Filling in the gaps

Three, two, one, and you're back in the room.

Time flies, even during a pandemic.

Unbelievably, September segued into December and thoughts have now turned to Christmas.

Daily life in the gap has been…. what?  Unremarkable?  Mundane?  Predictable?  Confined?   Stressful?  All of that. 

I haven't ventured far, just to the shops for essentials (including highly essential takeaway pizza and rosemary fries), evening walks round the neighbourhood and the occasional foray into the woods or park during daylight hours (thus avoiding an encounter with Shovelly Joe in the dark). 

Halloween came and went.  The huge uncarved pumpkin languished in the garage until I eventually chopped about half of it into chunks which were popped into the freezer and will be added to to soups and other veg for roasting.  If I  remember they're there. 

Bonfire Night was louder than ever and the dog, who celebrated his 10th birthday a few days later, went into panic stricken meltdown despite sedation.  When it was all over,  I needed sedation.

Some of the traditional pre-festive period activities have happened as usual.  With only a fleeting thought about who will eat it, a  Christmas cake using my dad's recipe and tin has been made, the pud has been steamed (though I forgot to make a wish as I was stirring the mixture), Nigella's chutney decanted into jars (just the two, one for me, one for a friend) and the ingredients for mince pies are ready and waiting (if I make them too far in advance, I scoff the lot). 

The tree was chosen and has been delivered (it's currently sitting in a tub of water in the garage) and a wreath ('Christmas Carol') collected from the loveliest of florists. 

Having confirmed the five year old littlest is still a fan of knitted animals ('Granny teddies'), I've made another, a dog (with a hint of lamb) to add to his much cuddled (their poor little lolling necks suffer most; I empathise – see below) collection.  

Of course, books and reading have featured, though it's still a struggle to maintain focus.  A new-to-me author I discovered was Chris Whitaker, a British crime fiction writer whose novels are based in very convincing small town America.  His diverse characters are beautifully crafted, staying with you long after you've finished reading,  and there's such a strong sense of time and place.  Highly recommended.  

Currently on the bedside table is a collection of festive reads, a mix of old favourites and new titles.  Not usually a fan of the short story, I'm rather enjoying making my way through several Christmas themed anthologies, one story a night along with the appropriate diary entry from Nigel's Chronicles.

I've also done something I swore I'd never do again.  I wielded an assortment of brushes and rollers, wobbled on the ladder and painted.  The dining room.  As soon as I started to paint the ceiling, my rickety neck protested.  Loudly.  Honestly, it sounded like someone was scrunching half a dozen packets of crisps. 

The chosen colour scheme was far from ambitious, just white on somewhat dingy white, but there are no drips and it does look fresher.  I'm chuffed, actually.  More pictures have been added to one of the walls, including one which will serve as a memento (just in case I need to be reminded) of these weird times, and I bought a new floor lamp, which I love as it's big, bold, lights up the table area and means we won't need to use the ceiling light.  

As the virus continues to rage around the globe, Christmas 2020 is likely to be very different for most if not all of us. (One of my friends and her husband, celebrating as a twosome,  will be tucking into pies and peas, something they love but rarely eat, for Christmas lunch).   

Being sensibly cautious in the spirit of we've come this far, let's not blow it, we won't be hosting a family celebration and littlest and his parents will be staying in Manchester.  But in the run up to the Big Day, we'll meet at some midway point along the motorway to hand over gifts (no doubt with accompanying tears, I've won awards for producing those) and homemade nut roast.

Then, my Boy will be here in the bubble of three to join in all the festive overindulging (I've been dreaming of making my way through a box of chocolate liqueurs which I never buy, so what's that all about?), trounce me at Scrabble, entertain the feline troops, generally lighten the atmosphere (which, believe me, sometimes warrants some input from Butlin Redcoats).   

And, you never know, maybe Different Christmas will generate some new traditions. 

Chocolate liqueur, anyone?

 

Filling in the gaps

August already.

My birthday month (I'm Liz and I'm a Leo, grrr).

Time marches on. 

Although it feels like it stopped at the beginning of the year.

The days are by no means dragging but it's like I'm treading water (not that I've ever tread actual water).

Despite some easing of restrictions nationally, I seem to be still mostly living life to the lockdown beat. 

There's food shopping once a week, dog walking every night, and whatever I feel like the rest of the time.

The garden's had more attention than it would usually and stuff is actually growing.  The rose display was the best yet and now the hydrangeas are putting on a good show.  The pond is still problematic. There was an emergency when the water stopped flowing, which had implications for the remaining fish, and I didn't have a clue what to do.  Cue much Googling and Youtube video watching and hey presto, pond pump located, cleaned and up and running once again.  I've found a local company who can undertake a proper maintenance and cleaning job on it and just need to persuade the now far from rational/ reasonable mister that this would be the best option (for me and the fish).  

Two conifers in the front garden had outgrown their space (I was forever reversing into one of them) and it was time to have them removed.  The resulting space has been strewn with grass seed and watered religiously.  At the moment it's looking a tad, erm, tufty but hopefully will fill out over time.  

Talking of filling out, if the size of my backside is anything to go by, there's been far too much baking going on.  Cakes, biscuits, flapjacks, buns, crumbles (using redcurrants gifted from my neighbour), bread.  You name it, my oven has delivered it.  I've called a halt for the time being and am trying to cook and eat sensibly  (definitely not on a diet, a less cereal, more fruit kind of thing, but I would like to become reacquainted with my jeans).

Sometimes there's a bit of knitting (I've been buying kits from here, three so far) and, despite an ongoing issue with maintaining focus, there's always a book on the go (I've just finished what is undoubtedly the best book I've read so far this year and which may even be one of my best reads ever) and I'm currently loving this.

Unfortunately, yoga hasn't been happening much at all after I injured a hamstring, probably as a result of stupidly over stretching (at my age, you'd think I'd know better). 

I've (somewhat nervously) left the house for reasons other than buying food.  There's been an appointment with my GP ('Wear a face mask'.  'I haven't got one yet'.  'Well, just cover your face with something'. The buff I found in a drawer seemed a better option than a tea towel) and then one with the oncologist ('I like your face mask.'  'Thanks. I've just bought it.  Cost me 45 quid.'  'Someone saw you coming.') at the hospital in another town (don't worry, I'm fine). 

I've been to the dental surgery three times after the crown (neither my dentist nor I will ever forget that particular day) from my tooth fell out (I'm never chewing gum again).  More recently, I've had my hair cut and coloured and I've braved the local park for socially distanced catch ups with a couple of lovely friends.  Yesterday, after a highly stressful start to the day, I got in the car, parked by the river, sat and read my book, people and dog watched.   It helped.  

Deprived of conversation most days, I'm probably still talking far too much to supermarket staff (and to the poor bloke who came to fix the washing machine) but, thankfully, since we've been part of his 'support bubble', the Boy has been able to pop over at weekends, providing some much appreciated company and chat (and help with the removal of bags and bags of garden rubbish).

Then, last Sunday, the littlest and his parents drove up from Manchester to join in the Boy's birthday celebrations (a picnic in the Priory followed by mint choc chip ice cream cake and champagne back here), the first time we've seen them since February. 

The soon to be 5 littlest has grown.  A lot.  And currently speaks with an American accent ( 'Hey, Mom!').

So, that's what I've been up to since I last posted.  Nothing wildly exciting.  Not all bad.  Ticking over. 

But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a permanent knot in my stomach, that living with someone with dementia isn't testing me to my limits, that I wasn't missing my old life, that I wasn't wishing for the old rhythm.  

I know there'll be no neat and tidy finale to this seemingly interminable pandemic and that the way ahead is paved with oh so much uncertainty (difficult for those of us who like to plan and have adventures of one sort or another in the pipeline, to have something to look forward to).

Heeding the advice of the wellbeing gurus, I'm trying to focus less on what isn't possible and can't be planned for and more on what I have and can still do.  Being more comfortable with the uncomfortable.

It ain't easy.

Baby steps, baby steps.

 

Lockdown rambling

I finished another knitted jumper.  It kept the old fingers busy (fingers covered in skin that would be at home on the back of a crocodile, it's so dry with all the handwashing) but is probably destined for the Wear That? Not On Your Nelly pile.

Boo was on the receiving end of a shampoo and cut (actually cuts, I've had two goes so far) yesterday. He'd gotten so hirsute he was beginning to resemble Cousin It.  He seemed to enjoy the experience, although maybe all the tail wagging was more a case of 'I'll keep it moving in case she hacks it off'.  Now he's more Barry Manilow than cocker spaniel.  I'm thanking my lucky stars that I'm responsible for the evening dog walk.  In the dark.  

I had a stab at cleaning the pond which was looking uncared for (probably because it is, like a lot of stuff here these days, although the cutlery drawer is pristine).  This involved working out how to operate the vacuum cleaner to remove the sludge at the bottom, which, apparently, is a bad thing.  With the help of a YouTube (naturally) video, I managed it, although I was concerned I'd suck up the fish (not that I've spotted any; if they've any sense, they'll have already upped and offed).  The water doesn't look any clearer but I'm reliably informed that that's not a bad thing.  Next,  the filter and pump need degunking but I need to locate them first.  I suspect they're immersed in the water and it might help if I knew what they look like before trawling the depths in rubber gloves.  

The comfort eating here has reached Olympian heights.  I'm going for gold.  Lunch one day was a giant bag of salted popcorn.  Dinner was an entire packet of Oreos and a hot cross bun (no 'butter', I didn't want to over-egg the pudding).  Supper was what was left of a vegan chocolate bar, two Polo mints and a Rennie.  Last night's menu was more about real food – crispy coated polenta cakes topped with ratatouille, puy lentils and griddled tenderstem broccoli, finished with a sprinkling of nutritional yeast for me, finely grated Italian cheese for the mister.  It was very tasty and looked pretty but there's less washing up when you eat crap.

Cherry blossom is strutting its stuff in the front garden, the camellia is doing the same in the back.  The grass (that's stretching it, it's more mossy clumps than rolling greensward) is ready for another cut but the green bin and a green bag are already overflowing (I have no idea why the garden is continuously covered in twigs and branches, though I have a funny feeling about one of the houses that backs onto ours) and collections haven't restarted yet

I grew up in a shop and I love shopping (as did my parents and brother, come to think of it).   But the weekly circuit of the supermarket is anything but enjoyable.  It's the exact opposite of enjoyable. The Sainsburys branch I use has now installed crowd control.  Well, that was the wording on the back of the bomber jacket the elderly man sitting on a fold-up chair outside the entrance was wearing.  The crowd waiting to be allowed in was well behaved (well, it was just me and Crowd Control called me Madam). 

Once inside, it was more about dodging the other trolleys to keep the required distance, and avoiding doing anything that might be construed as loitering, than finding essential items (unpacking at home was interesting).  And everyone I encountered glared, like I was riddled with nasties.   It was a relief to get back into the car where, armed with a pack of treasured antibac wipes, I scrupulously cleaned  hands, steering wheel and door handles.  I shoved a wipe up my nostrils, too, just to be on the safe side.  

Easter will be very strange in this, the year of the virus, but I've hung little wooden eggs on some pussy willow branches and a modestly sized Simnel cake (just the vegan Christmas cake recipe with the addition of a ton of marzipan) will be baked.  I think I have all the ingredients.  If not, I'll substitute.

Or as my dad used to say, there is no bread. We'll have to eat toast.

 

It's a wrap

So that was February.

For one reason or another, it was a mostly home based month, with, if the pictures in the camera are anything to go by, a fair amount of time being spent in the kitchen. 

We're partial to a cake here (a bit too partial, in my case) and there are usually baking essentials on hand to rustle up something sweet whenever the mood takes.  February's highlights were a rhubarb and almond cake, a fruit and marmalade loaf and gingerbread, all easy bakes, all vegan, all disappearing far too quickly. 

But none will be consumed for the duration of Lent (I was going to go down the path of giving up all things sugary but that's a hot cross bun too far).  I managed to abstain from book buying last year and that was one helluva challenge.  This should be, well,  a piece of cake.

Not a fan of sourdough but really fancying a crusty, open textured bread to accompany a soup that was in the making, I tried this recipe.  The dough was very wet, worryingly so, and I was highly dubious it would result in something edible (or even something which could actually be removed from the casserole dish it was baked in), but it far exceeded the low expectations.  Not the prettiest of loaves but definitely one to try again.

Browsing in town one day, I came across a recipe book I'd had my eye on for a while at a special price so, of course, it came home with me and I've been cooking from it ever since. 

Vases filled with cheap and cheerful supermarket flowers have been dotted about the house, along with some hyacinths I'd grown (the second attempt and much more substantial than the earlier weedy ones) which became so heavy with blossom I had to cut them.  The scent was glorious.

The Priory up the road,  a favourite haunt of ours,  is closed during winter but was opened up one Sunday for the annual Snowdrop Walk.  It was a bright, dry, extremely windy and bitterly cold day but I love snowdrops (yep, a proper galanthophile), so dragged the mister along to have a good old nosey.  (There are no pictures of the blanket of white as the camera battery died shortly after we arrived and, typically, the spare was sitting in the charger at home).  We didn't linger amongst the bobbing litttle heads too long and spent the remainder of the afternoon in a coffee shop in the company of toasted sandwiches and a fellow customer's dog.

There was the odd dabble with things of a crafty nature.  A sea glass jewellery workshop, like the mosaic session at the beginning of the year, was hugely enjoyable and accident-free.  The latter was surprising, given the requirement to use an electric drill.  In water.  (My track record with sharp blades, naked flames and most things connected to an electrcity supply is, it has to be said, painfully poor). But, at the end, I had ten fingers intact, several pieces of jewellery which are wearable (maybe) and a new-found respect for my dentist.

And I finished knitting a bag, far from perfect but a satisfying little project and a handy size for carrying a book.

The highlight of the month was meant to be a day trip to London for the final day of an exhibition at the V&A.  Rail and museum tickets had been purchased and I was happily counting down the days. Then, the storm known as Dennis disrupted travel across the country and plans had to be abandoned. It was so disappointing (in the absence of proper holidays, these little outings are essential for purposes of maintaining sanity) but, given the situation at home,  I couldn't take the risk of being stranded at Kings Cross.  C'est la vie.

February ended with one of the cats needing an MRI scan on his heart shortly followed by a morning of dental treatment whilst, on the house front, various bits of pipework required emergency attention (you know the kind of thing, you come home from a yoga class to find water gushing onto the drive and the following day something else drops off).  The plumber spent so much time here over a two week period, fixing one problem after another, I was half expecting a visit from his soon-to-be wife (I'd been treated to the unabridged version of the story of the engagement ring).  The bank were understandably suspicious of the flurry of activity on the bank account. 

The four year old littlest was named Player of the Month at his new football club (shame he doesn't play for the team whose strip he insists on wearing as relegation looms)

and there was news from my favourite crime writer.

Now a new month begins to unfold.

Happy March!

 

 

So far, so good

Just a week into the new year but for some strange reason it feels much longer.  I've always loved January, I think because it was a big birthday month in my family, kicking off with my dad's on the 12th, shortly followed by my brother's.  But now we just have the one, my girl's, towards the end.  

Yoga and tai chi classes re-started this week and I was so ready for them, not just for the practice itself but for re-establishing a little routine into my week and reconnecting with friends.  The theme for our Wednesday yoga sessions is 'Empowerment'.  I foresee a lot of challenging poses in my near future (not that they're not usually challenging).

The first daffodils of the year appeared in the supermarket so, of course, I popped a couple of bunches into the basket, and the hyacinth bulbs (blue, with a bit of luck) I planted before Christmas appear to be faring well in one of the bedrooms.

Typepad informs me that I read 61 books in 2019, which surprises me somewhat (I know it isn't a competition but that's the most I've read in a 12 month period since starting this blog).  Some were memorable, others I couldn't begin to tell you what they were about (though that probably says more about my memory than about the books).  Christina asked about favourites from 2019 and I struggled to recall the titles I'd enjoyed most.  So I'm now trialling a simple (1-5) star rating system for each book I read this year so that the standout ones really do, well, stand out.  The current book at bedtime is White, a shortish novel set in my absolute favourite part of the world, Antarctica. Just needs a foot of snow outside to add to the reading experience.

Eating chez nous is still on the indulgent side of healthy, and there are far too many sugary snacks being consumed, but the addition of two new recipe books to the collection should help to shake up the menus. Soonish.

In the absence of mince pies and Christmas cake (we still have non vegan ones), I baked a batch of fudgy, nut laden brownies using this recipe.  I didn't dust them with icing sugar.  Well, no point in over-egging the pudding (or whatever the equivalent is in veganese).

Although sea glass is to be found on the beach just a bit further up the north east coast from here, I've never collected it.  Actually, I'd never handled it at all until I participated in a mosaic workshop last weekend.  It was highly enjoyable.   A group of seven of us got stuck into embellishing wooden coasters and picture frames with beautifully hued pieces chosen from a huge pile of sea glass (plus bits of driftwood in my case) using tubes of grout (I really shouldn't have worn black) after hearing lots of interesting stuff about the glass itself.  The end results were, oh, how shall I put it, rustic?  Primitive?  Artisan?  Rough and ready?  I'll maybe use the coaster as a plant pot stand and I think I know just the place for the frame (hint:  it's a short word, beginning with 'b' and ending with 'n').

The venue for the workshop was a lovely yarn shop in a neighbouring town and, surprise surprise, I took the opportunity to stock up on materials for a new project.  I chose a straightforward pattern to knit a sweater (and maybe the matching hat) for the littlest which just might keep the fingers too busy to dip into the treats cupboard.  And pigs might fly.

I'm continuing with writing a diary after using a five year line a day one since 2015.  My new one is a much prettier version, a Christmas gift, and, over time, I'll enjoy reading the entries from previous years on any given date.  

Something of a tradition now, I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, preferring instead to choose a guiding word for the year which, once again,  I've also expanded into a sankalpa.  After much pondering, I've decided to go with compassion.  Compassion for others, for animals, for planet earth, for myself.  

I'll give it my best shot.