It wasn’t even 10am, but while there was still a spring morning nip in the air, it was glorious; a clear, blue canopy above and the symphony of birdsong all around.
Sitting outside with a good coffee (single estate from somewhere or other, via the local French deli), I tried to see everything, smell everything, hear everything. Tried to process it all in the mind, putting words to everything so that I might hope to hold on to it.
A church bell tolled from the Anglican convent just across the small park that sits behind; not a peel of bells, but a steady, monotonous call to worship – the sort of sound, in fact, that makes the advertised act seem so much less of a joyful one than sitting outside and drinking in the beauty of the morning.
Life is an ephemeral thing, and yet people go and sit inside gloomy churches rather then relish the glory of the world that they claim their god created. How perverse, when everything around you – particularly at this time of year – screams of creation and life. The sap is rising, blossom, flowers and leaves are bursting their bonds and flooding the world with colour and scent.
I might not, any longer, be able to fathom the churchgoing (although perhaps I never could, but merely went along with it unthinkingly), but I did manage to discipline myself into a brief spot of spring cleaning, washing down windows and sills in the kitchen, and clearing out a cupboard where there was an infestation of tiny bugs that seem to thrive on flour.
They’re flour weevils apparently, and seem to have been breeding in a bag of their favourite snack that was hidden from my vertically challenged view at the back of the top shelf. I only found it with the aid of the ladder.
As part of my efforts to keep them at bay – or better yet, get rid of them altogether – I’ve got an order of storage cans and tubs arriving on Tuesday. The flours can all go in stainless steel canisters, while the plastic tubs will be useful for storing – and organising – a whole range of things, including bags of nuts and dried mushrooms. Old 200g instant coffee jars do very nicely for storing assorted sugars.
It’s one of the things about enjoying cooking – no matter your initial antipathy to cleaning up, you start to get more and more committed to it. I do more washing up these days than I’ve ever done in my life, but it doesn’t feel more onerous. Now I simply understand it as a necessary part of the process, and I want my utensils as clean as possible.
And then armed with the satisfaction of such cleanliness and organisation, I went to sit outside, sporting a sleeveless t-shirt and squinting at the pages of a book as the warmth started to seep through to my bones.
By the time the clouds drifted into view, I didn’t even feel too great a resentment and, with thoughts of lunch drifting from my stomach to my brain, donned a baggy old cotton sweater against the cool and headed for the kitchen.
In River Café Two Easy, Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers present a series of soups, explaining that Italian soup is usually very rustic and chunky – not pureed within an inch of its life. Knowing I still had an odd courgette around the place, I thought I’d try and courgette and pea soup.
Talk about easy. Chop garlic and soften in olive oil, before adding chopped courgette. After a few minutes, tip in some peas (frozen ones are fine) and then a little stock. Let it simmer until the peas are cooked, then pop into a blender and pulse briefly – it needs to retain plenty of texture, not become smooth. Reheat with some basil leaves in it. Serve with grated parmesan.
I made some minor adjustments, adding a few fine because I had some left over and because it ensured that lunch would supply me with three portions of my fruit and veg.
The cupboard was bare when it came to basil, but I used the cheese as directed – and added a garnish of toasted pine kernels.
And the result? Lovely.
The big question in my mind now, though, is Easter. What am I going to cook? I’d scarcely given it a minute’s thought until yesterday, when it suddenly dawned on me that it was almost upon us.
I do want to try to make my own hot cross buns for the first time, but I’m struggling at present to think what else to cook.
Chocolate has to be involved somewhere.
It’s too early for the first lamb of the year (that’s actually best in August anyway). But possibly I’ll consider a leg of lamb anyway. If I can get decent quality, then I might do it with garlic and rosemary – or even dried lavender.
I gave up thinking about it after a while. I’ve done a basic order of core ingredients online, but I’ll give other things a few days to ferment, as it were.
So I’m left with this evening’s meal. Okay. We return to the River Café book. I got a dressed crab from Broadway Market yesterday. I’ll cook it gently with chili flakes and lime juice (and possibly some fennel), and serve with pasta.
Simple – and great flavours.
