Close up, frailty and tomatoes

Whiskers

Cheerfulness is my chief object in life even when it seems to be a fleeting virtue. I find myself hoping that people will make allowances for its present frailty.

My grand daughter Giselle tells me that when she was in Thailand she was at first offended that people she met repeated the words "tomato, tomato" when they met her. It was only  when they explained that it was in fact a compliment based on her pink complexion, one doubtless encouraged by her initial reaction to their remarks, that prompted the comment.

Story, sunshine and fiction

Every window has a story.

After a bad day Toby and Pippa cheer me up with helpful proposals. This morning I feel better, more cheerful and look forward to day's visitors. The fact that the first thing which I am doing today is bring this up to date is surely a good sign. There are indications of sunshine outside the window.

Neighbour Pam brings me a meal and sits  me down in front of the television with cushions and blankets. I am set up in unaccustomed comfort to watch the new series called 37 Days about the build up to World War 1. It strikes me as ordering and explaining the facts better than the pages of history I have just  been reading. Two more episodes to go. Well acted and well written, it might only be criticised  for its degree of simplification. It  could equally be praised as an example of fiction approaching the truth more precisely that than history itself.

Stories, tests and pies

Another Sitges door with stories to tell from the Archives.

Dr Warr the rheumatic, specialist tell me and son, Toby and friend Milo who form a support team for my medical appointment, that the test which have had over the past few weeks show nothing to worry too much about. I feel better already but more test are needed.  I leave still weak but optimistic. 

As I am still losing weight  and am shown to be slightly anaemic I  am advised to eat food which over the years I am to supposed to avoid. Bacon sandwiches, steak and chips, pork pies. Here I come.

Another Sitges from the archives.

Dr Warr the rheumatic specialist tells me tha

Door, study and danger

Door in Sitges from the archives.

The room where I spend most of my time at the moment I call my study. For a good many reasons I discourage people from referring to it as a office. The function of every office which I used is quite different.

Perhaps because moving around is a problem for me at the moment I am increasingly  attracted by the current sport - called I think parcour -  of clambering over buildings and leaping the spaces between edges and projections. It looks very dangerous but has a nonchalant elegance about it which I find compelling.

Fresh peel, achievement and tools

Peel.

Managing  to get myself out of bed and breakfasted in time to get to Pembury Hospital for am echo cardiogram at 8.45. It may seem a small achievement but it  is something I am dreading because the mornings are so difficult  and time consuming. Thank you Milo for being outside the front door in time for a lift to the hospital.

A projecting floor board with loose nails has been threatening to trip me. With a box of well manged tools some counter sunk screws and the  ingenious use of  a piece of slate, son-in-law Dom levels it off neatly leaving a smooth path from my  desk to the hall. Here is a man who loves and understands tools. I am full of admiration.  If I am dependent on such acts of skill and kindness I couldn't be dependent on nicer people

Singer, tamarind and daphne

Waiting to sing.

Mackerel and coconut curry. An ingredient which I have not used until now is tamarind paste. I had not associated mackerel with India, but it substitutes well I suspect for an equivalent in Indian waters. Thank you Anjum Ansand for another new experience.

A spray of daphne placed on fireplace in front of a mirror keeps catching my eye. It looks Japanese, a pleasing sight, all day.

Cat story 2, resolution and parsley sauce

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Cat story phase two from the archives.

Today's resolution is to see if tomorrow  I can take photographs of the objects I spend my day idly staring at in a perpetual state of lethargy.

Lunch with neighbours Milo and Virginia. My fellow guest is their friend Biddy who has just undergone in close succession  two hip operations to say nothing of other unspecified illnesses.  A crocks' gathering.  We flatter one another: How well you're looking! We keep ourselves cheerful with small talk and managing to laugh. The art of small talk at such times is not to be easily dismissed. Parsley sauce with boiled ham and lovely new potatoes. I had forgotten the pleasure of a well seasoned, old fashioned parsley sauce.

In the beginning, anaemia and pomegranate

The beginning of a story about a cat.

