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A few weeks back, I was sitting in Waitrose Coffee Shop, when I noticed a young woman enter, wearing a fabulous red jumpsuit. With matching red lipstick and cool sandals. She simply looked stunning. When I passed her table, I had to stop to tell her how fantastic she looked. Her face lit up and as I walked away I felt a little embarrassed at being so effusive to a stranger but I also hoped it had brightened her day.
Strangely, a few days later, a woman stopped me in the street to compliment my outfit and then someone later on my lipstick. This came at EXACTLY the right moment. Lifting a bit of a fragile spirit that day …
Make strangeness a wonderful opportunity to change the course of someon’e day.
So enthused was I that I started on my Summer project … inspired by the colour of said lipstick du saison.
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Itchy scratch
Scratchy itch
Itchy scratch
Scratchy itch
Itchy scratch
Scratchy itch
Not quite a tongue twister but definitely a typing twister. Try it!
See! Told you! Not easy is it?
Being blessed with Celtic genes, I feel like an honorary “ginger” (Note to reader, and just to be clear, I’m not ginger but my skin might as well be). For all things buzzy and bitey, I’m the jam sandwich, sitting on the yellow picnic blanket of Summer.
Researchers have got particularly excited by the whiff of socks whilst trying to discover why some mosquitos seem more attracted to certain people. It would seem that through the simple whiff of our odour, which is dictated by our genes (go figure!), mosquitos will make a “buzz line” for certain people. In simple terms, something in particular people’s DNA produces a specific smell which mosquitos are attracted to – the antithesis of Old Spice or Lynx if you will! My Mum doesn’t get bitten, my Dad does (they’re both Scottish).
And as we approach this time of year, I know that putting up a fight is futile and that one way or another they’ll be heading my way after various battles with citonella candles, Jungle Formula Repellant and nets for a veritable Nyotaimori!
Last Christmas I bought my husband a back scratcher for his stocking (I know right?! Insufferable romantic!) He normally uses a wire coat hanger to scratch his back which makes me wince (so yeah, see how this was a romantic gesture). It has a cat on the end and lives by the side of the bed for any midnight scratching needs. It has a telescopic arm so you can really get into the deepest arch of the back where normal non-inspector gadget arms can’t go! I think he likes it, but occasionally I catch him using the wire coat hanger, for old times sake I presume?
One particularly warm Summer, about 5 years ago, my ankle started to balloon. I mean not just that “you’ve been on your feet all day” swelling but impressive elephantesque “where the hell has your ankle gone” swell. Despite the pain, I continued to itch it. And scratch. And itch. No harm in a little itch. I had an itch and I wanted to scratch it. Come on, who the hell doesn’t scratch an itch???? Now don’t come over all Mumsy on me with your, “Hands off! The more you scratch it, the more it will itch!” You know you would do the same.
Except, of course, if it’s your private parts – it’s defintely best to leave them alone. Once I worked in a restaurant where the chef would cock his leg and scratch his balls …. constantly. I hope it was just a habit and that by now, if it was as a result of a horsefly or some STD, that it’s been treated. But yup chefs and maybe medical staff are best keeping their hands off an itch in public!
But anyway, back to the summer of the itchy and scratchy show …. the cycle of scratch, itch, scratch, itch became the new normal and in a state of delusion I managed to hobble to a Summer Fair where I could only sit under a tree wondering why I had come. A friend took one look at me and then my ankle and told me to go straight to A&E. A strong dose of antiobiotics and proper telling off about scratching the itch later made me feel so utterly stupid and I swore to myself I would never itch a bite again!
So here we are, many years later, and I’m learning about the effects of dopamine.
I’m in the early days of flirting with an Alcohol-Free lifestyle and am truly fascinated about all the unchallenged assumptions we live by. Basically it’s all fucked! We’ve right royally put the dis into functional as a society when it comes to our understanding of happiness. It’s simply all messed up!
Dopamine! Oh the heady heart racing butterfly inducing PROMISE OF HAPPINESS. Go Get It! You want it! Then do it again and again and again regardless of the disappointing outcome each time. Of course next time it will be different right? Despite the odds stacked against it! Odds which stay the same each time, may even get worse.
Anyone who is sober curious will relate to the fear of sober socialising. How’s it possible?
