Good Housekeeping, I Love You...

...I honestly love you.

While life itself is full of hit or miss days (like watching the corpulent opera singer slide off the bonnet of a car on stage - hit. Or stepping outside for a cigarette, then realizing firstly, that you quit smoking and, secondly it's pissing down with rain - miss.) there is one constant in my life that has never let me down, and that is the Good Housekeeping Cookery Compendium, 1955 edition. There is so much about this book that I love, the thousands of pictures, the style of presentation, the introductions to each section, the detail, Detail, DETAIL that makes each recipe seem achievable, however complicated it may look. The best thing? Hundreds upon hundreds of recipes for old-style cake, pies, puddings, deserts - oh, my goodness, my heart, my stomach, my weight!!

This particular edition is literally three books in one. Part 1: Basic Cookery, starts just like it did in my first cookery class in school - with cutting a grapefruit in half and serving it with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast. So totally idiot-proof, this book holds your hand and leads you through the simplest of meals with the most basic ingredients. While most of the meals are not for the modern palate (lard and beef dripping, anyone?), the first part is excellent as a foundation in cookery, telling the novice cook about shopping for food, cuts of meat, types of fish, food storage, how to use equipment, foundations of soups and sauces, and basic bread, cake and pastry making. On its own, this part is worth its' weight in gold.

Part 2, Picture Cookery, for the more adventurous cook, ramps up the techniques and attention to detail required for when "wifey" has to entertain her husband's boss. How to clean fish, prepare shell fish, joint poultry and rabbit, more soups, more sauces, jams, pickles and preserves and even more cake, it just gets better all the time. I made a Game Pie, using hot-water crust pastry, following the step-by-step pictorial guide that was so delicious, I ate the whole thing myself (sorry Studley). Plus, this section includes instruction on how to use a Pressure Cooker! (Scary things, but I feel confident I could handle one now.)

Part 3 - the best bit - is all about the cake making. This part goes through all the equipment, ingredients and techniques you need to make any kind of cake. Let me say that again - any kind of cake. Plain cakes, fruit cakes, jam cakes, buns, traybakes, biscuits, pastries, gateux, icing and sugarcraft, up to the big one: The Wedding Cake.

I cannot even begin to tell you about the deep joy I get from reproducing the food from this book, even from just turning the pages, looking at the pictures and admiring the font. I look at this book everyday, whether I choose to cook from it or not. Visitors to this country (and foreigners who have never visited) like to taunt us with the myth that British food is bad. These people are so easy to dismiss because they obviously don't know where or what to eat, but when it comes to "afters", I do believe the UK is the real deal. We are unbeatable, we are nonpareil, sine qua non, and this beautiful book is proof, if proof were needed.

I wish I had the pictures to show you. I wish you could smell, taste and appreciate the good old fashioned traditional British fayre that comes out of this book.

I wish you could see how much exercise I have to do to allow me to indulge myself the way I do (just kidding - although I do a Zumba class twice a week)!

While most of my diet is, in fact, clean, we do allow ourselves the odd indulgence of the baked goods variety, otherwise Studley is a very sulky boy.

And If That Wasn't Enough...

... I've given up smoking. As of 1 April 2011. It hurtz me. Serious.

It's not enough that I was putting myself at risk of cancers, I discovered that smoking was contributing to my worsening eyesight. Age-related Macular Degeneration is exacerbated by bad diet and smoking, did you know that? Neither did I, so it was a surprise when this was my diagnosis on a recent trip to the Optician. Early signs, they said. I just thought I was getting old, and this, along with loose pelvic floor muscles, is what to expect when you're getting old.

Except I'm not that old, yet. And my pelvic floor is fine, in case you were wondering. I hope you weren't.

I just realized that deteriorating eyesight will prevent me from doing too many of the things I enjoy - knitting, sewing, reading, cooking. I would be dumb, bored, and thin.

