the 51st celebratory event of calf's head tasting

There's many things I love about living in France; one being the amount of local village 'fetes' that highlight a local product or foraged item such the 'cepe' mushroom, pumpkins, truffles, wine - bien sur!) giant croissants (less interesting - and there is a previous post about this somewhere), carrots, oysters, etc, etc, but . . . there are certain fetes I would definitely not wish to attend. 

I don't particularly like the idea of eating baby cow, especially having seen certain reportages on how most of them live before being terminated - actually not so much around here - there are plenty of meadows where cows munch lazily while their offspring amble over for a quick milk top-up or laze about in the grass. But baby cow's head . . . nope, not happening. It might be a vestige of a childhood memory where I came from school and found Mum attempting to cook half a calf's head in not-quite-big-enough aluminium casserole; or it might just be that it's rather a vile idea, let alone making a celebration out of it. However there must be many other folk who find the idea wonderful judging by the poster. 50 years of it! The famous fete of baby cow head.

Think I'll stick to the celebration of the humble carrot or tomato.

Don't suppose they will be serving it like this however . . . calf's head 'en tortue' - tortoise shape, I think.

Things to do when you've had your hair done...

Investigating the septic tank . . . not one of them.

I rarely go to hairdressers, partly because of the financial outlay but also I find the whole slightly forced chat thing a bit odd, but after noting that I hadn't been for about three months and the mop was beginning to look more than mangey I thought it was time. And it would be nice - I could go to choir practice not covered in earth or paint as usual, and stun people (mildly) with sleek and dressed hair. 

The hair do done, I returned home and only got a bit covered in paint, stayed well away from the garden, and despite a windy dog walk it was all looking good. Then I remembered the guy was coming to do a revision on our reed bed system so that all would be in shape for when the more scary SPANC (no idea what it stands for) people come to check the system. He said he'd be at the house for 5.00, which became 6.00 pm. I thought he'd just turn up with hoses and check it all himself but I the reality was me finding a hose and helping out. Then I admitted that we had lost a broom head in the post de relevage (big buried blue plastic container, and of course we had to get it out - which was messy - and then we had to dig out a load of soil and stones that had somehow got into the inspection chamber - damned moles, I reckon.

Suffice to say I was by then as usual covered in soil and unmentionable other stuff . . . and the hair do had come rather undone from its grips and things. It was too late to go to choir, but the guy did help me fill in a load of complex forms that had been sent from the aforementioned Small Pink Angry Newts Corporation, so it was all worth it.

Here's the hair arrangement which had only in the end been appreciated by me, the dog and perhaps the bloke from Aquataris. 

Out with the old...

In with the new.

My adorable brother made me a website a few years back which - partly as my computer skills are rather . . . limited - I couldn't really figure out how to update properly, so it languished in a lonely corner of the internet while I concentrated on writing, moving house, painting, building etc... Now, since the audiobook of Londonia is finished everything needs a relaunch, especially the website. Thanks to him it's still out there, in fact it's the first thing to appear when googling me. Mark (other arf)  has applied himself to making a new one, and, having mastered all aspects of audiobook recording, he's finding it relatively easy to put together. 

It's a great opportunity to go through all my stuff, find all the associated artwork, and make up new pictures/synopsis, etc, where required. So, starting with missing artwork, here is a pen and ink of my  ornate sofa whose life spans the decades, starting within the gentile atmosphere of an 18th century French chateau, to crazed parties of a rock and roll star in the 1970s, through into imagined futures set in California, a Norway island and finally a very distant future Hampstead Heath (London). 

Novel: The Couch. 

New website coming end October 24. Londonia, the audiobook, final tweaks and launching soon.

What sort of cake would you like?

I think Mark must have said this well over 200 times during our years together. Somewhere on this blog is an estimation of how many cakes he has actually made - think it was in the early thousands.

My general answer to his : which flavour stodge would thee be appreciative of question was 'Victoria Sponge' to which he would groan a little but not explain really why this was less interesting or fulfilling than say a classic fruit cake, or coffee and walnut et al, so I decided to do one myself. I'm not good at cakes - not having his seemingly inbuilt knowledge of what will work, and without needing to consult any of our jam and flour besmirched cook books - but as teatime was lurking and no other cake was available, I went ahead and experimented. And I used a cookbook.

Result - actually rather wonderful, despite the cake tins being different sizes. Garden blackcurrant jam, whipped cream and a dusting of icing sugar . . . tea pot, best cups and saucers, sunny 4:30 pm under the apple tree; and, the cake rated excellent by our guests. 

So, I can do Victoria sponge, and more recently good scones. But I'll leave the rest to Mark with his natural 'bung this in here, and a bit of that' natural knowledge.