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.
I know what I like to eat. I like fresh, light flavours like coriander, lime and juicy tomatoes in the summer; warm, rich cinnamon and cumin to enrich the bounty of autumn and deep, indulgent, sustaining textures in winter. That’s what I like. Variety.
I spend much of my time buying and cooking food. I choose combinations to sometimes test, sometimes tease and sometimes simply satisfy the palate – but there’s always variety.
What has all this to do with spirituality?
I thrive on variety, choice and exploration. It’s about using my knowledge, experience and skill to find and prepare interesting dishes and then share them with my family and friends. Please don’t mistake my love of pick and mix for insincerity or lack of commitment – I just can’t imagine what it would be like to have the same meal whizzed up and spoon fed to me every day with the expression of choice or complaint not just frowned upon but punished.
This is the kind of theocratic tyranny that I grew up with and why I left prescribed religion behind me a long time ago.
These days, my spiritual exploration is much like a visit to an art gallery. And I’m not talking here about browsing the halls on the way to the coffee shop, I’m talking about really looking, thinking, leaving, reading, perhaps coming back, thinking some more. It’s about my response to what I’m seeing, how it relates to what I already know and what I’d like to experience more of.
Let me explain. I’m not a Buddhist but I’ve read several books written by the Dalai Lama (The Art of Happiness, is well worth a read if you haven’t already) and so when I caught wind that he was coming to Aldershot to open the new Buddhist community centre, I felt compelled to go see if I could catch a glimpse of him.
HH the Dalai Lama blessing the new Buddhist community centre after which he spoke about Buddhism in the 21st century and called for an end to religious division saying “killing in the name of religion is totally wrong”.
I was very nearly disappointed.
I arrived in town on my very easy-to-park bike and after having been asked directions by a very wealthy looking family in a particularly flash car I found myself in what felt like another world. Next to the football stadium, the once rather drab looking social club was painted and beribboned, with red, yellow and blue flags flying high above the road. Fresh from Glastonbury, HH was due to open the centre, lead prayers for the Nepalese lost in the earthquakes and then teach at the stadium.
I don’t know what I was expecting to see but the cacophony was something I’d not experienced before. On the lower side of the road, a large protest against the Dalai Lama by Shugden tradition Buddhists was in full swing. The usually quite pedestrian barriers running along the footpath were festooned with banners declaring their message. Behind this, monks of all nationalities used loud hailers and voices to make as much noise as possible.
I saw one monk amongst the crowd, settled on the pavement in front of a sign for tyres and exhausts, deep in meditation. Behind were the coaches they’d arrived on – I couldn’t help wondering what 50 monks wandering around Heston services would look like.
A contingent of Shugden Buddhists protesting – one later chose to sit and meditate outside Mr Clutch. I like that.So much dancing and singing on both sides of the road: both sides of the Shugden debate
The pro-Dalai Lama camp on the stadium side of the road were also in full swing. There were drums, wide flags flying above. People danced in all colours: emeralds, ochres, saffron, azure blues – from the elderly shuffling to the music to the little babies wide eyed at the spectacle.
I locked my bike to a railing and set off to find out whether I could make sense of what was going on.
According to my watch and the timetable I’d read online, the man I’d come to see would be leaving the community centre sometime soon in order to teach at the ticketed event in the stadium next door.
My phone rang.
My friend, the jammiest of all my friends, had secured a space away from the crowds at the back of the community centre. I smiled.
And so, I found myself with a rack of press, my friend and three Nepalese ladies around the rear of the building where the Dalai Lama was praying inside. A pathway carpeted with ornate rugs ran from a small side door to a huge, black waiting car – the kind you might find carting a celebrity to a premiere. Under the bright colours and intricate paintings of the gateway were a swarm of butch looking security in black suits and high vis jackets. A photographer was making a last minute bargain with one of them to get beyond the wire fence barrier we were stood behind. He won and was allowed in, happily taking up a crouching position beside all the other lenses.
Excitement built as thumbs up were sent out between the security suits, and few people piled out of the side door followed finally by two monks blowing horns.
