There’s a spot a few miles away where I like to walk the dog (or run, if the mood takes either of us). It’s a beautiful river walk that meanders through fields and woods and valleys, past gorgeous little chocolate-box Cotswold stone cottages that I occasionally imagine owning, mentally re-painting the front door in sage green instead of awful custard yellow. Also: pansies and ornamental garden creatures should be banned.
 The path runs for about a quarter of a mile through woodland, which at this time of year is a carpet of wild garlic as far as the eye can see. The smell is incredible, and every time I walk Henry I stuff my pockets with a couple of handfuls to take home and use. It’s a great alternative to chives in potato salad, and also makes a nice garnish for roasties. My favourite wild garlic recipe, however, is these – I’m making a batch a day at the moment whilst the kids are home for the holidays, and they’re disappearing fast:
Cheese and Wild Garlic Scones (makes 6 x 2.5″ scones)
Ingredients:
150g self raising flour (white or wholemeal)
2 level tbs baking powder
50g butter
100g strong cheddar cheese
4 or 5 wild garlic leaves, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
A little milk
Preheat the oven to 190c/275f/gas 5. Sift the flour and baking powder into a bowl (or just throw it in and give it a quick blast with a balloon whisk, it’s quicker), then rub in the butter until you have fine breadcrumbs. Grate the cheese and add to the bowl with the chopped wild garlic, add a pinch of salt and a twist of pepper.
Add a splash of milk and form together into a ball, adding a bit more milk if required. Press gently onto a floured surface until it’s about an inch thick, then use a cutter to make your scones. I use a 2.5″ round cutter which makes 6 scones, but you can use different sizes, or cut them into squares, or make them into cheese straws – just adjust the cooking time to factor in any change in size.
Brush a little milk on the top (with any remaining crumbs of cheese), then pop them in the oven for 15 minutes until lightly browned. Cool on a rack for ten minutes before covering them in butter and eating the lot. Alternatively, they’ll keep for a day or two in an airtight container. But really, why wait?
This made me laugh. It’s the kind of thing I’d do.
As the Spice Girls once sang…”If you wanna be my lover, you’d better be able to punctuate.”
Happy New Year to you all. I’ve started 2012 in the same way I started 2011 – that is to say, here:
 If you ever get the chance, I highly recommend bagging yourself a boyfriend whose parents live in the Caribbean. I’m not suggesting this was part of the appeal, OBVIOUSLY – he has a VAST number of delightful attributes, of which parental geography would barely make the top ten. It does, however, mean we can spend a big chunk of January in the sunshine, for roughly the same price as a week at Centerparcs. Would be rude not to, really.
I’ve been here for two and a half weeks, with four days to go. Mostly I have amused myself by doing as little as possible – excellent meals cooked by the boy’s very lovely stepmum are punctuated by a programme of sunbathing, snorkling, and strolls along the beach. Last week I mustered the energy to go diving, but the four minutes it takes to wriggle into (and out of) a wetsuit proved to be exhausting, notwithstanding lugging a scuba tank on and off a boat. One evening the boy and I went out in a canoe to try fishing like the locals do – a hand line with a hook and a prawn on the end of it. I caught a red snapper, but it was only a baby so I said hello, unhooked it and sent it home to its mum. When we returned, we discovered that baby snapper are very tasty and a much-prized catch. I’d be a rubbish castaway.
I have read lots of books, and cultivated a healthy tan without encroaching on Jodie Marsh territory. I’ve even managed to get a little work done – it turns out that even the arse end of nowhere has wi-fi, and what freelancer can afford to take three weeks off with no pay? Definitely not this one.
Mostly I’ve been soaking up the sun, getting sand between my toes, and gearing up for getting back to work next week. 2012, I’m ready for you.
Posted in holidays, photos
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Dear Henry,
You are five today, and even though you eat deer shit and used tissues and can smell a fallen apple from 100 yards, you are utterly adorable and very much part of our family.
Happy birthday x
I love cake. Cake is amazing. I think about it a LOT. But sometimes I want homemade cake without the time, effort and washing up involved. Basically I just want magic cake.
