How to cope without a cooker

March 25, 2015March 25, 2015

How to cope without a cooker

A friend of mine was lamenting the big bang that marked the passing of her cooker yesterday.

Not an easy position to be in when you have a family to feed and I should know, I’ve been in that position many times: once when we’d had enough of the ring on the electric stove turning on whenever it liked in our tiny flat (I suspect that cooker was probably older than me at the time) and another occasion when we were refitting the kitchen and the food prep involved an old garden table, a gazebo, a microwave amongst the junk on my dining table and a few prayers for good weather.

This got me thinking, so these are my tips (feel free to add your own):

Every kitchen should have a copy of this little gem

Firstly, get a copy of this book – The Dairy Book of Home Cookery. Originally published in 1968, it was distributed by the local milkman. It has been reprinted so many times, updated in the nineties and is still available second hand on line. It is said to be one of the most trusted cookery books of all time but its winning feature for me has to be the fact that just about every recipe has an alternative set of instructions for using the microwave. Packed full of practical meals like beef stew & dumplings and Leicester cheese pudding (a personal favourite), it also features some fabulously dated dishes like layered turkey & broccoli loaf and blancmange that I think I’m going to have to have a go at making purely for kitsch value. Oh, and I’ve just read that another updated version came out in 2012. I know what I’m going to be ordering this afternoon.
Merchant Gourmet mixed grains. Available in most supermarkets and ready in just a minute.

Pouch rice. Not the cheapest way to cook this cheapest of staples but rice doesn’t respond well to cooking in the microwave so these little life savers come into their own when you don’t have a hob. Sainsbury’s have a lovely selection at the moment for only 50p a packet but my favourite has to be this grain mix by Merchant Gourmet. Pricey at around £2 a pouch, it’s rammed full of goodness and easily bulks out a meal. If you’re a vegetarian like me, it’s a great source of vitamins, minerals and it contains protein.
For a really simple sauce, cook a chopped onion, a knob of butter a teaspoon of oil and some crushed garlic on full power in a covered microwavable dish for about three minutes. Stir in a can of chopped tomatoes, a tablespoon of tomato puree, 300ml of hot vegetable stock and some dried herbs and then put it back in for another five minutes, uncovered. Take it out, give it a good stir and then cook again for another ten minutes but stir regularly and keep an eye on it so that it doesn’t boil over. Serve up with some heated pouch rice or pasta with plenty of cheese or tip in a packet of the Merchant Gourmet mix mentioned above for the last couple of minutes of cooking to make an easy risotto. Fish also poaches well in this tomato mix – check the packaging for how long to do this for and check it’s cooked through properly before serving.
Bulghar wheat. Easy to prepare, easy to spice up, easy to eat

Remember there are some great things out there that don’t need cooking. Bulghar wheat is a great source of fibre, B vitamins, protein and iron and because it is already partly cooked, you can get away with just soaking this wholegrain for 30 minutes. About 225g serves 4 and you just put in a bowl and cover with boiling water. Drain it thoroughly and mix in some chopped fresh herbs, some finely chopped spring onions or diced peppers and then top with feta and walnuts. If this sounds a bit too healthy try some chopped jarred peppers and a shredded rotisserie chicken from the supermarket instead. It’s very filling comfort food and my kids love it – and because it’s a staple of Eastern European, Middle East and Indian cookery it is perfect with robust spices like chilli, coriander and cumin. What’s not to like?
Fine noodles and couscous are also fine to soak. There are some great flavoured varieties available.

In case you’re thinking I’ve popped my laptop down next to the carob in a health food shop, I’ll admit that the above tips lean slightly towards the fact that my friend is following a vegan diet for lent, which is very commendable. But as I cater for both carnivores and a vegetarian for most meals, I know it wouldn’t be difficult to slip some cooked or tinned meat in there somewhere. I guess some pancetta or chorizo might be good chucked in with the onions if you’re making the tomato sauce or to go for some all-out fusion food try some good quality prosciutto and figs with the bulghar wheat along with the chopped fresh herbs. Imagine the rich, earthy, sweet, salty flavours served with a cold glass of Prosecco.

You’d soon forget all about your broken stove.

March 22, 2015March 22, 2015

Spring Apples

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.

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.

Apple under the cupboard — An apple lost, some memories found.

Apples oranges and parsley — 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.

