Christmas spiced cranberry liqueur

“What should I get your husband?” I asked my sister on the phone the other night.

“Drink.” she said.

“Anything in particular?”

“No, just drink”

Please don’t think my brother-in-law is some kind of unreformed drunkard – he’s just terribly hard to buy for.  I didn’t want to just get a bottle of whisky; he’s quite a connoisseur and I’m not sure what his tastes are. Also, malts are expensive.  Gin? Well, Hendricks or Caorunn both are divine. But, you know, maybe not very festive. Also, expensive.

In the spirit of making stuff – which I’m trying to do more and more – I decided to make him a Christmas Spiced Cranberry Liqueur.  Here’s how:

2 cups white granulated sugar and 2 cups of water go in a big pan and are slowly warmed until the sugar dissolves. As it warms, add six cloves, a decent bit of cinnamon bark (or some broken up bits from the bottom of the bag) and the peel (no pith) of an orange. I was going to use clementines, but they didn’t seem as well-scented.

Then add a 200g bag of cranberries and cook gently for around 15 or 20 mins until the berries are soft. During this time you’ll hear them gently popping and the kitchen will fill with the mixture’s festive spicy scent.   When the berries are soft, cool the mixture a bit (so you don’t crack the jar) then tip the whole lot into a really big jar (I’m using an old glass sweetie jar, like the ones that used to line the shelves of proper sweet shops) – or, conceivably, two middle-sized ones – and top off with vodka, a litre or so.  Don’t be daft and use the world’s best vodka for this, just supermarket stuff should be fine.

Lid on, and put in a dark place. Bring it out once or twice a day and shake it.  Over the days it should take on a beautiful red colour, and the liquor should improve in taste.

After three weeks (more or less) it should be done. Test it, just to be sure! If it’s ready, then strain the liquid and bottle up beautifully. Don’t chuck out those drunken berries! They’ll make a very adult addition to baking or a boozy ice-cream topping, so I’ll probably jar up some and gift them too.

It will, I hope, be ready by Christmas. I expect it will be tip-top in the bottom of a champagne flute and topped up with fizz.  At least, that’s how I’m going to sell it to my brother-in-law.

Day in the Life – 17th November

I’m allowed to sleep until 8.25 which is an amazing lie-in. Husband has been up for a while and is downstairs dealing with 4yo, and in his absence, 9yo has sneaked into his warm bit of the bed. She’s not well, tonsils are swollen and she has some mighty big mouth ulcers, so it’s a day off school for her. This is a bit of a bugger as I’m supposed to be going to the Country Living Christmas Fair. Husband brings me tea and I go to wrangle 4yo to school.

We arrive to find a small black scottie dog in the middle of the road outside school. It’s causing a bit of traffic havoc, but I know the dog so pull over and try to call her to the side so’s I can catch her. Fortunately my friend and her wee girl are passing so we use a bit of her little ‘uns breakfast sandwich to catch the scamp.

I take Dylan the dog (that is, our dog) for a walk in the park, which is nice for both of us. Then it’s home for him and off to the Fair for me!

The fair is fab – it even smells Christmassy. I see a few folk I know – Danni of Bonbons and Buttercream, who sells me a chocolate muffin mix in jar, which is intended for the P1 teacher who’s heading off on Maternity leave, Jenny and Emma at the Showpony stand (Showpony was responsible for my *free!!complimentary!* ticket ) plus I bump into a couple of mums from school. It’s all very pleasant.

I get back home in time to grab a bowl of soup for lunch and then out to get 4yo from school.

Ooh, the postie brings an Amazon parcel – it’s the Bust DIY Guide to Life. I’ve bought it as a gift for someone but can’t remember exactly who… You see, this is what happens when you do online shopping late at night, possibly after a glass of wine. Also credit card bill, including a year’s car insurance. Goodbye birthday money, potential new shoes and luxury food items, hello well-insured austerity.

The 4yo refuses to go swimming (each child gets one refusnik chance card per term) so we go home, eat Lidl stollen and watch Scooby doo. Mystery Incorporated is definitely the absolute nadir of the Scooby Doo oeuvre. Fred and Daphne actually getting off with each other – ew. Velma vying with Scooby for Shaggy’s affection – that’s just plain wrong.

There is lots of building work going on outside the house so the dog keeps barking madly. I go to look every time – when will I learn? There’s never anything exciting there.