It’s been a good day thus far. The Other Half’s team won (it’s a cup weekend, so this is knock-out Rugby League) and Les Catalans won too (we both have a very large soft spot for the French side). And whilst my football team lost yesterday, my RL team won today, against the other strongest team in the country. So I'm reasonably happy. And Granddad would be proud.
Just occasionally, I wish that the whole idea of heaven and eternal life were true – not because I dream of eternal purgatory for nasty people, but because I wish that, somewhere, my grandfather was still around – even if only in the ether. But then again, what always brings me back down to Earth is the realisation that if that were the case, and if it were as the churches proclaim it to be, there would be no place for my grandfather. Or me. We'd be destined to meet in the nether regions of eternity.
And I look out at the dusk, and I see such life as spring takes control. And on this Palm Sunday, would I really like to be with Christ in Paradise?
I’ll leave you to consider the answer to that.
Showing posts with label grandfather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandfather. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Of Rugby League and facial hair
Performing my morning ablutions today, I took time out to cream off the growth on my upper lip. I'm convinced that the rate I grow hair like that indicates high levels of testosterone or something – If I left it, I'd end up with a rather obvious moustache and could tour the country as a 21st-century version of the bearded lady.
But it reminded me, as such a process often does, of my affection for facial hair (on men, that is).
It was only a very few years ago that I suddenly had one of those lightbulb-over-the-head moments and realised that almost all my boyfriends down the years have had facial hair. Pure coincidence? I doubt it.
Another thing eventually struck me: the first man who ever treated me like the proverbial little princess was my maternal grandfather. And he wore a moustache: a white somewhat Ronald Colemanesque affair by the time I knew him.
My grandfather died when I was about seven or eight, leaving me as the only one of the four grandchildren who remembers him. But remember him I do.
He'd started his adult life as an office boy in a steel company in the north west, and worked his way up to being the company boss.
My first memories of him are set against a background of the large house he and my grandmother lived in by then. I was sat on his knee and knocked his cigarette, setting light to the armchair. But I wasn't in trouble.
He'd sing to me – Coming Round the Mountain and the Maurice Chevalier hit from Gigi, Thank Heaven for Little Girls. And he'd show me an incredibly delicate music box that, when you opened it, would reveal a tiny feathered bird that went round and round, raising it's wings and singing. When my oldest uncle dies, it will come to me.
I already have a book of British birds that had been his. I'd sit on his knee and pour over the beautiful colour pictures, calling the owls "pussy birdies" and gigling at his moustache, as though that made him a "pussy birdy" too.
When staying at my grandparents' house, I used to scramble into their bed in the morning – something that never happened at home. My grandmother is a hazy figure in those memories; only later did she take on a more distinct and clear form. From those days, only my grandfather is clear in my mind's eye.
They retired to a bungalow on the Isle of Man, and for two or three years, we flew out in old DC Dakotas from Liverpool Speke (now John Lennon Airport) to holiday there.
He'd take me down in his big car to the dockside at Ramsey, where we'd stand together watching as the fishing boats came in, and then buy fresh herring straight from the fishermen.
He chased me around the living room, hiding behind chairs, peering out with a mischievous expression, a rolled newspaper in his hand, pretending that he was going to use it if he got near enough. I'd squeal with pleasure and a kind of excited fear (if you can possibly call it that). He never did actually catch me, of course. It was all about the chase.
I'd sit on the step of the kitchen door and pod fresh peas. We'd occasionally have a whole plate for supper, served with nothing more than salt and butter.
And every morning when I woke, it was to the sound of the gulls, shrieking as they wheeled above, for all the world looking as though they flew and surfed the thermals for the sheer fun of it.
We'd walk down the narrow, winding path that led down the cliff face to the park that lay below. There were little go karts that required an old sixpence to make them go, and a long slide that I fell off once – fortunately only right near the bottom – leaving a sight scar over my right brow.
Sometimes we'd get in the car with my parents and go to Point of Ayre, and stand on the stoney beach below the lighthouse, all throwing pebbles at targets made of piled stones, topped with an empty drinks can. A few years later, my grandfather's ashes were scattered there.
He died, as I said, when I was very young. I was devastated. But in recent years, I've come to think that I'm almost glad that he died when he did. I've learnt, over the years, that he was a bit of an old reactionary – we'd have disagreed about so much. But instead, he remains safe and secure in my memories – completely unsullied by such unsavoury realities.