On occasions such as this, I make the recipe below – I challenge anyone to find me a quicker or simpler recipe for a yummy sponge cake. It takes minutes to prepare, and is brilliant for making with children, because it involves no scales, no electrical appliances and very little washing up. Hurrah.
Super-easy sponge cake
To start, you need one of these. Any type of yoghurt is fine – low fat, natural, organic, whatever – it just needs to be in a standard 120ml pot. I’ve used strawberry for this cake, but I’ve made it before with raspberry, peach, vanilla – basically whatever is knocking around in the fridge. Use the one no-one likes.
Empty the yoghurt into a mixing bowl then, using the empty pot as a measure, add 1 pot of vegetable (or sunflower) oil, 1 pot of caster sugar and 3 pots of self-raising flour. Throw in two eggs (but not the shells).
 Your bowl should look like a big old mess, like this. Give it a really good stir, until all ingredients are combined.
Your mixture should be thick and cake-mixey, but not like heavy dough. If it’s a bit hard going to stir, add a splash of milk.
Pop the mix into a 2lb loaf tin, or a 20cm round tin works just as well. Bake for 35 mins in a oven pre-heated to 160c/gas 3, until your skewer comes out clean.
Leave to cool in the tin for ten minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack and cool completely. It won’t be this toxic shade of orange, that’s just my camera.
So what now? You can eat it as it is, spread with jam or chocolate spread or whatever, or you can slice it right through the middle with a sharp knife (easy once it’s cooled) and add a filling. I like an old-school victoria sponge combination of jam and buttercream, personally.
 Dust it with a bit of icing sugar, and voila! A light, fluffy sponge cake just begging to be eaten.
In fact, this is what it looked like just 24 hours later. Cake doesn’t last long in my house.
And the washing up? This was it. One bowl, one spoon. Bonus.
It occurred to me recently that I have now been working in marketing for twenty years. The first nine were, in fairness, working as a PA for directors of small businesses who were too cheap to pay for proper marketing resource, so got me to write their marketing plans and adverts and packaging and press releases and tinker with their fledgling websites. Mostly I made it up as I went along, whilst secretly doing a marketing evening class on the basis that I couldn’t blag it indefinitely.
But with the exception of a summer when I was 17 when I taught soldiers to water ski (another story), marketing and copywriting has been the basis of my entire career. It remains a subject that fascinates and infuriates me in equal measure – when done well, it is glorious. When done badly, it makes me itch.
And very occasionally, it makes me scratch my head. Here’s a good example.
It’s a box of matches. They are extra long, and I use them for lighting our wood burning stove. A short match isn’t long enough to light various bits of newspaper, you see, or poke right to the back. Invariably my fingers catch fire before the stove does. So I buy long ones. What a decadent life I lead.
But let’s examine the packaging, shall we? Apparently they are “ideal for open fires, barbecues and candles”. A bit specific, no? Why not a gas hob? Or a spliff? Or a petrol bomb? Also, I can’t help thinking that a person who requires examples of ways in which matches might be used PROBABLY shouldn’t be left alone with matches.
But that’s the least of my problems. What’s going on in the picture? At first glance, it appears to be Victoria Beckham looking miserable on a seaside patio. Next to her, David is swigging on a beer. Judging by the arsed-off look on her face, they appear to be having a domestic, probably about David’s ridiculous nerdy glasses. In the background, another couple are glaring at each other. It’s the worst swingers’ party ever.
But WAIT? What’s that in Posh’s paws? Is she holding BARBECUE TONGS? Surely not. For a start, she’s a woman. Everyone knows that barbecue tongs are useless flapping bits of metal in the hands of a girl. ALSO, she is wearing white. Who the hell barbecues in white? Before you know it your jeans are covered in bits of burnt chicken and reggae reggae sauce. Where’s her comedy male stripper apron? Maybe David is wearing it. Maybe that’s why she’s sulking.
In fact, now you mention it, EVERYONE is wearing white. Perhaps it’s some kind of weird religious cult? Or a Eurovision theme party?
Finally, can I draw your attention to the little red box on the right hand side? It’s a drawing of a person on fire, with the message “DANGER! FIRE KILLS CHILDREN”. Two things – firstly, the message was fairly explicit in its own right without requiring a picture, and secondly, if you ARE going to visually represent a burning child FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T CLEAR, probably best not to use a funny little stick man from the school of “cute drawings that might appeal to kids.” Just saying.