It’s two weeks until 4yo becomes 5yo, and I haven’t done anything about her party yet. It being P1, I think a whole-class party is best, but having seen the whole class in action, decide that soft-play (ie total delegation) is the best idea. Finally get it together, phone the place and book it. She is chuffed to bits. I have agreed to make a Harriet Hedgehog chocolate cake, so do a bit of light googling for the recipe.

Hell’s bells, look at the time – 5 o’clock. I phone husband to remind him that he has a ski lesson tonight, then get on with dinner. 4yo helps me make corn muffins and there’s 8-hour stew from yesterday.

Take 9yo to piano – although she’s not well, she really wants to go as she’s done lots of practice this week. It goes okay. When she gets back the girls make invitations for the 4yo’s upcoming party on the computer. Very cute.

By 9pm children are finally dispatched to bed, I watch Only Connect and Buzzcocks on iplayer and brush the dog, then listen to I’ve never seen star wars and I’m sorry I haven’t a clue on the radio iplayer while I clean up in the kitchen.

Late night, off to bed at 12.45 – oops. Double oops, I read until 1.15.

Phew – that was my day in the life. Thanks to Laura for picking a good day, and Mooosh for collation duties

Jewish chicken soup

I came late to chicken soup. Of course, I’d had the reconstituted packet stuff, with its parsley-esque green flecks and uniform, soft noodles. But I’d not tasted the real deal until I sat down to dinner at my husband-to-be’s family dinner table.
“How many kneidles?” his mum asked.
Kneidles? I looked to my not-yet-husband for help.
“Three?” he suggested.

A shallow bowl was placed in front of me, containing three pale dumpling balls, a few neatly cut slices of celery and carrot, and one half cherry tomato, its skin starting to slip away from the pulp, all floating in a fragrant, golden broth. I lifted a spoonful, waited for it to cool, then supped. It was amazing.

Sadly, my mother-in-law is no longer with us, and of the many things I miss about her, her cooking is right up there. “I’ll bring the soup” she’d say, when we were putting together the big festival family meals. She’d arrive, glammed up to the nines, carrying a bag with two huge containers of soup, and a separate one for the kneidles. She’d be unpacking the food and kissing her grandchildren before she even got her coat off. And although I know I’m nowhere in her league when it comes to the classics of yiddishe mama cookery, I’m doing my best to keep the traditions going.

And so it is, that when my big girl had flu recently, and was home from school, all she wanted to eat was chicken soup. And now that I have a horrible gunky chest cold and am feeling sorry for myself, chicken soup is my first port of call.

If you’re making Jewish chicken soup, first you need a jewish chicken or pieces thereof.

You can also use an old boiler fowl, or just bones from the butcher. If that’s the case, you might need to bump up the flavour at the end with a little extra stock.

In a large pot, put…
one or two onions, cut in half. You don’t have to bother peeling them, in fact, the skin adds an extra colour to the soup.
a large carrot, snapped in half
a stick or two of celery
10 peppercorns (just a guess! don’t stand and count them!)
two or three cloves of garlic, again unpeeled but stabbed with the tip of a sharp knife to allow their flavour to penetrate the soup
a slice of turnip (swede) cut into chunks
two bay leaves, crumpled in your hand to release their flavour
a tablespoon of salt

Add the chicken bones or bits and cover with cold water. Put on a medium heat to bring to simmering point, then turn right down and leave to gently simmer for several hours, until it’s golden and slightly viscous. You’ll know it’s ready when your whole house smells wonderful!

Strain the soup and dispose of all the veg and bones and stuff. Some people like to pick off pieces of the soup meat to put in, but that’s not what we do. Our lucky dog gets them.

You can serve the soup as it is, a health-giving consommé. Or you can finely slice a little carrot and celery and cook it in the broth, add a few halved cherry tomatoes near the end. The final touch is kneidles, little matzo dumplings. That’s a recipe to give you later, but if you do want to add dumplings, remember, never cook them in your soup! Just warm them through in it at the end.

And I’d like three, please.

Jaffa cakes count as fruit, right?

So my big girl’s doing a topic on Nutrition at school just now, which to a large extent involves simple activities like drawing the food pyramid and colouring in drawings of healthy plates of food. And I was quite amused to see that she’d filed Chicken Soup under vegetables. But this weekend we are doing The Food Diary.

Gulp.

