Come away with the raggle taggle gypsy-o
![dairyfree-flapjacks[1]](https://lucidgypsy.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/dairyfree-flapjacks1.jpg)
the most ridiculous news story goes to . . .
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-essex-21923218
Only in Essex, unless you can tell me otherwise?
I’m sure the ones in the photo above were delicious and very safe, photo by http://100cookbooks.wordpress.com/2013/01/09/dairyfree-vegan-flapjacks/
This made me laugh out loud, thanks to my friend Kathy.
As a small child I remember certain things that were supposed to be ‘good for me’. Back then I wondered if it was only me that these things were good for, I don’t remember any other children I knew that had these ‘good for you’ experiences. The earliest GFY was Cod Liver Oil, teaspoons of it. I can’t remember the taste, more the idea of it. I mean it hardly sounds appealing does it? Surely it might have been easier to swallow if it had been called Golden Smile Squash or something, any other ideas? Even as an adult – well outwardly, the idea of extracting oil from a cod’s liver is gruesome and quite strange. Who first thought of such a thing and how and when was it decided that it was GFY?
Next, when I was in infant school, a third of a pint of full cream milk in a glass bottle was thrust upon us every morning at play time. No doubt it was the government’s attempt to keep the countries children well nourished. Well it was wasted on me. The fact that I was made to drink it was guaranteed to make me rebel, but aside from that it made me sick. Luckily a willing victim grateful recipient in the shape of one of the Henry sisters was waiting for me to sneak it to her as soon as Miss King’s back was turned. I’ve never been able to drink a glass of milk and can only tolerate skimmed milk in hot drinks.
Also in school, where the classroom was converted into a dining room at lunchtime, ready to serve the dreaded green vegetables. I don’t think anyone liked them but everyone but me managed to eat them anyway. I would move them around my plate until they were stone cold and eventually teacher – who was probably desperate for her own lunch, took pity on me and let me out to play. That is until Miss Dunn arrived and saw me as her personal challenge. She would stand over me with a very stern face and a sharp tongue insisting that I would sit there until I had eaten it, or until class resumed. On one lovely sunny day I really, really wanted to play with my friends so I stuffed my cheeks, hamster fashion, with a couple of Brussel sprouts, smile sweetly and she let me go. Sadly for me she caught me just outside the door, spitting them down the drain. Headmasters office for me, but I’ve never, ever, eaten a sprout.
Medicine is GFY and when I was about ten with an ear infection; it was bright yellow anti-biotic pills, big enough to choke on. I’d never taken a pill before and these tasted nasty. The doctor suggested mixing them with something to disguise the taste, and at the time I had a craving for oranges. Tucking a pill into the flesh of my orange should do the trick it was thought. I cried and cried because all it did was spoil my orange. I suppose I must have taken the course of pills but I can’t remember it or imagine how.
All these memories were triggered by this evenings GFY experience. Green tea. A few years ago at the end of a Tai Chi class, green tea was served from a punch bowl, I tried a sip to be polite but as I wasn’t a tea drinker I didn’t expect to enjoy it. Since I had swine flu a few years ago I haven’t been able to drink coffee and so I have become a tea drinker, not bog standard tea, but Lady Grey or Earl Grey, and lately I’ve braved out and can do the odd Rooibos, all poncey stuff, according to most people. So perhaps I would now like green tea? Perhaps my palate has acquired the necessary degree of sophistication to appreciate its beneficial properties. Uh, no, I won’t be drinking that again. Good for me? Someone is having a laugh.
Mayumi over at http://bonusparts.wordpress.com/ saw that I had made soup for lunch yesterday and asked if I would share the recipe, so this is my style of cooking. I’m lazy, busy and disorganised. Other then traditional cake baking, Victoria Sandwich for instance, where to make it work the 4-4-2 is best, my philosophy is that if I like the flavours then most things will go together.
I often make soup, its quick, tasty and easy. Yesterdays was butternut squash and it goes something like this.
