelly has seen me, this week, constantly dashing to the bakers to buy bread so that I may continue to hoover it up without actually having to resort to sticking a spoon in the jar and sucking on that, which, believe me, I have been pushed to do on several occasions.

After lamenting a lack of fifty thousand grand, much needed for us to purchase a new home for our family, my pops bought me my very own jam pan, a jelly bag and stand, a thermometer and the River Cottage book on preserves. He thinks I can make the dough by selling my home-made hedgerow elixcir off the street - I think he's right.

So, last week we hunted out the very last vestiges of the blackberries, the recent rain has all but rotted the lot, but we managed to bag enough to do several batches of this most alluring and tasty jelly. The apples, also at the end of the season, needing rescuing from their lofty perch and so Felix climbed up and recovered the last blushing few.

A jelly is slightly more time consuming that a jam, but I prefer it, finding it easier to make, and the extra time allows you to sort out jars and the subsequent sterilising process that goes in hand.

Joyously the process begins with nothing more than cutting up the apples - mishapen, home-grown organic beauties, who's sweet crunch leaves you thirsting for more - you simply remove the stalks but leave the core and peel, just evenlyish cutting them all up and bunging them in the pan with your glistening dark berries. Add to your pan a good litre or so of water making sure the fruit isn't covered but is nicely nestling in a good bath of eau. Bring to the boil and gently simmer until it turns a deep crimson and the fruit is all soft and squishy - an hour or two should do the trick - don't forget about it though.

Gently place your pulp and juice into the jelly bag and leave overnight for the juices to slowly drip down. Your patience will be well rewarded as you return on the morrow and find a jug full of dark fruit juice.

When you are ready to make your jelly pour the juice into a jam pan and slowly bring it to the boil, when it is boiling add 450g of sugar for every 650ml. When the sugar has melted boil your crimson brew as hot as you can for about ten minutes. Test the jelly for setting point using a saucer (store it in the freezer) if it wrinkles when you push it then it is ready, remove it from the hob and immediatly fill up your jars.

I find the best way to sterilise my jars is to wash them and the lids in a bowl of hot soapy water then allow them to completely dry out in a warm oven. Add the jelly to the warmed jars and screw on the lid straight away - eh voila - your perfect apple and blackberry jelly.

Piano Grande

2010-10-01T23:34:00.001+01:00

The old man has bought for himself an electronic piano, that is; a keyboard. I didn't know I was snobby about these things but I was like: "a bloody keyboard?".

Anyway, so it arrived this week and hell it is a beauty of a keyboard and I have totally turned the corner, changed the page and so on. It is HUGE. And it's keys are weighted to resemble an ordinary piano, it sounds as beautiful as a piano. And, well, we have been listening, online, to some LA-based American dude who, in his soft silk shirt, has been trying to describe and teach us how to play the piano. Truth is I have kind of given up already - I prefer to sing.

But each evening as I sit in bed and read the papers, catching up on three Sundays ago, I can hear, my boy, tinkling away and, actually tinkling is entirely the wrong word - because the sound is soft, melodic, pulsating and oh, so calming. It is gorgeous and has changed the entire beat of our home during these Autumnal nights, the children fall asleep listening to him practice his chords, and I feel a great sense of peace and strength listening to the undulating rhythm float along the landing - it is blissful.

But mostly I am excited about Christmas - I adore the idea of showing off and singing something super classic for folks. Of donning matching spandex outfits, creaming our barnets down across our foreheads, sipping on some eggnog before launching into, Let It Be, I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, or something equally as brilliant.

I love music, I love people singing and making songs go together at the end of an evening it is bonding and it is fun, it brings laughter and tears and it strengthens your very soul.

Bring on the keyboard.

Orchard Studio meets Hopetown

2010-10-01T08:25:00.000+01:00

Designers, wannabe's, the style set and artists flocked to the East of the city last weekend for a chance to see a selection of Blighty's contemporary designers. Selected by Tent London and billed as: the best in contemporary and vintage design, architecture, interiors and the world of digital...

Sadly I missed the entire thing, putting three children to bed then dashing to catch the train to town, flying over London Bridge, down to Monument and then waiting for the one measly service London Underground had running, left me running up the stairs as the hordes poured down them.

Tent was held in London's Brick Lane, our own answering call to New Delhi, the long road is crammed full of Indian restaurants, sari shops, wholesalers of halal meat, Indian tooth powder, guavas, all kinds of chillies, chick peas and chapatis. It is a feast for the senses. Outside each restaurant a hawker prowls tirelessly, teasing you, tempting you in with the secret specialities his particular eating house serves. They endlessly out-bid each other up and down the street to snare a handful of the many, many Londoners who come to gorge themselves on the sub-continents finest take-out; taka dahl, sag aloo or jalfrazi.

Bath's answer to Eva Zeisel, Daniel O'Riordan from Orchard Studios swung into Tent with his striking collection of contemporary ceramics and furniture using amongst other simple textiles reclaimed rubber bands. Dan and his exclusive and bold range of stylish flat-pack chairs, low-hanging ceramic and rubber-band lamps received plenty of well-deserved attention from the press alongside many other of the Tent exhibitors.

Reclaimed, recycled and low-carbon products at the event made the greatest impact and rightly so and Orchard Studios is one to look out for.

End of the summer

2010-10-01T07:54:00.000+01:00

Following a beautiful year in France, a winter so cold our lives were reduced to huddling endlessly around a big smoky kitchen fire and longjohns were de rigueur. a summer of sultry heat, dusty stone farmhouses, soft pungent fromage and delicate vin rose. I wanted to post a few photos to remember our sweet French sojourn. The chateaus and villages around were simple and stunning in their grandeur and peaceful colours.
The weekly market was full to bursting with glorious seasonal fruit and vegetables. We feasted on bread and cheese, wine and prawns, melons and glutinous saucisson.

Home Ed Hell

2010-09-29T11:56:00.001+01:00

Since returning from France our five year old twins have been waiting for the local council to find them a place at primary school.

So far, four weeks into the school year, they have as yet found nothing and I have been forced to home educate them. A position I am not relishing and find time-consuming and terrifying!

A trip to the local Home Ed group led us to a motley crew of yogurt weavers breast-feeding their toddlers. Chaos reigned during the ensuing three hours as children of all ages from babies to teenagers, and their mothers and fathers, raced around eating sandwiches, making lavender bags or plastic rockets, playing football, reading stories, gossiping and generally connecting with each other amidst the mayhem. I found myself graduating towards the obvious home ed virgins, who, like me, appeared bemused and bewildered.

After canvasing several mothers, the general consensus amongst the hard-core home educators revealed that most didn't heap much importance on sitting down and trying to teach their offspring. A revelation that shocked me. They seemed to think their kids would learn through osmosis, and at the same time citing that many European schools don't begin schooling until six or seven years old. Yet having recently returned from France, where the legal age for school education is six, I knew that despite the six-year-old start most every 2.5-3 year old child in the country went to Ecole Maternelle, similar to pre-school and aimed at teaching children children the basic structure of a school day, which included numbers, letters, cooking, reading and all the other myriad of classes a child must learn. I wondered is it the same in Sweden and Northern Europe?