Now, I think we keep a pretty healthy household. We don’t eat much ready-made food, don’t have fizzy drinks in the cupboard or give the girls free access to as much confectionery as they can carry. But I’m still feeling a bit inadequate about having to list what we’re eating all weekend. I was going to suggest we creatively edit what she writes until Mr Rhubarb suggested that it maybe wasn’t such a good idea to get our 9yo thinking she should be lying about what she’s eating. And when you put it like that, I can’t disagree.

I might be overly sensitive on this. I’m really keen that she have a healthy and reasonable approach to food and eating, and save herself a life of self-loathing and deprivation. If she asks for diet coke (ok, sometimes she gets a fizzy juice when we’re eating out) I always ask “Why diet?” and point out that artificial sweeteners aren’t much good for you. I try not to offer food as a comfort or reward. And I never talk about dieting. But I’m still worried about having our food habits scrutinised and likely criticised by her teacher.

As an aside, I really really REALLY hate when people tell me they’ve been ‘naughty’ or ‘bad’ because of what they’ve eaten. Unless you stole it or stabbed someone in the process, then eating a piece of cake or a whole bowl of icing, or a cheese fondue or whatever, is not a moral decision. It’s just food. And maybe you didn’t need it to feel full, but you sure as hell had SOME reason for eating it, and that’s as valid as anything else. Maybe if we were better at listening to ourselves and wondering why we were eating particular things, rather than a blanket ‘oops Ive been a naughty girl’ reaction, we’d be a bit better at managing our eating and emotional wellbeing.

So this weekend, I will be making roast vegetables with couscous, chickpeas and lentils. We’ll have homemade soup for lunch. I’ll offer fruit as snacks, and try to limit the biscuit intake. And I will be so relieved when this exercise is over and we can go back to eating healthy food normally.

A Day in the Life

Now, to make my excuses first, I didn’t remember it was DiTL day until mid-afternoon when I checked in with Twitter and saw the reminders, so this will be a bit sketchy and have no photos….

So, on with the day

I wake up at around 9 – hurrah, what a brilliant lie-in! – woken by 4yo telling me to go downstairs and have a cup of tea with Grandma. Yes, we are not at home, we’re on Scotland’s Paradise Island, staying at my mum’s house. So because I am nice, I leave Mr Rhubarb to continue sleeping and go for the cup of tea.

The next bit of the morning is taken up with tea, toast and Roses Lime Marmalade, settling arguments over who gets what from the mini cereal multipack, coffee, waking husband, tidying up breakfast, waking 9yo (who’d stayed up really late the previous night, partly due to her sister winding her up, but nevertheless had to get up eventually) and general mucking around.

By half ten, I’m wearing rollerblades. Oh yes.

I’m quite relieved there are no pictures of this section of the day. I have knee pads, elbow pads and wrist guards too – all in black, and I’m wearing head-to-toe black as well. I try to tell 9yo I’m a ninja rollerblader, but in reality, I’m a nearly middle-aged woman who’s mostly worried about breaking a bone. Me and 9yo go out to the promenade and skate up and down for a while. I’m surprised by how okay I get on – only one flailing arms around a bit moment, and total lack of grace when getting up from sitting on a bench admiring the view. The view is stunning. Little boats are bobbing around in the harbour, the sun is glinting on the sea and the mountains of Arran are clear in the distance.

Rollerblading’s quite hard work, so we don’t stay out too long. Mum and I are going to swap cars while I’m here so I can take her big jumbo car to go on our camping holiday, and she can use my much smaller and far less whizzy one. But it’s much cleaner! (only since I spent about an hour hoovering it before we came down to the Island – I think I had several kilos of sand in the back seats alone) So I take all the stuff out of my car and she takes all the stuff out of hers. We swap keys. She takes me a drive around the block while I explain how to put on lights/radio/windscreen wipers.

Lunchtime! Broccoli soup, toast, ham, cheese, avocado.

After lunch we head out for a walk – the dog is very excited to be at the seaside. He’s away and running as soon as the lead is unclipped, bouncing around in the long grass, paddling in the sea, hunting for dead seagulls to snack on, and meeting ‘n’ greeting everyone he passes. We walk around the bay, to the swingboats – the 4yo LOVES the swingboats. The sun is hot, the ticket booth radio’s playing decent music, and me, Mr Rhubarb and the dog sit in the sun watching the girls swing merrily for about a quarter of an hour. Not bad for £1.50.

