Christmas Day 2023

Unremarkable but remarkable in it's unremarkableness; as most of the Christmas days have been that I can recall - contentment, lovely family, nice stuff to eat, dog walks, fireside, and wonderful and thoughtful presents. 

 Me in 'deconstructed' and wonderful coat that Ezra bought in a super 'frip' shop in Tours

Mark opening present of hand made leather chess board and case made by Ezra

Nope . . .

Cream-tea diet does not work. (See last post) 'Gosh, really?', you may say with a wry smile. Yes. I put on about 2 pounds in eight days, even though I was fairly active.
Oh well, back to the reasonable-sized breakfast (egg on toast) larger lunch - stir fry/curry, or similar, and small supper, salad/soup . . . maybe a small piece of buttered toast, bitsy bit of cake, and no wine, or at least only one small glass.
If I do this, I can keep to my desired - or at least, getting-into-favourite-trousers weight, while my lanky husband laughs and crams as much cake into himself as he pleases.

                           

Yes, strange, and unfair. Mark can still get into the pair of checked  flared trousers he had when he was eighteen that we found at his mum's house. 

Summer holiday

or days - three, in fact.
Every year when our lovely cousins come and visit, Mark and I leave the Hothouse compound together and holiday somewhere for a few days. This year we went down to our favourite bit of coast - many times rambled on about on this blog - Cerbère.
The sun resolutely refused to shine apart from on a half day out in Gerona, but that was fine. This odd little sea-village is atmospheric in any weather conditions and we passed a lot of time wandering around in the echoing tunnels that run under the huge railway sidings, popping up like meerkats and exclaiming: 'Oh, so that's where that comes out,' etc. We even had the pleasure of listening to the Singing Railings that perform with certain wind directions.
Mark was due to play piano on the beach for the 'Fete de Village' on the first evening, but after a couple of hours of spotting rain it was decided that the event would be cancelled. The roadies packed everything away; our friend the organiser shrugged, said sanguin things like 'c'est comme ça', and invited everyone concerned up to his café to eat mussels and chips, after which I swam alone in the grey sea and marvelled at the village/landscape of yellow and pink buildings, vast arched brick walls that support the train sidings and towering craggy hills under glowering cloud.

      Cerbère

The terrace of the re-conditioned La Vigie hotel

The next day we took the slow train to Gerona and spent a few happy hours ambling through the ancient streets, eating ice cream and trying to find a coat for Mark that would have sleeves long enough (impossible) in the rather cool clothes shops that make up quite a large part of this smart city.

                                                                     Gerona river front

My sort of restaurant where we had tea, mainly so I could snap the interior, including the wonderful old loos

Incredible, ancient general store complete with ceiling fans, a million types of paella rice, and two severe-looking old men who pointed at the No Photography sign when I gestured to my camera after we had bought afore-mentioned rice and Touron - Spanish nougat stuff

 
         Outside of lovely bistro/café

Buildings enjoying the sun at Gerona station

We returned to Cerbère, ate in our favourite restaurant and talked to a party of English cyclists about their tour of the Pyrenees which had taken four and a half days - end to end - pretty impressive; I can just about make it to the bank and back, taking in the small rising hill as one approaches the Hothouse, and, some of the team members were . . . let's say, people who obviously had a happy relationship with cake.
The next day the sky threatened thundery rain, so after a muscle-building walk up into the hills we packed up the unused electric piano and headed homewards, craning our necks to take in a last view of the lighthouse, bay and small clutch of seafront buildings that make up the last coastal town in France before the Spanish border.

                                 Cerbère palm tree with its own: 'I was born in 1974' notice

Post for a friend

You left this morning, and it was odd seeing your small car still here. Well, you couldn't take it with you, and I'm sure it will be loved.
We were lucky to know you, and the animals of the hothouse to have been cared by you - thank you for all the times you gave us to be free to go back to the UK/elsewhere without worry.
We will get over to New York one day, and I will be happy to get to know it a little through your pictures, thoughts and discoveries/re-discoveries of that incredible place - I know Mark for one is quite envious.
It was a perfect goodbye too: cake, fruit and no tears, just a 'well, be seeing you,' sort of thing . . . and we will.

The blue and yellow shop

I had to go in it the other day. Our pillows had become dangerous, and as we were in Toulouse, seemed like a good opportunity.
They've stopped doing rectangular ones: square, yes - about 7,000 choices of duck, goose, hamster-down and pretend stuff, but no rectangular. The human head is not that long in relation to the body and I have never figured out why the French like resting their heads on something so meaninglessly large.
Of course, the other extreme is to lodge your brain-carrier on a giant sausage filled with lumpy pieces of cake, or rock depending on how old the bolster is, or where it came from. I think IKEA do bolsters, but I didn't check the fillings as I know this is not a road I want to go down. What is wrong with rectangular?
I know we, the British, got many things wrong: Jimmy Saville, invading Iraq, arctic roll, etc, but the basic pillow shape is good. Ah yes, but did we used to have bolsters too? I think we did, but generally such things have not survived, along with copper bed-warmers and Wee Willy Winky night caps.
Anyway, I digress . . . my point about the blue and yellow cathedral is that they are now appear to be in a 50s phase; such stuff can be gleaned from just about any charity shop; why buy a new one when when you can spend about one pound fifty and get the real thing! There was whole spawn of glob-shaped 50's coffee tables on display, people running their hands over them and exclaiming as if they were pieces designed by Le Courbusier. Just get yourself down to an auction room, or the Red Cross. Honestly!
Below, some 50's relics keening for a second home down at our local 'flea place' - Parchemin. We have already housed much homeless furniture - T.V table, Hi Fi thing, chests of drawers, kitchen dressers etc, etc from there and similar establishments. In fact, a new (old) three-piece suite is arriving from Terre de Esperance (Land of hope) this week, all for a hundred and twenty euros, inc transport and built-in 'comfortably-used' look.
I do draw the line at a few things: pillows, pants and pressure cookers mainly.