Cut the squash in half, scoop out the seeds and stickly orange stuff, drizzle a tiny bit of oil and roast it until its soft when you burn your fingers squeezing it. If you’re in a rush don’t bother roasting just peel it, chop it up and shove it in a big pan. Add a chopped up carrot or two – or don’t if you don’t have any. A red pepper, deseeded, roasted or not, two if the squash is large. If you have a chilli put in as much as you feel like bearing in mind that this soup is supposed to be sweet rather than hot, unless you prefer hot! You MUST put in an onion or two (that’s obvious isn’t it?), preferably red but if not … you get the picture. An extra special addition for me is African Gold (see https://lucidgypsy.wordpress.com/2012/11/24/the-african-chef-the-next-big-thing/ )
I had a little sweet potato from last week that needed using so I put it in, but you don’t have to … unless you especially want to. Same applies with tomatoes, fresh or tinned, if you feel like it or have a glut, put them in. Add some water, some stock cubes, salt and pepper and bring to boil, reduce the heat and cook until its cooked. Depending on how much you put in at first you might want to add more water, or not if you like really thick soup. Oh I forgot, grate some fresh ginger in at some point. If you don’t have any, you can use ground instead, I don’t expect anyone will know. This is a smooth soup, so let it cool a bit and then blend it. I use a hand blender and it spirts all over the place but guess what? I’m too lazy to get the food processor out!
This was delicious yesterday and today some will go into a flask for a beach warm up, and it freezes well. It may be a bit odd, but I’m a good cook and I even have cookery books, but if a recipe has more than eight or so ingredients I can’t be bothered with it. It’s much more fun just playing. Of course if somethings turns out spectacular, it can never be reproduced, heyho, I’ll just try something else.
Julia doesn’t like Halloween, I can’t say I’m over keen either but it’s an excuse to be silly so here goes with A Recipe for a witch perhaps you would like to write one as well?
Five Century Cackle Buns
Take nineteen apples, bobbed and then spat out. Chop and mix into a litre of pepto bismol. Mince the fingers of seven ladies and soak them in mackerel juice for three Sabbaths.
Whisk all together with sprinklings of powdered caterpillar, the feathers of a dodo, the warts of a crone and an eyebrow from an Arctic chimp.
Bring to the boil, strain through a hermits sock, saving the mashings for later. Tip into fifty individual dragon’s egg shells and bake.
Mix the mashings with hair removal cream and spread over cooled buns.
Enjoy with a large mug of boiled bluebottles.
Otherwise known as Lucid Gypsy rambling.
Last evening I went out with two of my closest friends. It’s a monthly event, we take turns driving, so that in theory two of us can have a couple of drinks, but actually we don’t drink much alcohol at all, it’s more about the chat and something to eat in a country pub. Two of us live about four miles apart and the other one lives fifteen miles away out in the sticks, and has done for around ten years. Jackie, the friend who lives nearest to me drove last night and sadly she doesn’t have the best sense of direction. Despite having been to Buckerell some 70 or 80 times she needs directions, but really its one straight main road, the A30, and then four miles up a narrow winding lane. We had a great evening with lots of fun, silliness and too many peas. After dropping Sonja home, we headed back down the lane, gabbling away and after a couple of – turn left – straight up – yes take the slip road, we were safely back on the A30 with twelve miles to go. This is the point where I stop thinking about giving directions and ask instead about her planned weekend in Spain. Mistake.
‘Is this the right way, I don’t recognise it?’
I sit bolt upright, ‘Um no this is the Exmouth road, you’d better turn around and head back to the roundabout, take the slip road back again.’
‘Is this the way?’
I should mention that if I’m driving I wear glasses, without them, in the dark I can’t see well enough to drive in unlit areas. ‘Um, I don’t know but it’s the right general direction, I think it said Rockbeare . . . yep this is the old road, Rockbeare Straights, we came this way once before.’
We drive about five miles. Road works, road ahead closed. We slow down, the road is empty except for the guys resurfacing, and Jackie sees the sign for Sowton Village.
‘Oh that way is okay we can get to Frog Lane from there and then Clyst St Mary’ she said.
‘Sowton is a dead end, I’ve walked across the cow fields to Clyst St Mary but there’s no road.’
‘Yeah there is, there must be’ she was adamant.
‘All right go for it,’ we drive through a silent village, its 11.30 by now and Jackie heads confidently towards a no through road sign. ‘That’s the way to the fields, bear right and try that, but I don’t know where it leads. The single track becomes a grassy track then meets a fence. We can see the lights of the motorway two miles from home just ahead, buts there’s no way through. A difficult fifteen point turn and we head back the lane, to the road workers who give us directions, complex ones that would work if I could read the signs.But we think we get it, and realise that another car who also asked the way, is convinced that we know where we are and is following us. Turn right at the pub they said, then double back towards the Daisy Mount junction, well it might have been the pub but it was all closed up and it was too late to take the turning. I started to get my bearings though; we were heading back the old road that led to the airport. Jackie agreed and took over again, this was her territory, just a couple of miles cross country from her house.