The moment was arriving. I felt like it was all too much. How disappointed would I be if I didn’t catch glimpse of him? What if the men there to protect him denied me of my once in a lifetime chance? The chants from the road were distant but ever present. The line of attendees for the stadium event filed past the bottom of the steps some way away, unaware of me, my friend and the three Nepalese ladies waiting with baited breath. The drums and the singing rang in my ears.
I felt faint.
And then out he came: small, smiley and utterly untouched by the cacophony around him. I’d had my cameraphone poised for the past five minutes but I calmly put it in my back pocket: I felt compelled to see this one event with my own eyes rather than mediated through a lens.
Did he see me? Probably not. Did he hear my quietly offered Namaste? I hope so. He was ushered into the car and whisked away in a moment.
As we turned from the fence and went to walk down the steps back down to the roadway, my friend commented that I looked like I’d been hit in the eye. It would seem my mascara had gone a little astray.
What did I take from the day?
That even though the spiritual so often has to sit within a secular environment for functional or security reasons it doesn’t mean that all is lost. From what I’ve read of his writings, the Dalai Lama himself is a largely down to earth man. His teachings are as applicable, in principle, to an atheist or a Catholic as they are to a practicing Buddhist.
But I couldn’t help wondering whether he would rather be wandering in the public park up the road where the elderly Nepalese residents of our town like to gather and talk. Or how he felt about all the security around him and whether he felt it was interfering with his work. He talks so much about how powerful an opponent to kindness and real understanding fear is.
My friend and I then did what any good tourist would and went to a coffee shop to ruminate on what we’d seen and heard. The Dalai Lama had radiated a smile that I wore all day.
I think I’m still wearing it now.
And so my tour continues – maybe I’ll find somewhere to call home at some point, maybe I won’t – but it’s not the arrival that’s important to me, it’s the journey.
A colourful welcome from the Buddhist Community Centre UK in Aldershot
Just days after visiting Aldershot, His Holiness the Dalai Lama reacts joyfully to a cake presented by President and Mrs. Bush in honor of his upcoming 80th birthday during a luncheon at the Bush Center in Dallas, Texas, USA on July 1, 2015. Photo/Bush Center
…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.
Going home has always been a restorative thing for me. Driving over the Tamar, I take a huge breath of good Cornish air and then another as I circle above my home town of Penryn, where the new Combined Universities in Cornwall has sprung up on the grounds of what was Tremough Convent. Glimpses of the river going out to Falmouth Bay never fail to catch my breath and bring back memories of walking the fields high on the hill with my mother as a child; ripping grass from the verges to feed the horses, fingers stained from blackberry picking. There was less traffic then.
But my story is about Falmouth, where my parents now live. The car park on Fish Strand Quay is one of the best places to see the historic waterfront and it’s one of the first places I head to when I’m home. Half way along is the building that was the Royal British Legion – a building that my Dad has strong links to as did his father before him. It’s now home to the Arwenack Club where my Step Mother is a key player behind the bar. Yes I did spend much time in there with my family over the weekend. Yes, I did drink much beer. Yes I did sing karaoke on Sunday evening. And the quality of music of the Rockabilly band Chrome Deville was matched only by the jivers on the dancefloor. There’s something very special about watching the sunlight fade over the water as the lights of the docks come up – over a pint and some lively banter of course.
This is where WordPress could do with a Smellovision plugin. The lane heading down from where my Dad lives towards Swanpool beach is always vibrant with bluebells at this time of year but it’s the scent of the wild garlic that is overpowering. An evening walk down to the beach with the kids and Buster often involves signet spotting on the pool and a hedgehog ice cream on the Swanpool café decking overlooking the sea. (A hedgehog ice cream involves Cornish ice cream, clotted cream and toasted chopped hazelnuts by the way – it’s heaven’s heart attack in a cone!)
Swanpool beach – St Anthony lighthouse on the other side of the harbour is a pin prick in the distance
Swanpool Beach. This place means much to me. The small specks on the rocks are my son leading his little sister over the rocks – much like my brother used to do with me – and the path leading up on the cliffs towards Gyllingvase was where I used to walk with my Granddad when I was a child and where I sometimes run now. This is also where I used to bring my son after school, many years ago – we’d have tea on the beach and he’d play in the shallows when the heat of the summer day had passed.