March 19, 2015March 19, 2015

Ten Things I Would Tell my Younger Mother Self

I was delighted to see a post on Facebook from an old friend yesterday – her daughter has just got an unconditional offer for the degree course of her dreams and I text her straight away because although she was over the moon, I knew her heart would be breaking at the thought of her child leaving home. I thought of the days spent sweeping at seaweed in rock pools – her daughter holding the bucket, my son with the net. I thought of ice cream, tractor rides, warm grass and laughing with my good friend at another sleepless night, another pair of jeans ruined, another potty training accident and I shed a quiet tear myself. Another two years and my own nest could start emptying.

Snuggled — They don’t stay like this for long

Those early days were a shared experience: my friend and I made our mistakes together. We worked our way through as best we could, bouncing ideas off each other.

With this on my mind, I woke early this morning to the sound of the birds. The sun not yet quite up, I remembered doing the same many years ago, nested with my son when he was just a few weeks old. I thought what I would tell the 24 year old me – my eyes at once wide with new experience and heavy from sleep deprivation. This is what I came up with:

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Breastfeeding is an amazing experience, challenging at times and not possible for everyone but it is probably one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. It seems distant and not entirely relevant, however, when your child is 16 and you are supporting them through their exams/girl trouble/learning how to be a man. It’s all about perspective.
Sweat the small stuff. I remember one afternoon after watching the full solar eclipse over Falmouth harbour, I climbed down off Trefusis fields with my baby son on my back and drove home to our little house when all my childless friends were going out to party. I felt so left out. I spent the afternoon listening to old U2 albums and my son slept, fed, smiled and slept. I wouldn’t have remembered the pub crawl I would have done with my friends but the human warmth of that afternoon will never leave me.
Feel okay doing things your way. Be a magpie in collecting shiny pieces of advice from younger and older people, magazines, professionals and the T.V. but go with what your heart tells you is best. Utterly exhausted, I finally conceded to combining bottle and breastfeeding one afternoon at the suggestion of a close friend, despite the misgivings of my health visitor. It was the best thing I could have done for my mental and physical health at the time.
Give yourself permission to enjoy the now. Days blend into weeks, into months, into years. So many advice columns console parents with lines like ‘this phase won’t last’. Don’t be too eager to look for the next stage, it will come in its own time without you hastening it. It’s exhausting but the early days will become a memory sooner than you think.
He could probably sit me on his lap now

The talking, playing and sharing will pay off. I always had a strong feeling that these were more important than keeping an immaculate house or flattening laundered clothes. As a working single Mum, I had a busy schedule but when my son was a toddler, I instinctively knew that when he became difficult to handle, what he needed was for me to sit on the floor and drag the toybox out. We’d watch Top Gear and build train tracks that snaked through the living room and out into the kitchen, under the dining table chairs. Now that my children are older, my role is transforming from carer to mentor. I had no idea just how much easier I had made this by securing good lines of communication when they were learning how to talk and trust.
Never let anyone else demean what you are doing. When I was at work, I was at work: there were those who wondered why a woman would leave her three month old son to go spend the day in an office. At the time, I would have lost my home, my car and essentially my life if I did not go back to work after the end of my maternity leave (which was a matter of weeks back then) but I also went back to the office because I needed some time to stretch my brain, learn new skills and talk to other adults. This was ok. So was turning down a full-time job when my son turned five. At the time, he needed me to be there every day to pick him up from school. I still stand by that decision now.
Having a second child doesn’t take love away from the first, it multiplies it. My son’s father was at first worried when he heard I was pregnant by my second husband, worried that his boy would not receive the same level of attention or love anymore. (My ex now takes my daughter out for milkshake and they sing daft songs together, so all is well.) With a nine year gap between my kids, my son has learnt skills that he could not have acquired anywhere else, not to mention the adoration he gets from his little sister. I have had the joy of watching the two people I created mesh a relationship that will likely last longer than I will.
Children are loud and they run around. Of course, they need to learn appropriate behaviour and speech but this is a long term project. Broken kids make for broken adults. As long as you have the situation in hand, let the tutters tut – their discomfort is not your problem: it’s theirs.
It’s ok to compare your children. I’m not talking in a competitive way here but they are individuals and what worked for one might not work for another. They have their own unique skills and challenges: talents that seem to crawl out of the woodwork unexpected and quirks that are a reflection of the ones you’ve spent your lifetime dealing with. Siblings can be encouraged to learn from each other’s strengths and provide support for their challenges because one day you won’t be around to perform this task anymore but first, they need the tools to find out what these are.
You can choose to replicate your own childhood environment or re-evaluate it. Deepening the coastal shelf (to quote Phillip Larkin) isn’t necessarily inevitable. There is always time to change the way you think.