I discovered something more about him a few years ago.
In the late 1920s and into the 1930s, he'd been the secretary to St Helens Rugby League Football Club in the north west. Later, he was a director of the club.
But in 1930, Saints had reached the Challenge Cup final at Wembley. The team set out on the Friday in a charabanc. I have a photo on the wall at home of them, looking oh-so-serious, standing outside the coach, waiting to board for the journey south. A few sport flat caps or trilbies. My grandfather stands at the end, one of two club officials traveling with the party, booted and suited, a badge on his lapel, a sheaf of papers in his left hand and bowler-hatted, a heavy-lidded, insouciant look on his face, and with the obligatory dog that's crept onto the picture standing by his feet. There was no moustache in those days.
Well, Saints lost that final. The story I'd heard over the years was that the team had all been drinking in London on the Friday night after they'd arrived, and were too hungover to do themselves justice in the game itself.
But a few years ago, when The Other Half and I were attending a Rugby League game in London, we got chatting to someone who, having heard this story, announced that he knew the Saints' club historian – and that my little tale wasn't completely accurate.
We waited with baited breath to hear what had really happened – only to be told that they hadn't been drinking, they'd spent the night in a brothel.
The Other Half looked nervously in my direction, wondering how I'd take this news. I burst into laughter. "At least there was one character in the family!" I said, with something of a sense of relief. And given that my grandmother was a cold fish (who also bullied her daughter when my mother was a child), I can't say I blame him.
Some weeks later, I told my mother. Then I was the one who was shocked, on realising that she didn't seem surprised. And a few years further down the line, when my niece starting watching the sport, the story came up again. My mother glanced at me with a look that said: 'Don't tell her the real version just yet'. So I didn't. But one day I will.
My mother idolised her father – he was the bulwark between her and her mother, and he spoilt her and made her, I think, feel really cherished. A generation later, he repeated the trick with me.
I can't see my father in any those memories from the time – or rather, I have no really positive memories of him. It's as though he didn't exist for me personally, merely as a supporting actor in the play going on around me. But the man with the moustache did – and still does in my memories. And, without ever intending to or without me ever realising it until the last few years, he left me with an abiding attraction to moustachioed men.
Back in 1996, I was reporting on my third Challenge Cup final from Wembley. Coincidentally, Saints were playing, and beat Bradford in an absolute classic. I suspect my grandfather had pretty conservative views of what women should or should not do, but at that moment, I felt sure that his moustache would have bristled with pride, as his own granddaughter sat in the press box to report as his beloved Saints won the cup.
Of course it's only a fancy, but I rather think I'd be right.
But it reminded me, as such a process often does, of my affection for facial hair (on men, that is).
It was only a very few years ago that I suddenly had one of those lightbulb-over-the-head moments and realised that almost all my boyfriends down the years have had facial hair. Pure coincidence? I doubt it.
Another thing eventually struck me: the first man who ever treated me like the proverbial little princess was my maternal grandfather. And he wore a moustache: a white somewhat Ronald Colemanesque affair by the time I knew him.
My grandfather died when I was about seven or eight, leaving me as the only one of the four grandchildren who remembers him. But remember him I do.
He'd started his adult life as an office boy in a steel company in the north west, and worked his way up to being the company boss.
My first memories of him are set against a background of the large house he and my grandmother lived in by then. I was sat on his knee and knocked his cigarette, setting light to the armchair. But I wasn't in trouble.
He'd sing to me – Coming Round the Mountain and the Maurice Chevalier hit from Gigi, Thank Heaven for Little Girls. And he'd show me an incredibly delicate music box that, when you opened it, would reveal a tiny feathered bird that went round and round, raising it's wings and singing. When my oldest uncle dies, it will come to me.
I already have a book of British birds that had been his. I'd sit on his knee and pour over the beautiful colour pictures, calling the owls "pussy birdies" and gigling at his moustache, as though that made him a "pussy birdy" too.
When staying at my grandparents' house, I used to scramble into their bed in the morning – something that never happened at home. My grandmother is a hazy figure in those memories; only later did she take on a more distinct and clear form. From those days, only my grandfather is clear in my mind's eye.