Clean, cool air came off the water as I sat and watched the guys fishing off the rocks and the smell of the barbeque their friends had just lit for them just up the beach from me wafted out to sea.
Swanpool beach looking out towards Stack Point
So I did what any girl would do when left alone on a beach in the evening sun – I slipped off my flip flops and buried my toes in the sand.
The next day we drove back. ‘Til August it is then.
I’ve been getting a little hot-headed recently, which can only mean one thing – it’s time to go home to Cornwall for a while.
Time to sit in a pretty tea shop with my pretty Mum and watch the water washing around in the harbour.
Time to take my Dad’s hooligan of a dog out on to the clifftops.
Time to sit in the social club where I used to sit with my Dad when I was a kid and where he used to sit with his father when he was kid and watch the lights of the ships in the harbour come up as the sun goes down.
Where the Queen of Small Things goes to rest (those gulls had better stay away from my pasty)
Time to breathe some good air, catch up with some good friends and enjoy some peace away from the constant noise of the traffic.
Time to run the promenade, eat giant ice creams and have a Rowe’s pasty.
I live on the outskirts of an old military town and since Joanna Lumley’s campaign to improve the lives of ex-Ghurkhas and their families, the area has seen a considerable influx of Nepalese people.
And unlike so many residents who live round here, I have to say I really like these people: they’ve brought a different dimension to the town and I think we have so much to learn from them.
It makes me sad to hear of yet another earthquake in their homeland and I cannot begin to imagine the sadness they must feel, thinking of the communities they’ve left behind. With all the devastating news reports in the media at the moment, I just wanted to say something positive about the people I’ve encountered here, in what must seem like a very foreign land.
Early in the morning, when I’m cycling my daughter to school, I meet small groups of elderly, well wrapped, brightly coloured Nepalese walking in groups along the river path and through the park. “Good morning” they say and in return I offer a “Namaste”. It’s always at this point that they light up and putting their hands together offer many back.
It took me no time at all to notice that this expression conveyed so much more than one of our own English greetings and having never been to Nepal, I thought I’d do a little research.
Just five minutes looking around on the web turned up so much. The phrase literally means “I bow to you”. The small head nod, the hands gently pressing together, the smile that accompanies it, acknowledges the divine spark that resides within us all. It’s more of a prayer than a greeting, so much richer than “good morning”. It’s more involved and wider than just one person acknowledging another. It’s about souls, much older than bodies, passing the time of day.
This made me think about so much I’ve observed recently.
One spring morning about a year ago, I was sat in the car outside my friend’s flat, waiting for him. Next door, a couple of elderly Nepalese ladies stepped out into the sunshine and it was as though the new green leaves and the bright light filled the second woman with something so enlightening, she simply had to place her hands together and say good morning to the sun. My friend is really ill, which I’m finding most distressing at the moment but that one gesture made me smile.
Then there was the time a friend sent me a picture of a small group of elderly Nepalese sat outside his flat in the car park on deckchairs. They were tightly wrapped as it was a cold November day but because the sun was out, so were they. I’ve never been good at hibernating either.
I’ll also mention the elderly Ghurka who I regularly see making his way into town. His slow shuffle speaks of determination despite infirmity or injury. His broad shoulders, muscular physique and strong hand on his walking stick speak of a dignified life at arms for a country far away from the land of his birth.
There seems to be something open and accepting that’s hardwired into the Nepalese people I’ve met. They go outside, explore, find new places – and the library is usually busy with them. On market day, the town is alive with circles of men talking, the women picking over the vegetables on the stalls and in the parks and gardens, they sit and talk in the sunshine.
I don’t pretend to know very much about their land and their diverse culture. I know there are divisions in the country and that it is recovering from a brutal civil war. The town in which I live is groaning under the weight of this sudden population increase (which I believe has more to do with policy than people) and even the local MP has voiced concern over the locals’ inability to find a park bench to use at peak times. I’ve also read about their caste system, their gender roles and their religious and ideological divisions but I can only go on the elderly Nepalese people I’ve seen (I believe the young have their own basket of problems) – and what I’ve seen is a quiet, respectful, considerate people with a great sense of humour and a thirst for human experience.