At the end of the home ed meet-up I finally spoke to someone who did teach her kids and who introduced me to ABC Reading Eggs, an Australian company which has created an incredible online learning site which teaches children of all ages to read and recognise letters, words and phonics - it is undisputedly brilliant - and the twins adore it.

My mother-in-law has contacted our local MP in a bid to help us get the children into school - I shall keep you posted on the update.

Apples and Pears

2010-09-27T12:10:00.000+01:00

Climbing a tree and picking some fruit has to be one of the simplest pleasures a child can learn.

My daughters keep appearing home with juicy black purple stains around the mouthes, on their fingers and all over their clothes. The freedom they delight in picking and eating as much fruit as they can squash in without the need to ask is almost too exciting for them.

And, although they think I have no idea of their berry feasting, the all too obvious purple stains and dark finger-tips give them away every single time. Meanwhile, they discovered the pear tree is covered in sweet, yellowing pears, apples litter the floor under the apple tree and Autumn has officially become the most fecund of seasons.

Gathering up great baskets of our apples and pears we decided to make for ourselves mini pear, apple and blackberry crumbles - the simplest recipe for children. They adored the process of first picking the fruit, then chopping and peeling the apples and pears rolling them all in a spoonful of sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon. The crumble a straightforward process involving their two favourite ingredients - sugar and butter - flour was added, as was a handful of oats and they really enjoyed the production line they set up adding a spoonful of fruit to each ramekin topped up with a spoonful of crumble.

I had grander ideas for my Autumn bounty and with dear old friends due for Sunday lunch I decided to make an apple ice-cream and pear granita, a simple affair involving slowly and gently cooking the apple pieces in a small amount of water and a spoonful of sugar, whizzing them into a puree and then gently folding them into whipped cream. Freezing them and occasionally forking the mixture to break up the ice crystals. The pears I also cooked very gently, with a larger amount of water, after whizzing them up and pushing the pulp through a sieve I added sugar syrup and then froze. Regularly churning the ice-crystals. I served the two frozen puddings in round scoops heaped into a crisp sweet brandy-snap basket.

The creamy apple ice-cream alongside the refreshing and delicate pear granita served with the gingery snap basket was a sensual delight and pleased all my guests - so much so that I took the same recipe to family at the weekend and re-served the dish. Adults and children alike were smitten with the fruit feast and it was all too quickly gobbled up.

Vintage kitchen

2010-09-17T15:19:00.000+01:00

After months of trawling through flea markets in France, I come back to Blighty and what do I find, but five beautiful 1940's ceramic storage jars.

A stripy pea green and cracked cream glaze, so pretty, and so delicate, hand-painted and they have lasted all this time.

A tiny, floral sugar bowl with its lid was also intact and quietly sitting on an ambiguous shelf in the second-hand shop. Its gentle old-fashioned colour and flowers sang out to my heart and I bought the whole pretty lot for a tenner.

My girl has her Boo

2010-09-11T12:42:00.000+01:00

My girl has her Boo.

The heavens sent her. Her soul star.

And she carried her.

And brought her this far.

Soft as velvet. Sweet as honey.

Together they touch and delight -

In their new love fondue.

My girl has her Boo.

With each flutter and kiss

she whispers to her -

Of peace, and of bliss.

Perfumed flowers abound -

in their bubble surround.

And calm serenity, gently floats them, all, anew.

My girl and her Boo.

Their journey began long before.

A parcel of heartache left at each door.

This inseverable shimmer of dark, but, light-

spilt into their core.

And streaking right through them-

Hold tight.

My girl has her Boo.

Community Chest

2010-09-10T13:44:00.000+01:00

Our year in France has come to a close. Having struggled so hard with their French school, making friends, coping with the language and the four-course lunches, the twins finally came back to Blighty, to their Grandma, they missed her close proximity, as did I.

The invaluable support you rely on from family and friends all but vanishes when you move far away from everything and everyone you love. It can leave you bereft, but it can also leave you exhilarated...by it's freedom.

However, the natural desire to seek out your own kind seems to be innate, to connect with someone who understands every nuance and cadance of your speech, every subtle expression you articulate is a function you must somehow fulfill. And so it was for us.

In our small village in rural France an incredible support system had been established long before we lived there and maintained by the local expats. Who looked out for each other in difficult times, supported each other emotionally with friendship, helping with illness or with simple things like cat sitting and log stacking to more desperate straits such as hospital visits or filling in complicated governmental forms. The network was precious and much needed.

Aside from these necessities, our year also gave us an insight into true simplicity. Living far from any major city, with little more to do than roam around reams of fields, pick fruit, cook feasts, chop and stack logs, weed, wander and wallow in nature was in the main pure luxury. The friendships we made were intense and mostly inspiring. Though often within these small communities they can led to gossip and boredom. The people who blew us away were endlessly creating, building and recovering beautiful old houses and barns, making jams, chutneys, cakes, pies, wines, vegetable patches, flower gardens to die for, painting, sculpting, writing, singing and always, always busy.

We felt touched to the core of what we could possibly achieve in this world and how we could live without the pressure of consumerism or to be driven by money.

Of course it wasn't easy and simply heating our house was expensive and practically impossible. A very sick child saw us lost in the French hospital system; charged for services we take for granted back in Blighty. At times the very idea of more bread and cheese was enough to make us cry. And our wine habit has definitely become more intrenched. The weather, as it turned out, was far from perfect and the rain poured down on us just as much as at home. But the sky was incredibly huge and all engulfing, the colour of blue was more intense and beautiful and made your heart soar.

As the year continued, the recession spanked us, our children continued to struggle with their rudimentary French, we felt we should return home for their sakes and for the sakes of our ageing families and sorely-missed buddies.

But after a month back on this Isle our house languishes on the market, our children have no places at school due to the over-crowding population. The dark skies and rain lash down on us and from our crowded corner of South-East England the stars barely twinkle in a sky swathed in plane fumes and grey clouds.

What should we do next, where should we go? This 21st century question we all seek to answer to fulfill our lives and provide ourselves and our children with a simple lifestyle and space to be free, we cannot answer, and our children shout "don't take us back to France"!!

And as we sit paralysed with no school place for our children, no idea of our next move we are stuck in a melee of doubt and confusion.

http://baguettesandroses.blogspot.com/2010/08/farewell-amigos.html

Flaming Extreme

2010-08-25T09:20:00.001+01:00

Take lashings and lashings of dark Friday morning rain, a lush green mountain-filled Welsh valley, 13,000 people, deep rich red mud oozing underfoot and some incredible music and you have a version of Greenman 2010.

