Today I am Going to be an Artist?

Well staycation over now, back to work. Just in case anyone is interested Beach Art, My final holiday project went well. I will need time to write it up but here is a little Taster.

Scrapbook - Tide, Time and living in the now. 

Chicken Pie.

On Thursday, as part of my staycation experience week I decided to be a Baker. Nothing very unusual there, this is something I do regularly and although I enjoyed the experience I didn't think there was very much to share with you all, so decided not to write about it.

The next day I went out with Doug and Monty for a walk and got to discussing my earlier post from The Turner Gallery. We talked about how you can look at something and not really see what is in front of you unless you look more deeply and take moment to think.

A leaf on the pavement is just another leaf until you really look, See the veins that run through it and as you look closer more tinier veins that carry nutrients to its tip. What wondrous symmetry natures programming has put in place to repeat this form over and over again and the texture and colour as you gently rub your thumb over its surface is not fully acknowledged untill you make a conscious effort to see it. We talked of how the simplest of things give you pleasure but often experiences and opportunity are taken for granted. So I am going to share my baking with you.

10 oz of self-raising flour,I sieve this vigorously into a bowl, gentle clouds billowing above and covering the kitchen worktop, hands, in fact anything within its range with a fine dusting, getting finer towards the edges like a soft powdery illustration of a nuclear fallout pattern. Quite appropriate really as hubby always says the kitchen looks like a bomb has hit it after I have been there.

5 oz of margarine straight from the fridge cold and tacky in my hand. I cut it into pieces which create little craters as they plop into the flour, forming their own little cloudburst of wheaten smoke.

The salt hard and crystalline, sparkling in the sun that shines through the kitchen window  goes in next, 1 tsp. Then in with the hands, the flour cold and soft at the same time on the backs of my finger as they plunge into and under, reminding me of  the soft down on my Mothers cheek as I gently stroked it to say my last goodbyes. Cold and Hard usually go together like Ice, cold and soft i find unusual.  I select the first pieces of fat to be gently squeezed and rubbed between my fingers and thumbs, Like Fagin testing the quality of a silk Handkerchief newly picked from a rich mans pocket. The flakes that flutter gently down from between my fingers getting smaller and smaller as I plunge my hands again and again into the now warming flour, repeating this motion until only small fine crumbs are present in my shiny metal bowl. I am unable to complete this task without making a chewing motion with my jaw, like a cow chewing the cud. Why I do this is a complete mystery but I always have, a reflex, like opening you mouth as you try to spoon feed a child, irresistible. Luckily baking is usually a solo pastime so there are not to many witnesses to my Kitchen Gurning.

Water is then trickled in like little rivers in a barren white sanded desert. I do not know how much, just how much is enough. My favorite tool for this next bit is my grey handled knife which I swizzle around the bowl, enjoying its scraping metallic tune, until no water can be seen and the crumbs are all clumped together in moist little boulders in the bowl, a cratered, free form lunar landscape. Back in with the hand, only one this time. my Fingers swizzle the same way my knife did I hate the way that the dough attaches itself to my fingers. I use only one hand for this as I need to have one clean hand to turn on the tap to wash it off. Gently I gather the clumps into one soft but not wet ball and use it to mop up any stray bits of dough that are left in the bow,l slightly turning the forming pastry until the bowl is clean and the dough is smooth. As I pick up the bowl to make way for the rolling I notice an un-floured void where my bowl had stood. perfectly round and unnoticed until this moment, it cries out for a smiley face to be drawn inside but i resist the urge. Were I to walk away with my bowl and desert the kitchen like the Mary Celeste it would be clear what homely task had been taking place here.

The first 2/3 of the dough I roll out to line the pie plate, my favourite Pie plate, a tin plate, Black enamel speckled with white the kind you might find on a camping expedition. Mine is quite deep with a small rim so as not to make to bigger crust, the same Tin Plate i have used for twenty years or more to bake pies for my Family. it is like an old friend its familiarity cheers me as I hang the rolled pastry over the rolling-pin and place it gently over the plate allowing it to settle into the dish and over hang the edges. I  flour the worktop again flinging the flour around with free abandon, there's nobody here to witness the disaster zone that my kitchen has become, before rolling the pie lid. Succulent chunks of chicken and white sauce are placed in the pie the light catching it like a sunlit milky pool. Two rashers of Bacon snipped into pieces are added like little pink fishes to the pool while lily pad slices of Mushroom float upon the top. Right, ready for the lid now, softened in the warmth of my Kitchen, it resists being placed and crimped atop my sumptuous filling.

