Janet and Paul

Henry was upstairs when I arrived.
"Hello Angela darling, you alright?"
"Yes thank you Henry"
And then I ran into the kitchen and was met by the usual.
And then Henry left and I was pleased.
I soldiered on.

The doorbell rang at 11 and so I left my half eaten banana by the kettle and opened the door.
A man and a woman stood on the step, I knew immediately that they were religious folk on account of the man's bad suit and the woman's beard.

As always I was polite and listened without fidgeting as Janet spoke for a long time about Adam and Eve and how hard life is. Paul didn't say much he couldn't. Janet was the mover and shaker.

As the wind whipped up their leaflets and hair, I stood in the hallway looking immaculate as always, and the witnesses eyes beamed as they described the new world which was a-coming. Much better than the one we're currently in.

"We used to do cleaning" Janet said "We know how hard and thankless it is"
I bit my tongue for three seconds then said. "It is hard yes, but I laugh a lot too, and that's what counts"
Smiles all round...

And then a woman's loud brutish voice from over the road broke into all our revelries, and that was that. Paul said something about getting on with tasks, I raised my eyebrows and smiled.
Janet hugged her leaflets to her mighty bosoms, thanked me for my time and smile, and walked back to the Kingdom Hall.

I think they'll be back...

Brown and The Bakewells

I love good speeches and Mr Brown gave a good one.
His lovely wife Sarah introduced him calling him her 'hero'.
Oh dear.
But I suppose to Mrs Brown he is. Gordon has always struck me as bit testy and tetchy, but he no doubt has his good points.

His speech went down well with the faithful but it was his decision to rid the country of hereditary peers which received the most cheers. Blah blah class war blah blah. And I thought Labour had grown up.

The thing which made me put down my rolling pin was when he talked about the introduction of a National Care Service. I thought 'hey ho Gordo could be on a winner here'. But we'll have to wait and see if this new urgent and much needed scheme, to help elderly people with Alzheimers or demenitia remain in their own homes, is radical enough to win a fourth term for Labour. It just might.

The apple pies were now done by now and I had some pastry left over so I rustled up a dozen Bakewell maids.
Minestrone done also, and I have to say it looks so inviting in my giant brown flowered pan.

Now I stop for coffee and to listen to the post-speech comments.

Pastry part 2. And Mr Roux and The blood thirsty kids.

Yes pastry needs to relax because then it won't shrink so much.
And the handling of raw pastry is another vital skill that needs to be mastered. If you're rough and treat it without consideration you'll end up with pastry that's fit only for the bin. So gently gather it in your hands and touch it only as much as you need to. Be kind to it, don't take out your aggression on half a pound of shortcrust, take it out on your bread dough because bread dough needs to be pounded.

When I was little in 1972, I was terrible at pastry, it not only looked terrible it tasted terrible. Weekend after weekend I made pale looking apple pies so in the end I drifted towards trifles. With trifles I only needed to use my artistic skills, I didn't need to weigh flour and marg and get oven temperatures correct. I'd happily spend half an hour creating a strawberry trifle with slices of shop Swiss roll, tinned strawberries and ever so slightly scorched custard. The topping would be whipped double cream then I'd let fly with the hundreds and thousands. Which although looked pretty, tended to melt leaving rivers of chemical colourants all over the cream:(
Tasted nice though.
Now my trifles are much more splendid. But we won't go into that now.

I've been enthralled by the latest series of Masterchef on BBC2. A group of young chefs are fighting to work for Michel Roux Jnr. I'm fascinated by their preference for serving up raw meat. Each chef has dished up chicken, quail, venison and all of it has been raw. Not decently rare mind you, but bloodily raw. I am amazed at how professionals can continually make such blunders. It's no good the plate of food looking stunning if the customer/guest/friend throws up at the sight of uncooked flesh. Ghastly.

This afternoon as I watch Mr Brown fight for his political life I'll be making some Minestrone soup and garlic bread. And also two apple pies for the old dears in London. I'll freeze them (the pies that is)) because I won't be going to London till Thursday and there's nothing worse than less than perfect pies:)

Chicken and Mushroom Pie

I made a pie yesterday and it was sublime.
The pastry was crisp, golden and flaked away and the meat and mushrooms were enveloped in a creamy white sauce. All together a simple stunning little pie.
Recently queerer gear has taken over the kitchen, queerer gear like curries, risottos and Mexican wraps and as much as I love that gear, I've never lost the my love for quaint old fashioned food, like pies.
Only the other day I made another pie, this time an apple one. I didn't use Bramleys, instead I filled the buttery pastry shell with apples given to me by a mate. Were they cookers or eaters? I don't know, all I do know is that they made a great pie. It was lovely served warm but even better served cold. No ice cream or cream of any sort accompanied it, just a slice on its own on a white plate.
I have a thing about pies.
Pastry is notoriously difficult to make but not if you're patient and kind and have a window open. Coolness is the buzz word when making pastry. Hands, water and implemanats should be cold cold cold. And rest is essential too. After making the pastry, let it relax...
More later......