Festivals are an experience in great extremes; extreme hedonism founded in narcotics, buckets of sweet cider, dark rich rum, cans, boxes, bottles; as much alcohol as you can possibly carry from your car across several mud filled fields. Tent completion, extraction and ruination from rain, mud, drunk people and your own children.

Sheer ecstasy fills your head and heart as you hold your hands to the heavens and sing along with thousands of others to the Flaming Lips whilst batting off a myriad of gigantic balloons, which pop and rain down on you all, millions of ticker tapes. Your heart soars in unison and solidarity as you stand side by side and sing along with the great peoples poet; Billy Bragg - "I have faith".

Yet as you queue patiently to use the festival loos and the acrid smell silently fills your nostrils with every step you take towards them, you fidget with loathing. And your hair screams for some warm water to bathe her and soothe her after three days sleeping in a damp mud-filled tent...you wonder why you spent £120 on the ticket.

But the food: hot spicy Indian Thali's, thin crispy Italian pizzas, deep cinnamon notes drift through a perfectly cooked Caribbean chicken with rice and peas, trolley dolly's waft through the crowds with boxes of moist chocolate brownies for sale, shots of tequilla or hot tea and home-made lemon cake.

A warm afternoon is spent learning to knit; sitting with the girls on a hilltop, needle sticks clacking, smaller hands furiously finger knitting, live music drifting over our heads as we sit in harmony and contentment - such is this moment of gentle quietness and uplifting satisfaction - that we never want it to end.

The children swarm in and out of the drumming workshops, the puppet-making tent and bounce on the air-filled balloons all in awe of their great good luck in this huge playground of colour, noise and mud.

Then at night as the rain pours over your canvas and your tiredness begins to seep into the weak emotional corners of your mind and the children screech in their exhaustion and excitement and you wonder why - as you make the grey journey back to the car, across the boggy mud-filled fields, the dark Monday rain beating you as you go back and forth, the tent damp and moldy, every sock, pair of pants and trouser caked in mud, damp and beginning to smell - you came....and then you remember the knitting, the balloons, the solidarity, the rice and peas and you smile with deep felt pleasure.

The tablecloth

2010-08-06T08:05:00.000+01:00

After suffering four days of excruciating pain, tension and frustration, he finally let go and accepted his fate. Day five saw him arise, tablecloth around his waist, tea-cup in hand, "any cake left?" he enquires.

In the strength of his manhood - my boy - last week severely damaged his back whilst dragging a water jet up and out of a sunken pool. Spraining, straining, tearing call it what you will - the medical profession don't care - the agony is the same. As is the remedy; drugs and rest.

At the height of this pain, his disabled movement and helpless presence stirred great fears in our bellies. Was this what we had to contend with in old age? My once fit and agile man suddenly aging before me bent over, shuffling, incapable of getting dressed, hugging our children.

Stubborness and foolishness stopped him getting help until the day loomed when his screams and angst for recovery finally propelled him into action.

The French A&E staff, amused by this most common of accidents, pumped him with pain-killers, and, with a serene smile on his face, he began to walk with more agility. The drugs do work.

Pain, discomfort and illness are desperate states which the human body will naturally contend with. Accepting them and allowing yourself that moment to stop and recover, to let go of the world around you and force yourself to look after yourself is incredibly important.

This 24/7 world we inhabit does not tolerate excuses, accidents or problems, yet recuperation and rehabilitation are essential to maintain a physical and emotional recovery and equanimity.

Wear your tablecloth with pride and eat your cake in peace. Time out is time well spent.

Cherry Cerise

2010-07-21T17:44:00.000+01:00

After the earlier rains rotted all the sweet dark cherries, I turned my attention to the other cherry trees in the garden. They held a smaller, very red cherry. The French call these cerise originel, the Yanks sour cherry and we often refer to them as the morello cherry.

These little beauties, though originally very tart became quite, quite sweet as the blistering hot sunshine ripened them throughout June. Scoffing them directly from the tree and having a bowl-full with breakfast became the norm. Eventually as they began to ebb, I picked a big bunch washed them and placed them directly into kiln jars, with a handful of sugar and topping up with vodka. Having given the bottle a good shake, I placed them into a dark cupboard where I'll leave them for a good six-months and then resurrect them for a shot of intense sweet summer sunshine in the depths of winter.

As the cherry season began to end, I panicked, it was jam-making time. I needed to capture all those sweet, juicy berries and keep them safe for friends and for winter time when these summer treats are but a distant memory. I stoned about 4lbs of them, only to find later that the tiny amount of pectin the cherry has is mostly contained within the stone....no matter; the colour - an extreme burst of wondrous cerise - the taste so sweet and addictive, more than made up for the consistency. I left the cherries whole and they looked entirely beautiful suspended aloft in their deep pink home.

Stored in the fridge the jam sets well and served in a small bowl at breakfast it is a welcome addition to hot croissants or fresh bread.

I'll stick the Sour Cherry Vodka in the freezer at New Year and to cheer us in darkest January will be ice cold shots of cerise vodka...divine!

Sweet feasting friendship

2010-07-14T11:09:00.000+01:00

A perfect summer starter here in this sweet fragrant corner of rural France is Charentais melon and Bayonne Ham. The salty, wafer thin slices of ruffled jambon taste divine when paired with the super sweet and juicy orange-fleshed melon. Only the highest quality of ingredients is needed for this dish - no olive oil or dressing, just ripe melon and good Bayonne (or Parma or Serrano) ham.

Nothing can be more fulfilling than preparing a feast of epic pleasure for your dearest and oldest friends. To lay a table with glasses, flowers, champagne and evening sunshine.

To present the ones you love with rich, simple tastes, to spoil them with fresh seasonal flavours and to sit together and toast your 30-year friendship with laughter and memories. What could be sweeter than simply being together under a star packed sky.

A dish of perfectly juicy and roasted quail teamed with baked aubergine, tomatoes and local goats cheese, sets off the main course. The quail marinated in crushed garlic, herbs de provence, salt and pepper and oilve oil for as long as you have - pan roast the tiny birds so they become golden and crisp - roast them off in the oven for a little time - constantly check them to keep them pink and juicy. Place the sliced aubergines in a dish, drizzle them with olive oil and anoint with S&P, bake in a hot oven for twenty minutes before placing the sliced tomatoes and crumbled cheese on top - roast again for another ten minutes until all is caramelised and soft A rich red poured into deep glasses to drink with. The time gentle floats around you as you savour each mouthful and smile with your luck.

A good ripe Coulommiers camembert, a super poky roquefort and a hard pourtalet, the last of last autumns creamy walnuts and a juicy pear make for the perfect cheese course.

Hours later, the sun has well set, the stars, planets and satellites course above our heads, the wine and food has left us mellow and at peace. Finally we finish with a plate of roasted nectarines - dusted with cinnamon and served with a generous spoonful of creme fraiche mixed with natural yogurt, icing sugar and fresh vanilla - adorning them. We have feasted like kings and we are at peace with the world - all is good and we are blessed with this moment.