Doc rings to say that my haemoglobin count is low. I that why, I ask him,  I spend so much time staring in front of me without doing anything else? Yes, he says. He says he will ring later to say whether I should still increase the new medication, which may be causing the anaemia

A large  pomegranate greets me this morning. I roll it about on the table to loosen the pods within. I peel it as carefully as possible  to reveal the structure of the pods, which I begin carefully to pull apart allowing the pips to separate easily and the pith to be discarded. This seems to me to be the sum of the wisdom which I have accumulated over the years from my own experience with pomegranates and the advice of others.

Wagtail, turmeric and The Sound of Music

Pied wagtail investigates.

For the lentils I prepare today for daughter Pippa I find some fresh turmeric which I chop up small and use instead of the powdered stuff recommended. The house is infused with a its invigorating scent.

I have never seen The Sound of Music. And I don't think I want to.

Sandwich, singing and bag

I too have a weakness for sandwiches.

Full marks to France for its performance of La Marseillaise before the Rugby match against Wales.The team knew the words too. But almost predictably Wales was  hard to beat as a choir.

In the newspaper an advertisement for an all leather  "manbag".  We used to call it what the illustration reveals to be a satchel. 

Art, cold water and freedom

Art re-made.

A woman's voice on the radio touched with laughter reminds me of cold water flowing over smooth stones.

Free is a mighty word. Protesters in Independence Square in Kiev speak of being free. The leaflet on my doormat offers a free pizza if, for a mid-week delivery, I spend more than £100.

Hats, late and dream

Hat stand at farmers' market from archives.

I arrive an hour late for appointment with GP. He is forgiving, takes me my blood and promises to ring me on Monday to tell me if I can take more of the new pills which are going to cure me.

For once I remember one of my dreams . I am awake enough to make some notes. I a walking along a road in a strange city. Which one I try to guess? I pause by a narrow street almost vertical. At the bottom is a miserable dirty river. Beside the street is a table, on the table a magazine. The wind flips the leaves of the magazine. From where I stand I look for a dome. Perhaps this will suggest the name of the city. No dome. Instead in the distance is a tower. The tower reminds me of  Seville Cathedral. Perhaps that is where I am. For some reason I  an worrying about the table with the magazine and the wind constantly turning over the pages.

Drinking, pathos and lentils

Spanish drinking water - one of many street covers from the archives.

Help. I must begin to talk to normally for a moment.  I hear myself answer the telephone in a pathetic "feeling sorry for myself voice".  Outside the window a song thrush is celebrating a bright end to a wet day. I listen and learn.

Cooking again for brother, Ken I experiment with something new as far as |I am concerned with lentils, Channa Dahl. Until now  lentils for me have been confined  to small orange seeds which quickly make a  mush familiar from Indian restaurants and Puy lentils, the hard green pulses used largely I think in European cookery, quite different and with a taste of their own. Channa dahl comes I think from the Punjab. They are large, yellow and require to be cooked for at least an hour. The wait is rewarding. You simmer the lentils with coriander, turmeric and garam masala. This breaks down into  "a thick lentilly mass with the individual pulses still discernible" I quote from Anjum Anand whose book Indian Food Made Easy, I have been using And from which I have learnt much. To this mass is added at the last moment, cardamom pods, cumin, cloves, cinnamon, mustard seeds, desiccated coconut and chilies quickly fried at the last moment. We agree this is the most successful vegetarian venture yet. The photograph of the dish in the book looks good. It tastes better.

Walking, flying and sources of power

The curious act of walking.

Outside my window a silver car on trailer sails by it wheels just touching the top of the hedge.

The two bracket clocks in the house chime at almost the same time. Satisfying, but you have to question the need for them. I have lost count of the clocks in the house which monitor the time on radios, computers, telephones and TVs  and which are remotely regulated. Is clockwork still needed? Perhaps it is. Imagine the absence of batteries and other sources of electric power.

Mud, simplicity and triumph

More jetsam on Thames mud

For vegetarian brother Ken a simple dish of lentils and spinach spiced with turmeric, coriander, ginger, garlic and garam masala. He says it isn't simple because he follows and detects the different flavours. I am flattered. But it is simple.

