Saturday, December 31, 2016

Golf Biscuits through the mists of time

O lost friend of my youth rediscovered. Golf Biscuits were a staple when I was a child, from the hefty Good Housekeeping volume that the President gave Mother. I believe she still has the book, but that much-used page is gone.  And then one day the recipe appeared on the trusty old Internet, in the Vintage Cookbook Trials!

The good, kind person who posted it there does not speak highly of them but they are as delicious as ever, either plain or with chocolate.

That rustic look is Entirely Intentional, excuse me.  I add chocolate to biscuits by placing a few lovely Callebaut chocolate chips on top of them and returning to the oven for a minute, then spreading. No doubt you have a better way.

Note that they contain 2 oz sugar.  1 oz suffices, really.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Siberian Sourdough Bread

It doesn't matter one little bit that I seldom post here any more, because I have been baking my own sourdough bread.

The sourdough starter, a token of thanks, borne in Tupperware on Aeroflot to Ireland by Dame Ada Lamb and her companion on their last Grand Tour of Europe, is fresh from the Gulags or Steppes of Siberia; I forget which they said exactly.

It is centuries old.

The French, with their finer sensibilities, appreciate that sort of posturing. The phone rang and it was Canal Levain++ asking me whether I would appear on their panel discussion on over-sized jugs and whether to hang curtains across the washing-machine alcove.

At first I said No, as I say No to everything, but then I asked myself, "What would Samuel Beckett have said?", and I said Yes.  We aesthetes must stick together.

So all these months have been stamped with the knead and rise and bake of the sourdough bread to the beat of the warming world. And now great fame.

I will have to turn off the comments here. It has been so long since I commented over at your blog; certainly for no less love of you and your fabulous flowers and slipcovers but rather through languor and, ultimately, moral turpitude.

Not commenting makes me feel guilt-stricken and nervy. I am prone to that.

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Still waiting for the cakes

We are still here on our lengthy vigil for the cakes that have yet to reach us. Meanwhile, struggling on, we make our own, wonky though they may be.

The above is a 9th birthday nest, but I should have made it in the shape of a lone frail tree, faltering in the forest.  Why?, you politely ask. It is because I sense that the dear old amateur lifestyle blogging community is losing its fizz.

No one, now, proudly shows off their low-carbohydrate courgette spaghetti. Chairs sit round, un-reupholstered. Nothing is painted a milky shade of grey. Everyone is too busy following their desk exercise regime to note that they saw a sparrow in the east this morning, and liken it to Jesus.

People have decamped to other rides in the great social media funfair, rides that are faster and shinier and where there is a promise of coins, or at least a fake watch or a small teddy.  A stern, chill wind blows across our collective refurbished verandah.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

down these green streets a woman must go who is not herself green

Thanks to a flat tyre
I went to no St. Patrick's Day parade
Drank nothing green
Stood in no chill breeze
Took no photos
(Here are no photos)
Hid from no hearty people
Queued in no queues
Passed no remarks on how fine the fiddles are,
and your hair, my dear, and coat.

But, rather, stayed at home,
muttering to myself in my minority language
as I transplanted a rose,
curmudgeonly as I pleased.
O joy, O joy, O joy.
O flat tyre of perpetual joy.

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