I’m not a religious person but I think the concept that we all carry a spark of the divine within us is a sensible one. If, just if, the idea that we all harbour the same life force is true, wouldn’t it clear up so many modern-day woes? Wouldn’t so many of our negative emotions like jealousy and fear which cause so much hurt become not just futile but useless?
There are so many souls hurting in Nepal today because the earth shook – again.
What is it about overweight people that reduces some people to hideous hate speak? Is it our chubby cheeks? Our wobbly bottoms? Or our obvious love of lard, burgers and pie?
‘Obese pigs’, ‘people keep putting a fist full of food into their mouths’, ‘stuffing faces’,’ lardies’, ‘being fat is a choice’ and constant referral to laziness, greed and lack of self-control littered a comment section below an article published by the Mail Online this week, written by physician and journalist Dr Max Pemberton.
No stranger to speaking out, this driven psychiatrist and nutritionist wrote a well-reasoned opinion piece about the stress be believes is being put on the NHS by the obese. In terms of style, the article’s awkward use of punning detracted somewhat from its serious content but it’s not that I have a problem with.
Ewww. Apparently, this is what us fatties stuff our faces with all the time. Personally I’d rather go lick the pavement.
The fat shamers of this country are really not helping the overweight to get healthier and unfortunately Dr Pemberton just fed them as much fuel as they wanted. And what pictures accompanied the article? Someone eating a massive burger and two fat ladies sat on a bench overlooking the sea, their rolls apparent but their faces hidden.
Like so many other features about the obese in the media, his words were accompanied by these negative images of fat people as if this is going to shame the overweight, many of whom already suffer from self-confidence problems, into shedding the pounds. It’s simply not going to work.
He’s a psychiatrist. Doesn’t he already know this?
“Most obese people simply do not care about being overweight…we should make such an attitude socially acceptable” he says “that’s not to say you have to be cruel”. I’m not sure I agree with his first statement one hundred per cent but he is entitled to his opinion.
“We also need to address the issue of what is making everyone fat” I agree with him here and his assertion that a fat tax could “fund psychological help to support those who struggle to lose weight”.
Nice one but there are still two conflicting stories running alongside each other here. On one hand, you have the journalist out to sell an emotive article to a readership and on the other, a doctor who wants to do something about the problem all rolled into one. It creates a mixed message.
So, what now? Personally, I’m going to keep on campaigning for more positive images of fat people in the media.
I want to see sexy, vibrant people who pull on their running shoes, go the gym, walk their kids to school, cycle to the shops – because in reality, that’s what a lot of us do.
Yes, exercise alone won’t tackle a weight problem but a healthier feeling body is a body that feels more worth caring for, worth feeding right. Inactivity isn’t a choice for some people but for those that can increase their exercise, what can we do as a nation to get them out, get them moving, get them feeling a part of something? In my mind it’s giving them self-worth.
It’s getting the message out there that you don’t need to be beach body ready, you don’t have to be running ready, you don’t have to be fitness ready. You just need the confidence to get out, do what you can and see where it leads you.
The This Girl Can Campaign. Let’s make a change through more body positive and less fat hating
So, let’s see Dr Pemberton’s article accompanied by a link to the ‘This Girl Can’ campaign. Why not show a plump woman ordering a salad and falafel at a health food van rather than a chap in a chip shop? Let’s show the faces of the overweight so that they become human beings – they don’t want to be bullied or shamed, they want some answers about why dieting for thirty years has got them nowhere.
They want to know why their perceived lack of self-control is somehow worse and more damaging then that of some Neanderthals commenting anonymously on a website.
For the record, I haven’t eaten meat for nearly twenty years – and I’d rather eat the box than the vegetarian crap they serve up at fast food restaurants. I run or cycle at least five times a week, walk at the weekends and eat more fruit and veg than anyone else I know. I was taught how to cook by my mother and at school but I’m also able to learn. I have never smoked and I drink no more than a few glasses of wine a month.
