Pray for Me - I'm Going to Glastonbury....

Just a little post to let you know that I'm off to Glastonbury for a week tomorrow. I'll be working with Nick in the Fat Belly Puppet Cafe. If you're going to be there and you want to come see me, I'll be the muddy one brandishing a large cleaver and chopping anything in sight at high speed like the chef from the muppets.

I have been filling the freezer with food for Fin during my absence, I've made carrot pulp bread, carrot muffins, lemon cakes, banana bread, bananas ready for ice-cream and my own version of Larabars in two flavours, hazelnut caramel and lemon pie. I'll be posting recipes for all of these when I'm back.  Not wanting to confuse my mother in law with lists of what Fin can and can't eat - I thought it easier to write a complete menu of meals and snacks for the week and provide all the meals myself, albeit frozen. What I will eat myself at Glastonbury remains a mystery, but so far I'm taking two dozen eggs, tuna, mayonnaise, a sack of carrots, nut bread and lots of raw nuts - I may need to pack some prunes and seek out a juice bar I think (sorry if that's too much information). I may just go and graze in the hedges if I start to feel deprived of greens......

So, Peanut Butter Boy - I won't be able to bake any cupcakes for your Great Peanut Butter Exhibition, but I look forward to drooling over the other contributions.

Carrie - I can't believe that I won't be contributing to Go Ahead Honey It's Gluten Free! I have made so many one pot meals and wished to measure and photograph them but failed miserably. In fact, I have three on the go now - Saffron and Fresh Bay Infused Slow Cooked Lamb Stew, Light Roast Chicken Stew and Buttered Leek and Squash Soup. Boy is Fin going to eat well this week! Good luck with the event anyway - if you decide to extend the deadline for any reason, just let me know and I'll contribute on my return.

So, say a little prayer for me folks, as I enter into the valley of mud with my courage screwed to the sticking place and a little flame of hope alight in my heart, that this one, this year will be the year when the gentle sun shines and sweet breeze cools and my wellies stay packed in their bag.

How the Builders Stole My Mojo and Straight Talking Got it Back Again....

First a big thank you to Peanut Butter Boy who nominated me to receive the delightful blog award pictured below, 'Arte y Pico' - for those bloggers who appreciate a little beauty on screen and generally try to make the world a lovelier place by appreciating eye candy (in the broadest sense you understand - I don't mean to imply that this award is for oglers and the unashamedly lecherous). It comes with a meme which I am going to have to decline just now. My policy on memes is that I do them only when they really strike me and I feel I can write something worth reading. No offence meant Peanut Butter Boy, I still love you and your nutty buttery ways and thanks so much for the nomination, it made me smile. Whoever is given this award must nominate five other bloggers to recieve it - mine are at the bottom of the post and if you want to write your meme, go check out PBBoy

However, to segue back to the disclaimer about ogling - I had a personal epiphany this week regarding the subject. It happened like this.

Along the road a little way from us some builders are bodging up a new house from scratch. I cycle past this site at least four times a day and sometimes walk past it too. I was watching the wobbly and possibly criminally illegal progress of this shambolic creation with interest - would it stand up I wondered, would it even resist the rain?

As I flashed past on my bike each time there would come a little 'woo-hoo!' from the site, quiet at first and then as they got more confident about it, 'wey-hey!' and a few wolf whistles if they were feeling especially excitable. I started to feel uncomfortable about cycling past and walking down the road felt even worse, the long approach as they watched and I averted my eyes, the whistling while I stared at the pavement and tried not to trip over.

Now I'm not a timid person, you might even say I'm pretty confident. I've even been called dominant on occasion! But here was a situation that reduced me to a scuttling mouse, a button up my top another notch, wonder if my skirt is provocative wisp of self consciousness.

I started to avoid the road and took a detour every time so that I didn't have to worry about it anymore. It didn't feel like a solution, this pack of thoughtless builders had taken away the ease with which I breezed around town and didn't worry if my skirt blew up for a moment. Now the very thought caused me to clutch the fabric around me in case a stray gust should catch me unawares.

Then came the day when I had to walk past them. Late for a bus I strode up the road anticipating the whoop and holler and sure enough they obliged with a volley of wolf whistles. So I turned around and said loudly, 'stop it, you're making me feel really uncomfortable' and their jaws hung slack with surprise as they sifted though the meaning of what I'd said. Not the usual, 'f*** off' that I'd have given before to a bunch of builders. Screaming expletives at them only seems to produce more abuse, forcing them together to bond over that feeling of having won one over on you.

Wolf whistling is not an expression of appreciation, but an act of cowardice. Men exerting their ability to control women through sexualizing them. I've never been whistled by a lone builder because he knows instinctively that he can't intimidate me on his own, he needs his buddies, fueled by testosterone and physical labour. So when I realised that all I had to do was make them aware of me as a person with feelings, it seemed simple enough to just say something honest and let them consult their consciences individually. How can you holler and jeer when someone says something plain and honest?