I’m attending a hen do and a wedding within the next month. These will be major trigger events and I’m doing a lot of thinking about it. I’ve tried to unpick what exactly is the trigger. Am I worried that I will drink again? No! Isn’t that weird!? But I don’t want to feel the triggers …. I want to out smart them … I WANT TO BAMBOOZLE THEM – to not let them even have a small effect. Because it’s all lies. Dopamine (in these modern times where we aren’t hardwired simply for survival) is the menacing adult version of Noel’s House Party’s “Fibber”!
And the triggers are really quite innocent. It’s strangely not the bottles of wine in our fridge which make me want a drink (they don’t) but let’s start with something as simple as a marquee!!!! Throw in some bunting and floral centrepieces on the tables and we’ve got a serious trigger situation on our hands! Then the small talk and omg toasts and speeches …. How will I stay away from the cheap champagne!???? And I haven’t even mentioned the sound of champagne popping! Crisp white linen tablecloths and polished wine glasses. I’m starting to sound like a very messed up Maria: “These are a few of my triggering things!” But it all screams “DRINK ME!” ….neon and flashing, bells and whistles! And of course as a bijoux woman, “Drink me” promises even more – growing larger in a crowd ….
So, back to the itch …. You know it’s still there! Can you feel it? Go on! Scratch it! Just the once, just a little one! But we know that the scratching only leads one way! Never has scratching an itch stopped the itch! But god just thinking about scratching it ….
I’m also certain that whilst I’ve changed my mindset about drinking and have committed to being liberated from alcohol, I may still be drawn to the rabbitholes. I haven’t changed who I am, I’ll still get bitten by the mosquito but I don’t have to itch the bite.
So, I will take my “Ninja-Arse-Kicking-Inner-Alice” to the hen do and wedding and play it forward: if I drink it and grow too tall, I can’t get through the door, too small and I’ll be chased by the cat. The only good outcome is to cut out the middle man, cut straight to the direct source of happiness – friends, family and, above everything else, love. I’m going to get trading standards to shut down alcohol and its cowboy travel operation. Cut out the middle man to happiness where it takes your money, your passport and your time to then cancel the holiday at the last minute – leaving you grounded at the airport with only the glossy travel brochure in your bag and useless foreign currency in your pocket. It’ll be independent travel to happiness for me now!
Are you a Ninja Alice? What are your rabbitholes?
Whilst we’re considering the hazards for Summer Sobriety, remain mindful of simplicity. And with a few ingredients, create your own controlled chaos – a beautiful mess, An Eton Mess:
Eton Mess:
Make the most Perfectly Unprecious Meringue:
2 large egg whites
100g caster sugar
Method:
Oven on very low (100 degrees C)
Whisk whites until start to stiffen
Whisk in 50g sugar until glossy and thick.
Fold in the rest of the sugar.
Put mounds of meringue onto baking parchment and cook for 1.5 hours.
Break meringue loosely up and mix with double cream and summer soft fruits.
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“The best time to plant a tree was 40 years ago. The second best time is today!”
Teresa May – oh Teresa May – where should we start? Brexit means Brexit? Her “Dancing Queen” revival of her “Maybot” African dance moves and the “terrifying” supervillain laugh. In case you’re feeling nostalgic for the eyeball-peeling vision …. go google it!
Yup it’s a fair cop isn’t it!
But then it was reported that Teresa May, “wields hardcore walking poles as she rambles through Swiss Alps” (Mirror 12th August 2016). Behave yourself – no – this isn’t a euphemism for some politician’s kinky, yet very clean and well organised, fetish, but quite simply (and innocently) a form of exercise: Nordic Walking. On this private holiday, the poles weren’t just to provide her with support in her “strong and stable leadership” but as part of a lesser know activity popular in Scandanavia. Nordic Walking curious? Check out http://www.nordicwalking.co.uk.
So today, I stride out of the closet… as a Nordic Walker. It’s time to share the enjoyment and benefits of this activity even if Strava doesn’t recognise it as anything other than regular walking! Walking without poles? Losers!
When neighbours see me with my poles I get the standard yawnsome comments: “Expecting snow love?” “Lost your skis”! One neighbour once sympathised with me for my use of the sticks relating it to his instability to navigate the walk from his coach to fridge (due to age and alcoholl!). Any attempt at explaining the benefits and enjoyment of Nordic Walking would be lost on them! So I stride on, imagining my poles as extensions to my arms – a Carnival 4-legged stilt walker – a freakish vision but effective none the less.
