Oregano – aromatic when warm, whether by the sun on a hot day or by stringy mozzarella on a hot pizza
I can always tell when my young daughter has been playing in the Oregano bush in our garden. She makes stories with her small collection of toy reptiles and insects amongst the leaves and when she comes back into the house, the fresh, green fragrance that is Oregano wafts in with her. I found the first flower earlier this week which always makes me think back to when I was pregnant with her, my summer baby.
Summer squash or yellow courgettes – no matter what you call them, big, beautiful flowers and food on the same plant? It’s all win!
Someone once asked me why my favourite colour is yellow “because it’s the colour of sunshine, butter and cheese” I replied. My summer squash is busy growing big, yellow squashes of loveliness but in the meantime it supplies huge, gorgeous, all to quickly gone flowers every morning.
…cycling is that not only am I strengthening my body but I’m also saving fuel money and giving myself time to think. The riverpath changes all the time and there’s always something new to hear or see.
The smell of the woodland flowers under the beeches, the sun sparkling off the trickling water, the hope that I’ll catch a glimpse of a Grebe or the Heron.
And the great thing about my big, purple clematis is that it…
…dapples the petunias
The great thing about summer is that it happens around this time every year.
Think about running and do you imagine slogging yourself until you’re beetroot red and fit to drop? Or maybe you think it’s just for svelte Lycra clad bodies on after-office treadmills? If you do, you would not be alone (and I’ll confess, I used to think like that).
It’s a good job I took my camera phone with me on this day. What a morning!
“Are you sure you should?” and “That’s fantastic, good luck” were comments from both ends of the spectrum of disbelief when I introduced my family and friends to the idea that I was going to start running in January this year but I bought my shoes in the sales and from there on in, I was committed to pounding the dirt twice, three times, sometimes four times a week.
I don’t stop often but when I do it’s because I need to record something stunning.
I haven’t lost a great deal of weight in the past four months but I have lost a good clothes size and gained a whole cartload of confidence. What I hadn’t expected was to learn so much from the experience but this is how running has changed more than just my physiology:
Keeping going. I have two moments I struggle with on a half hour run: about thirty seconds into it when, despite all the times I’ve done it before, the synapses impishly fire up ‘Can I do this?’ and about a third of the way through, my body groans ‘How much further?’. It would be easy to give up and go home at either point but I’ve learned that these stages pass quickly, happen every time and yes, my body and mind can cope. So now, when I’m propping myself up on the stove cooking dinner after a particularly long day I can say to myself ‘Yes, I can keep going’ when I’d rather collapse in a heap on the sofa and allow the kids to forage.
A bad run is still a run. I read this on the NHS Couch to 5K site and I’ve found this is a concept which stretches far beyond the river path where I run. There are days when tiredness, injury or just plain lack of motivation means I don’t run at my best but effort tends to be cumulative, so whatever I’ve managed to throw at something, however menial it might seem at the time, is still effort. You never know where you’ll learn your lessons, who will find your failure inspiring or what strengths you’ll be building in the process.
Just me and the seagulls – running on an early morning beach
Taking time out is good for everyone. My run is an opportunity for a very special kind of selfishness: I cannot take my children with me; I cannot pop to the shop for bread and milk, they do not fit into my armband and I cannot cook dinner or fold the laundry either for that matter (I feel challenged enough as it is dragging my body over my 3.5k route without having a cooker or laundry basket in tow). Nope, it’s just me, the air and the sound of my feet hitting the ground. It’s good for my cardiovascular health (which means my kids will have me around for longer), my mental health (which means my husband should stay around for longer) and I get some headspace to think. What’s not to like?
Don’t be afraid to run at different paces. I have a charity 5K run to do in September and I’ve just started interval training in order to up my distance and my speed. Being new to running, I hadn’t come across the complexities of training schedules before and six months ago, I would have thought that putting your shoes on and cracking out at whatever pace you could was enough. Now I know that varying pace is beneficial (especially for burning fat and increasing speed over time) but this carries over into everyday life too. Going at something full pelt is not always the best strategy – sometimes slowing down for a while gives a burst of energy, time to think and gets you there quicker in the long run.
Couch to 5K started me running, the stripes keep me going.
The wrong equipment doesn’t have to be a disaster. I’m not good at having other people around me when I’m going through my exit procedure because something always gets forgotten. I have an armband for my phone, a pink water bottle with a handle through it and a little wrist strap for my door key. The one time I left home without my phone I felt quite lost at first. Using it as both a route tracker and music player I used to listen to the C25K podcasts on it. Leaving it at behind, however, allowed me to enjoy the birds singing in the trees rather than a bird chattering in my ear and it just goes to show that some barriers are more mental than physical. Having completed the plan a while ago, I just use it to keep track of time and speed now and run to the rhythm of my feet. There are three things I’d never run without, however: my running shoes, my water bottle and the M&S sports bra which I suspect was made in a Glasgow shipyard.