They retired to a bungalow on the Isle of Man, and for two or three years, we flew out in old DC Dakotas from Liverpool Speke (now John Lennon Airport) to holiday there.
He'd take me down in his big car to the dockside at Ramsey, where we'd stand together watching as the fishing boats came in, and then buy fresh herring straight from the fishermen.
He chased me around the living room, hiding behind chairs, peering out with a mischievous expression, a rolled newspaper in his hand, pretending that he was going to use it if he got near enough. I'd squeal with pleasure and a kind of excited fear (if you can possibly call it that). He never did actually catch me, of course. It was all about the chase.
I'd sit on the step of the kitchen door and pod fresh peas. We'd occasionally have a whole plate for supper, served with nothing more than salt and butter.
And every morning when I woke, it was to the sound of the gulls, shrieking as they wheeled above, for all the world looking as though they flew and surfed the thermals for the sheer fun of it.
We'd walk down the narrow, winding path that led down the cliff face to the park that lay below. There were little go karts that required an old sixpence to make them go, and a long slide that I fell off once – fortunately only right near the bottom – leaving a sight scar over my right brow.
Sometimes we'd get in the car with my parents and go to Point of Ayre, and stand on the stoney beach below the lighthouse, all throwing pebbles at targets made of piled stones, topped with an empty drinks can. A few years later, my grandfather's ashes were scattered there.
He died, as I said, when I was very young. I was devastated. But in recent years, I've come to think that I'm almost glad that he died when he did. I've learnt, over the years, that he was a bit of an old reactionary – we'd have disagreed about so much. But instead, he remains safe and secure in my memories – completely unsullied by such unsavoury realities.
I discovered something more about him a few years ago.
In the late 1920s and into the 1930s, he'd been the secretary to St Helens Rugby League Football Club in the north west. Later, he was a director of the club.
But in 1930, Saints had reached the Challenge Cup final at Wembley. The team set out on the Friday in a charabanc. I have a photo on the wall at home of them, looking oh-so-serious, standing outside the coach, waiting to board for the journey south. A few sport flat caps or trilbies. My grandfather stands at the end, one of two club officials traveling with the party, booted and suited, a badge on his lapel, a sheaf of papers in his left hand and bowler-hatted, a heavy-lidded, insouciant look on his face, and with the obligatory dog that's crept onto the picture standing by his feet. There was no moustache in those days.
Well, Saints lost that final. The story I'd heard over the years was that the team had all been drinking in London on the Friday night after they'd arrived, and were too hungover to do themselves justice in the game itself.
But a few years ago, when The Other Half and I were attending a Rugby League game in London, we got chatting to someone who, having heard this story, announced that he knew the Saints' club historian – and that my little tale wasn't completely accurate.
We waited with baited breath to hear what had really happened – only to be told that they hadn't been drinking, they'd spent the night in a brothel.
The Other Half looked nervously in my direction, wondering how I'd take this news. I burst into laughter. "At least there was one character in the family!" I said, with something of a sense of relief. And given that my grandmother was a cold fish (who also bullied her daughter when my mother was a child), I can't say I blame him.
Some weeks later, I told my mother. Then I was the one who was shocked, on realising that she didn't seem surprised. And a few years further down the line, when my niece starting watching the sport, the story came up again. My mother glanced at me with a look that said: 'Don't tell her the real version just yet'. So I didn't. But one day I will.
My mother idolised her father – he was the bulwark between her and her mother, and he spoilt her and made her, I think, feel really cherished. A generation later, he repeated the trick with me.
I can't see my father in any those memories from the time – or rather, I have no really positive memories of him. It's as though he didn't exist for me personally, merely as a supporting actor in the play going on around me. But the man with the moustache did – and still does in my memories. And, without ever intending to or without me ever realising it until the last few years, he left me with an abiding attraction to moustachioed men.
Back in 1996, I was reporting on my third Challenge Cup final from Wembley. Coincidentally, Saints were playing, and beat Bradford in an absolute classic. I suspect my grandfather had pretty conservative views of what women should or should not do, but at that moment, I felt sure that his moustache would have bristled with pride, as his own granddaughter sat in the press box to report as his beloved Saints won the cup.
Of course it's only a fancy, but I rather think I'd be right.
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