Osterley Park's snowdrop drifts ...

Yesterday Emi and I headed over to Osterley Park with Maxi, the Wonder Dog, for a bit of a race around. It was a truly glorious morning: blue skies and sunshine with the mercury pushing up towards something approaching a hospitable temperature. It felt like maybe, just maybe, spring had sprung.

I've written about Osterley Park many times before. It's our local National Trust property, and I absolutely love it. It's where we come when we need a spot of fresh air and don't want to travel very far to inhale it. 

After we'd given the Wonder Dog a race round the park we decided to head into the gardens to see what how the spring flowers were getting along. 

We were delighted to see drifts of snowdrops encircling the trees.

They really were pretty. I think we'd inadvertently caught them at their best.

I love the snowdrops. They make my spirits soar. After the long haul of winter and the dreary grey of January they are such a welcome sight. Much as I love them, however, it would never occur to me to pull some and bring them inside. I remember as a child my grandparents' lawn used to turn white with snowdrops. They'd been growing there since forever and had spread around this way and that until they covered the grass with their floral snow, but whenever I asked to pick some to bring inside my Grandma would gently, but firmly, say no, adding that it would be unlucky to do so. 

And so the lovely snowdrops remained outside, and we admired them from afar.

This superstition seems to be one that many people in other parts of the country shared. It was commonly believed that to bring a posy of snowdrops into your house was an invitation for death to follow. Perhaps this was because they were planted by the Victorians on the graves of their loved ones, and hence they became tainted by association with the churchyard. Others have sought to explain the superstition by suggesting that the small white petals resemble a shroud. Speaking for myself I find it difficult to see anything shroud-like in the delicate beauty of the snowdrop, but each to their own as they say.

In earlier ages they were known as Candlemas Bells owing to how they were normally in bloom on Candlemas Day, the second of February, when people traditionally celebrated the Virgin's ritual purification 40 days after the birth of Jesus. As a result, in religious art, they were sometimes used as the symbol of the Virgin; their lowered heads a reminder of the Virgin's sorrow at the Crucifixion. 

Snowdrops are not native to our shores. It's thought that they were first introduced by Italian monks who carried them from their homeland to plant around the Cistercian houses of pre-Reformation England. This would mean they probably arrived here in the twelfth or thirteenth century when the great age of monastery-building was underway, and large numbers of people in Holy Orders were flooding into the country to assist with their foundation.

Perhaps those early monks carried them along as part of their medicine chests.  In the Middle Ages snowdrop bulbs were sometimes used as a rub-on treatment for headaches and as an antidote to certain poisons.  In the Caucuses people have long believed that they would remain young and retain the full sharpness of their mental faculties if they ate the odd snowdrop bulb. Modern medicine has vindicated their faith in the health-giving properties of the snowdrop, having established that the chemical galantamine, present in the snowdrop bulbs, helps to arrest the progress of Alzheimer's disease.

Osterley has a very special winter garden, where there are a great many other things vying with the snowdrops for your attention. I enjoyed admiring its fine bones. My mum always says that a good garden stands out in winter as you get to see all the underlying shapes and the structural backdrop when the leaves fall. She's not wrong. The centre of the garden (above) has been skilfully designed so that your eye travels on into the middle distance, between the trees and along the grassy path. I also love how they've used the red dog wood to add a dash of colour on the left hand side.

I loved the dwarf irises ... 

... the hellebores ...

.. and the crocus ...

... and I was blown away to find a sheltered bank, where a few daffodils were stealing a march and already blowing their trumpets ... .

All things told it was a very fine stroll. 

All the best for now,

Bonny x

Home-made fat balls ... yummy (if you're a bird)

Emi and I have been enthusiastically watching the birds these past few days. He's got his half-term holidays this week, and, as there's a zoo in our back garden, it's hard not to notice. Quite the opposite. In fact the challenge comes in tearing yourself away from the kitchen window. We've got our cameras sitting at the ready, waiting for something cute and/ or interesting to show up and be snapped.

This little Black Cap is one of my favourite visitors. He's really tenacious and always comes back for more.

We've been buying fat balls from the supermarket, but they look all sort of grey and grungy - not that our feathered friends seem to mind. Yesterday, however, we decided to have a go at making our own. And I have to report that they've been going down a storm outside with the avian hordes.