Next week: Vanish stain remover. Why should I “trust pink”? Pink is what happens when I put a red sock in with my sheets. Pink is the evil antithesis of stain removal. Pink is BAD.
 A man walks into this pub. Or a woman, it doesn’t matter. In my head, it’s a man.
“Hello, I’ve come about the job on the board outside. For a chef.”
“Oh, excellent. That board has been there for MONTHS now, and we STILL haven’t found anyone.”
“Well, here I am. Can I apply? I’d love to be a chef. That Jamie Oliver geezer makes it look like a right laugh. Wahey! Bung some chilli in! Pukka!”
“Quite. Yes, of course you can apply, we’re desperate. Do you have any experience?”
“Well, no…not really. I mean I can sort of definitely cook. You know, like, pasta and stuff. I make a wicked spag bol from a jar. And toast. Love toast.”
“Brilliant. And have you ever managed a kitchen team?”
“Erm…not exactly. I once showed my nephew how to re-heat some chow mein for breakfast. Does that count?”
“Absolutely. It’s ideal. And what about planning a menu and that sort of thing?”
“Umm…well, I’d probably do, like, baguettes and stuff at lunchtime. Like, with cheese, or with ham, or with ham AND cheese. And tuna! We can buy it in those massive tins and put that fancy rocket stuff in, and charge a shitload more. And I’d do jacket potatoes, because you can put all the same stuff in as the baguettes”. Easier, see.
“Amazing. Brilliant. And have you every managed a Sunday carvery?”
“Sorry?”
“Never mind, it’s not important. You’re hired. When can you start?”
“Well…now, if you like. Are you sure you’re not bothered that I don’t have any experience?”
“No, not at all. Experience is just PREFERRED, see. Like it says on the board. Personally I think experience as a chef is overrated if you want to work in our busy family pub. Here’s a dirty apron, I’ll show you the kitchen”.
“Can I swear at the waitresses like Gordon Ramsey?”
Remind me NEVER to eat here.
Despite it never really amounting to much, I’m sorry to the see the end of summer. This has been the first one where I’ve worked pretty much entirely at home, and I’m already missing pottering barefoot around the garden.
Here’s my favourite photo of this summer, taken by the boyfriend in the field opposite our house. He’s a dab hand with Photoshop, but this one remains untouched.
Ladies, it’s time we had a chat. Gents, you may want to wander off elsewhere, because I’m about to talk about “down there”. Proceed at your peril.
Yesterday I was reading this from my lovely friend and favourite blogger Anna Pickard. I got in touch with Anna through her blog years ago, we became friends, and she helped me open some doors to TV writing and liveblogging. I’d love her for this alone, but she is also funny and lovely and excellent company and a truly brilliant writer.
She is also expecting a baby, and thus experiencing the new world of an unpredictable pelvic floor. At the moment she’s at the stage where she can still manage four sneezes in a row, but the fifth (and only the fifth) prompts a tiny wee. And naturally, Anna is contemplating a time when the sneeze/wee ratio starts to shift in favour of less sneezes and more wee.
I feel Anna’s pain. I truly do. I’ve had two babies, both pushed out the traditional way without incident, but it’s the beginning of a journey into a urinary minefield. I’ve sat in pubs and restaurants and cocktail bars and nightclubs with women who will happily talk about ANYTHING after three vodkas, but nobody ever talks about this. So I’m putting my experience out there, in the hope that a) I will not become a social pariah that everyone sniffs suspiciously and b) a few of you might swing by the comment box and share you untimely weeing stories. Sharing is good for the soul. Feel free to bring a towel to sit on.
So here’s how it goes for me – my youngest child is now twelve. Whilst pregnant, I did all my pelvic floor exercises like a good girl. In the twelve years since, I am often to be found sat at traffic lights or stood in the supermarket queue with a look of determined focus. Next time you’re waiting at the checkout, take a look around. I guarantee at least one woman will be staring into the middle distance whilst gritting her teeth and mentally sucking a hanky up with her fanny. It’s what we do.