Finally we lure them away with the promise of ice-cream. But first we go to buy a stripy beach windbreak. We choose a large one to take camping, so we can make a wee entryway into our tent. We’re so middle class, even our tent has a vestibule…

Next stop – the Ritz café. I choose a Turkish Delight 99, it is every bit as good as you’d think – even if 4yo suggests it tastes like soap. Philistine. We eat our ice-creams as we stroll along the front, me with the dog, Mr R with the enormous beach windbreak. We stop in at the island’s museum, in the Garrison, as 9yo has been asking about Wee Cumbrae, in the hopes she can find out who owns it and we can go camping there. (note to self: restrict access to famous five books for foreseeable future…) I let the others go in and find a shady tree stump to sit on and keep the dog company.

The rest of the family come back, we stop at the newsagent and buy The Beano and two bottles of water. Frankly, this is now resembling Crackerjack (pre-Stuart Francis, obviously, as he was the final nail in the Crackerjack coffin) and all we need is a savoy cabbage to complete the image.

I leave Mr R, the dog and the girls at the beach and go back to Mum’s to pack up the car. In addition to our overnight bag, we are taking home a large easel, some cardboard boxes, a metal bookcase, several carrier bags of general junk and the dog’s crate. Oh yeah, and the enormous beach windbreak, which turns out to be wider than the jumbo car, so has to be wedged between the front seats and extends all the way back.

Ferry, car journey, finally home. Oh shit. No milk. Mr R does mercy run, children watch TV, I hoover.

Children are palmed off with pizza for tea, we adults will eat later. Mr R suggests goat’s cheese salad, and I agree, full in the knowledge that it will actually be curry from a takeaway. This way we can all feel good.

I stick the number on the door frame. We bought it in Jerusalem about three years ago but have never quite got round to attaching it. Funnily enough, people can’t really find the house without it…

6.20 my new baritone teacher arrives! Hence the timely application of the door number. I played baritone horn *cough*30*cough* years ago, before going over to the dark side (flute) but have had a real desire to play again. So I hired a horn and found a teacher on the internet and here she is! She’s lovely, and although it’s slightly awkward, I think we do okay. After about 30 minutes of playing, my lips are all numb and tingly but I’m pleased with how it’s gone. I have lots of practice to do, I’m sure my family/neighbours are pleased to know.

The girls and Mr R are playing wii sports resort, so I go and join in for a while, then start to pack the kids off to bed. This bit takes SO LONG I am going to skip over it. If you’re still reading this far, you’re probably grateful for this decision.

So, current state of affairs: It’s 9.55. Mr R has gone to clear some more stuff from his Mum’s house and will get the curry on his way home. The kids are in bed. I’m going to go and look in the fridge to see if there’s any wine left in the bottle in there. We’ll probably watch Murder She Wrote (I have a boxset!!) and do a bit of computer-y work each before heading off to bed too late.

And that’s my Day in the Life!!! Thanks to Mooosh for organising it, and all the twittering people who reminded me to join in

7 weeks of summer – and so it begins

Yes, it’s the school holidays, well, here in Scotland at least. I do like the holidays. I like my kids, and we have some fun times together. But I’m also a bit nervous about the prospect. I like to know what we’re doing. I plan ahead, work out the days and even occasionally we do what’s planned. But it’s funny how these things work; if you have a plan, the sun will shine and the kids will want to stay in the paddling pool in the garden for approximately seven hours. If you don’t have a plan, the rain will pour down and the children will start arguing at 7.04am, and continue the litany of dissent for the next 14 hours.

So I’m definitely up for planning.

Now, here’s an aside – I do love all the beautiful printable month planners and calendars online, but as most of the really nice ones are American, the week starts on a Sunday, and I just can’t get my head round that AT ALL. So I’ve made my own chart. It’s not fancy, but it’s got the days of the hols broken down, with extra space for the zone we’ll clean/declutter and a space to write fiction  sorry, what’s for dinner.

It’s here if that would be of any use to you.

I will print it out and block out the things we know are definitely happening (which, alas, are few) and then we’ll see where we can go away for a few days, or plan to have friends round.

Summer always goes fast, even if it’s pretty grim at times, but I know it’s my job to make it something fun, to build memories for the girls and for me. Here’s to the next seven (or so) weeks.

Recognise the all-too-human heart

It took a lifetime to realise

Love is not blindly forgetting others
and swopping better selves for worse.