Red All Over

Henry was in a bloody state this morning.
Literally.
Hanging from his ear were three sheets of blood soaked kitchen towel and clamped to his chest was his red stained shirt.

"What on earth have you done now?" I said
"Dunno darling, did it just now, I think I shaved off a spot"
So after putting away his lettuce and cucumber I nursed the old boy as best I could.
And he liked it.
"Look at this shirt" I laughed "It's stained with all your blood, you'd better take it off"

As as Henry unbuttoned his shirt, I wetted a paper towel.
"Keep still while I check your ear" I said, patting the paper over his crinkled and sliced old ear, I then soaked up some more blood from his neck and chest.
"Ooh that feels good Angie, but I think some blood fell on me penis"
"Oh do leave off Henry" I pleaded
He smiled and blushed.

Then with all the flamboyance of a bad male stripper from Rhyl the shirt came off.
"I'd better get another" he said lifting his mighty frame from the stool.
"Good idea"
And as Hot Henry tottered upstairs I looked around...

A box of assorted dinner plates were on the worktop.
Half a bottle of Californian red wine stood next to three rotting bananas and a bag of mixed nuts.
And then I glanced into the garden...A new boxed up electric oven with gas hob was sitting by the peanut bin. Oh God. He's got a new flipping cooker. I see casseroles before my eyes.

"How's this? Henry said parking his arse back on the poor stool.
"You look good in blue dear" I smooched, hoping he'd soon be going to work.
"Look at these" He said whipping out a pair of blackened white cotton gloves from his bag.
"We have to wear these at Lodge meetings" he said seriously, swinging them back and forth like a couple of old bells "But they need a wash now, wash them for me will you darling?"
"Only if I can try them on first"
They didn't fit well. And as I waved my hands about in a ridiculous manner, Henry gabbled on about aprons, legs and The Architect of The Universe.
"I'll pop them in with the rest of the laundry" I said as Henry picked up his bag and limped to the front door.
But I'm so glad I didn't.
Because his white dress shirt has turned baby pink:(
I left a polite note saying there'd been a minor cock-up on the laundry front.
I hope he forgives me.

Francis, Bobby, Aleks and Me!

My Little Aleks

Aleks has arrived.

And he is gorgeous;)

He's a little white boy, quite chubby and cute and he's all mine.

I haven't put him in his spruced up garage yet because I want to keep oggling and coochy coochying him.

I spruced up the garage much earlier and with the utmost vigour, shovelling yukky muck into endless bin bags, it really is amazing what a little person can do when she's fired up. Anyway the spiders, bless them, wondered what the hell was happening as they dashed from one pile of rubbish to the other. I didn't kill a single one. I even saved a three worms which were tunnelling their way into a mound of rotting soil by scooping it up and chucking it round the conifers.

No animals were hurt in the tarting up of this garage.

Anyway back to Aleks...He entered my life just after 4 this afternoon, the charming man who delivered my baby handed me three keys and said something about WD 40. I was barely listening, so just thanked him excessively and waved him off.

And as the sun started to fall behind the houses opposite I was out there fussing.
He already has three nice cushions, two decorated with birds of paradise and one with a fat striped cat. A delicate posy of custard yellow flowers sits on the dashboard along with a shining golden ceramic puss cat.


I need to buys loads of stuff now. In fact I've already made a list:

De-Icer. It'll be getting nippy soon. Already nippy up north I hear. So expect they have already engaged their Icers.

Tin of sweets. But not Werther's Originals because they're for old people.

Sat Nav. I might go to Asda in Shoebury.

Flask. For soup in case I go on a journey of more than an hour.

Torch. Not sure what for but it sounds good.

Scraping tools. For at the station when I return from London. I see people doing it come November.

Krook Lok. Because I don't want to lose him. Not now. Not after I've waited so long to get hold of him.

Nodding cat/dog/doll. Because I like 'em.

Cross of St George sticker. Over me pipe.

Packets of sweets. But not hard boiled ones because they hurt.

Air Freshener. But not a tree one.

Words of Wisdom hanging from the mirror. But not Desiderata.

Notebook and pen. I might get the urge to jot down some erotica in a jam.

Sweets. Suckable ones, preferably mint, but never Everton ones.

Resident banana.

Fluorescent jacket. In case I need to stand on a corner at night.