As I walked away a hush fell, broken only by my heels on the pavement. I glanced back as I turned the corner and they were still watching me go, not a sneer in sight. I haven't heard a sound out of them since.

I nominate the following fantastic bloggers for my award:

La Tartine Gourmande
Gluten Free Day
Klaydough Dreams
Cannelle et Vanille
Elana's Pantry

Peachy.... (Grain Free Frangipane Crumble )

In a moment of weakness I bought one of those punnets of early Spanish peaches in the supermarket. I had fifteen minutes to complete the shopping, load it all into my panniers and race to school to pick up a possibly grumpily peckish Fin. I squeezed one at the top of the punnet and it gave pleasingly to my thumb, so in they went, letting out a delicate peachy summer sigh on the way.

At school I presented a hot dishevelled boy with the soft peach and soon juice was running down his chin and all the way to his elbows. You already know about Fin's ability to cover himself with food - with peaches it's like fruit Armageddon. We cycled home before the bees got a whiff and decided to carry him off.

Of course, the rest of the peaches in the punnet were as hard as rocks. Even after a couple of days in the banana cupboard they refused to let go and start ripening. Raw unripe peach is no fun, but I was craving so I chopped them up and simmered with a knob of butter and a little water until remarkably, the alchemy of heat transformed them into something soft, juicy and luscious. The only way to further enhance that warm buttery peach was with a frangipane crumble topping, scented with vanilla and lemon zest, browned in a gentle oven.

So if you find yourself with a few recalcitrant peaches, count yourself lucky - because you will have the perfect excuse to make this decadent, fragrant satisfying crumble.

Peach Frangipane Crumble (SCD) serves 4

8 peaches or nectarines
6 oz ground almonds
zest of 2 unwaxed lemons
6 tsp set honey
4 tsp cold butter
1 tsp bourbon vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 160C

Peel the peaches if you're not keen on skin and chop into chunks. Heat gently in a saucepan with a knob of butter and enough water just to cover the bottom of the pan - not the peaches. You can always add more water if you want. Cook gently until the fruit is soft, but not too pulpy. There should be just enough juice around the fruit to make the crumble juicy, not swimming. Pile into a dish and spread into an even layer.

Tip ground almonds into a mixing bowl and sprinkle over vanilla and lemon zest. Spoon in honey and butter and rub together gently with your fingertips until a damp crumble mixture forms. It's not quite as easy as a flour mix, but if you go lightly it should be fine. Spoon over the fruit and pop into the oven for 15-20 minutes or until golden brown and bubbling. Enjoy with some thick yogurt or creme fraiche, or maybe even a scoop of Pure Banana Ice-Cream.

Honey Toffee Lollipops

I made these a while ago and keep forgetting to post the recipe. However I decided not to make them again for a while because they were so good it was hard not to eat them all at once. In fact Fin found it nigh on impossible - and this is a boy with above average will power for a six year old.

After I'd made the lollies and stowed them in the freezer to stay firm, I was upstairs doing something - sorting the laundry maybe - and Fin was playing happily by himself. When I came down Fin looked furtive and I sensed something had occurred of which he anticipated adverse consequences. I didn't need to wonder long because although Fin assured me that nothing was amiss with the sweetest smile ever, his face was covered in toffee. Fin is one of those children who can never eat anything without smearing it somewhere on their person, even a harmless carrot leaves an almost indelible stain around his chops.

'Fin, I'm not going to be angry if you tell me the truth, ok?'

His resolve to hide the truth broke at once like a dry twig and he admitted to consuming four lollipops on the trot, with his tail firmly between his legs.

'They're just too good mummy' he said, using his hands for emphasis, 'I couldn't help myself.....'

Yes they're that good - don't say I didn't warn you.

The original recipe for these came from Elaine Gottschall's book on the SCD diet, Breaking The Vicious Cycle. I used the recipe for vanilla candy and it made toffee that is slightly soft at room temperature. For something that stays crisp leave out the butter - but you won't get that mouth filling buttery taste.....

This makes quite a lot of toffee, so store in a secure cool location. A locked box in the freezer would be my recommendation!



Honey Toffee Lollipops (SCD)

1/4 cup water
1 cup runny honey (or melt set honey and measure it when soft)
1/2 tsp cider vinegar
1 tsp bourbon vanilla extract (or a couple of drops of peppermint or lemon essential oil)
1 dessert spoon butter

Grease a large tray or chopping board (that does not smell of onions) and lay out lolly sticks about 3 inches apart. I used chopped up wooden skewers but you can buy the real thing in cook shops. I think this amount of mixture will make about 20 lollies, maybe...roughly...

Heat water, vinegar and honey in a deep sided saucepan as the mixture will froth up when it boils. Allow it to boil gently, not a rolling boil or you will scorch the honey - until a firm ball forms when you drop some into cold water. To do this, just have a glass by the pan and drip a little in. You should be able to roll the ball between your thumb and forefinger.

Plunge the bottom of the pan into some cold water to stop the mixture from continuing to cook and add the butter and vanilla extract stirring until smooth.