Nor is is a sudden churning of the stomach
or that lumping of the bone-dry throat

Love is a constant singing in the heart
and the feeling you may shortly fly.

It’s that we’re finally forgiving of the bad
in our selves and our others too.

It’s then we are ready to begin afresh
driven by emotion as the green sea

rising, surely breaking on a ready shore
from the deep of the ocean’s well

You are that wave rising now
breaking, breaking

white on an ashen coast
deafening then silent

 

Robert Allan Jamieson

(from Love for Love, an anthology of love poems)

Elvis eats boats!

(confused by the title reference? check this… in fact, click through regardless! You won’t be disappointed)

Yes January 8th is Elvis’ birthday. It was also supposed to be M’s birthday, but as is entirely fitting considering her approach to life, she stayed put for another (almost) two weeks.

But never one to miss the opportunity for a party, this year, she decided we would celebrate Elvlis’ birthday. Fine by me.

Lunch is fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Dinner will be cheeseburgers. With salad, though – we can’t keep the Elvis lifestyle up completely. I’m also insisting that everyone Uh-huhs, and Thangyamaams as much as possible.

This could become a yearly event…

Update:

The peanut butter and banana sandwiches were nice enough – the first couple of bites were the best – but oh man, we were completely exhausted afterwards! I don’t know how on earth Elvis managed any degree of productivity after one of these. Its three hours after lunch and it’s still ominously sitting in my tum.  Me and husband crashed out on the sofas watching the man with the golden gun, while F and, to a lesser degree, M provided a running commentary…is that the man with the golden gun? is that him? does he want the golden gun? why is he a baddie? who’s that? is that the man with the golden gun (again)?

The cheeseburgers might have to happen tomorrow, sorry Elvis.

The News! In headlines!

Don’t be fooled by the jaunty exclamation mark – there really isn’t any actual, proper, exciting news. But in the manner of radio 1′s newsdrive, or BBC3, here’s a quick rundown:

1. It’s snowing. Again. I keep glancing out the window just in case it’s stopped but no joy. I’m kind of bored of snow now.
2. Radio 3 playing every note Mozart wrote over a fortnight is just brilliant. I’m luxuriating in wonderful sound.
3. My amazon parcel has not arrived
4. I bought a couple of ebooks while I wait. This whole concept is likely to prove expensive.
5. The dog went to the groomer yesterday. It took her 4 hours and cost more than a full tank of petrol. He looks fab though. However I’m now loath to take him outside in case he gets mucky. I also made him a bit grumpy brushing him this evening and hope he still likes me…
6. The app I’m using to write this is so slow I would be quicker writing this by hand and posting it to you

Little and Large swap!

Aren’t swaps great? I signed up for Vonnie’s Little and Large swap, and was paired with the delightful Kirsty and her two wee ones. The brief was to get crafting with your kids.

Ha, easier said than done! The big girl had BIG ideas, including tapestry, embroidery, art and probably power tools, given her way. The little one knew pink was the way ahead. Pink and glitter.  We had fun, though. The main lesson I learned was to let go a bit. Uh huh. I have a tendency to maybe take over a little, to get corners square or edges curved, make suggestions and well, just ‘help’ a bit too much. So this was a good chance for me to learn to back the hell off.  Mostly.

Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about me! It’s about the fantastic goodies Kirsty sent us!

Here’s what Kirsty sent my big girl:

I would have taken photos so you could see her delighted face but she told me she didn’t want to be on the internet. Fair enough. But she was soooo pleased! We put the friendship bracelet on her right away – “It’s my favourite colours!” – and she was extremely impressed with the mosaic.

This book that Devin made was a big hit. She delighted in kidding us on it was a book, then – ta-dah – revealed the hidden compartment. It’s now in her room, full of secrets.

Kirsty clearly got the measure of me very quickly: chocolate and stationery!!! I love them both in equal measure.  Thanks, Kirsty!

Miss Small was super-pleased with everything. The parcel was nearly as big as she is:

And the wrapping paper! Tinkerbell! She LOOOOVES Tinkerbell!  In fact, she kept the paper and several days later spent ages carefully cutting out each fairy group.

Inside was this gorgeous friendship bracelet, a cute picture by Brodie …

…and this wonderful pink cat mask.  I love the glittery eyes.

All in all, it was terrific. The girls loved what you made, and so did I – thanks, Kirsty, Devin and Brodie!! And thanks to Vonnie for organising such a nice swap.