I think the most important thing I needed as a young mother was confidence. This, of course, comes with age through the media of hindsight, perspective and experience but I’m glad I launched unimpeded by fear into parenthood – and that was my youth at work.

What would you add to the list?

March 13, 2015March 16, 2015

The Little Things I love This Week – mid March

Bike along the river — 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.

Looks tropical but it's only my sunny backyard — Looks tropical but it’s only my sunny backyard

March 13, 2015March 28, 2015

Guy Martin – A suggested new lead for Top Gear?

There have been a few whispers around the web this week that Jeremy Clarkson, who fronts Top Gear, has been, how shall we say, a bit naughty (again). I’ve been a fan of Mr Clarkson on paper for years – his writing is intelligent, even if it’s a little shouty – but on screen I believe his feet are hanging so far out of his boots, it’s a wonder he doesn’t trip over.

Guy Martin in Top Gear lineup — Tyco BMW’s image, posted on Facebook, sees Guy’s face in place of Clarkson’s. Is this how the line up should look?

And now the BBC have sent him home to think about his behaviour (again) while they investigate. Meanwhile, further scant details of the fracas emerge through the press: the steak dinner that wasn’t ordered, the ‘punch’ that was only ‘contact’ and Clarkson’s good friend May awkwardly stating “the man is a knob but I quite like him”.

This leaves speculation about whether a motoring show of Top Gear’s ilk could once again charge our Sunday nights (or any night if you frequent Dave).

Yesterday’s Grimsby Telegraph provided the perfect suggestion for a Clarkson replacement in the form of Guy Martin (think TT racing, truck mechanics and the industrial North) . He’s not in the same league on the journalistic front but oh boy, the show would definitely open up to a brand new demographic. A cute, tea drinking, petrol-head with a talent for speed and getting his hands oily? Oh and a Lincolnshire accent that could float any narrowboat.

I know who I’d rather be viewing post-roast. What do you think?

March 12, 2015March 16, 2015

International Women’s Day – as viewed from my sofa

Sunday 9th March was International Women’s Day. Aside from the double spread in the Independent on Sunday showing the world’s most powerful women and the BBC’s World Service’s post on the BBC website simply titled ’50 Women Who Made it Happen’ (well worth making time for) there were several things of note that popped their heads above the parapet.

Sat on the sofa on the Andrew Marr show, Sarah Baxter, Deputy Editor, Sunday Times, expressed her delight over India Knights’ article in the same paper on why the best spies are middle aged Mums – “inconspicuous and able to shuffle around with shopping bags”, equipped with unrivalled powers of tickling. I have thought exactly the same thing myself many, many times. It’s why female suicide bombers are such a valuable weapon – the fairytale of woman’s innocence vs. man’s wickedness is a well-established tactical tool.

Two dollies — The cost of raising standards in Early Years care has to be met by someone – so think these happy dollies in the sun.

Reference was made at some point to the recently published Family and Childcare Trust’s Childcare Costs Survey. Reading the report for myself, I was shocked but not entirely surprised in the rise in cost of childcare but in particular, the statistic that part-time care from a childminder has risen by 4.3 per cent in the past year. I have many friends who are childminders and the rise in this cost is clear: the government continues to raise the bar in terms of standards of care whilst cutting funding. Mandatory training courses, which used to be free, are no longer funded and in my area, free to access Sure Start run playgroups and the like are now off limits to childminders – the costs of these have to be met somewhere and childminders already earn very little for doing a very demanding job. This in the face of the House of Lords Committee on Affordable Childcare asserting that more money needs to be spent on bringing more graduates into the private, voluntary and independent sector and that Government funded 2-year old places should be in settings that are rated as Good or Outstanding by Ofsted. More for less seems to be the way of things across the board these days but I can’t help thinking of the damage this is doing not just to working parents and the private childcare industry but also the small people who have no say in these things.

Then, a little later in the morning, the last item on Nicky Campbell’s Big Questions (BBC1) asked: is it more important for Christians to do good than God? This prompted some often heated but well-reasoned discussion between several female academics and writers. Interesting stuff, I thought, sat on the sofa in my pjs and slippers, cup of tea in one hand, six year old daughter on my knee. The issues raised included the man-made nature of doctrine and whether women were historically excluded from the process. Perfectly good points, I felt – perhaps even pivotal to the whole discussion. Bravo, I thought as I quaffed more tea.