I'd got some left-over Trex baking fat which we melted in a saucepan over a low heat before adding a similar volume of mixed bird seed. Our recipe wasn't very accurately calibrated, and, as we were dancing around to Emi's play list, which includes at least six renditions of the theme tune from Ghostbusters, it was all a bit happy-go-lucky. But that's always the type of cooking that produces the best food. It's almost as though you stir a little bit of your good humour into the mix as you go.

Anyway our mixture didn't look desperately appetising, but then, as we didn't have feathers or beaks, we decided that our opinions probably didn't count for much.

When everything was suitably gooey and all mixed up we poured it into a clean ice-cream carton and stored it in the fridge overnight so that it could cool down and harden up.

The resulting mixture was a bit like a not-very-crispy trail bar for birds. We scooped great balls of it out of the carton using an ice-cream scoop and tied them up in recycled string bags that we'd bought onions and garlic in. Then we fixed these to the branches of the plum tree outside.

And the verdict: a feathered thumbs-up!

All the best for now,

Bonny x

The St. Valentine's Day Miracle ...

Steam hissed out of the huge, grey kettle; an angry spume of scalding vapour. A split second later the shrill note of the whistle in its spout announced that the water had boiled.

Come on, Ethel. Get on with it. I need three pots of India tea, one of Darjeeling and two orders of sultana scones, Madge said, her voice quivering with annoyance as she registered that I still hadn't made the tea. She'd left her orders on the table a good five minutes' ago.

She was right to be annoyed with me: I wasn't doing my job properly.

The truth was that my head was in the clouds. Today was St. Valentine's Day, and everyone else in the tea shop was eager to get off early to see their sweetheart. Everyone that is except for me, and they'd asked me to work a double shift instead.

My Alf, you see, was off at the war, so there was to be no celebration for me. Valentine's Day, 1915 was destined to pass unmarked and unobserved in the storybook of my life. 

Missing in action they'd said in their last telegram to his mum, and now all I could think about was how we'd spent last Valentine's Day together. He'd bought us tickets to go down to Brighton on the train.

It was a funny old time of the year to go down to Brighton.

Don't worry, he'd said. It'll be a laugh. We'll have the whole place to ourselves. Just you, me and the seagulls. 

And he was right. We had the whole promenade, the piers and the great pebbly beach all to ourselves. With the wind in my hair, the seagulls chasing the breaking waves and Alf's arm, a talisman against the future, wrapped protectively around my shoulders, I'd never felt happier or safer. We'd spent the day wandering around with not a care in the world. We'd planned our future: a nice little house just across the river in Battersea, three children, an allotment to grow our vegetables in and a dog with big floppy ears. It had all seemed so easy.

But what a difference a year can make. As soon as this stupid war had broken out he'd been one of the first to volunteer. He used to work on the railways, and so they said he'd make a great sapper, digging trenches under the German lines to spy on them and blow them up with high explosives. I never liked the sound of it, but he'd gone off with a song in his heart, happy that he was able to be of service to King and country.

Of course, I hadn't said anything at the time. It hadn't seemed right, what with him being so full of the whole idea of winning the war by Christmas and everything, but I'd always thought that he'd got the worst darn job in the whole British Army. I mean I'd have hated to have been cooped up in some damp trench with the German privies draining into the ground above me and only the rats for company, not knowing all the while when the whole thing might be blown sky-high. My heart stopped for a full minute every time I let myself imagine what it must have been like for him.

His mother felt the same. I knew she did. We'd never said as much to one another, but I've seen it written large on her face: Why can't someone else's son do this dismal thing? Why does it have to be my boy?

My eyes lingered on the large dent in the side of the kettle as my thoughts roamed free. It seemed to suck in all the light. Someone must have dropped it straight onto the flagstones. What a din that would have made.

Ethel, if you don't pull yourself together, Miss Bainbridge will be giving you your marching papers, Madge hissed in my ear, getting the scones out of their enamelled bin herself. Come on where's my tea. That old dragon on the corner table will raise the roof if we don't get her order sorted out soon. 

I looked over Madge's shoulder, through the kitchen door, into the cafe beyond. I saw a tall, stern-looking lady dressed in a long black coat sitting in the corner, her back to the wall and a large Gladstone bag wedged between her lap and the tabletop. She was looking around as though she were watching out for someone, but she didn't seem to be upset or to be nursing a grievance.

Has she complained about something? I asked.

No. Not yet, Madge replied. But she's the type. Mark my words. She's the type to make a fuss if her order's not seen to in double quick time.

She didn't seem to me to be the type to make a fuss, but I didn't say anything. I was just the kitchen girl who made the tea. What did I know?