The long days of summer

2010-07-13T16:06:00.000+01:00

At what point during the two-month long summer break are you allowed to stop being uber mum and start shouting?

Taking our children to live in rural France, was to give them the opportunity to spend their idyllic childhood days wandering barefoot and fancy-free; climbing trees, picking flowers, measuring bugs and generally enjoying the sweet elixir of their innocence.

In the humidity, that is currently July, by 4pm my zen master moment is all but out of the window. As the legions of flies crawl over the bread, the peaches, our heads and the thousands upon thousands of seemingly unrelenting ant armies mange to find any accidental crumb no matter how small - my once dignified cool of this morning, is lost to madness, as I harshly insist that the children evacuate the kitchen, and go and play outside NOW...

This humble Tuesday we have made home-made lemonade, we have made fragrant lavender water; we have pasted papers, pictures, cotton wool - just about anything to hand - into scrap books, we have strolled and frolicked, we have danced and sung - but at some point I desperately need - just a moment of - space.

When your children first start primary school you feel desperate that this huge change in your life will leave you forever bereft and lonesome, yet at the close of the first term you realise the freedom it allows and you begin to embrace your newfound peace.

But the thing with motherhood is that you spend most of the time feeling guitly for having enjoyed your quiet moment of freedom, for shouting at your beautiful offspring, or for not doing enough - whatever enough is.

However, tomorrow is another day, a chance to return to the zen master of motherhood, an opportunity to bake some bread together, to read one more story, to cherish another hug...

Ma Cherrie

2010-07-02T20:41:00.000+01:00

June has been awash, literally, with lashings of rain, buckets of sunshine then lashings of rain. The guests have poured south and it has been back-to-back entertaining.

The washing line has groaned under its weight of duvet covers, sheets, towels and pants. Every night for nigh on a month we have dined like rich, gluttonous lords. The wine has been swimming, the cheeses oozing, the salads crisp, the meat roasted and juicy, the melons fat and swollen and the gout ready to make an appearance.

Despite the sweat and hard work involved in having fun 24-7, several bottles of sweet refreshing elderflower have been made, and consumed.

The cherry crop – appearing to be so fat and sweet – was all but lost to the constant rain. However, several Clafoutis’ made their appearance at the supper table and were duly lapped up.

Fortunately the sour cherry crop is fabulous, though nearing its time now, their sour sweet almost over-ripe taste is divine. The sour cherry jam produced is a thing of beauty, its crimson jelly sweet and dripping off the finger the fat cherries sitting on top glistening like sweet red lips. Several kiln jars of sour cherry vodka have been rustled up in anticipation of autumn and a glassful of sweet lingering summer memories.

Blooming marvellous

2010-06-08T13:05:00.000+01:00

The blooms have been abundant this May, and as the blossom has blown off the trees so has the small buds of fruit taken their place. Cherries, sweet and sour, adorn the branches, small green bumps begin the pears and fat, bright green stumps creep down the branches of the fig.

The season of bounty is almost upon as June enters the fray, the strawberries slowly taken on a shade of pink easing to red and the melons are beginning to be seen at the markets. The poppies, the wild lillies, cornflowers and clover slowly begin to ebb away as summer gently takes her turn and starts to heat the landscape up.

The crickets have been chirruping for some weeks now and the frogs will not keep their peace, the Hoopoe and his mate have been seen in the fields and hiding in the hedges. The wheat fields are rising around us like soldiers and the maze is making its story well known.

Dining in the heat of the evening is almost becoming de rigueur as the guests flow constantly south in a bid to eat a slice of French heaven. Cherry jam, cherry liquer and elderflower cordial are all being sketched out to make the most of this local abundance and to capture the essence of our sweet French summer.

Weight pulling

2010-06-07T18:04:00.001+01:00

Their angry mutterings were voluminous as they slapped the dishes and cups into the dishwasher; "how dare they - don't they think we are pulling our weight". This outburst followed the rude and outrageous demand for them, and only them, a couple amongst four other couples, to tidy away the greasy plates and sticky cups of ten children after their tea-time. Naturally they were pissed off, and who wouldn't be? When your holidaying with four families and you have ten children between you, clearing away the plates is a never-ending, dull job that someone, anyone, must do.

A year or so after we had our twins we realised that it would be better to holiday with friends, that way when the children were all in bed we could relax and enjoy a cool glass of G and T with our buddies whilst listening to the crickets, and, during the day the children had each other to frolic with. The idea was genius but putting it to the test proved to be quite different.

Families parent differently, obviously, so going on holiday with another family can be tricky to say the least. One disastrous week spent with really good friends in Italy went horribly awry; they fed their boys cans of fanta for breakfast - naturally - our two wanted in on that. The evenings weren't spent alone in the heat of the evening relaxed and sun-kissed but listening to their son play computer games as he wasn't sent to bed until they went...surreptitiously we left early.

Fortunately we are blessed with a gang of friends who parent their children in the same way. No one feels the least bit shy of telling each others children off, or of asking each and every one of the ten to say either please or thank you. We hang out each others washing, share the cooking, cleaning, clearing and bath-time. This arrangement has continued for four years and we have watched in the sun, and and the rain, with joy, with fear and with absolute happiness as all of our children have grown up. As blooming tums have become plump babies, cheeky toddlers until they are finally big enough to herd with the older children. We agree on the bedtime and every single last one of the ten adhere to it from the babies to the ten year olds. Our evenings are spent devouring each others divine recipes, sharing bottles of good wine while the crickets chirrup and the stars and planets unfold above us.

Despite the disgruntled mutterings in the kitchen the couple had been blatantly chosen to keep them out of the way. So the children could decorate the garden with home-made love heart bunting, rose petals, pink and white cupcakes, soft macaroons and glasses of chilled champagne - it was their twelth wedding anniversary and we wanted to celebrate their love. Of course they had pulled their weight, every single last one of us did and that is why it works so beautifully.

Île de Ré…..s’il vous plait

2010-05-27T09:44:00.000+01:00

Long golden shorelines empty of people, dunes scattered with long grasses and flat, round pebbles, the sound of the Atlantic crashing onto the beach, welcome to the Île de Ré.

This tiny island, just a few kilometers from La Rochelle, is the darling of chic, wealthy Parisians and touring gourmands. It is blessed with plump crustaceans, a wealth of fat, briny oysters and it’s own hand-harvested, internationally exported delicacy: Fleur de Sel.

This is the place where the beautiful people sit on the quayside of the charmed capital, St Martin de Ré, sipping ice-cold glasses of Chablis, whilst dining on plates of fat langoustines glistening in the hot sunshine, their large Chanel sunglasses perched atop their well-coiffured heads, incurably clean, stripy Breton tops and strappy heels slap their well-toned ankles as they artfully glare at one another whilst sucking out the fat, white flesh from their grilled and buttered crustaceans.

