The Homemade Heart

slowly towards Spring

One of the interesting aspects of moving to this house in January 2004 was seeing what appeared in the garden month by month during that first year.

It was something of a horticultural tombola, but one of the great treats was realising that we had fallen heir to many hundreds of snowdrops; some small clumps in the front garden, and some larger tracts in the side and back gardens.

I adore snowdrops, and I know I am not alone; we attribute bravery (undaunted by cold), strength (forcing through frozen ground), and optimism ('Fear not, Spring is almost here!') to these beautiful little plants, appearing as they do towards the end of winter, pushing up through frost and snow (or in our case neglected piles of leaves from last autumn).

We also have several large clumps growing in the area of the garden we euphamistically refer to as 'No Man's Land', which lies behind our garage and was I believe at one time the site of a large greenhouse. It is not grassed, and is full of bramble bushes and weeds, as well as deflated footballs, piles of old grass cuttings, and the occasional toy car or cricket bat from the boys' long abandoned childhood games. Meg (our yellow lab) loves to root about in there, regarding it as a canine treasure trove of  burst tennis balls and stringless badminton racquets, but really, it's a bit of a disgrace.

In an ideal world it would be stripped, levelled, lined and paved, and serve as a patio area for outdoor meals and general summer evening lounging, but there are so many other priorities that we may never manage it. 

However I feel I can and should remove these lovely snowdrops from such uninspiring surroundings. Snowdrops are best transplanted 'in the green', so I aim to rescue these innocents soon from their neglected corner, and transplant them to the front garden, where I can see them from the kitchen window, to cheer me about my tasks as Winter draws slowly toward Spring. 

 

 

 

 

we decided to do it in style.

Last weekend Derek amd I stayed at the exquisite   Prestonfield, in Edinburgh.

We were celebrating our wedding anniversary, and as this was only the second time we had been away alone in 14 years, we decided to do it in style. And Prestonfield has style by the bucketload. 

Also wonderfully comfortable bedrooms,

elegant drawing rooms with cosy window seats to take tea, read, relax and dream away an hour or two,

 

mysterious architectural remains in the grounds, seemingly discarded during building modifications over the years,

 

haughty peacocks preening in the weak winter sunshine,

plus an ornamental version in dignified pose on a hall table.

There are also many intriguing original artworks in the hotel, which makes walking anywhere a slow process as your eye is constantly drawn to the paintings; pencil drawings, architectural plans, marble busts and lots of oil portraits, some of them of previous owners of Prestonfield through the centuries. All there to wander past, gaze at, even reach out and gently touch.

This was the landing outside our room.

All this splendour, which could have been a little intimidating, was tempered by the friendly informality of the staff, who swished purposefully through the hotel in their black kilts, dispensing cheer, wonderful service, lots of smiles and even the odd bit of well placed humour . 

We had a  gorgeous dinner in the (almost!) circular dining room, then coffee in the Tapestry Drawing Room, which has a deeply ornate, original plasterwork ceiling and a huge log fire roaring up the lum.

After breakfast next morning  we set off for home, via a little visit here, without which a trip to Edinburgh is not complete...

what do you do?

What do you do at 6.15am when you have just waved off your 14 year old son on a 4 day long school trip to London? When you are fully awake but not quite ready to engage with the activities of the day? When you have what seem to be tears in your eyes, which is odd because two minutes ago you were standing at the front doorstep in your dressing gown, smiling madly, nodding, and waving in a most encouraging fashion?

Well, if you're me, you make a banana loaf (or two, as it turned out).

A couple of hefty slices (buttered of course) and two big mugs of tea helped me to swallow down the lump in my throat. Not the healthiest breakfast nutritionally, but emotionally it hit the spot nicely.

Banana loaf is probably one of the first things that people attempt to bake, and there are good reasons why: it's very easy to make,  very adaptable, and most kitchens have a couple of very speckly, or black bananas in the fruit bowl at some point every week. It is absolutely delicious; lovely on its own, or toasted (under the grill, it would stick in most toasters). It also freezes well.

There are countless recipes for banana loaf, but I always use this one, from my rather hacked- about edition of Amy Willcock's 'Aga Baking'. The page shows some signs of use, to put it politely.

 

Although the recipe is for a 2lb loaf, there is often sufficient mixture to make an additional 1lb loaf, or even  few muffins, depending on the size of the bananas, and what additional ingredients you use.Today I added 100g of chopped walnuts and 100g of sultannas, but you could also use 100g of chocolate chips, or 100g dessicated coconut, or a tablespoon of poppy seeds and the grated zest of a lemon, or anything atall that you like.

Banana Loaf.

Line 2lb loaf tin with  loaf tin liner (held in place with dabs of butter if necessary). Preheat oven to Gas 4/180c

2 tbsp milk

2 L eggs

80 ml sunflower oil

3 bananas, peeled and mashed

1 tsp baking powder

250g self raising flour, sifted

150g caster sugar

Optional: additions, as described above.

Combine all ingredients in roomy bowl and mix thouroughly. Spoon into lined loaf tin (or tins, depending on additional ingred). Bake for 40 to 50 minutes until well browned on top, and a skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. (If you have enough mixture for an additional 1lb loaf, it will take about 25-35 minutes).

 

new shoes

During a pre-christmas rummage in my wardrobe, looking for gifts, I came across Jacob's first pair of shoes.

They were pretty chunky for a newly-walking toddler, but he was extremely proud of them, and I remember being amazed that my baby had size 4 1/2 feet.

My sense of surprise has never diminished in regard to shoe size, quite justifiably I think when you consider his latest pair, coming in at a walloping size 12.

"Act your age not your shoe size" was considered a statement of  world-weary sophistication when I was at school, but given that Jacob is 14, he could justifiably act his shoe size and not be considered too immature.

This particular pair of shoes will shortly be walking the streets of London as Jacob is leaving very early tomorrow morning on a school trip, coming home on Sunday evening. I am excited for him, and keep reminding myself that he is now the very capable young man who fits in every way the Big Size 12, not the chatty toddler in the Small Size 4 1/2.