And I’m assuming it works, to some degree. I can go about my daily business without weeing like a nonchalant gerbil. I can decide I need the loo at junction 15 of the M4 and make a considered decision whether to stop at Membury services, or hang on until Chieveley, which has a M&S. Sometimes I even live life on the edge and wait until Reading. For the most part, I am a normal adult with a fully functional down below.
But oh, the horror of exercise. Jogging is a journey into no-man’s land, strewn with wee-grenades that could detonate at any time. Vigorous nightclub dancing is ill-advised, especially when you’ve had a couple of drinks and your sound judgement compass has spun off its axis. My lack of co-ordination in Zumba class is not just about trying to manage to cha-cha-cha my arms and legs simultaneously – I’m also sucking in my pelvic floor so hard I can barely breathe.
Every summer the daughter asks if we can buy a trampoline for the garden, and I recoil in horror – if your pelvic floor was a superhero, the trampoline would be its evil nemesis. Nothing good can come from bouncing. I can go to the loo seconds before climbing on to a trampoline, but my bladder KNOWS, and purposely keeps some back in a tiny pocket armed with a bounce-detector. Two bounces in, and it pulls the cord.
Hayfever season is a nightmare, as is eating Polos because mints make me sneeze. Laughter is not the best medicine – if you see a woman doubled over with laughter, chances are she is merely clutching her sides to prevent herself weeing all over the floor. It is a harsh truth of motherhood that toddlers like to sneak up behind you and shout “BOO!”, and and even bigger cruelty that children like to run about. The mums’ race at school sports day is about FAR more than who can run the fastest – it’s about who can run whilst holding their breath and keeping their thighs locked together in a vice-like grip.
Of course we ladies are resourceful, and know the rules. The most important is Never Wear Grey Shorts. When I look at this picture of Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas on stage in San Diego in 2005, my second thought after “oh, you poor dear”, was “why are you wearing grey shorts, you silly cow?”
And so there it is. I DREAM of the days when I only had to fear Sneeze Five. I left sneeze five in a maternity ward in 1992. These days I’d do a lap of honour for achieving sneeze two, if it wasn’t likely to make me wet my pants.
Now all together…squeeeeeeze.
It’s an age-old dilemma – what to do with one of these?
No, not THAT. Tsk. In a new section entitled Baking Corner, for no other reason than it sounds suitably twee, here’s my easy peasy tried-and-tested recipe for using up leftover marrow (courgettes are also fine, they’re just marrows that haven’t hit puberty).
Before you screw up your face in digust, marrow doesn’t really taste of anything when baked, but it does leave the cake all light and yummy (I can’t use the word moist. I just can’t).
Chocolate chip marrow cake
200g caster sugar
100g unsalted butter, melted
2 medium eggs
½ tsp vanilla extract
300g coarsely grated marrow, seeds removed
300g plain flour
2½ tsp baking powder
75g plain chocolate, coarsely chopped (chopped nuts also work well if you prefer)
1 tsp cinnamon
Heat oven to 180c/gas 4 (or about 140c if you’re using my demented Rayburn), and grease a 2lb loaf tin.
Mix the caster sugar, melted butter, eggs, vanilla and grated marrow together in a bowl. In another larger bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, chocolate and cinnamon together, then gradually stir in the bowl of wet ingredients until you have a sticky dough.
Pour into the greased tin, then bake for about 60 minutes, until brown on top and a skewer/knife/pointy object comes out clean.
Leave to cool for ten minutes in the tin, then tip onto a cooling rack.
It’s lovely as it is or with carrot-cake style icing. If you need comfort/pain relief in the form of lard, make the version with chopped nuts, cut a slice, then lavish it with Nutella. You know you want to.
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The path runs for about a quarter of a mile through woodland, which at this time of year is a carpet of wild garlic as far as the eye can see. The smell is incredible, and every time I walk Henry I stuff my pockets with a couple of handfuls to take home and use. It’s a great alternative to chives in potato salad, and also makes a nice garnish for roasties. My favourite wild garlic recipe, however, is these – I’m making a batch a day at the moment whilst the kids are home for the holidays, and they’re disappearing fast:
