Today
I decided to make a curry today. Now, this doesn't just mean a dollop of curry powder and some pre-packed nan bread. It involves cumin seeds popped in hot oil and ginger and garlic paste sizzled with onions. Among other things, it involves fresh coriander.
So I nipped into my local Tesco where I could buy: coriander growing in a pot, a small pack of cut leaves or a huge bunch enough for an Indian takeaway for a week. I opted for the small pack; the growing coriander looked rather weedy and the huge bunch likely to go withered and slimy before I'd used it all.
In My Day
My first proper foray into Indian cooking (apart from early efforts with Curry powder and lentils) was for a proper dinner party at 10 Montfort Close. I think the year was about 1983. The trigger for the event was actually a set of two cocktail glasses plus shaker given to us by our friends the previous Christmas. Eventually we invited six guests which necessitated buying six more cocktails glasses!
I decided that I wanted to cook an Indian meal. My best mate lent me her Madhur Jaffrey authentic Indian cook book. The recipes looked wonderful. The problem was the ingredients. What was "gram"? Could I manage without ghee? Could I substitute ground ginger for fresh? And, where, exactly, was I going to obtain fresh coriander?
To answer these and several other questions I turned to Kennedy's delicatessen in South Street, Eastbourne. This dowdy-looking shop was a treasure-trove of exotic foods. The floor consisted of bare boards and the assistants all seemed to be elderly men in maroon overalls. Kennedy's was the kind of place where they didn't just sell dried apricots. Opening huge paper-lined wooden boxes, they offered you Turkish, Greek, Moroccan or Hunza, with or without an oil or sulphur coating. At a time when most people still bought their olive oil from the chemist, they could offer you several varieties from each major European producer in every permutation from first cold pressing downwards.
Of course we can supply gram, madam; it's just a flour made from chick peas and perfect for making samosas. Ghee came in rather vast quantities and the knowledgeable assistants told me that sunflower or another unscented oil would do fine. They sold me cumin seeds and cardamon pods as well as the essential fresh ginger.
Eventually, emboldened by my success, I asked for fresh coriander. The gentleman went out the back and emerged with an enormous bunch of leaves, dripping from where it had been stored in a vase of water.
My Indian meal was going to be just perfect, which it was, despite the effect of many cocktails drunk before the meal started.
I can't remember when Kennedy's closed down; if they re-opened now, they would make a killing. And somehow, despite the choice, it just isn't as much fun buying these items at Tesco.
Tonight's curry was a success, though.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Summing Up
Today
David's Facebook comment this morning was "there are 10 types of people in the world; Those who understand binary and those who don't". Quite.
In My Day
How was it that I, whose maths knowledge is sketchy at best, understood him so quickly? It was in this wise. At school I was resolutely confused by all but plain old arithmetic and even that I preferred very straightforward. As I was clearly otherwise a bright and fairly committed student, the teachers seemed to accept that my maths gene was defective and expected little of me.
When O' levels approached a dilemma arose. To be said to have received a good, rounded grammar school education you had to be proficient across a broad spectrum. And this spectrum included maths. On the other hand, it was obvious that I and a few other girls would spend a lot of effort to achieve a fail mark.
The school found a solution in the form of an American exchange teacher. She could take us for maths so that we were still covering the subject, but didn't have to follow the O' level syllabus.
Reader, those maths lessons were the clearest I have ever received. This teacher, once she understood that we weren't of sub-normal abilities in other ways, introduced principles of Maths that suddenly made some sense. Ah! Algebra! That's why we do it! And she taught us about binary systems, a concept so entirely new in the somewhat staid atmosphere of maths teaching in 1960s grammar school that we felt rather privileged to be learning it!
So, while I still struggle to work out how many pentagons are required to make a globe, I can understand the concept of binary. How rounded this makes my education I can't undertake to say.
David's Facebook comment this morning was "there are 10 types of people in the world; Those who understand binary and those who don't". Quite.
In My Day
How was it that I, whose maths knowledge is sketchy at best, understood him so quickly? It was in this wise. At school I was resolutely confused by all but plain old arithmetic and even that I preferred very straightforward. As I was clearly otherwise a bright and fairly committed student, the teachers seemed to accept that my maths gene was defective and expected little of me.
When O' levels approached a dilemma arose. To be said to have received a good, rounded grammar school education you had to be proficient across a broad spectrum. And this spectrum included maths. On the other hand, it was obvious that I and a few other girls would spend a lot of effort to achieve a fail mark.
The school found a solution in the form of an American exchange teacher. She could take us for maths so that we were still covering the subject, but didn't have to follow the O' level syllabus.
Reader, those maths lessons were the clearest I have ever received. This teacher, once she understood that we weren't of sub-normal abilities in other ways, introduced principles of Maths that suddenly made some sense. Ah! Algebra! That's why we do it! And she taught us about binary systems, a concept so entirely new in the somewhat staid atmosphere of maths teaching in 1960s grammar school that we felt rather privileged to be learning it!
So, while I still struggle to work out how many pentagons are required to make a globe, I can understand the concept of binary. How rounded this makes my education I can't undertake to say.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Up and Running
Today
My nephew has been excitedly recording his 5-month-old daughters progress. One moment she's learnt to roll over; the next she's grasped the concept of walking, although she can't quite do this unaided yet.
Another cousin commented that her child, who is 2 months older, is still puzzling over the rolling over business, never mind crawling or walking! "Lazy" she called him, but what does seem clear is that we are all very different in the way in which we reach these stages without it really mattering in terms of our overall development.
In My Day
Lizzie was late in learning to walk. As a baby she didn't brace her legs against my lap when I was playing with her but preferred to sit down again as soon as possible! She got the idea of crawling pretty early and soon became super-fast and efficient in this skill. So, really, what was the point of walking when you could already get about so fast?
So, although she was chattering using an ever-growing vocabulary from just over a year, her world view was still from floor level.
When she was about 16 months or so, I was browsing a catalogue of hand-made wooden toys. These understated unpainted plywood toys looked interesting and my eye was caught by a push-along trolley. This object was really a deep box on casters with a handle for pushing. The was a sturdy lid so a child could sit on it. To round it all off it had a 2-dimensional horse's head with string mane attached to the front and a string tail at the back. Perfect! I ordered it and in due course we presented it to Liz.
She loved it and grabbed hold of the handle to push it. Unfortunately, it hadn't been designed to be pushed by someone crawling on the floor and it overbalanced, giving her a bit of a clonk. Lizzie examined this desirable object. There was clearly only one thing for it: she'd have to get up and walk. Which she did, without hesitation and as though she'd been walking for months.
Clearly she'd been hiding this skill from us until it became more beneficial to use it! I expect quite a number of children do this and a variation in motivating factors may explain a fair bit of the variation we see.
I don't know what explanation we can give to my finest achievement. My baby book proudly announces that I first sat up unaided in the big pram in March 1949 - when I was 15 months old......
My nephew has been excitedly recording his 5-month-old daughters progress. One moment she's learnt to roll over; the next she's grasped the concept of walking, although she can't quite do this unaided yet.
Another cousin commented that her child, who is 2 months older, is still puzzling over the rolling over business, never mind crawling or walking! "Lazy" she called him, but what does seem clear is that we are all very different in the way in which we reach these stages without it really mattering in terms of our overall development.
In My Day
Lizzie was late in learning to walk. As a baby she didn't brace her legs against my lap when I was playing with her but preferred to sit down again as soon as possible! She got the idea of crawling pretty early and soon became super-fast and efficient in this skill. So, really, what was the point of walking when you could already get about so fast?
So, although she was chattering using an ever-growing vocabulary from just over a year, her world view was still from floor level.
When she was about 16 months or so, I was browsing a catalogue of hand-made wooden toys. These understated unpainted plywood toys looked interesting and my eye was caught by a push-along trolley. This object was really a deep box on casters with a handle for pushing. The was a sturdy lid so a child could sit on it. To round it all off it had a 2-dimensional horse's head with string mane attached to the front and a string tail at the back. Perfect! I ordered it and in due course we presented it to Liz.
She loved it and grabbed hold of the handle to push it. Unfortunately, it hadn't been designed to be pushed by someone crawling on the floor and it overbalanced, giving her a bit of a clonk. Lizzie examined this desirable object. There was clearly only one thing for it: she'd have to get up and walk. Which she did, without hesitation and as though she'd been walking for months.
Clearly she'd been hiding this skill from us until it became more beneficial to use it! I expect quite a number of children do this and a variation in motivating factors may explain a fair bit of the variation we see.
I don't know what explanation we can give to my finest achievement. My baby book proudly announces that I first sat up unaided in the big pram in March 1949 - when I was 15 months old......
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Cough
Today
My niece's Facebook status today reported that her two-year old has croup. Poor little scrap.
In my day
From the age of about six weeks Becky was plagued with all kinds of upper respiratory tract infections. She had coughs and colds, chest, throat and ear infections. I don't really know the reasons why she was so vulnerable. Maybe it was down to the fact that my repeated breast abscesses meant that I had to abandon breast-feeding at five weeks or that the antibiotics I'd been taking before then affected her. Who can say? I removed her cot from our room because her constant sniffling and wheezing were impossible to sleep through. But I would be relieved in the morning to hear her cough: it meant that she was alive.
But I remember visit after visit to the doctor with my coughing, snotty little baby. Doctors were more cavalier in their attitude to giving antibiotics then and Becky had several courses until I pointed out that a: she didn't seem to be getting any better and b: she always seemed to come out in a rash when taking them. After that we struggled forward with traditional remedies.
Croup was perhaps the most frightening of all the infections. She would become breathless and wheezy and quite unable to sleep. We did bring her bed into our room on those occasions because we were genuinely concerned that she might not survive the night. The standard folk remedy in those days was steam. We would shut the bedroom doors and windows, bring a kettle into the bedroom and plug in. The room filled with steam and the walls dripped with moisture. And it did seem to help; after a while Becky's breathing would become easier and she would relax into sleep.
She continued to be troubled with these problems, exacerbated by contracting German Measles, Chicken Pox and Whooping Cough all at the same time, until she was about four. Through all this, it must be said, she continued to develop normally and was always a pretty cheerful baby. The problems all went away when she was about four. Either her self-imposed change of diet had some effect or she'd established some sort of resistance, but she was never so ill again through all her childhood.
Get well soon, Li'l David, you must be feeling miserable.
My niece's Facebook status today reported that her two-year old has croup. Poor little scrap.
In my day
From the age of about six weeks Becky was plagued with all kinds of upper respiratory tract infections. She had coughs and colds, chest, throat and ear infections. I don't really know the reasons why she was so vulnerable. Maybe it was down to the fact that my repeated breast abscesses meant that I had to abandon breast-feeding at five weeks or that the antibiotics I'd been taking before then affected her. Who can say? I removed her cot from our room because her constant sniffling and wheezing were impossible to sleep through. But I would be relieved in the morning to hear her cough: it meant that she was alive.
But I remember visit after visit to the doctor with my coughing, snotty little baby. Doctors were more cavalier in their attitude to giving antibiotics then and Becky had several courses until I pointed out that a: she didn't seem to be getting any better and b: she always seemed to come out in a rash when taking them. After that we struggled forward with traditional remedies.
Croup was perhaps the most frightening of all the infections. She would become breathless and wheezy and quite unable to sleep. We did bring her bed into our room on those occasions because we were genuinely concerned that she might not survive the night. The standard folk remedy in those days was steam. We would shut the bedroom doors and windows, bring a kettle into the bedroom and plug in. The room filled with steam and the walls dripped with moisture. And it did seem to help; after a while Becky's breathing would become easier and she would relax into sleep.
She continued to be troubled with these problems, exacerbated by contracting German Measles, Chicken Pox and Whooping Cough all at the same time, until she was about four. Through all this, it must be said, she continued to develop normally and was always a pretty cheerful baby. The problems all went away when she was about four. Either her self-imposed change of diet had some effect or she'd established some sort of resistance, but she was never so ill again through all her childhood.
Get well soon, Li'l David, you must be feeling miserable.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
Page Turner
Today
Proving that he does pick up on my heavy-handed hints, Paul bought me an E-reader for Christmas. I've located a few good download sites and have had some fun copying books. One of the good things is that I've been able to locate books that I read in my childhood and haven't been able to find since.
One of my favourites was "Daddy Long-Legs" by Jean Webster. Reading it again has been very informative. It's still a jolly good read, but I can now see clearly how Webster used the book to express her views on the emancipation of women ("The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens? I don't suppose they are.") ) and sexual equality. I can also see how angry a person the protagonist, Jerusha Abbot, is. When I was a child I could only see her exuberant warmth.
Discussing books with my sister-in-law recently, she told me that she rarely re-reads books.
In My Day
I suppose I was what used to be described as a "bookworm" when I was a child. I generally had several books on the go and my imagination was fired with images from my fairy stories. Mamma used to read stories at bedtime and sometimes the only way I could get through the night was to read until I dropped off to sleep.
And I re-read my books until I knew them by heart. Hans Christian Andersen, Lewis Carroll, AA Milne, Enid Blyton, E Nesbit, Richmal Crompton, Louisa May Allcot, Arthur Ransome, Rudyard Kipling. The house was full of books and I don't remember there being any restrictions placed on what we could read. I read Dickens at an early age. Daddy used to try to read us "A Christmas Carol" before Christmas, but I don't think he ever managed to finish it, for two reasons. Firstly, he never allowed enough time and secondly, he usually broke down in tears at some point and had to leave off.
We read comics as well, there being little intellectual snobbery in our household. In fact I sometimes had to prise "Bunty" out of Mamma's hands as she grabbed it first. I had "Girl" or "Bunty" annuals at Christmas and read them over and over again, especially "Girl". I belonged to the library and went through a lengthy phase of loving horsey books - "Jill's Gymkhana" and Pony Club books although I didn't ride and was rather inclined to be frightened of horses. There were plenty of stories involving girls in boarding schools which led me at one point to ask if I could go to boarding school, a request that Mamma took seriously.
There were some gaps - "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe" I didn't read till I was sixteen or so and I never got into books such as "Treasure Island" or "Kidnapped".
If a book had beautiful illustrations I was even happier - my HCA book had illustrations by Heath Robinson (I found an edition of these to give to Lizzie when she was a child) and I remember being entranced by the colours used to show the heavens opening to receive Christian in my copy of "Pilgrim's Progress.
Most of them I have re-read as an adult. Some I can see are poorly written rubbish - my much more discerning daughter Becky refused to read Enid Blyton books on the grounds of their childishly short sentences and two-dimensional characterisation - but others repay adult reading and square the circle of understanding, so to speak. And I still cry at that moment when Heidi runs back into her Grandad's arms.
When I was extolling the virtues (especially its huge capacity) of my E-reader to a friend she said "But you can only read one book at a time!". True, but it'll be a lot lighter in my hand luggage. One thing is clear, however, I won't be able to describe an E-book as a "page turner".
Proving that he does pick up on my heavy-handed hints, Paul bought me an E-reader for Christmas. I've located a few good download sites and have had some fun copying books. One of the good things is that I've been able to locate books that I read in my childhood and haven't been able to find since.
One of my favourites was "Daddy Long-Legs" by Jean Webster. Reading it again has been very informative. It's still a jolly good read, but I can now see clearly how Webster used the book to express her views on the emancipation of women ("The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens? I don't suppose they are.") ) and sexual equality. I can also see how angry a person the protagonist, Jerusha Abbot, is. When I was a child I could only see her exuberant warmth.
Discussing books with my sister-in-law recently, she told me that she rarely re-reads books.
In My Day
I suppose I was what used to be described as a "bookworm" when I was a child. I generally had several books on the go and my imagination was fired with images from my fairy stories. Mamma used to read stories at bedtime and sometimes the only way I could get through the night was to read until I dropped off to sleep.
And I re-read my books until I knew them by heart. Hans Christian Andersen, Lewis Carroll, AA Milne, Enid Blyton, E Nesbit, Richmal Crompton, Louisa May Allcot, Arthur Ransome, Rudyard Kipling. The house was full of books and I don't remember there being any restrictions placed on what we could read. I read Dickens at an early age. Daddy used to try to read us "A Christmas Carol" before Christmas, but I don't think he ever managed to finish it, for two reasons. Firstly, he never allowed enough time and secondly, he usually broke down in tears at some point and had to leave off.
We read comics as well, there being little intellectual snobbery in our household. In fact I sometimes had to prise "Bunty" out of Mamma's hands as she grabbed it first. I had "Girl" or "Bunty" annuals at Christmas and read them over and over again, especially "Girl". I belonged to the library and went through a lengthy phase of loving horsey books - "Jill's Gymkhana" and Pony Club books although I didn't ride and was rather inclined to be frightened of horses. There were plenty of stories involving girls in boarding schools which led me at one point to ask if I could go to boarding school, a request that Mamma took seriously.
There were some gaps - "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe" I didn't read till I was sixteen or so and I never got into books such as "Treasure Island" or "Kidnapped".
If a book had beautiful illustrations I was even happier - my HCA book had illustrations by Heath Robinson (I found an edition of these to give to Lizzie when she was a child) and I remember being entranced by the colours used to show the heavens opening to receive Christian in my copy of "Pilgrim's Progress.
Most of them I have re-read as an adult. Some I can see are poorly written rubbish - my much more discerning daughter Becky refused to read Enid Blyton books on the grounds of their childishly short sentences and two-dimensional characterisation - but others repay adult reading and square the circle of understanding, so to speak. And I still cry at that moment when Heidi runs back into her Grandad's arms.
When I was extolling the virtues (especially its huge capacity) of my E-reader to a friend she said "But you can only read one book at a time!". True, but it'll be a lot lighter in my hand luggage. One thing is clear, however, I won't be able to describe an E-book as a "page turner".