Nordic Walking is a tried and tested form of exercise, excellent for all the things we should be paying more attention to. You name it, it does it! It’s a no-brainer! What’s there not to love about it? (not necessarily a rhetorical question – enter comments section stage right!)
Usually the rhythm of Nordic Walking distracts me from thinking too deeply (or perhaps this is exactly what deep thought is?) and I’ve found, through practice, that, as with meditation, over the hour it comes and goes in phases. Generally, random thoughts are excluded and focus is dreamy but recently, as my senses have regrown (why thank you sobriety!), a smell, sound or sight will trigger a childhood memory.
Today I passed this tree
and noticed a clear path up. It was a perfectly climbable tree.
What’s that I hear? DON’T DO IT!!!!!? MOVE AWAY FROM THAT TREE!!!!
My children all climbed trees and whilst other parents often winced and told their children not to follow mine in their scuffed footsteps, I strongly believed that they should be allowed the freedom to assess risk and make choices in this context. Watch a child climb a tree! Are they reckless? No! You will notice they test branches out, they map a route, plan and communicate with one another on the way up. I would be naive of course not to acknowledge that sometimes this can go wrong. We’ve had the grazed knees and even the broken arm as a reminder. But oh the joy to be “The King of the Castle” once in a while.
So there I was today, having an urge!!! More often these days it would be an urge to pee but today it was to climb that tree. Right there. But I didn’t ….
Instead I took a picture or two to capture the moment …. I mean, isn’t that what we all do in place of the actual experience …. the instagrammable photo is surely “proof” of the experience!? Right?
Anyhow, it was nice to imagine climbing that tree, mapping out my route. Clearly seeing the first foothold, then second, then third … what joy. At my age imagining was as good as doing I think and I’ll take that.
And on with my Nordic walk I went.
So today … go out and choose your tree!
And then enjoy these Cinnamon Buns on me:
Ingredients:
200ml warm milk
2.25 tsp active yeast
50g granulated sugar
1 egg + 1 egg yolk
100g melted butter
550g bread flour
1tsp salt
100g brown sugar (either dark or light)
2tbs cinnamon
50g softened butter.
Method:
Put milk, yeast, granulated sugar, egg and melted butter into mixer bowl and stir.
Add flour and salt and mix.
Knead for about 9 minutes then cover with clingfilm and teatowel.
Leave in warm place for 1 – 2 hrs.
Roll to 10″X15″.
Spread butter leaving a small margin on sides.
Sprinkle the cinnamon and sugar.
Roll into a log tightly and cut 1″ sections.
Place into a greased pan, cover and let rise again for 40 minutes.
Bake at 180 degrees for 15 mins.
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Somewhere in the undergrowth at the bottom of our garden is buried one red clog. Size 4. This isn’t some sacrificial ritual perhaps to protect our home from flooding nor a rogue shoe left out for St Nicholas and his naughty sidekick “Black Peter” or a drunken japed lone sneaker swaying on the overhead wire stylee.
No! This clog was thrown.
Thrown not in a fit of rage, shoeing insult or welly-wanging competion on a blustery May Day. Nor hurled at our local tom cat come a-roving for our feral and slutty tabby, Dotty ….
No! It was thrown out of purpose and intent and there we agreed it should stay.
Now I know any sane person would be asking, why only the one? You’re not? Well you should be and whilst you’re working that out, I’ll provide a bit of context.
My perfect sized heel is 3”! Oh for these inches, life becomes so much easier. Above all, I can reach the cupboards in the kitchen and see the back of the top shelf in the fridge. It makes me feel organised and in control. You see I’m small. And I only realised I was small when I grew into adulthood. Infact it was only when I had my own children that I started wearing heels.
When you’re always the smallest (even the smallest out of 5 siblings!) it’s simply a way of being. Comparisons don’t count anymore. Everyone I meet (well most people) are taller than me so (in the words of Forest Gump) that’s all we can really say about that. I was never bullied as a child. I was bright and happy. No door ever closed because I was small (in my knowledge anyhow). No boy or man didn’t fancy me because I’m small. Hell , I was “cute” – an all-round “pocket-rocket”.
And along came children. Children concentrate our genetics don’t they? They hold a flashlight to our physical attributes. Society is happy to provide the batteries on tap and we’re all ever so keen to identify the familial traits within families. It’s a curious thing this. We happily talk about Zach’s big brown eyes being just like Daddy’s or Chloe’s curly auburn hair like mummy’s but we wouldn’t comment on the flapping earlobes, buck teeth or particularly large forehead. But we do like to talk about height. As if it has some kind of code or meaning.
I had (I should say have but well you know!?) a friend, who on asking what one of my children’s shoe size was (small is the answer) then proceeded to say that his son had a particularly large size and that it had been proven through recent research that a large shoe size for a 3 year old was linked to high IQ and success in later life! Yes that was a ridiculously long sentence but I had to say it in all one breath for fear of stopping and being overwhelmed by the utter stupidity of it! And breathe.
OMG! This, my friends, is the level of dumbfuckery regarding size that exists and I had been blissfully unaware of until I was exposed to fuckwit parents.
There is so much more to say on this subject but that’s for another blogaway day!
But back to the lost clog …. In the early days of our blended family living together in our farmhouse, I clipped around in my red heeled clogs on our wooden and tiled floor. You could hear me coming. A combination between my hooves and my cuckoo clock fanfared my presence. I’m guessing now that the sound of my clogs was a constant reminder of the new woman in the house. And quite frankly it must have grated. We’ve all worked in places where we train our ears to whose footsteps we can hear coming. The clicketty clanking down a corridor simply draws out the inevitable intrusion of their arrival. A simple knock on the door would suffice without the unnecessary suspense and preamble.
This wasn’t the reason, however, that the clog got hurled! It was when I trod on my husband’s naked toes (and lovely toes they are), nearly crushing those tiny foot bones with delicate names, that the clogs had to go!
And in a moment of …. well let’s call it liberation, he took one from my foot and threw it to the bottom of the garden. Why he didn’t take the other remains to be seen but it’s only ever one Victorian child’s shoe you ever find in a bricked up chimney isn’t it?
Now I am clogless and am thinking about replacing them. I have other shoes with heels and as I’m starting to build this reconstructed life, I’m questioning why those 3 inches matter!?
I was born this way and maybe the external world needs to adapt to me, not me to it.
And so, when we ask of ourselves, what one thing would we change about our appearance, would mine really be to have those 3 inches? How would this truly effect my life for the better? What a waste of a chance to change something just to be able to reach the top shelf of the fridge! Wouldn’t it be cooler, if given the one chance to change, to choose something more fun like having crazy kaleidoscopic coloured eyes or a heart shaped birthmark on our belly. Doesn’t it say something about ourselves that we more often, when asked this question, identify a negative aspect of our physical appearance and say we would like a smaller nose or longer legs …. Wouldn’t it be great if we could switch this around to say I like myself the way I am and to enhance it I would have …..
So what’s your 3 inches?
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Do you remember the childhood pastime of lying in a wildflower meadow, daisy chain in one hand and masking the eyes from the sun’s glare with the other, whilst finding pictures in the clouds: “Look! It’s a dog! A castle! I see a wizard….! Look! Look! Do you see the ice-cream cone”? In those heady days, we only found images depicting the soundtracks of our happy youth not the necessary reality. The term for this activity, pareidolia, sounds more like an irritating tropical disease rather than an innocent way to spend a summer afternoon with friends, where a case of the giggles was the only thing at risk of catching.
I was thinking about this the other day, whilst on my daily dog stomp. Walking through the woods and instead of my mind dreamingly drifting over the sea of bluebells, I was drawn to the faces in the trees. Pareidolia – I had it bad! But unlike those days in the never-ending summer holidays, the images were of nightmares not Disney. Adulting seems to have put a more sinister and disturbing flavour to this pastime and the more I tried to shift my eye away from it, the more images to be found.
I’m guessing that the ancient art of reading tea leaves is a line of pareidolia. I’m guessing too that this exists purely because us humans are desperate to make sense out of everything. And this in turn brings to mind the saying, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t talking about you!” so too, just because it’s random, doesn’t mean there isn’t a pattern!
So I’m sitting here nursing a cappuccino, trying a whimsical spot of pareidolia with the froth. And it turns out that, rather irritatingly, it’s not that easy to just magic it up on demand. However, the froth of the coffee and thought of those childhood skies does make me wistful for simplicity and on to probably one of the most impressively simple favourite recipes in our home: Ricotta Gnocchi otherwise known here as “White Clouds”. The texture, flavour and visual is exactly what it says on the tin.