‘Aylesbeare, that’s it just up here.’ I didn’t think you needed to go to Aylesbeare to get to the parallel Sidmouth road but I left her to it. And we drive quickly with the other car in pursuit, and no sign of life around for a couple more miles. We approach the village and I squint at a right hand turning sign but friend keeps going. We leave the village behind and start a steady climb. Soon the quiet is broken by the petrol warning alarm, 20 miles of fuel left and we didn’t know the way. I’m just wondering if I have enough phone battery left for the sat nav to work when friend says ‘I wish we had a sat nav . . . what you’ve got it on your phone, why didn’t you try that before?’ to be honest I forget it’s there, I don’t get lost! Unless I’m being driven by Jackie, on the way home from Buckerell.
My suspicions were confirmed, we shouldn’t have gone through Aylesbeare, but if we had turned right there, we wouldn’t now be heading for Ottery St Mary. But if this lane reached the common, it would be creepy especially with someone following us, but we should then be able to turn right.
YES! Sidmouth road and we limped to a petrol station. After a – diversion – of about 15 miles, we got to my house having taken an hour and a half instead of twenty five minutes.
Lessons learnt.
Always take my glasses even if I’m not driving.
Never think I need not concentrate on the road myself if Jackie is driving me anywhere after dark.
Remember my phone has a sat nav and take my charger so I can use it.
I have a stranger sense of humour than I realised, most people wouldn’t think it was a huge hilarious adventure getting lost in the deep east Devon lanes at midnight, with not even moonlight to guide us.
When you’re young, skirts and trousers with elasticated waistbands are just ‘old lady clothes’ and you take it for granted that they need the comfort, while knowing that it will never happen to you. Wrong. Elasticated waistbands are manufacturer’s way of making some money from older ladies who are not catered for by designers. They fail to cash in on the silver pound, sticking instead to the young, slim or even emaciated because they make their clothes look better. What they fail to take into account is that even really slim women change body shape with age. You can be small but still have a bug tummy, no waist, no bottom and that hip spring – the difference between waist and hip measurement – decreases from about twelve inches when you are twenty five and a size twelve or fourteen to about six inches when you are fifty even if you still have thirty eight inch hips! So your choice is whether to buy skirts or trousers that fit your waist and balloon out like a parachute around your hips, never, ever do your top buttons up, or . . . elastic and crimplene.
Your eyelashes start to disappear, what happens is that they grow inwards. They creep down through some special internal follicles until they reach your upper lip and chin where they multiply like cell division and burst out forming a lush growth to warm your face in winter.
Old ladies can’t wear pretty brassieres. Pretty ones are aimed at young women whose breasts have not yet become matronly. Matronly bosoms appear around your late forties. Oh yes they do, even if you always wore a 34A you will suddenly need a 36F, and the wide straps that go with bras in those kind of sizes. Woe betide those of you who successfully seek out The Thin Strap, because you will have deep chasms in your shoulders. Nope, to contain your new found pitta breads you will require inch wide straps and side scaffolding.
Now, we expect to gain some lines on our faces don’t we? They are lines of wisdom and character of course, and a way of keeping the beauty industry going with our futile attempts to stay young. But what is this crepe like thing happening to my forearms? No one told me about that. And why don’t the magazines recommend that you wear gloves twenty four seven, to stop your hands looking like some haggard witch’s? Because they get paid to advertise hand cream!
Granny shoes. How could they wear such ugly things? This generation didn’t invent ridiculous – oops I mean delicious – heels, platforms and wedges that you need a mounting block to climb into. No, I had them too and could walk miles, dance all night and then walk home again in them. I didn’t live in them, I loved flip flops too. They were never as lovely as the ones around now. I have some gorgeous jewelled and sequined ones, in fact several pairs; I keep buying them in the hope that some will be comfortable enough to walk miles in. If I try that, the impact of every step I take resounds its painful way up through my calves and knees, leaving me hobbling slowly the next day. So, it’s nice comfy cushiony soles for me, little heels on occasion, but even then they would have to be Footgloves. What’s happens to our feet? Well apparently we lose subcutaneous fat from our soles as we get older, who knew that? What I do know is where mine went. Around my middle.
If anyone can warn me of any other little surprises I have to look forward to I would be deeply thrilled to know. Meanwhile, where is my foot spa, my feet are killing me.
Spam is becoming really funny these days. Not funny that it exists of course, but the lengths they go with it. In my early days of blogging I didn’t get the spam protection thing, why would anyone want to send spam my way? I would get the odd few spam comments, but not take any notice or even delete them, they just sat there. Then I read how some peoples comments ended up in the spam box for no reason, so I started to check and delete it all. The volume has gradually increased, I wonder why? Is it because I have lots of followers now? What do they hope to gain?