Fresh from the Coop a big Brown egg. I crack it sharply on the side of the cup before prising the now broken shell apart and emptying it in. it sits there in the bottom of the cup, golden-yellow yolk plump and proud floating in its thick viscous snotty egg white. This I beat with a fork ,watch the sunny yolk leak out into the albumen before combining into a honey coloured liquid which will turn my paisty looking pastry into a Bronzed sun-kissed creation that will tease the senses before being gobbled up with pleasure.

Baked to perfection My Chicken Pie emerges from my decrepid old cooker as proud and hansom as its pre baked aroma has promised. wrapped in a familiar red and white tea towel I carry it down the street before presenting  it to my son and his family for Dinner.

A dinner we sit and share together, this is a special time as they have just brought home their new baby, our grandson. My old Pie plate, beautiful Baby Max and Chicken Pie. Simple pleasures not taken for granted by this Nanny.

(isn't he adorable? I can't take my eyes off him)

Children 2

First photo's of the new baby!

Due in early July!

OOOOOOOOOh!

Children

We are expecting a baby!!! Not "we" as in Hubby and me but "we" as in, my son and his partner are expecting a baby. this is fantastic news, there hasn't been a baby in my family for quite some time. Well not one that I get to hold anyway. I was amazed at my response when they told me the news, I squealed, for those of you that don't know me I am not a squealy sort of person. In fact recently I have some times thought that maybe I have forgotten how to have fun. I watch the squealing women on the TV screaming over stuff, Film stars, game shows, getting drunk and dirty falling out of bars, Christmas........ and I wonder, What are they getting so excited about? Is anything that exciting anymore? and then I heard this wonderful news about the baby! I cant wait, I know I will have to wait, I know it's not my Baby but WOW what a feeling as they say in the song. And then I started to dream a little, then I started to remember the moment I saw my Granddaughter for the first time. That was the day I became a believer. No, not the god thing, the day I became a believer in love at first sight. You love your own children, you laboured and brought them into the world surrounded by anxiety's and doubts, Worries that you cant take care of them properly, wont know how to feed them, dress them, get them to sleep through the night, afraid that if you don't manage to snatch 6 consecutive hours of sleep at least once this week you really will start to behave like a Rabid Mother Gerbil and eat the tiny offspring, so it would be a damn swindle if you didn't get to love them. Grandchildren are different, they are like a perfect sugary gift that smell of something indescribably wonderful and baby Talc. You know all the right things to do, even if it is forbidden to let the new mum in on your secret, and when you get to hold the new baby a warm glow spreads through you as you see a little glimpse of the baby you where to anxious and tired to fully appreciate the first time around. Anyway after I recovered from my initial excitement I pondered my own baby's and pulled out some old photo's. Oh how sad they make me feel, what amazing little boys they where, I feel a sense of loss that I can't remember more of their growing up, I would love to savour the joy of watching them sleep without the fear that I may wake them. Share their glee at painting my Freezer with gloss paint while i wasn't watching, without the feeling of guilt that I had taken my eye off of them, they where so proud of their handy work. I would like the chance to do it all again and not rush them to grow. I cant wait, did i mention that already, sorry. I am sure I will mention it again soon.



The Photograph

Captured in a moments glee
My tiny son stares back at me.
His hand on hip so glad to pose
I don’t think he even knows
The future that I see.

That photograph is put away
To pause and look another day.
The essence of a mothers Joy
Captured in that little boy.
The hope that’s kept at bay

The Image when again is found,
reminds you time has turned around.
Those dreamy childhood moments passed,
A proud young man he is at last.
To wonder and astound.

How did those years slip by so swiftly,
Slip away, pass so quickly.
Is that a tear of pride I cry,
For a forgotten memory of my boy.
For the man I knew he’d be.