My body is fit and strong. To look at me, you wouldn’t think I was a runner. I’m a plus size and although I’ve been a vegetarian for nearly twenty years, I’m sure the average Jo on the street would put me down as a poster child for the local pie shop. Truth is, I live on hummus, bulgar wheat and vegetables and yes, the odd bit of homemade chocolate cake. What I have gleaned from the experience is that my body isn’t in the bin just yet. Changing shape is much more important than losing weight for me and that feeling well, building strength and achieving my goals does wonders for the self-esteem. I want to lose weight in order to run and not the other way around.
Do what you can when you can. People often look confused and sometimes uncomfortable when I say that I run because others can’t. Every time I jog passed someone who clearly cannot run because of any number of reasons, I feel happy that I have the strength and ability to do so. A good friend of mine used to run half marathons for charity and now that he cannot run, I run for him. Check out the Silent Bleed link on this site and keep checking back here for more details of the event I’m taking part in later in the year.
A little flushed but feeling chuffed. A little selfie moment upon completion of C25K.
You may not be a runner – you may cycle, swim or play badminton but what principles of your own discipline have you been able to carry through into your life? Drop me a comment below, I’d love to know.
Sunday morning and a tale of an apple lost and some memories found.
The other day I lost an apple – it was a russet, my favourite. At the supermarket, I’d spent some time picking the most russeted but slightly soft ones in the box, all the while checking for bruising and placed them carefully in a plastic bag. But when I got home and unpacked my shopping, I was most distraught to find that I was one short.
Retracing my steps, I examined every nook and cranny from the car to my kitchen worksurface but it was clear that the apple had gone. It was lost. There were only two remaining and they would have to do.
Sweet, tough skinned, buttery on the palette but utterly wonderful when well rested
Russets are really important to me. I grew up exploring my granddad’s rambling garden and one side of it was devoted entirely to fruit trees: apples, raspberries, gooseberries and pears. His apple trees were no usual apple trees though. He had little seen varieties such as American Mother but my favourite were always the Russets. Each tree had been carefully grafted onto the rootstock of a different tree to maximise durability and yield, so below the branches, the patch looked not unlike a collection of disjointed knees.
I’d spend days of spring treading carefully over the mulch on the floor as the white petals of the blossom fell like snow on to the dark, carefully laid bark. And then came the buds of fruit that would grow as the days grew and then continued as the days started to die away. Each weekend I’d check them for ripeness and make do with picking the wild strawberries on the hedge for my free sweetness hit.
The well drained lawn alongside would become like straw in the hot summer sun and then green again as rainy days became more numerous with the turning year but still the fruit would be too hard, the tree too unyielding.
Then one day I would turn up at my Granddad’s house and the apple boxes would be out. These were the boxes that lived some of the year stacked in the outhouse. There was an unmistakable musty smell in the outhouse. Granddad had an old butler’s sink that always smelled of surgical spirit and soap (he would wash out there in the summer) and amongst the dusty mud on the floor there would be wood shavings from some project or other he was finishing. The smell of oil mixed with that of stored potatoes and freshly chopped onions (he often prepared food out there too). At the window, obscured by years of dust, sat old cobwebs over the puckered linseed paint solution Granddad would use on the wooden frames.
A secularist by voice but a sentimentalist by nature, my Russian-born Granddad could find ceremony in anything. He would carry the boxes up the steps and I would know that now was the time for the laying down of the apples.
And this is where Russets come into their own. Eaten straight from the tree, Russets are sharp and crisp (not unlike other apples) but their skins are tough which puts many eaters off. I never ate fresh Russets, however. They were wrapped and rested, their flesh allowed to mature under the rough skin until when they were taken out they were as puckered as the window frame paint and darker brown in colour.
Inside, the fruit was soft on the teeth and buttery in colour – the sharp crispness had almost fermented into a flavour not unlike sweet wine. Using age old methods from the long lost farming family that had raised him, my Granddad could store apples and potatoes from one growing season right round until the next. Under the floor, in the cellar amongst the bottles of cooking oil, old Christmas cards and treasured stored timbers sat the boxes of carefully stored produce, waiting their turn. Apples were rarely eaten fresh.
You’ll be pleased to hear that I eventually found my Russet. It had escaped through a hole in one of my carrier bags and rolled across the floor, ending up underneath one of my kitchen cupboards. On the tiles, below the wooden cupboard doors I thought of cardboard boxes, the wood dust, the oily smell and the puckered paint and thought how lucky I was to have been taught to rest Russets in order to enjoy them at their best. Their sweet, yellowing flesh evading the supermarket shoppers who don’t know that the addition of time turns this hard, inaccessible fruit into a soft, sweet delight that seems to evoke autumn, even in the hard days of winter and the brighter light of spring, when the closing days of the previous year are a memory way out on the other side of Christmas.
An apple lost, some memories found.There’s something satisfying with placing a wood-coloured apple into a wooden bowl.
This is why each apple is carefully placed into the wooden fruit bowl and allowed to rest until the skin tells me it’s ready to eat. The kind of skills my Granddad had for storing food have been lost with the eternal harvest that is the supermarket but at least I can keep the spirit of it alive with each rested, puckered apple.