Here is some recent stuff, have any of you received similar ones? Spam comments on my post ‘pets’
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Very nice info and straight to the point. I don’t know if this is really the best place to ask but do you folks have any thoughts on where to get some professional writers? Thank you.
Received from ‘healthy banana nut muffins’
Comments on ‘Sunrise’
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I’ll do my best to keep functioning! All the banana people are from different IP addresses, seriously weird. My blog isn’t about food, I’ve posted one recipe here and that was way back, so why the muffins? So far banana muffins account for around 20 comments. What type of spam do you get? Please tell! I’m off for a daily delete now.
I’m privileged to know a special guy who is a very creative and professional wedding photographer, so I thought I would have a chat to him to find out about what the work involves.
Steve, how long is a wedding day for the photographer and do you get well fed?
It tends to begin at about 9am and we stay until after the first dance. Food – ha no, once when someone ordered some sandwiches, but we sneak off with a packed lunch when the party eat. It can be a long day! The problem is that venues would charge as a wedding guest if they provided food for us, and that’s an extra burden for the couple.
How frustrating, I bet the food they have is amazing sometimes. What is it like working with the families?
Difficult because we have to find the right balance, we need to remain in authority without stepping on toes. Cheekiness can sometimes get results but they don’t usually listen, so occasionally you just have to shout.
It’s become a tradition for female photographers to be there while the bride gets ready and I know you have recently spent time with a groom and groomsmen before they left for the ceremony. I imagine that was fun?
It was strange, when it’s the girls it’s very special but with guys . . . well there’s nothing to prepare, they just get dressed, maybe fiddle with a tie and buttonhole but that’s it. First they sat around all morning watching footie on television, having a drink and winding each other up. They tend to be quite chilled in church but some panic and it’s my job to try to reassure them, I’m the only point of contact as everyone else is sitting down. Ideally we get some informal shots.
How do you cope when the bride is . . . shall we say . . . no oil painting? Are there ways to make her look good?
Hahaha, yes there are lots of techniques! Shoot from above if they are short – I’m tall! Never use direct flash, bounce it from the ceiling. Make the background really bright, overexposing reduces shadows and makes them look thinner. A shallow depth of field for close up portraits, ring flash will softens feature and. with the larger brides; say with back boobs, you have to look for the best angles. Never shoot profiles of a large nose; they won’t thank you for it.
Have you witnessed any arguments, the wedding fight?
Only families getting tetchy really, but that’s why I leave after the first dance – before they get drunk.
Have you had any really bad venues?
Yes, the back room of a pub decorated like a night club, with neon cocktail bar signs, led lights and lasers shining around a pitch black room. About 30 people, mainly grandparent’s age, and very, very loud club music. It was pretty difficult to get decent photos. Another time there was a hotel with threadbare carpets, buckets in the toilets where the roof leaked, really scabby inside, but nice outside.
Goodness that sounds like a nightmare, Church or civil ceremony, which is best?
Civil ceremonies are easier. Churches have better results but vicars can be difficult saying only one photo inside for instance. Civil ceremonies are good for close up shots, little details like the rings.
What has been your best ever venue?
Wickham church, followed by the Marriott in Meon valley, a stunning hotel and a perfect day.
Any really unusual places?
HMS Warrior, a Victorian battleship in Portsmouth harbour, it was Great Britain’s first iron clad warship. It was small, intimate, lovely.
Steve, do you ever get emotional at weddings?
Nah, apart from annoyance and that has to be hidden!
That must be tough, have you had any major disasters?
My camera stopped working once but I work with my sister and she had a spare.
Anything funny you can remember?
Loads of things yes. On one occasion the groom’s belt needed an extra hole, so his mum tried a skewer, which didn’t work. So then dad decided to use his electric drill – while the groom was wearing the belt!
Thanks Steve, it all sounds fascinating and fun but I don’t think I would have the patience even if the pay is good.
Ah but, what people don’t realise when they are planning the big day, is just how much work we have to do behind the scenes. Correspondence, checking the venue in advance when possible and lots of photo editing afterwards to create their dream albums.
Just a quickie to share with you, I stumbled on this sign outside a pub in Totnes at the weekend and had to laugh, hope you do too!
Just one thing girls, get his wallet to a) limit his damage and b) increase your wardrobe.
Lucid Gypsy 