Then spoon one or two spoonfulls of the mixture over each stick, covering the top by about an inch. You want your lollies to be about 2 inches diameter. Any that is left over can be rolled into balls and wrapped in cellophane or you could stir in some chopped nuts first and roll into little logs. I made balls by dropping a small spoonful onto a greased tray and then rolling when it had started to set a little. Or you can pour the rest into a small tray, freeze till hard and break with a hammer and sharp object (not a small persons teeth).

These toffees go soft if you don't keep them cold and they must be in an airtight container or they will pick up the taste of the fridge or freezer. I don't know if it's the naturally humectant quality of honey that does this? Chou, maybe you know? Or maybe you know, gentle unkown reader. If you do, please tell me, I would love to know more about honey.

If you start getting a fuzzy back and humming then you know you've eaten too many of these......

Message in a Bubble

Our second weekend without Nick and the rhythms have become more predictable, we have settled into each other and easily move through meals and games and Borrowers Afield at bedtime, clary sage to calm and something that reminds him of daddy to clutch as he sucks his thumb and then lets it fall out again as sleep steals over him.

And we have had arguments and exasperation, but they blow over like a storm at sea leaving us holding each other, apologising, making promises and starting another game of chess.



Every morning we toast each other with fresh carrot or beetroot juice. I feel rather like Morticia - downing a glass of something so deeply red and velvety and wiping my tawny moustache away with a napkin before I scare the postman.



Today Fin had a bouncy castle birthday party to go to, so I baked some lemon fairy cakes with the smallest amount of honey (I'll give you the recipe soon) and gave him a bottle of sparkling water and some crudites to munch. He came out looking pink and sweaty, brandishing with obvious excitement, a bottle of bubbles and a balloon that had yet to be inflated. These two items were the remainder of a party bag stuffed with sweets that he had returned to the host without a flicker of doubt. On the way home he reported with mild alarm that there were no carrot sticks at the party - in fact no vegetables at all. 'Just junk really'. A little tear of maternal pride welled up for such a boy.



When we got back I filled a tub trug with warm water and Fin sat out in the garden like a king, blowing bubbles into the air. They floated up over the house and down the street popping on cars and bushes and an old couple who cooed over Fin for taking such simple pleasure in a tub of water and a bottle of bubbles.



We sat on the doorstep in the early evening sun, Fin wrapped snugly in a large white towel trying to fit all of himself onto my lap again like he used to. 'I miss daddy' he said simply. 'I know' I replied and we watched the last few bubbles drift off over the roof tops, bound for Spain.

Missing Daddy

There are only two of us rattling around the house this week. Nick left with his travelling case at the very crack of dawn last Friday and slowly made his way over land to Seville in Spain. He called to say that it had rained nearly the whole way and yet I couldn't feel any schadenfreude about it, because I was missing him so much and trying hard not to have one of those silent phone calls, punctuated only by the sound of fat tears dropping onto the receiver, as my mouth soundlessly forms an 'O'.

He is immersing himself in Spanish for over two weeks, after studying it for four years at home. When he calls after lessons have finished, in the deep quiet of late afternoon siesta, I can hear the heat rising from his sun warmed body and his voice is soft, oiled with jamon.

Fin goes to sleep every night clutching a medley of comforting objects to make up for Daddy's absence; a velvet pig and fluffy dog, an item of clothing that smells like Nick and a piece of rose quartz to soothe over the gap in his heart that will only be filled by Daddy. He is six now and the status quo is changing. Nick has acquired the new role of demi-god in his eyes and I am just, 'mummy', always here taking care of the mundane stuff - reliable, steady. After years of running to me for comfort and sustenance I'm relegated to, 'not quite as exciting' and although sometimes it's a welcome rest - at the end of a long day of answering every possible need, dancing like the court fool, cajoling homework and finally tucking Fin into bed, my heart sags when he cries for Nick.

Without someone else to take me upstairs at a reasonable hour I find I am a night owl again. There are books to be read, films to watch, skirts to hand stitch and blogs to browse. In the blink of an eye it's midnight and I seem to have skipped through the sleepy stage of the evening to the one where I could stay up all night and do the things I have been putting off. If I'm not careful I can find that the living room floor is suddenly clothed in pieces of fabric and ribbon whilst an old film rumbles in the background. All those years of training myself to get up with a small child and early bird husband evaporate as soon as I'm left to my own devices.

I make myself a medicinal chamomile tea, turn off the lights and tread lightly upstairs. Our electric toothbrush hums loudly into the heavy silence while I lean out of the window to see if anyone is about. But this is a small town where everyone else is sleeping now and my sole companion is a lone seagull sweeping through the air in lazy circles, bone white against star punctured blackness. I push my pillow into the middle of the bed and try to enjoy covering as much of it as possible, but these nonchalant acts are scant consolation for the absence of a warm back to curl around. So I read and read, until eventually I can't hold my eyes open anymore and let sleep gently smooth the blanket up over my shoulders


See you in dreamtime Nick x x x