Chic boutiques line the stone clad streets, artfully arranged lobsters, organic breads, gourmet cheeses and fine saucisson array the stone slabs in the covered market. In the small port, gin-palaces adorn the water while envious mortals stare down at the fibre-glass boats as they take long licks of their sweet caramel fleur de sel ice-creams. It is indeed French heaven and all yours for just nine Euros, curtsey of the toll bridge.

In need of fresh salty air and escape from the family head-quarters we flung some trunks, a tent and the children in the car and went in search of our own piece of heaven. At the north of the island we found a small campsite, nestled next to a spectacular beach, seemingly untouched by human hands. We spent several days there holed up beneath some pine trees, the sea just yards away. Every morning and evening the tide went out leaving myriads of rock pools perfect for the children to poke and peer, however the waves were to big for swimming.

On our last day we went in search of the perfect beach and found it in the south, next to the village Le Blois Plage en Ré. Far more gentle, with a long sweeping beach and shallow waters the children up and down the coastline pottered and played well into the late evening sunshine.

Bonsoir Île de Ré.

Monthly morsels - May

2010-05-26T11:13:00.000+01:00

Eating is like breathing, it is essential to us, allowing the most aspirational of us to put ourselves on a plate and declare – this is me. Nothing could be simpler or more delicious than a crust of fresh bread, dipped in fresh green olive oil (or unsalted butter) and sparsely scattered with fleur de sel.

A fresh langoustine or juicy crustacean is never better than freshly grilled to release its essential briny flavours, eaten with feverish fingers, hands glistening with sticky pieces of white flesh and running with juices. And, perhaps, if you are feeling greedy, or even generous, a blob of fresh aioli on the side to dip your plump prawn into. Pour a cool glass of crisp, delicate rosé to eat alongside.

What about a hand-made, butter pastry tart filled with alternate slices of fresh goats cheese, sweet sun-kissed, fat, red tomatoes and soft Tomme. Pour over a generous slug of olive oil and scatter plenty of freshly chopped parsley, mint, rosemary and thyme – bake until the pastry is golden, the cheeses melted and the tomatoes soft and caramelised – eat with blooming handfuls of soft, green butterhead lettuce.

Finally slice fat slices of gently perfumed rock melon, pull out the seeds and serve glistening to your guests, whose mouths will be watering at the very sight of this orange-fleshed globe of ambrosial summer delight.

Vaccum attic

2010-05-20T11:52:00.000+01:00

Last week saw the local, Vide Grenier, which literally translates as: vaccum attic, pour down the narrow village streets of our humble French coterie.

Schmoozing and perusing is the name of the game at these wonderful gatherings. The locals come out and display their old plastic toys, moth-eaten wooly jumpers, a couple of broken chairs. Or they stumble gently from table to table having a good nose at each others abandoned family accessories. Many of the professional sellers arrive at dawn artistically arranging their boxes of rusty old door handles, dusty mangles and numerous vintage tools in the hope that some crazed sod will part with E50's for a pair of enamel coffee pots.

The Brits are always to be found at these affairs desperate for a cheap antique, as was I. However the hard core collectors had already torn around the stalls at 7am and taken off with anything worth buying by 7.15.

My purchases on the stalls were frugal, just this worm-eaten trug (minus the flowers) for E2. The crêpe man and the man on the buvette (beer and wine stall) took most of my E20 that sweet hazy afternoon.

Escargot to go….

2010-05-05T11:29:00.001+01:00

The pinchers squeezed down to grab something in the long wet dewy grass, what in hell is she doing, I wondered. Dressed in fatigues and clutching a wire basket, the woman appeared in the early morning mist almost as a hunter, but of what?

It dawned on me, as I continued my run around the fields, and kept leaping out of the way of the fat, juicy snails that were taking a cooling, slither along the damp paths: a snail hunter – she was a bloody snail hunter!

Didn’t Elvis eat squirrels? So where do you draw the line, personally my line is drawn well above snails, although as a child my father educated me in winkles, whelks, cockles, mussels, I adored all things crustacean. On a Saturday afternoon, when the fishmonger was still an integral part of the high street, my pops and I would wander in and buy a big paper wrapped packet of vinegar soaked cockles and a sack of tiny black winkles glistening in their briny shells. We would be salivating as we drove home thinking about pulling out those tiny, curly globules of salty matter with our pins and chewing them greedily, possibly with a thin slice of bread and butter on the side.

Ageing is a strange process isn’t it? Your taste-buds change and develop into new directions. Suddenly sugar-coated coca-cola bottles aren’t nearly so desirable nor are sour balls the size of snooker balls in the least appealing. Although twenty years ago you would have seen me, grasping in my hot sweaty adolescent hand 20p and intent on getting my moneys worth, buying a three-pack of sour balls, enough to last an entire school day and possibly the bus journey home as well.

Yet twenty years on the idea of drawing out that globlet of winkle with the tip of a pin, or chewing on a garlic infused fat French snail leaves me with a slight shudder. A large glass of very dry, cold white wine is appealing, long salty anchovies, hairy and covered in vinegar sing out to me, but sour balls, escargot…non, non, non - no thank you.

But hunting snails – it’s no different to hunting deer, rabbits or wood-grouse or fishing for trout is it? I have great admiration for that snail hunter, she was resourcefully scouring the countryside for a free lunch, she didn’t offer to share it with me and nor would I have joined her but those well-tuned French taste-buds had sent her, on that dewy morning, into the world to forage for a great delicacy.

Image: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Street Food Feast

2010-04-20T19:53:00.000+01:00

Providing you don't get struck down by Delhi Belly or even salmonella, street food is the only way to savour local food and ingredients in foreign parts.

Sitting on a dusty plastic stool watching a small Thai man ladling steaming stock broth into a deep bowl filled with glass noodles, small slivers of chicken and topping it off with green citrusy herbs and hot fresh chilli, sublime.

Out of the corner of your eye watching green VW beetles whizzing round the Zocalo in downtown Mexico City while the rest of your body is attuned to the tiny old lady sitting in front of you. And in front of her, the accoutrements of her trade: large, round, green crispy tortillas piled high, an array of salsas, advocado, chilli, tomato, maybe some shredded cheese, 'a gusto, a gusto' she urges, keen to serve the hungary businessman waiting patiently behind for his tostada, or taco, or quesadilla, or gordita or picada.....hmmm.

Or how about a banana leaf topped with boiled yucca, sharp cabbage salad and a hunk of crispy pig skin courtesy of a young Nicaraguan girl, sounds unusual but is utterly delicious. The simple cabbage salad served throughout Central America is just fresh shredded cabbage, lime juice and salt - delectable.

Although creating these dishes is nigh-on impossible as each one is imbibed with the exotic emotional overtones felt in that historic moment, yet it is in the trying, and in the eating, that you can sit back and recall that mouth-watering epiphany.

I don't often buy meat here in France as I am unfamiliar with the sources, even less the cuts. But when I occasionally find myself eye-to-eye with a vintage, French chicken farmer bearing his frugal, organic wares in the market I find the birds hard to resist. The inevitable chicken stock made almost always finds itself flaunting that Thai taste.