That was until Peter Hitchens, columnist for the Daily Mail, opened his pie hole and dismissed the previous ten minutes’ discussion as “bureaucratic, theological flim flam” and continued to sum up his opinion thus:

“There has to be something in your mind which stops you from doing a wicked thing when the temptation is there to do it. If you have no doctrine, you will do that wicked thing because there will nothing to stop you. That’s why our society, each year, kills 180 thousand babies in the womb and thinks it’s good.”

And boom! We all whiz back fifty years and the women may as well have not bothered turning up (or going to school for that matter).

Butter pie — All dinosaurs love butter pie

So, this is where the room for growth lies. Yes it’s in speech, yes it’s in education and yes, it’s in giving women the mobility to get into positions where they can bring balance to the important decisions we make as a society but it will take a while for the dinosaurs who choose to adhere to the old ways to die out. For now, we must keep them happy with pie and wait for their ideas to fade with them.

Any suggestions on pie fillings?

March 4, 2015March 16, 2015

The Little Things I Love This Week

Blossom in Hyde Park — 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.

Crocus in the greenery — Purple and green – one of my favourite combinations

LIttle white crocus — This 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.

Sainsbury's Cookbook — 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.

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).

QOST xxx

March 4, 2015March 16, 2015

Lisa in the Rain

– Many of my friends often bring a little book with them to my craft group on a Monday night along with pens, pencils, lace, ribbons, glue and other crafty materials. It’s not just any book, it’s a Wreck this Journal. If you haven’t heard of this phenomenon, then look it up. Many a creative episode has it inspired and it lead my good buddy Lisa to pen the passage below – I loved it so much, I had to share it. Of course, you won’t get to hear her lovely voice in your head reading it, sorry!

Lisa's Wreck This Journal — Lisa’s response to ‘Document a boring event in detail’

I’m sat in the car in the rain, watching big fat drops covering windows and running in rivulets towards the cold tarmac. The radio is on Radio 4 and the news is on. A Mark Carnie is speaking in a clear voice and the pips have just sounded – regular and very British. The hubby is in Les’ house about 20 metres away talking Buffs. That’s why I’m in the car – less chance of having to join in, well no chance really.

Rain getting harder, lightly drumming on the roof and finding its way through my window, which is open a chink to allow the remnants of my fag smoke to escape. Also, raindrops, fat and cold are finding my page and leaving little round wrinkles on the paper, the paper is of quite poor quality and makes felt tips bleed.

The travel news has just interrupted Radio 4 and somewhere is flooded as it has been raining for days.

The bin lorry is coming along with lights flashing with the bin men like bright, yellow bees, buzzing around, bringing rubbish to the truck, it’s got quite a strong smell, even on this cold, wet day.

Ten minutes later, still sat here needing a wee.

The kind of thing Lisa gets up to with her journal when she’s not sat in the car writing monologues:

Lisa's wreck this journal watercolour butterfly — To create this butterfly, Lisa dropped watercolour paint straight out of the tube. It took ten hours to dry but what a striking result.

Lisas wrecked journal rangoli patterns — Striking monochrome patterns. I’ve watched Lisa develop these, they come from the soul (often between ciggies, swigs of coffee and swapping spicy chickpea recipes)

January 13, 2015March 16, 2015

On the Nature of What I Am

Amandafearn1 — The Queen of Small Things in her garden

I went to a party recently. It was a most excellent party, hosted by a good friend of mine who has made most excellent parties an artform.

Whilst the evening was exceptional for many different reasons, what stood out for me was a question that came up time and time again and it was this:

so what are you?

I found myself stumped. My powers of speech a little dulled by a few Proseccos, I wanted to give a two word answer like bar maid, fire fighter or beach lifeguard but as I opened my mouth, I would instead take a sip of wine, make some indistinguishable noises under the thumping tunes and pass the breadsticks.

I suppose I could have said that I was a FTM (full time Mummy) – a possible contender for job title but this had to be viewed in light of one of the best quotes of the evening. This came from a gorgeous forty something, in what she confirmed was a Westwood frock: and it was the kind of crisp, elegantly designed affair that would sit next to the word ‘frock’ in a picture dictionary. She exclaimed, to much hilarity ‘how very middle class Mummy we all are – dancing at the Aga!’ We were all indeed, dancing at the Aga, using the towel rail as a pole albeit vertical rather than horizontal. The delightful frock, she informed us, had been acquired on Ebay, showing a remarkable sense of thrift, we all thought before someone picked a bottle of Prosecco off the walnut wood topped kitchen island and passed it around. We drank up and laughed some more. (I’ve got my fraudery off to perfection in such situations: the kind of social gatherings I was used to as a child involved worn sofas, ashtrays and sugary, dark tea in chipped mugs but the tourist in me smiled, quite genuinely.)

But it made me think: am I a full time Mum? Whilst I’m a dab hand at knocking out afterschool cake and end-of-the-month curry, I no longer dedicate every waking moment, nor the greater part of my intellectual or physical energy to my family – or at least not to the same extent I did when my children were babies. Is that what full time Mummies do? Even of older children? It’s all so very confusing.

I could have said that I’m a community worker. I’ve always had a firm belief that the early years are pivotal in a person’s life, so when the opportunity arose to help manage a local toddler group, I took it up. I had no idea that I would still be running it two years after my youngest was in full time school but it has secured me at the centre of a community and has supported the development of many children and their adults.

But is that the sum of what I do?

Could I have passed myself off as a writer? I write this blog, for example, I write for my friend’s charity website and I have, over many years, written all kinds of material from press releases to planning applications. I have somewhat of a talent for panning for information on the internet and although this has been part of what I’ve been employed to do in the past, I’ve never had a doohickie on my desk that says ‘writer’ and I don’t have a book in Waterstones. I must also confess that I was intimidated by the sheer weight of professional writing talent in the room at the time but does the exchange of coins for words a writer make?

So, back to my party. What did I say?

I waffled a little about my friend’s charity website. It is an important cause, so I was happy to promote it. I spoke of my children and of my blog but I had no title to give: no embossed words for a business card.

It was the following morning, dragging my hung-over body to the local shop for toilet paper (in fine form, my friend had taken better care of ensuring a healthy supply of mixers than ensuring a good stock of this very essential of essentials), when I spotted by the side of the pavement a few mushrooms growing in some gravel. They were tiny, grey and inconspicuous against the stones but in my daze, they stood out. They were the answer I had been looking for and it was all to do with the contrasting palates of colour.

It was a mild October morning and all around, fallen leaves littered the path: rich, decaying ochres, warm and mushy like pumpkin stew with barley and spice. But here, nestled against a fence and no doubt ignored by every other footfall were neutral, silent, simple tones: there was something very peaceful and restorative about them after such a dazzling night of stars. And I felt happy to have encountered such a secret joy in such a public place: the buzzing traffic and the plugged in joggers had no idea what was at their feet.

And this is what I am: I am the Queen of Small Things – this is the shoe that fits. I delight in the achievements of my friends, applaud those who climb ladders and celebrate the people who smash glass ceilings but I’ve been round long enough now to know that my pleasure lies in the small things because I own that pleasure like a secret: it is mine. I have given myself permission to be happy with what I have.

So, next time I’m asked about the nature of what I am over a glass of bubbly, I may simply speak of small mushrooms and autumn leaves

– that’s only if I’m not too busy dancing at the Aga.

September 20, 2014March 16, 2015

Where the small things start

cup of tea in the garden — Earl Grey and notebooks

With a cup of tea. That’s where the small things usually start.

But I think for my first post, I’ll begin by telling you about my mother – she is after all, quite small.

She came late to writing, being a dyslexic schoolchild in the mid-20th Century was not a good place to be but thankfully her creative mind found release in acrylic paint and huge hardwood boards. A course at the community centre in her 50s threw up the suggestion that her difficulties in reading and writing properly were in fact a result of her very unique perspective of the world. And the door opened. She picked up a pen. She loves to share her work.

I’ve always been a writer – my Mother’s influence rubbing off on me. In turn, I now catch my own six year old daughter writing poems and creating stories and warmly remember rich afternoons spent cradling a beloved notebook, pouring over old scribblings and making new ones. As a teenager, I scratched my tormented feelings into larger, less beloved notebooks and as an adult, I send my ideas adrift on the internet.

It’s the idea of sharing that inspires me. My mother speaks to everyone – from strangers at the bus stop to the Big Issue seller and his dog in the town. She has a friend who wears no shoes from year end to year end, with tattoos on his head and no more home than a hand-built shack and a wood burner but she hugs him in the street and they share poetry. There are scraps of paper, pages ripped from notepads and neatly typed prose but each of her pieces is insightful, uplifting and beautifully rare. These are her gifts.

So, I got to thinking, what if I shared some of her work? What if I shared some of my own? What if I gave a space for others of a like mind? We could all be standing at one virtual bus stop or drinking from the same viral teapot.

That’s what the Queen of Small Things project is all about and there is more to follow.