So I'm cleaning up my act. I've registered with a counsellor - Annette (and guess what? She's a knitter!) - who will take me through the first six weeks, and after that, I'm on my own. My new best friend Tosca Reno will help me to eat better. I hope she won't mind me calling her my new best friend, but I have been using her books and learning to Eat Clean, plus when I had an issue I e-mailed her office and got a personal reply. I love the fact that she's so famous she could have had an assistant reply, but chose to contact me herself. Plus her body is aspirational. Tosca, you are now my first Girly Crush, nudging Angie Dowds into second place. (Angie, I still love you, okay, but being Canadian and having impressive Bolt-Ons, Tosca is more exotic, you get me?)

As to the last post, we have had no further vermin activity since we plugged up all the 'points of ingress' that we have so far come across (I love that phrase, don't you?). Our home still looks like it's been burgled, as we continue to launder, clean, vacuum and toss out our stuff. Studley took a box of my shoes and put them in storage (Your Honour, can he do that?), while I am desperately trying to locate a package for Sistahcraft that has mysteriously gone missing, and I am too embarrassed to tell her. (If you are reading this - please forgive me, sistah friend - as soon as we locate it I will add something special to it and send it right along.)

I am tired, people. I want to stop cleaning. I want to stop exploring the properties of peppermint and tea tree oils. I want to end my weekly treks to the local charity shops to drop off more stuff. I want to stop picking slivers of steel wool out of my fingers. I want one day without the drone of the washing machine as my background muzak every morning. I want to stop listening for mice activity every night.

I used to use Home Routines to keep on top of stuff, but this is way more wife-work to do every day, and - to tell the honest truth - I would rather be in a job, or knitting in front of a DVD and, right now, I can't do either.

I'm going to stop now. I have no time to whinge or whine, no time to cuss or cry, and my big-girl panties are in the laundry.

Sigh. On with the motley.

The Sucky Side of Life

Sometimes Life is good. It's as if Life appears to you in human form, and hands you a pair of steel testicles, imbued with special powers enabling you to conquer your personal world with courage, humour, fortitude - you know the deal. Just when you're about to exhale a breath of contentment with the way your personal world is somehow in a happy and peaceful order, Life creeps back again, in the form of a mean, evil little bugger in hob-nail boots, who proceeds to kick the life out your shiny steel balls, denting them, tarnishing them, and at the same time destroying your personal world, turning it on its' head, making it worse and harder than it was before.

No sooner had we returned from Rome, all loved up and engaged, without even having had the chance to unpack our luggage, than we discovered we had Unwanted Lodgers. Studley reached into a bag to get a snack, and pulled out part of a snack, full of little bite marks. On further investigation into the said bag, he found a collection of - shall we call them 'out-goings'?

We have mice.

Of course I bounded into action, placing humane traps everywhere, and we finally caught Mr. Mousey, three weeks later. I took him to a park a 45-minute bus ride away and let him take his chances there. We breathed a sigh of relief. Bad move.

It wasn't long before we realised that we were housing a family of the tiny vermin, who seemed to have taken refuge in Hand Wash Towers to escape the terribly cold winter. So far, neighbours have caught 8, while we have bagged 12. Studley spent a very unhappy time throwing out a pile of his clothes that were used as a nest. I followed a trail of droppings into a closet which I was in the process of turning into a craft area. Holes in the floor and skirting have been filled with steel wool, and I am still praying that they haven't gotten into my yarn stash, as there are still a few boxes I haven't had a chance to investigate, as...

...while I was moving said boxes, I felt a strange pain, looked down at my engagement-ring clad hand, to find my little finger in a position that little fingers should not go.

A trip to the emergency room confirmed dislocation, luckily no break or fracture, but it hurts like the very Dickens, I can tell you. The swelling was quite bad, and luckily again, I had taken my ring off just in time.

I got home to take a look at my surroundings, all our stuff everywhere except where it should be, and both of us powerless to fix it. Studley is himself out of action due to a small operation.

Neither of us can get a good night's sleep because, although we have had no further evidence of mouse activity, we still stay up most nights listening for it. Or rather, I will. Studley only woke up once when a baby mouse got caught in a trap near the bed. I had to take it out to the park. He went back to sleep.

