Plastic rant . . .

I have to have these from time to time, and THIS really warrants one.

We all (or most of us) now realise that endlessly producing billions of plastic containers every day is totally unsustainable and polluting - to say the very least.

We all use plastic  - this keyboard I'm typing on, the car bumper I tied back on with wire this morning (rather proud of that), train seats, plane seats, televisions, audio-equipment, fridges, washing machines, guttering, drains, food containers, the everywhere water bottles and just about everything else. Should we not be cutting back on unnecessary products rather than producing more and more CHOICES, to thus use plastic for essentials like medical equipment?
Yes, there is an argument re jobs in such sectors as body-care products but maybe there just isn't a choice any longer. Hair = a shampoo product, and it's now possible to buy solid shampoo in a cellophane wrapper. We have some and it's great. Clothes = a need to wash them. Get a refill at your local eco store. It's less expensive and does the job.
And we move on to the subject of this particular rant. Fabric conditioner - with a big CON. This must be one of the cleaning companies most heralded products. An extra substance to dunk clothes in for really no reason. Meadow Sweet, Island Oasis, Snuggle, Final Touch - quite an appropriate name, perhaps - Downy, Fluffy, Fleecy, Comfort, Lix (ugh), Purex, and of course the massive Lenor range.
One or two products might suffice? Nope. A whole new range in even more shiny thick plastic bottles has appeared in our local supermarket.
I only went in to get a cube of yeast and some dog chews but stopped transfixed by the in-your-face and will-be-in-your-bag display featuring (bizarrely) a wolf and an erotic version of Little Red Riding Hood - I think.
Imagine the meetings, the trays of Danish pastries, the gallons of coffee consumed while ad-execs agonised over the names and colours of these useless and planet-knackering products.



The perfume of secrets - whaaat? Covering up some old poo stain on a toddler's trousers? Séduisant - seducing fabric softener? I Suppose they are trying to move away from cosy, soft and comforting?

                           

                                                                            Kiss.
              This really should being in Ann Summers shop and be called Sweat Liqueur

                                          

                                                             Charm and mystery.
Come on . . . you could have been a little more imaginative, surely? Alien-craft sex-chamber; the lost jewels of the Queen of the great oceans?

                                          

                                                                           Blush
                                                And you should, Proctor and Gamble.

Governments should ban this water-polluting, land-fill garbage. Iron clothes if you want them soft, and if they smell a bit unlike a spring meadow, a woman dressed in a red cloak or a wolf (?) so what.

I've just found an old Lenor ad I recall from way back featuring a housewife wracked with guilt over her daughters' prickly nightdresses. Will post for a comparison . . .

moments in life

I've recently come back from seeing my mum in the UK. She's been in a different home now for a year and is sliding each time I see her into a slightly foggier place, mentally. Luckily I am still me in her eyes and I dread the time where I might not be me but some other relative or friend . . .
It was a good visit: the weather was mostly kind so I could wheel her about around town and down by the river where we looked at herons and swans and talked about passing dogs and whether it was time to have a cup of tea yet.
The last day of my visit involved a trip to the coast by wheelchair taxi. It looked like it might rain and the taxi was half an hour late due to GPS directing the driver into some municipal car-park. I was beginning to fear the trip would be fated and stress-inducing with Mum querulously demanding I take her to the loo (utterly impossible) every five minutes and that the café would be shut, scones and tea just a mirage on the sand . . . BUT, it wasn't. It was one of life's perfect moments - sun, light warm breeze, distant clear views of loved land-marks; open tea-shop, scones, tea and a happy waiter called Victor.



On the way back to meet the taxi we were beguiled into 'buying' shells by a happy band of kids on the promenade, (much to their parents' embarrassment). I handed over 50p which sent them into raptures, and chose a large flat oyster-type shell, while Mum pointed out the more unusual one pictured on the left. She looked at it for some time while we waited for our cab and then announced that there was a small dog inside it. As she had said the home had given her wolf for lunch the day before I nodded and said 'really' as I wasn't sure what else to say.
Mum was never really a 'dog person' but in her own more misty world canine creatures seem to have become fascinating; a bit like when we are children I suppose.

Smashing time

It's true that the spatial awareness of the menopausal woman (certainly in my case) is different to most beings.
The most damage I do is to crockery and glassware - not really a problem as 99% of all our stuff hails from second-hand shops etc, but there are a few times when breakages have been moments and even possibly hours of sadness depending on the item.
I have a very clear childhood memory of breaking a sacred plate of my mother's - I wasn't menopausal of course, but she probably was, and another great virtue (not) of this particular part of life is to become wildly overemotional, often about . . . very little. I can't remember the plate now, but I do recall my letter (carefully embellished with clumsy flower illustrations) we found many years later which spoke of my distress at obviously causing great sorrow: 'sorry Mum that I brok your bestest plat'.
Yesterday, I brok(e) - I can spell a little better now - the third of our rather fine butter dishes. The first was a handmade receptacle, the second a super 70s orange and blue thing, and the third . . . sob . . . a black glass dish featuring a wolf or maybe a fox on its lid. It had come from a car boot sale years ago, brought out after the last china-smashing incident and had graced the breakfast table for several months.
During the washing up it had met with the tap. I had stood staring, not even able to swear colourfully, then quietly swept it up (after a photo-record) and threw it away.
"What was that?" Mark's voice issued from the front room with a certain resigned tone reserved for yet another item on its way to landfill/recycling.
"The black wolf dish."
Silence.
Butter was served on a small oval plate at breakfast, not good as the cat was already eyeing the unprotected yellow substance. Good excuse to go round some junk shops I suppose . . .

The first soup

Over the balmy months we seem to had forgotten soup, apart from an occasional dabble with a few cold variants.
I decided to 'have a go' at some Bouillabaisse as we had invited fish-loving types over.
Walking into the local fishmonger I casually mentioned I would like some ingredients to make the aforementioned dish. The shop owner and assorted elderly fish-buying members of the public started back as if I had asked for items for DIY bomb equipment.
This was serious, several days careful thought should have been given . . . not to mention days to 'commande' the stuff. 'Madame, you are clearly insane, English and no nothing more of the cuisine of fish than opening a packet of 'doigts de poisson', he said fixing me with a cold fish eye. Not really, but he obviously thought that.
When it became clear I was not going to go away, he suggested some other fish that could possibly be used in an approximation of the hallowed dish of the south coast: moules, red mullet, wolves (loup) salmon, mackerel and white boingy stuff (squid bodies) etc. Agreed, fell over with shock of price, paid and went home to recover with tea and reassuring book of basic greek cookery.
Actually, I found an excellent idea for a fish soup with loads of veg which the Greeks used to make and take for lunch in big cook pots on their boats.
Along these lines . . .

Chopped up: carrots, leeks, celery, tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, bay leaves, parsley, ouzo (or a bit of white wine and brandy seemed to work), boil up, simmer and add all fish, simmer, eat.
- was really good; even French folks said so!

Also I made a sort of 'aoli' (classic Marseille garlic sauce) but realised at the last moment we didn't have bread for bread crumbs, so used an old croissant.

Egg yolk, ton of garlic, hot chili pepper, rock salt, croissant. Not to be eaten if you are newly dating someone.

More soup later.