Simple, filling, nutritious and delicious. Dice onion, garlic and fresh ginger, saute until golden and soft, add steaming hot chicken stock to the pan. Prepare your greens to throw in at the last minute: peas, green beans, bok choi, spinach, lettuce, spring onions, cook the noodles in the steaming broth add the vegetables - you want them crunchy. Serve with a squeeze of lime, some fresh coriander or mint and finely sliced chilli - enjoy.

A sense of tart titillation

2010-04-12T19:28:00.000+01:00

To salivate, to titillate, to dictate - to your lunch guests...oh yes! Puddings, desserts, sweets - call it what you wish - but, for me, to serve pudding is the luxurious embrace of social gatherings.

Following a few glasses of wine, some conversation and general togetherness - pudding is the moment when people finally begin to relax, it is produced to bashful smiles and guilty giggles - "oh go on then - just one tiny slice. With a drop of cream? Oh...alright...hmmm".

And so, you secretly envelop them with your sugary squeeze.

Small, perfect and sublime is the perfect embodiment of sweet gorgeousness. Of course making food for friends in miniature is, not only time-consuming, but a total pain in the arse. However, if you are out to impress it is worth the effort.

To make these tiny lemon curd and noisette tarts you must first whip up a batch of lucious lemon curd. To make the noisette tarts beat sugar and butter together, add some crushed hazelnuts and almonds. Gently push this thick paste into a 24 case petit four tin. Bake gently until golden - about ten minutes. Leave to cool.

Meanwhile, using fresh or frozen berries - softly heat in a pan with some sugar add a drop of water to create a syrupy berry nectar. To assemble - fold the lemon curd into some mascarpone, or whipped cream. Place a spoonful on the noisette tarts, drizzle the berries over the top - et viola!

K.I.S.S

2010-04-08T12:24:00.000+01:00

“NO, NON, NON!! Keep the broom handle high. Try to steer it away from heads…” Possibly, in hindsight, not the most sensible of ideas to play piñata at a birthday party peopled by five year olds, half of which speak a different language to the other half.

The piñata, a home-made paper-mache balloon shape stuffed with sweets and bits of paper, was hit by a stick fashioned from a too long broom handle. The children, a mix of French and English, had no idea what was happening, as some cried with outright fear and others, notably small French girls, whacked the airbourne globe with such gusto that within minutes the spherical beast was broken. Allowing the fittest and bravest to snatch up the sweets, faster than lightening they worked, leaving the slightly slower children spinning in their wake.

In my minds eye the party would be a success of domestic goddess proportions; a beautifully laid table, brimming with moist, light cakes, home-made lemonade and delicate sandwiches. The children a kindly mix of pretty little girls and gentle yet fun boys. The games would be played with pleasure and laughs and the food consumed before they left clutching the perfect party-bag a rosy glow to their faces…

KISS - Keep it simple – stupid; surely a useful piece of advice to follow? Only sometimes it seems quite hard to keep things simple. Having boy/girl twins has always made things slightly leftfield – in the domestic goddess department. Having chosen simple party games to explain to a multi-lingual group: the piñata just hit it and catch the sweets, pass-the-parcel; a no brainer – surely and find the hidden sweets?

Those days of being terrified of adults appear to be long past. Pass the parcel, a game where in 1980 you sat quietly in your peers living room, watching the parcel go around, waiting, hoping, it could be you to win the prize….in 2010 the odds have changed, each wrapper comes with its own sweetie prize, but the actual prize? The children of today cry, whine and sulk openly if they don’t ‘win’.

After the near death experiences of the piñata, wrestling the broom handle from the hands of one very tenacious young visitor, the hopeless sulking attached to the pass-the-parcel, this domestic goddess efficiently sent the guests outside to get some air as she reached for the vin blanc.

Simplicity is certainly a good rule to follow; simple food, simple games and perhaps just one simple language?

The power of five

2010-04-01T09:46:00.000+01:00

Today my twin blossoms are five

They are alive, and vital and, Oh -

so full - of - desire to dream and to fly

those twin perks of mine.

One pink, one blue

both treasured and true -

to me, and to all I do,

and breathe, and feel,

And - Oh - to feel such

spangled suffusion...

sometimes much to much

for one to carry and clutch.

And hold up to the sky and

SHOUT with glee my twinperks and me,

one pink, one blue -

both treasured and true...

Twin Perks

2010-03-17T14:12:00.001Z

Getting a backie on the back of my new loves bike was a profoundly altruistic experience, more so because I was five months pregnant and we were wheedling through heavy Barcelona traffic.

On our way to a hospital appointment, 'caballero' the van drivers called out to my boy, a gentleman they considered him as he humbly struggled to peddle me around while I sat, fat and blooming, perched on the back.

At that five month scan, our first - eventually we had managed to decipher the bureaucratic Spanish system, the obstetrician asked whether we had planned our pregnancy. 'Errrr, no Señor' we sheepishly admitted. He then proceed to interpret the scan imagery. 'Your first child is here, I looked across at my new love - he wobbled and fell back against the wall, desperatly looking for somewhere to fall...'there is the spine, head and the vagina. The second baby, here, see the head, the spine here and the penis...Did you know you had twins?'

Shock, fear, joy and sheer disbelief flooded through me, fortunately I was lying down, unlike Toots, who was clinging onto the cardboard walls. 'You are very lucky', the obstetrician told us as he left us in our newfound chaos.

We stumbled out of the hospital and gazed across at the calm, azure, sparkling Mediterranean sea.

We clung to each other in wondrous amazement. We were indeed blessed - we were magical. We could not believe this thing we suddenly held between us. Just an hour ago we had one baby and now, incredibly, we had two - we were suddenly a family of four. It was utterly mind-blowing. More so for us, as we had only met eight months previously and had nothing between us except for a couple of rucksacks, a laptop, some books, our passports and a great and beautiful love for each other.

Nothing so far in our relationship had been conventional and now fate had dealt us another unexpected card. We truly believed our love was so magical that we had created boy/girl twins from it. Little did we know at that time how common multiples are becoming as our generation parent much older and as IVF becomes more prevalent.

Almost five and a half years from that precious moment Fealte & Rosebud have played a starring role in our lives. And from those humble bycling beginnings we have continued on our quest for simplicity, knowing that the single most important thing we can ever give to them is our love.

No need is there of great mounds of ugly plastic destroying our peaceful home. No need is there of television or high-tech pushchairs, great monstrous high-chairs, massage classes or adidas trainers. Pencils, paper, lego, books and latterly bikes are the most important tools in their lives. Barefoot we plant seeds, water vegetables and make-up songs.

Recent research from TAMBA (The Twin and Multiple Birth Association) suggests that parents of multiples are more likely to separate - citing financial pressure as the main culprit. But surely twins, or singletons, or three or four children need as little or as much as you care to give them. Granted the costs of two high-chairs, two cots and two pairs of shoes at once may be great, but that is, surely, what IKEA was invented for.