I should be crying. I should at the very least be swearing. The extra wife-work is wearing me down. It seems insurmountable. The laundry pile is now ten times bigger than it used to be, as all the bedding, all our clothes, everything has to be washed again in case the mice have been amongst them. All the furniture has to be moved and checked for nesting material. All the skirting needs to be checked for holes and filled. All the carpets and rugs need to be cleaned. All the cupboards need to be checked and cleaned, and it all has to be done now. I don't have time to cry.

As soon as I can get the strapping off my hand, as soon as the swelling and the pain go away - as God Is My Witness - I will go straight back to mouse-proofing my little home, hopefully before the little furry monsters have a chance to breed again.

And checking my stash. If I find so much as a single dropping in my yarn...

This ain't over, people.

An Announcement: Just The Facts

Who: Me and Studley.

What: Got engaged.

When: 14 years (yes, really) to the day that we met.

Where: Front pew of the Pantheon, Rome, Italy.

Why: Now, there's a question that's hard to answer. Studley had been planning this for a year, apparently. Let's see...

Maybe it was the engagement chicken recipe I cooked a few months ago. I did it as a joke, but maybe it really worked.

Or perhaps he decided to lift the dreaded Sweater Curse. I had refused to knit him a sweater for years, citing the curse as a reason. In truth, he's not had a sweater before now because I'm actually a lazy, selfish knitter, and would rather give him a hat or a pair of socks. Far quicker, and more likely to fit.

Or could it be (and I'm going out on a limb here) that the man loves the very bones of me, and decided after 14 long years of looking after his every need, that I deserved a bit more than a box of chocolates and a peck on the cheek, and because I love him so very much that I am prepared to put up with the sort of stuff that would drive any other sane woman completely around the bend?

Well whatever the reason, it's done. We're officially engaged, and that there is a picture of my ring. Don't expect the Bridezilla act just yet - I'm not prepared to even contemplate the stress of planning a wedding at the moment.

I hope everyone had as wonderful a Christmas and as happy a holiday season as we did. I wish you all a brilliant new year.

Head-scratching Moment: Opera vs. Musical

I'm not usually a big fan of first night performances, and the first night of the opera Faust by the ENO at the Coliseum was no exception. Surrounded by the great and the good, all of whom don't know me so there's no small talk and getting pushed out of the way on the red carpet by Paps, as they try to get a picture of Someone Famous. Everyone is on their best behaviour, the wine at the party is awful and no canapes were forthcoming after a half an hour wait.

The performance itself, however, although good - I stayed awake throughout, which was more than could be said for David Mellor - left me confused. It was a bit too Musical Theatre for me.

Don't get me wrong - I love Musicals. I saw Legally Blonde recently and thought it was splendid, so here is the confusion - at what point does an opera become another musical? Both have singing, both have dancing - the only difference I can see is the type of music, and the way that music is sung. I don't understand what other components come together to constitute an opera as opposed to a musical. I came out of the theatre thinking more about what on earth it was about this particular production that made it so different to other operas I had seen. Not better or worse - just different. This production blurred the lines somewhat.

I don't want to review the show, but to anyone who has seen it - or will see it when it transfers to New York, whenever that is - contact me and let me know what they think.

Maybe, it's just me...

Weekend Trolling...

Over to Blackheath, a two + hour journey across town, courtesy of the transport system, to the opening of David Owen's exhibition, currently on show at the Stark Gallery for the next month. I mentioned this artist in the last post, so I've just added the link here, so you can check on this and whatever else he's getting up to - oh, and the fab trailer for the '5000 Morris Dancers' show by Rob Curry is on there as well, which is worth seeing, although I should warn you now there are lots of flashing images. I loved this show, and this mixed-media artist throws up a lot of images that make you laugh, think and - in my case - covet. Studley sent me off with a view to buying one or two of his pieces, but by the time I got there, I was already seeing the little dots appearing - you know which ones, the ones that mean 'sold'. but it was still great to see these pieces full size.