And there they sit, a symbol of autumn ready to eat on a spring day and my mind tumbles back to the closing months of my Granddad’s life. His wish was that he would see the blossom of another spring and I believe in honour of his beloved apples, he managed to make it through to autumn too.
The view from my handlebars – my fellow cyclist runs ahead to check out some tiny flowers
It’s nearly a year since we lost our big car. A huge Ford Galaxy with much room for camping gear, trips home to Cornwall and outings with carfree friends. She was a workhorse of a vehicle and when she finally turned up her toes, we were pretty stumped.
One year on and although we now have a beautiful blue banger outside the gate, my daughter is more than used to cycling to school, I’ve taken up running (as well as cycling) and inspired by all this, my husband has also dug out his bib shorts and running shoes. We live next to the calm Blackwater River, which means that if the ground is dry, getting around traffic-free is simple and with each week the colour palette changes. Delightful and much more fun than sitting at traffic lights.
I’d given up cycling for the winter but with the bikes checked over and helmets dug out from under the stairs, we start again in earnest next week. Can’t wait!
To rival my Mother’s little black and gold visitor last week, look what turned up in my front garden. I’m well happy.
And finally, if you’ve had enough of me banging on about spring, look away now but
I spent good Sunday morning chill out time changing beds last weekend, just for the sheer joy of seeing the sheets blowing on the line – the first outing my peg bag has had this year. For me, this is a big deal because I hate washing hanging around the house and I just love the fresh linen smell of bringing it in off the line in the evening.
This is the pegbag I made last year to celebrate spring. The stichtwork on the front is a little difficult to see, so I will post better pictures sometime soon but it’s based on a pattern from Christine Leech’s rather delicious book Little Sew & Sew.
Have a happy week, people. If you have your own spring rituals, do share.
A little rabbit, a shirt and a pair of unmentionables adorn the front of the pegbag, worked in backstitch with tiny roses, sequins and buttons.The back of my simple patchwork peg bagLooks tropical but it’s only my sunny backyard
I had to go to Hyde Park to find this little beauty.
It’s spring by name – metrological spring covers the months of March, April and May, so this week sees the first official week of my favourite season. Of course, the naysayers will point out that the natural world is as far removed from our Gregorian calendar as say, many politicians are from their ideals but I say in this instance, we’ll give it a name and let nature grow into it.
Tanking across Hyde Park for a little retail therapy on Saturday(while the Hubster and the small one were enjoying the Science Museum) I found this little beauty. I live on the edge of an old orchard and not a blossom have I seen yet, I had to come into London for that.
In case you’re wondering, yes I did buy something on Oxford Street – a rather fabulous little number. It will sit in my wardrobe and sing to me until I can find a suitable occasion to wear it. Have a quick squizz here – it looks even more gorgeous on, I just need to find the right orange shoes to go with it now. Any suggestions gratefully received.
Purple and green – one of my favourite combinationsThis little white crocus was the first to pop open
And these little babies have been busy coming up in my garden. I bought a random bag of crocuses last autumn and made it my business to plant them randomly so that I’d forget where they’d pop up. I’m easily entertained.
A new cookbook for me makes everyone happy
The sassy little dress was not the only treat I bought myself this week. Check this out. I’ve had a darn good rummage around in this, the latest addition to my gargantuan library of cookbooks. The thing that makes the just-out Sainsbury’s Cookbook (and what I also love about Sainsbury’s magazine – I don’t work for them, honest!) is that it uses pretty simple ingredients in a rather fabulous way. I reckon my family will be well up for the Buffalo wings and the prawn, feta, tomato and chilli stew. Personally, the trio of dips and the grilled halloumi salad are well and truly floating my boat at the moment as are the pecan caramel cinnamon buns and the Pastel de Santiago (a Spanish lemon and almond cake). Expect pictures of my own efforts soon.
Tired but happy feet
And finally, in order to offset the effects of my culinary pleasures, I broke the 3k mark twice this week. This is a considerable achievement for me as I only started running seven weeks ago. I’ve been following the NHS’ Couch to 5K plan and if you’ve heard about it and you’ve been toying with the idea of digging out your running shoes, do it. I’ve gone from collapsing at the supermarket checkout after having dashed for the forgotten milk/cheese/butter/beer just a couple of months ago to perving over new running shoes with my mate who’s also just taken up running.
Running is addictive. Running has made me happy. 3K is an achievement and the 5K charity run I’m doing in October no longer seems like the hurdle it once was. (Read more about The Silent Bleed, the charity I work with, here).
In fact, I’m off for a run now. There’s some bright, spring sunshine to be had out there and I’m on the lookout for blossom.
I hope I’ve inspired you to get outside and find your own signs of early spring this week. Whether you’re running, walking or getting dragged along by the dog, do share how it’s made you feel – and keep a lookout for fabulous orange shoes (but they’re best found in a shoe shop).