I am not a faceless human lump, I am a vibrant, valid and beautiful human being who is struggling to lose weight so that I can feel healthy. I don’t see that promoting positive images of plus size women and seeing them as fashionable, attractive, valuable human beings makes me part of the “ludicrous cult of the obese” – (to quote Dr Pemberton).
I’m not interested in being the object of hate for some small minded idiots who’ll stub out their fag and open another can of beer, smug in the fact that their vices are more easily hidden.
Hair slapped back, no make up but wearing a massive grin, this is what a size 22 girl looks like after she’s been out for a run. Put that in your fat-shaming pipe and smoke it!
And as a finishing note, compare the attitude of the fat-haters to the fellow runners I met out by the river early this morning. Slogging my final km, two young women bounced past me, light on their feet and chatting happily. They both smiled huge grins in acknowledgement of my effort and I even got a fist pump. This is what will help us, the fatties, the obese, the slobs, the lumps, the burden on the NHS to lose weight.
Not idiots with empty heads, stupid words and unhelpful images.
I went for a run along the river this morning. It was all sunshine, ducks nestled in narcissus, water rippling like ribbons tied to a fan, fish wagging their heads to fight the current.
Breath taking as they were, it was not the pleasing ambience that most caught my attention; it was a brief exchange with an old lady out for a walk. And by brief, I mean no more than a greeting and a smile.
If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know I’ve recently finished the NHS Couch to 5K plan (if you’d like a nose, check it out here) and I got a little despondent last week when it was clear that I was a) had not lost weight and b) was unlikely to be running 5K any time soon. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve become so darn addicted to running (non-run days occasionally drive me to twitching in a cupboard) I would have packed it in by now but after some research I found some very reassuring information online.
Firstly, that increased blood volume, muscle growth and water retention can contribute to gaining weight in the first few weeks of taking up a high impact exercise regime. In my case, I guess the hot cross buns with butter that my husband brings to me as a sofa snack offering at around 10pm every night don’t help but I had hoped to see some shift on the scales to accompany the happily re-emerging cheekbones and waist.
Secondly, many people don’t complete the 5K in nine weeks. Some say that it should be called the ‘Couch to 30 minutes’ running plan but I guess it doesn’t have quite the same ring, even if it is perhaps a little closer to the truth.
So the running brings the good vibes, the improved body image, better cardiovascular and mental health and cheekbones but after my encounter this morning I decided there’s one overriding reason why I run. One reason to top them all.
And that’s because I can.
But perhaps it’s even more than that.
The River Blackwater where I run and cycle my daughter to and from school. Sometimes we stop to play poohsticks.
Because the eighty-something lady I met, albeit briefly, this morning taught me something. The river path is stony and uneven, muddy in places but the water, birds and sunshine this morning felt like spring in a bottle and along the path she came, stick in each hand, shuffling forwards, painful step by painful step. She wore a vibrant raspberry coloured coat, fastened to the chin and a rather dapper looking chequered cap in blue and white placed carefully upon a gently coiffured perm.
She smiled as I approached, a big, toothy grin. We exchanged pleasantries and as I ran past, her head turned a little as she watched me go on by.
There was something in her smile: perhaps a memory of when she could run? I thought of the days before her sticks: maybe she’d chased her children through this meadow or thrown sticks from the bridge with some long ago lover – her mouth and arms open wide with life, air and happiness.
So I run not just because I can but also for those who cannot: for example, my half marathon running friend who fought his own disabilities to raise money for other charities, only to get struck down by a debilitating disease. I run on behalf of my Dad, who’s health now allows him as far as the beach with the dog; my Mum, a breast cancer survivor (I wear something pink every day); and people like the lady I met this morning. These legs are strong, my heart is healthy and although most doctors find my bmi offensive, this is a good body and I’m so very grateful that it works well.
But that’s not all. I’m also running to make a tangible difference. The charity I write for, The Silent Bleed, supports suffers of the rare neurological condition Superficial Siderosis along with their families, carers and physicians. But they need money in order to do this – which is why I’ll be running 5K in October to help bring in the needed funds.
Beating the odds, doing the unexpected, finding new challenges – that’s what keeps us going and moving forward. What do you do just because you can?
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.