The stern-looking lady had ordered a pot of Darjeeling, with lemon and no milk, and a sultana scone with butter and damson jam. I busied myself getting it ready for her. I placed a the tea on a tray with a scone, a paddle of butter and a little pot of jam. 

I watched as Madge carried the tray carefully to the corner table. 

The lady looked up, and caught me scrutinising her. There was a flicker of something in those cold grey eyes. It couldn't have been recognition: we'd never met before. My heart stopped. She'd come to me with news about Alf. Bad news. I could feel it in my bones.

Panic rose in my chest. Feeling as though time had slowed down and expanded I watched as she asked Madge something. Madge nodded, then turned back towards the kitchen and pointed to me.

The lady and I locked eyes again. This time there was something appraising in how she looked at me. She must have been weighing up how I'd take the horrible news she’d come to deliver.

I couldn't stay. I had to go. If I ran away now before she told me it would mean that in some parallel universe Alf would still be alive. If I didn't know, my heart could carry on. I could just wait it out, and then it would all be over and he'd come home with all the other boys once this terrible, awful nightmare had ended.

Fumbling with my apron strings I pulled it over my head and stuffed it into the enamel bin with the sultana scones. Grabbing my hat and coat from the pegs by the back door I raced outside and up the back stairs that led up into Vigo Street.

I could hear Madge shouting at me in the distance.

Wait, Ethel. Come back. 

I didn't wait. I couldn't. I ran off as fast as my legs would carry me. I could hear them both, running after me in pursuit. The hounds chasing the hare. Two sets of steps: one nimble and light footed, the other slower and heavier, but they had no chance.

I raced down Sackville Street, crossed Piccadilly, narrowly avoiding an omnibus and the rickety wheels of an organ grinder.

Oi! Miss! Watch where you're going! the omnibus driver shouted, pulling on the reins to bring the horse up short.

The blood was pumping in my ears, my heart felt as though it were about to burst through my chest, but I ran on down Pall Mall and into St. James' Park. I raced round the lake to our favourite spot with the wooden bench under the willow tree where we liked to sit on and feed the ducks. Alf and I used to go there every time he'd come to pick me up after work. We'd bring some left-over bread from the cafe for the ducks. It was a little ritual of ours; something we always did. We'd watch out for the Mandarin Ducks and tell each other that we'd stay true just like they did.

As the bench came into view I could see someone sitting on it. I huffed in annoyance, irritated that I wouldn't have it to myself. I slowed down, not sure whether to carry on or not, but I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

A man was sitting at the far end. As I drew nearer I was able to make out that he was wearing an army uniform. My eyesight has never been great. I should probably be wearing spectacles, but, what with all the steam in the kitchen, they'd be no use to me, so I've never bothered getting any.

My steps dragged, growing slower and slower as my heart started to beat faster and faster. There was something familiar about the solider's profile, but he was shaking in a way that I didn't recognise. His head moved around as though he were following the trajectory of a manically erratic mosquito, and I noticed that his legs were also twitching involuntarily. He'd got them crossed one over the other with his left hand resting on top as though he were trying to hold them in place, but it wasn't working. I could see their busy, random movements.

For a moment I stood and watched him. Then he turned towards me, perhaps sensing my gaze lingering on him.

Our eyes locked. It was Alf.

I froze. He stood up and walked unsteadily towards me. Then I saw that his right arm was missing, and that down the right hand side of his face there was an angry mass of scar tissue as though he'd been burnt in a fire.

Alf? Is it you? I asked stupidly, too stunned to make one foot follow the other towards him.

It's what's left of me, Ethel, he said, making no attempt to come any closer. I'll totally understand if you'd rather I went away again. I'm not exactly the bloke I used to be.

It was then I realised that it really didn't matter what he looked like or how much he twitched. I was only glad he'd survived and come back to me. At least I'd been spared my very worst nightmare.

 I asked Matron if she'd seek you out and break the news gently so you didn't have to lose face if you'd rather not see me.

But he didn't get any further with his fine speech. My legs suddenly remembered how to work again and I ran over to envelop him in my embrace.

St. Valentine had delivered me a miracle: an injured, wobbly miracle, but we'd be able to take it from there. I knew we would. Somehow we'd make things work.

Emi's Valentine Card ... shssh it's a secret ...

My son, Emi, has a crush. A really big crush on a beautiful little girl at swim club. She's a real princess: brains, beauty and nice parents to boot. I can only applaud his excellent taste. He's aiming high, my boy.