After Ken leaves I immerse myself for the once again since since the harsh times begin  in Schubert's String Quintet. While it is playing I it get dark. As it gets dark I note a flash of lightening followed by a roll of thunder. With what triumph the last movement raises the spirit!

Jetsam, ivory and kindness

Jetsam on Thames mud.

 I wake sometimes worrying about the declining population of elephants. The papers are full of the threat to their survival which originates entirely it seems from the burgeoning  demand from China's middle class for items carved from ivory. International law forbids the slaughter of elephants and the sale of their tusks, but rampant greed appears to be winning the battle. Campaigning too even when it is led by the British Royal Family is losing out. We are witnessing a crime against a rich  and magical  inheritance.  Yet I couldn't help noticing in the paper with great sadness an emotional call by Prince William for the destruction of the entire collection of antique ivory in the Royal collection. Old ivory is sensibly excluded from the ban on the sale of tusks. To destroy meticulous and beautifully executed works of art would be another crime.

In the Pembury Hospital coffee shop an ambulance driver noting my problem in getting up from the table where I am siting next to hers, proffers help. "There you are young man," she says.

Chimney perch, roast and denouement

Chimney perch

Sunday roast with Milo and Virginia and family. Sun shines on on us as we sit and talk at dining table. A bonus for tradition.

Find myself looking forward to The Archers where a true soap episode is imminent. How will the awful Helen react when she learns that her lover is as bad as we have always known him to be?

Structure, texture, football and culinary heritage

Composition: structure and texture.

Two football  players  Stanley Matthews and Tom Finney remain in my memory from my childhood when the game was much loved and widely respected, not least by me, in a way completely different from today. Both men received knighthoods, unusual in those days. Above all they brought skill and standards of excellence to their sport without the taint of riches. They are worthy heroes. News of Tom Finney's death at the age of 91 strikes an astonishing contrast with the culture of football today. Finney was a plumber and continued to run his business  while he excelled on the field. He always played for the same club Preston North End. Compare that with the record of a modern footballer. Yet he is acknowledged as one of the greatest players of all time. Old men may lament that things ain't what they used to be. And sometime old men are are right.

Thinking back on the recipes which my Mother cooked for us as children, a stained and battered cookbook comes to my mind this morning. It is by a food writer now forgotten called Elizabeth Craig. Its faded cover was mauve and I can just now  picture it in the kitchen drawer where it was kept. From this book came the puddings and stews and pies which I remember form the years of World War 2 and the post war years. My Mother loved this food, which she was introduced to at school in England, where she arrived as a small child. She was good at producing it though it contrasted with the Middle Eastern and oriental  recipes passed on to her by her own Mother. As I think about that forgotten  book this morning it testifies to the curiously mingled culinary heritage which  I have at my disposal and is now being pursued and augmented with new influences by my children.

Gold, kindness, better

Gold from the archives.

Seldom have  I been more grateful for a small kindness that seemed to be a huge one. Foolish enough to leave off a painkiller this morning. I have to call on the help of neighbour Pammie. The cup of tea and sandwich she makes for me is a life saver.

Although the GP is  away today he rings me, kindly and helpful as ever to tweak the painkiller. A better end to a bad day.































Gold from the archives.

Seldom have I been more grateful for a small kindness. After being foolish enough to leave off  a painkiller this morning I had to depend on my neighbor Pammie to make me a cupo

Dry, transformation, The Archers

Summer thirst. No water shortage now.

Just recently the word confit referring in French cookery to the preservation in fat by a process of slow cooking of such meats as goose and duck, seems to have spread to  the slow cooking  of root vegetable such as potato and turnip. I have seen no recipes but having heard the method referred to, have tried it myself and found it rather good. Today turnips - a dull vegetable I always thought - poached in duck fat and anointed with a touch of honey and a little lemon juice. A remarkable transformation.

After more than 20 years I have given up watching East Enders. The quality of writing and acting has deteriorated. I'm still loyal to The Archers though  and unlikely, after 40 years or so, to stop following the ups and downs of the inhabitants of Ambridge. Though I refrain from serious  criticism of soap operas, I have the impression that the Archers is improving. If asked about my addiction I say that the majority of Archers' characters are rather unpleasant and not without the sour edge of truth. I find myself half believing that they exist.