White Clouds (Ricotta Gnocchi):
250g ricotta
2tbs grated parmesan
50g plain flour
Mix together and season with salt and cracked black pepper.
Roll into a long log about ½ “ thick.
Cut ½” pieces.
Put into salted boiling water.
Remove with slotted spoon as soon as the gnocchi bob to the surface.
Serve with pesto or tomato sauce.
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Ok time to fess up. “Are you sure?” do I hear you say, ” So early on in your blogging journey?” And yes whilst I’m dicing with the julienne of risks, in potentially losing a niche cohort of an imaginary audience (and let’s face it, I can’t be too fussy in this department), it’s simply a risk I have to take. So here goes …
I don’t like omelettes. Gasp! And yes that was the sound of all Aunt Gwen fans fleeing for another blogging valley! Well, to say I don’t like omelettes isn’t strictly true and in the spirit of transparency, and as we’re still in the “getting to know you” phase of Freshers’ Week, it’s not that I don’t like them, they just irritate me. Always have. Always will?
Perhaps this is more because I am hopeless at making them and even more hopeless at accepting that the “secret” to the Madame Pollard’s legendary omelette on Mont St Michel is actually keeping it simple. And whilst Elizabeth David’s classic, “An omelette and a Glass of Wine” has sat all these years bossing me from under the dust on the bookshelf to do just that, I am simply uncomfortable with leaving things alone and as a result, sabotage the most simple of dishes. To have faith in the fresh eggs and the fresh butter? God that’s a leap of faith. But it’s there always – the nagging feeling that I should be better at making omelettes. I should be better at trusting the magic of two simple ingredients.
Why can’t I be that person?
But of course this isn’t really about the omelettes (it never usually is is it?!) but rather a symptom of my self-esteem or diminished self-esteem and this is where this blog’s purpose (if there has to be one?) is starting to take form. It is here, on “Broken Biscuits”, that I will share with you my journey to reconstructing life from a breaking point – a moment two weeks ago where all roads led to and stopped. Still. A moment where I realised that the compass was broken and I was lost. Lost in grief. Lost in faith. Lost in ambition. Lost in reality. And this is where we are … now. In the present. In a good optimistic place stripped of fear: naked but for the modesty figs of hope, joy and love.
If you allow me the indulgence of this continued metaphor (why thank you kind sir!) and if you’re rolling your eyes heaven ward, bear with me…. here comes the first food bloggy bit – an omelette recipe curtesy of Annette Pollard:
“I break some good eggs in a bowl, I beat them well, I put a good piece of butter in the pan, I throw the eggs into it, and I shake it constantly. I am happy, monsieur, if this recipe pleases you.”
How do you make yours?
3 inches acceptance alcohol free biscuits blended family breaking point broken change climbing clogs cooking to heal dumbfuckery eggs food and memory fresh genetics gnocchi grief heels height hope king of the castle life reconstructed life reconstruction mind-set mindfulness nordic walking omelette pareidolia parents pocket rocket poulard reconstruction ricotta ricotta gnocchi simple simple recipe sober curious three ingredients trees trust whey whimsy white clouds wistful
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Removing her maroon fingerless glove from her right hand and holding the pack of Chocolate Bourbon Creams with the other, with a smash it was done. Handing the sobbing child the now cracked and torn packet, a smile etch-a-sketched itself across his face. “There you go, my lovey. There! See, no need to cry now!”
A few years ago, I heard a touching story about broken biscuits. As a child, my friend would be dragged to the market once a week and if he didn’t whinge or moan, he would be bought a packet of “Broken Biscuits” from the sweet stall. This particular week there were none left on the stall so he broke down in uncontrollable tears. Without missing a beat, the stallholder, grabbed a packet of perfect biscuits and smashed them with her fist, giving him the now crumpled and broken pack.
The absurdity of this kind gesture …
Curious to know whether Broken Biscuits are still a “thing”, I stumbled upon a 2 star review for “The House of Lancaster Broken Biscuit Assortment Box”. David’s review on eBay (all CAPS LOCK and angry) complains that, after opening one after the other of three of these boxes that “EVERY BOX WAS THE SAME, THEY WERE MOSTLY BROKEN AND OF LOW VALUE ….IT WAS LIKE SOMEONE HAD BEEN PICKING THE BEST BISCUITS AND REPLACING THEM WITH CRAP ONES!”
I’ll leave that with you and pass the box around ….
Broken Biscuits 