But, as old Bill Shakespeare, said the course of true love never did run smooth. And the principal fly in Emi's ointment is that she's eleven and he's only nine. He thinks that's a really big issue. Maybe he's right. From where I'm sitting on the sidelines I can see him hovering attentively whilst she scarcely ever notices him. He picks up her goggles when she drops them, fetches her towel, opens doors for her, smiling all the while and living with the hope that she'll remember his name. And when she does, well ... that just makes his day.

It's all very sweet and innocent. And I'm delighted that he's got such a healthy attitude towards girls. It's so much nicer than having him think that girls are stupid, and not wanting to have anything to do with them. In our house girls are brilliant, always have been, and there's nothing more to be said on the matter.

He's got it in his mind that Valentine's Day is coming up this weekend, and has enlisted my help in designing a suitable card for the young lady in question. We discussed how it should look, and, as he rather liked my Thank You cards of a few weeks' back we decided to do a flower power sort of thing. And, so this is what we've come up with, having spent a couple of happy hours painting and sticking over the weekend:

What do you think? Do you reckon she'll go for it?

Emi's hoping that she'll be bowled over, and will at least make the effort to get his name right in future.

Fingers crossed!

All the best for now,

Bonny x

Roasted cauliflower soup ...

I've just made a really moreish cauliflower soup.

We've got swim club tonight, which finishes late and, as there's school tomorrow, I need to have some supper that's going to be ready to serve up as soon as we get home. So the grand plan is to leave this in my Crock Pot with the setting on warm so that it's ready to go the moment we step through the door.

Mr B. should be home before us, but, as this soup's got cheese in, I'm not sure his technical skills would be up to reheating it. If we leave him in charge we're likely to find ourselves peering into a pot with a charcoal encrusted bottom and that awful smell of burnt food hanging in the air as he does his funny little tribal dance under the smoke alarm in a bid to disperse the fumes before it dials for the fire brigade.

Oh, no! We've been there too many times before. Mr B is the one person I know who really can't boil water, so we'll leave everything safely in the Crock Pot, and issue Mr B with an injunction prohibiting him from interfering with it in any way whatsoever.

Now, what makes this soup of yours so special, Bonny? I hear you ask your computer screen as you point a doubting finger at my mugshot and suspect me of hyperbole.

Well there are two stealth weapons that help make this the very best cauliflower soup in town:

1. Roasted cauliflower: I roast the cauliflower, which bigs up its flavour by a factor of about a thousand.
2. Le Roulé: I melt 150 g of French Roulé cheese into the pot before I bring it to the table, which bigs up the creamy, unctuous deliciousness by a factor of about another thousand (all scientifically-calibrated and totally conservative estimates, of course - ahem!).

Now I can't pretend that this is going to assist as part of your controlled weight loss plan, but come on peeps it's February! You can hide away all those adorable love-handles under layers of strategically draped wool for at least another couple of months.

So, now that that's all settled, here's what we're going to need for this wonderful soup of mine:

1 medium sized cauliflower, washed and cut into florets
1000 ml of good vegetable stock
1 medium sized onion, peeled and finely chopped
3 toes of garlic, peeled and finely chopped
2 medium sized potatoes, peeled and finely chopped
2 bay leaves
150g Le Roulé soft cheese
200 ml double cream - I use the Elmlea low fat cream in a token effort to regain a little ground in the calorie war that I'm so spectacularly losing at the moment.

And here's what to do:

Place your washed cauliflower florets in a baking tin and toss them with some olive oil. Roast them in an oven pre-heated to 190º C/ 375º F for 20 to 25 minutes, tossing them from time to time so that they don't brown.

Meanwhile sweat your onion, garlic and potatoes in a saucepan with a good glug of olive oil until they are all soft.

Add the roasted cauliflower florets and mix everything well before adding the vegetable stock.

Bring the mixture to a gentle boil and let it simmer for 10 to 15 minutes to allow the flavours to infuse and for everything to cook through.

Remove from the heat. Fish out the bay leaves and discard them. Then liquidise with a stick blender.

Add the cream and the cheese over the gentlest of heats. Stir in. The cheese melts easily into the soup to create a wonderful velvety delight, and the parsley in which it was rolled disperses through the liquid to make it look as though you're a wizard with the mandolin.

Serve with crusty bread, good company and a nice glass of vino.

All the best for now,


Bonny x