No parent needs to lavish its offspring with the amount of material junk they do these days. No child can wear more than one pair of shoes at once. No child needs a mountain of DVD's or plastic gadgets. No child needs to be taken to hand-signing or baby-yoga classes in a giant 4x4. The amount of debt and expense taken on for the sake of an innocent child is incredible and cannot fail to rock the foundations of its parents as they struggle to keep on top of this mega debt. And all for the sake of whose happiness?

Woolgathering

2010-03-12T12:46:00.000Z

Woolgathering, a delicious word, although it doesn't necessarily mean to gather sheep's wool, but, also, to 'indulge in idle fantasies'. Something often done in the depths of winter, dreaming of some kind-hearted old Granny knitting a beautiful thick woolen polo-neck, or a classical fat wooly hat with a giant pom-pom perched on top, long thick scarves and super sexy socks...

Walking through a farmers market last winter saw a stall holder flaunting her apparently unique designs of woolen headgear. Beautiful matching sets of hats and mittens, scarves, delicate cardigans and thick jumpers all squarely aimed at the wealthy parents of a suburban commuter town. costing upwards of £40, they were sadly well-out of price range. On closer questioning the stall-holder revealed that she had 'contacts' in the world of wool-knitting grannies (WKG's), leaving one thoroughly suspicious of the unique and classical designs. And the high costs considering the generous nature of most WKG's.

Fortunately most folks who have a generous knitter in the family don't appreciate these industrious and thoughtful relations and will often toss such unloved garments as hand-crocheted babies cardigans lovingly threaded with silk ribbon and matching booties with a delicate button fastening into the local charity shop leaving these unworn gems just waiting to be discovered by an old-fashioned mama and lovingly worn by her fat chubby baby.

Luckily we have access to a wonderful WKG, someone else's WKG I might add, Granny Edith. A constant joyous source of old-school knits and cosy gifts. God bless WKG Edith and all who sail forth wearing her delectable finger-smithed pieces.

Second Han News

2010-03-06T11:08:00.000Z

Contrary to popular belief thrift, second-hand, vintage, hand-me-downs, loft-love-ins, jumble-rumblings are not grubby ferreting amongst a lot of old crap, but rather a refined art of discovery, the revelation of treasure, a freeing of riches personal to just you. And on top of that, hopefully, a bargain to boot.

Amen for Emmaus, the French homeless charity, and scene of much furtive riffling on Saturday afternoons all across France. For just two Euros this vintage silk blouse was procured. Teamed with skinny grey jeans and a blazing blue sky this classical cream French blouse ticks all the hot fashion boxes.

As is often the case en France, home-made clothes abound. Within Emmaus many, many skirts and blouses are hand-sewn and classically cut. But sadly, made for, and by, the tiny old French ladies normally found feeding their poulet and cutting garden-grown lettuces in rural parts.

However, this does mean that many classic, unusual and fabulous lengths of cloth can be easily picked up. As can many other accoutrements of the sewing trade. Rather like these simple and unique sets of buttons, which were nestling in a box with many more, and appeared as if they had been left unused since 1945...

Travelling with the offspring…

2010-03-04T11:12:00.001Z

Why is it that in the 21^st century people just cannot cope with parenting in the same way as their own folks? I mean what is it with children and travelling – just why does one cancel out the other? What is the matter with jumping in the motor and driving for three-four or even eight hours. Or flying through the skies. What are people so afraid of, that their child might get bored, be sick or actually learn to enjoy being on the road? What is wrong with the education of freedom, of watching the world go by, of meeting new people, listening to new languages, eating weird and wonderful food and map reading?

What is with it with these 21^st century parent comrades of mine that they have to have TV injected into every facet of their child’s life – I mean in the bloody car? What is wrong with I Spy, stories, magazines, singing songs or listening to the radio. It is the same as stuffing a dummy into your child’s mouth to keep it from crying out. As long as these children cannot communicate with you then you don’t have to deal with the scary reality of life – the fear that they may utter those fateful words: “are we nearly there yet?”

We have spent the last five years, since having twins Fealte & Rosebud and latterly baby Betty-Blanche, trawling all over Europe in various old motors in our bid to find a hidden paradise. We have fed and changed our twin babies bottoms in fields, in dirty garages, we have fed them milk from all corners of the branding world, we have sung to them, slept with them in lay-bys, we have found camping spots on the top of cool mountains and in the midst of lashing rainy valleys. We have flown 11 hours with them screaming to reach Africa. We have driven non-stop from the bottom of Blighty to the beautiful wilderness of the Scottish Highlands. We have supped with them late in Spanish squares, dined on hot croissants before dawn in French boulangeries and driven eight hours non-stop with our seven day old baby just to make it to a friends wedding in deepest French France. We had children to add to the joy of life not to take away from it. Bring on whining, travel-sickness and a bid for the open road. For to take your offspring on your continuing adventures in life is to make it spangled, complex and original.

Pancake love

2010-03-01T09:39:00.001Z

You know when you have one of those arguments with your old man, you know the ones which last several days and sees you straddling the edge of the marital bed in a bid to get as far away as possible from your betrothed. When, the same argument gets regurgitated round and round and you wonder how long this will endure before one of you will a) file for divorce or b) say sorry.

Alcohol can work in mysterious ways; effectively fueling the angst and danger of stubborn cupboard love. Or, just days later, oiling the wheels of coherent apologies and civilised behavior.

And in the sweet cold light of morning to maintain this new state of grace with your love make him some pancakes and coffee...freshly flipped, steaming with hot butter, maple syrup and remorse.

Shiny Brand New...

2010-02-18T18:40:00.000Z

What innate joy life is when, from nowhere, you make a new friend; someone who you immediately click with. A shiny brand new chum who understands your humour and connects with you on every level. Who will practice hip hop moves with you in the drunken wee hours, who inspires you to try something new, who appreciates your love of vintage enamel pans and who will go for a walk with you on a grey wet Tuesday afternoon.

If food be the bonding of friendship – cook on.

What to cook your super shiny buddy on a very tight budget in the bleak mid-to-end winter. Sex on a plate; pan con tomate. Use fresh or day old French baguettes or sourdough toasted lightly under a grill. Meanwhile, with love and a glass on hand, finely dice some fresh juicy tomatoes, whatever fresh herbs you have in the garden go get some, either rosemary, mint, sage or parsley, finely slice and mix with the tomatoes. Peel a fat clove of garlic and rub all over the crispy golden toasted bread, sprinkle over some rock salt, generously place the tomatoes and herbs on top and finally drizzle on top vast amounts of fine olive oil – et viola. Enjoy as an hors d’oeuvre, as a sidedish with supper or whenever or wherever, as it is, indeed, delectable.

