Sunday, 23 February 2014

Good company

Last night it was the book group meeting. We always have supper, with contributions brought by the members. It invariably turns into a feast and a rowdy conversation.  I said that I would make a pudding but was out of eggs. I walked down the road and bought some from a neighbour whose hens are laying well at the moment. Aren't they beautiful!
My lemon tree is being equally prolific so I decided to make
Make a shortcrust pastry base with 4oz flour, 2oz fats.
Cream together 2oz butter with 4oz sugar until light and fluffy.
4oz cottage cheese,
rind and juice of a lemon,
1oz flour,
beaten egg yolk. Mix together well.
Whisk the egg white until stiff and fold into the mixture.
Bake for about 30 minutes at 400 deg F, Gas mark 6. (The dark bits are where I failed to combine the egg white thoroughly into the mixture!)
We were discussing

It is a novella, straightforwardly written and therefore very accessible. Quite a relief after ploughing through Pamuk's, 'Snow' at the last meeting! All the group enjoyed it, but some far more than others. I felt somewhat burdened by the tone, set right at the onset, although two points of humour, well into the book, were delightful. I feel that this subject has been better handled by other authors.
It created a good discussion and a lovely evening. We got home in the early hours and today, thanks to rain and wind and very dull skies, I haven't ventured out.

On quiet Sundays such as this my father usually phoned from North Yorkshire for a catch-up of news.
Today is the anniversary of his death, fourteen years ago. At the age of ninety-one he was diagnosed with lung cancer and given three months to live. However he was determined to see in the new millennium and extended that time by eight months. We were described as 'two peas in a pod'. When he died I was distraught and thought that I had lost him completely. It isn't the case, he travels with me always.
I know that some of you are at the stage of life where elderly parents are causing concern and heartache, with difficult decisions having to be made. I wish to tell you that you never altogether loose those you love - but be sure to tell them while they are before you just how you feel.
Wee One with her Grandad

 I still half wait for the phone to ring. When it did so this morning it was a friend that I'd been talking to a few hours earlier. We did what my father and I had always done and had a leisurely conversation, mulling over the night before and chatting about this and that. Thank you, Janet, it was great!


  1. Anniversaries are an odd one - my father's one is this Friday and sometimes one feels silly "talking" to him as such. But now when I think of him I smile instead of feeling sad so I suppose that is progress.

    1. Keep talking and smiling, Coulda, that's what I do too. So nice to have your comment.

  2. I don't want to sully the loveliness that you've created in this post by writing drivel, so I'll just say thanks and be on my way...

    1. Melanie, you don't write drivel, only enjoyable silliness, which I always appreciate. No need to ever rush away.

  3. Thank you for this quiet posting. I find it difficult to tell them how I feel. Oh yes, words ...
    But your eggs, coming from a neighbour with hens - I envy you! If only all eggs could be like them.
    Yesterday I posted a photo of my former book group. I am not sure, if everything was brown like in the photo or if the colour of the photo changed over time. Early days of colour photography.
    Was your mum the photographer in your family?

  4. I don't recall my mother ever taking a photograph but my father took far too many and they were not all worth looking at!
    How nice to have been in a children's book group. Can you remember what you discussed? I could happily talk about my favourite books for children, I think that there is such a high standard of work.
    The eggs look beautiful but I shan't be eating them this week as it's the animal product-free diet that I do once every three months.

  5. Yes, I think about my dear Dad every day (all the awkward bits now forgotten!) - weren't we so lucky that they were such lovely chaps!