The next day, I rocked up at the IKnit event at the Royal Horticultural Halls, to find it a very subdued afternoon. All was decidedly quiet. And slow. For the first time in my recollection, the people ran out before the food. I had no trouble walking up to meet Alice Starmore, no one huffed and tutted in a queue behind me as I had quite a long chat with the celebrated lady of Stornaway, and as she signed my copy of the newly-reprinted 'Fisherman's Sweaters' I was gently chastised for my pronunciation of one of her earlier books, 'Celtic Needlepoint' which has pride of place at Hand Wash Towers. A momentary lapse, it won't happen again.

The ladies of Fyberspates were in good spirits, and there was much fondling of yarn, and cooing. I like cooing. I also like spending, so after picking up a skein of something quite yummy, getting a human hug from the Silklady (Rav Name) I wended my way home, stopping briefly at Westminster Cathedral to pay my respects and see the procession of Our Lady of Victory commemorating Malta Day, which seemed to have a far better turnout that IKnit, although I could be wrong.

The following day found me at the Duck Pond Market (yes, I do like to pack in a lot into my spare time). Hanging out with friends on their lovely stall, featuring beautiful hand-dyed yarn by Shamu (again, a Rav Name). It took a lot to keep my money in my pocket, and I worry that I may become a collector, the colours are so gorgeous and vibrant. The market itself was very quiet, there being only five or so stalls out this particular venue, but it's a great market, and I see myself being a regular visitor.

Don't Mess With Morris

An off the cuff remark made by Sebastian Coe set in motion an amazing chain of events, culminating in a weekend the like of which will never be seen in London again. And I was there.

Now, Seb Coe can be a twat at the best of times.

When asked what entertainment he would like to see at the 2012 Olympics, Mr Coe jokingly replied "5000 Morris Dancers". Ha, bloody Ha.

"5000 Morris Dancers" became a celebration of folk music and traditional regional Morris Dance held over the weekend at the Southbank Centre. Outside on the Queen's Walk, the public were treated to 100 of the best Morris Dancers from across the country, both male and female teams demonstrated a diversity of styles. Hammersmith Morris Men, pictured above, are not your typical Morris Men, oh no. They are the best at what they do, and they didn't come to mess around. The Blue Boggarts turned out in full force with their painted faces. Entertaining, and I found one of them strangely attractive. There are pictures, but Studley does not want to upload them. Feeling a little jealous, I shouldn't wonder.

Inside, more delights.

Live traditional music in the Queen Elizabeth Hall, then the premiere of the documentary "The Way Of The Morris" by Tim Plester and Rob Curry, which charted Plester's relationship with his family and his village, and his own roots in folk music and dance. A beautiful film, a love letter to his village, its history and traditions, with a P.S. that said "I'm coming home". Here's hoping this film gets a wide release, I wish everybody could see it.

A few canapes, much wine and a dalliance with a Morrissed-up Star Wars Stormtrooper later, and we were back in the Queen Elizabeth Hall for a one-off concert celebrating "Morris On", the 1972 album to which all other folk/rock albums before and since have long been compared. This time the album was performed from start to finish by some of the best of the British young folk artists - Jim Moray, Saul Rose (who happens to also be on the right side of gorgeous) Sam Sweeney, Sam Carter, Jon Fuller, Dave Burbage and Jackie Oates, with a Conversation With Ashley Hutchings, one of the musicians on the original album.

Add to that the superb artwork of visual artist David Owen lining the walls:

it was a weekend like no other.

Now don't get me wrong. Folk music is not my favourite genre. Morris Dancing may or may not be the closest thing Britain has to Capoeira, but it is not a joke, to be treated with derision, to be ridiculed or maligned. To mess with the Morris, or to be blunt, fuck with the Folk, is to dismiss a large chunk of this nation's people, who are keeping traditions alive. Folk music is Soul Music and it speaks of all the things that we should never dismiss: love, longing, politics, fantasy, sex, storytelling, history and dreams. I respect and salute those who continue to sing it and who breathe new life into it.

That sounded a bit like a rant, didn't it? Good.

Huge thanks to Terry O'Brien of Playpen Management for producing, and inviting us, to this fantastic event.

Pictures will follow, once I soothe the savage Studley.

P.S. Seb Coe is still a twat.