Moroccan aubergine salad, a flavoursome spicy dish that will wake up your taste buds during the fug of February. Slice your beautiful purple shining aubergine thickly, rub on some olive oil and grind pepper and salt over each slice, grill. When browned on both sides, remove and cut up into bite-sized chunks. Meanwhile, open a can of chickpeas or haricot beans rinse and tip into a gorgeous serving bowl. Finely slice a red onion, add to the dish along with the aubergine and some fresh coriander. In a jam jar shake up a spoonful of smoked paprika, ground cumin, fresh lemon juice, a drop of honey and some olive oil – shake and tip into the salad – gently mix the dressing with the ingredients.

These two wildly piquant and divine dishes are perfect served alongside a good fresh piece of white fish. Take your fish fillet – try haddock, cod, whiting or bass depending on your budget and the fisherman – wrap in a coat of foil, dropping a good splash of olive oil, white wine and salt and pepper inside, gently wrap and bake in a hot oven for 15-25 minutes.

Serve these three plates with a glass of cold crisp white wine, or chilled beer to your delicious new (or old buddies), sit back and relax, reveling in the sweet elixir of life; friends and simple food.

Frost Bite

2010-02-04T09:25:00.000Z

So January turns her head from us and sulks, as little elfin February laughs in our faces; you thought you had left Winter behind?…not yet my darlings, not quite yet…

Pancakes, Valentines, half-term….half-term? Again? More holidays, more? According to actual information from the internet, French school children have more holidays than any other nation on earth. Two whole weeks I have looming ahead of me. Needless to say the majority of this term, thus far, and pre-Christmas I might add, has been spent with bugs galore. Sickness, diarrhoea, colds, headaches, sore throats, soaring temperatures and even bronchopneumonia. When, I ask, when will the children actually spend any time at school? Their French tongue leaves a lot to be desired.

On the menu today at l’ecole is: potage à la tomate, followed by escalope de porc and purée de carottes, then flan and, finally, petits gâteaux. You may well ask how E1.50 funds such delicacies for the children of these fields. I have no idea, I assume the chef has a good deal going with the varying farmers, whose children, I will add, attend the school…

Seasonal is of utmost importance here. You simply cannot purchase anything other than what is growing here in France. A good thing yes, but at times frustrating when you need to eat something other than potatoes or lettuce. I dream of the asparagus season, of sweet juicy melons of cherry tomatoes so sweet you can eat them like a bag of bon-bons.

My baskets of walnuts once so heavy with abundance, have just the last few knocking around at the bottom. My perfect Sunday treat is to shell them, along with our local hazelnuts, gently roast them, rub the skins off and sit them in a very short pastry crust, wide and shallow. Meanwhile make some honey caramel by melting sugar, honey, butter and cream, boiling until the caramel is golden and frothing then pour all over those sweet nuts and bake for 20minutes or so until you are left with a tart so delectable, so intense with flavour, strangers will offer you their hand just for a slight slice. I think my nuts have one more tart in them.

Vintage French Nightdresses

2010-01-30T16:32:00.000Z

In France few charity shops exist unlike the proliferation of charity shops in the UK, which adorn every high street and have become an important common denominator in the commercial sector. Here most people hang out for the vide-greniers and brocantes; regularly held markets selling second hand junk. However, in the winter, due to the open-nature of these gatherings, there are few to be found.

Fortunately, for junk addicts like myself, the homeless charity Emmaus provides much needed jumble riffling during the long winter. Open just once a week, Emmaus provides a haven of dirty bed linen, old handbags and chipped teacups for the junkies to trawl through in the hopes of finding hidden treasure.

On a recent visit through a rather large expanse of night clothes including several saucy vintage French numbers bought and shown here...

My Cheesepuff

2010-01-29T13:22:00.001Z

IN CAHOOTS WITH LE TOOTS

In cahoots with le toots…..
This boy whose ripe semen
made my whole body teemen-
with babies.

This man of just thirty-five-
when we kissed, made me feel so alive.
With love and lust, with crazed, wild-headed amor.
And although we were always so, so poor.
We were rich with simplicity,
Just two babies, him and me.
No mortgage, no home, no sense of 2.4
A bycycle, some lycra.

But we always wanted more…

A dusty jeep in the Spanish mountains,
a French farmhouse…and space for counting
our children, as four became five.
A wilderness, a desert, a city, a community
That certain something, a je ne sais quoi, that will make us blissful with glee…

Of course, we already have it,
Me and my cheese puff.
We already have quite, quite enough,
And more, but that won’t stop us looking
We will never stop cooking-
Up; plans and adventures, dreams and desires,
Of stories to tell our grandchildren round campfires.

Lunch today

2010-01-29T08:53:00.000Z

Bibbed up, the children take to the canteen, walking in a crocodile across the road. And today will partake of starter; Oeuf dur en vinaigrette....then, Saute de porc with julienne de legumes, followed by a piece of Comte and finally a slice of Tarte Normande.

All for the delectable price of E1.50 per child. Pretty sweet non?

The twins complain about the length of time spent in the canteen, it seems that, like their elders, the French children take their time and linger over their lunch savouring each mouthful. In stark comparison to their Anglo cousins across the water who will more than likely wolf down their ham sarnies and packet of cheese and onion crisps within ten minutes, maybe less.

Liberté

2010-01-28T14:17:00.000Z

Having traded off a spot in the commuter-belt of Kent to transport our offspring somewhere less pressured and 4x4-choked up, we aimed South with high hopes and innocent dreams etched on our minds.

We landed in France and promptly found two places at the local l'ecole Maternelle for our twins - Rosebud and Fealte....In late August we danced the dance of the smug expat wallowing in late evening sunshine and cheap vin rouge, the frogs croaked and the hazelnut trees bloomed with noisettes. We thought we were ahead of the game.

The day of reckoning arrived.

We left the children in their tiny rural school and abandoned them to their French fate. As we drove away guilt poured down on us like grey January rain.

Those bugs, they struggled. They struggled a lot, French school is old school it turns out, just as we wanted, but tougher. The farm-kids out here are independent and are left to their own devices far more than our swaddled infants. The school day is long and many children as young as three catch the bus to school; enduring an 8.5hr day.

But we pressed on, for their sakes, or was it ours? I cannot remember now, but surely speaking French will help them get along.

Lost in translation...

2010-01-18T13:21:00.000Z

Full of freaks, misfits and oddbods; the French France of expats and longjohns is the current one we imbibe. Having left the middle classes of Blighty, in the hopes of hanging out with the cultured bohemians we assumed embraced the rural beauty of deepest frogsville, we have been sorely disappointed. And have actually met very few sane English-speaking folks inhabiting this countryside. A beautiful, bountiful countryside full of fresh walnuts, hazelnuts, damsons, pears, apples, fat juicy quinces and old horse boxes.

The children are on the front line everyday, in the local village school hanging out with the farmers children of roundabouts and the other English offspring subjected to incredible four-course lunches and long days learning frere jacques.

It's not right and it's certainly not bouncing our balls. But for many it does and for those who want it enough; baguettes and cheap Bordeaux are widely available.