cake sculpture

The weather is now like mid April: veering from bursts of hot sunshine to howling winds and torrential rain. It's unnerving. I had to make some strange food.
We had folk coming round; Mark wanted to make lasagna and I was assigned 'pud'.
I have made these cakes before, but I think this was the most successful one yet.
Free improvisation with a tin of pineapple, two 'Super U' cake bases, seasonal fruit, silly whipped cream in a can and jelly bears.
Next time: three tiered and adding of marshmallows, I think.
Tasted rather good too.

Napping

What is this weather?
I suppose an awful lot of people are saying this as they look out at horizontal rain, hail, and birds trying to build nests in trees bent over from gale-force winds.
We have a garden: I know this, but I haven't actually stepped foot in it for days. The thought of struggling rose heads and flattened lavender is too much. I have cleared the in-tray, investigated the top of the kitchen cupboard and cleaned out a cupboard, made phone calls and got round to jobs that are well at the bottom of any list I have ever written. We have also napped.

Here is our cat, Bronzino, king of napping, hugger of his own legs. The total bliss a cat radiates while asleep: you can prod him and he will stretch out purring, a smile on his face then curl up again into a fury snail shape.
Napping is only a speeded up version of hibernation. I know this as when coming out of a particularly good siesta, the sleep pulls you back: look out there, it's pissing down, the wind is knife-like, why would anyone go out there unless they had to? Why don't you just close your eyes again, pull the covers up, call out for another hot water bottle from anyone left in the house who is not already under the influence of warm sleep waves.
The best naps are after physical work outside: mowing someone's lawn, cutting wood, a long, vile, worthy walk in screaming wind. The fire must be lit so that one does not sink into depression at the thought of cover removal and stepping into a frigid room.
Take a dog: preferably a small hot water bottle-size, non-smelly one; lie on sofa, put dog in crook of knees or close to chest and drift off, preferably to the sounds of someone making a delicious cake for you when you wake up.
Almost there - into the sleep world . . . the wind is now howling; God it must be nasty out there . . . not on this sofa though, even though it's full of crumbs and cat hair; it must be the most comfortable place on this planet just now: me and dog on red sofa, in house, on tiny patch of earth in small French town, South of France, European land mass, world, universe . . .

Cake meditation

As I have said many times, the internet is a marvel.
I just put in Buddha made of cake and lo . . . thousands of images. Here he is, beautifully sculpted in marzipan by the 'Artisan cake Co'.

Actually I don't think it would be possible to push a knife into that particular cake; I think it would have to become a fixture in the house, gradually becoming a little more discoloured and stickier with each passing year.
I was thinking more of one of Mark's cakes. Serious cake: eggs, flour, raisins, brown sugar, sliced prunes, cream icing topping: whatever happens to be in the cupboard, and made with a skill that I still find extraordinary after . . . well, how ever many years it is. He doesn't do recipes: People ask for them, but they don't exist; he's an instinctive baker - handful of that, couple of eggs, a shake of this, oops bit much, never mind. They always come out brilliantly except the beetroot cake which was totally inedible. Even Madame post-Materialist couldn't think what to do with it other than go and buy a pig so it wouldn't be wasted.
So . . . what has this to do with meditation, I hear you asking as your finger heads for the little red 'close this page' virtual button. No really this has a purpose, honest.
Years ago in London I went to a meditation meeting, mainly because there was someone there I fancied at the time.
We sat in a large warm room with dim lighting, scented candles - an odd contrast to outside on Holloway high street with sirens screaming and buses snorting. I relaxed and listened to the person leading the meditation. Already it was calming, the thoughts of car clamping and props I hadn't found for the following day's shoot sloping away.
Everyone was passed a large fat raisin. We were asked to chew it very slowly, very slowly. To think about where the raisin had come from, how long it had been growing in the sun, who had picked it, where they lived. What was the taste really like: the sweetness, the texture of its wrinkled surface.
Then the actual meditation: counting to a hundred I think - stop each time something enters your mind and start again. Let everything fall away, just the counting. I could see how it worked but my busy brain wouldn't shut off from lists of things to do, things I should have done, things that would have to no doubt be done. It was the only meditation class I ever went to, but I do try occasionally, without much success, to apply it to my life today.
Yesterday I relived the raisin experience and will try and do this most days.
It was a grey cold day, clouds scudding, wind moaning around the walls of the house. I had stoked up the fire and had a sacred piece of 'Galette de Rois' in replacement of Mark cake, as he is absent from the hothouse for a few days. The runty dog came and sat on me and I stroked his silky fur absentmindedly as I consumed tea and cake, very slowly. Where had this slice of cake come from . . . probably some boring factory that supplies French supermarkets, mmm not so good . . . but still.
Sweet, soft flaky texture, hot tea, dog's smooth back, the hills - brown with a scattering of icing sugar snow on them, silence apart from a couple of rooks in the tops of the cypress trees, time marked by the logs on the fire disintegrating a little more with each second that passed. Ten minutes perhaps, out of an otherwise fairly busy day. Time just to sit and really experience just 'being'.