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Making the Most
Today
During my recent stay at the Lorrens Health Hydro with my best mate, I found myself thinking about the whole issue of personal presentation and the connection between health and beauty. My sister recently grumbled that these pampering places are all about beauty. "But beauty and health are closely linked." I replied.
Now that I'm retired, I'm less inclined to style my hair daily, wear jewellery, make-up or high-heels. Of course, my days are more likely to be spent walking the lanes or doing the garden rather than chairing board meetings, but is that really any reason for not making that effort?
And I don't think that the fact that I've been married nearly forty years has anything to do with it either; taking proper care of myself keeps things alive. While I was at Flare Paul sometimes used to grumble that I looked at my sexy best just as I was leaving for work.....
In My Day
When I was a child I never saw Mamma in trousers until these became fashion items, or, indeed, in anything resembling official workwear. She always wore dresses, even for a walk in the country or to do gardening and these would have been supported by the usual corsets and underslip. She wore stockings and courts shoes pretty well constantly.
She very much disapproved of women who spent their days with rollered up hair under scarves, wearing overalls to protect their clothing. I'm not sure that I understood her reasoning - the overall idea seemed quite sensible. The most she did was to pop a little "Dutch" apron over her dress which possibly protected a few inches at the front. I actually think this was a rare example of Mamma being snobbish; she didn't want to be mistaken for the cleaning lady.
This attitude meant that she was at least always ready if the doorbell rang. On the other hand she didn't pay particular attention to skin or hand care. Her hair was tightly rolled into a bun and her concessions to make-up were to wear lipstick and powder (over bare skin) on occasion. She wore necklaces (I remember her sweet little silver necklace in the form of violets which I still have), but no other jewellery.
Men frequently proclaim that they aren't interested seeing in their women bedecked in makeup, sexy clothes etc etc, but I'm not sure that I take much notice of this.
My attitude to this was shaped by a cynical little tale in one of my favourite books "Daddy Long-legs" in which the heroine recounts a tale of a clergyman who vociferously argued for "dress reform" . His wife, to oblige him, adopted this style of clothing. Her husband shortly after bolted with a chorus girl....
So I think I will persevere with the skin and hair care and try to ensure that I wear high heels and makeup at least a couple of times a week - just because I like to.
During my recent stay at the Lorrens Health Hydro with my best mate, I found myself thinking about the whole issue of personal presentation and the connection between health and beauty. My sister recently grumbled that these pampering places are all about beauty. "But beauty and health are closely linked." I replied.
Now that I'm retired, I'm less inclined to style my hair daily, wear jewellery, make-up or high-heels. Of course, my days are more likely to be spent walking the lanes or doing the garden rather than chairing board meetings, but is that really any reason for not making that effort?
And I don't think that the fact that I've been married nearly forty years has anything to do with it either; taking proper care of myself keeps things alive. While I was at Flare Paul sometimes used to grumble that I looked at my sexy best just as I was leaving for work.....
In My Day
When I was a child I never saw Mamma in trousers until these became fashion items, or, indeed, in anything resembling official workwear. She always wore dresses, even for a walk in the country or to do gardening and these would have been supported by the usual corsets and underslip. She wore stockings and courts shoes pretty well constantly.
She very much disapproved of women who spent their days with rollered up hair under scarves, wearing overalls to protect their clothing. I'm not sure that I understood her reasoning - the overall idea seemed quite sensible. The most she did was to pop a little "Dutch" apron over her dress which possibly protected a few inches at the front. I actually think this was a rare example of Mamma being snobbish; she didn't want to be mistaken for the cleaning lady.
This attitude meant that she was at least always ready if the doorbell rang. On the other hand she didn't pay particular attention to skin or hand care. Her hair was tightly rolled into a bun and her concessions to make-up were to wear lipstick and powder (over bare skin) on occasion. She wore necklaces (I remember her sweet little silver necklace in the form of violets which I still have), but no other jewellery.
Men frequently proclaim that they aren't interested seeing in their women bedecked in makeup, sexy clothes etc etc, but I'm not sure that I take much notice of this.
My attitude to this was shaped by a cynical little tale in one of my favourite books "Daddy Long-legs" in which the heroine recounts a tale of a clergyman who vociferously argued for "dress reform" . His wife, to oblige him, adopted this style of clothing. Her husband shortly after bolted with a chorus girl....
So I think I will persevere with the skin and hair care and try to ensure that I wear high heels and makeup at least a couple of times a week - just because I like to.
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