Today
Tonight's supper is Florentine pancakes. This simple dish involves pancakes, spinach and a yummy cheese topping.
In My Day
I first discovered this delight at the Strode Arms in Cranmore. In the early years at Stoke St Michael, we were frequent visitors. There wasn't much for vegetarians - saute potatoes topped with grated cheese often did duty, although the amount of cheese varied and you weren't allowed to order this in the restaurant.
Florentine pancakes, however, were a very good dinner and Becky and I often had these. I suppose it must have been at least fifteen years ago, maybe more, and Becky and I fancied a night out. We ordered our usual, but, to be truthful, these weren't the best we'd had. The spinach was grey and a watery liquid enveloped the cheesy-ness. Still we ate it and decided that another glass and a pud were in order.
Becky went up to the bar. The landlord (now deceased) was a man called Rod. As Becky went to place her order he asked her what she's thought of her dinner. "Well, not the best", said Becky honestly "there was a lot of liquid from the spinach so it was rather soggy."
"I don't know why you bother to come here", replied Rod heatedly "you're always complaining, you're a pain in the butt." Becky walked back uncertainly to our table, clutching the refilled wine glasses and told me what had happened.
"That's out of order", I replied equally heatedly "let's go." I went to the bar "We'll be off, Rod", I said "we won't be wanting our desserts." He waved his hand at me, in a way that indicated that he wouldn't be taking my money and we left.
Needing pud, we drove up to the Waggon & Horses on Doulting Beacon and had a nice Tiramisu, while airing our grievance.
I wrote to Rod, but received no reply or apology, so we never went back to the Strode until after Rod's death and a change of ownership.
Even had it been true that Becky was always complaining (which she wasn't) I have always thought that the initial rudeness was bad enough. but the failure to climb down afterwards was pure bad customer services and lost him some custom.
The cheese is browning nicely on my version, tho'!
Today
Over the past couple of weeks we have been asking ourselves, "did Carmen actually catch Chickenpox?" Her cousin, with whom she played, certainly had a mild dose and a few little spots did appear on Carmen's face. But it all faded away very quickly, so who knows for sure?
"Best to get it over young," said many people knowledgeably.
In My Day
Mamma always said that I had Chickenpox so mildly that only she and the doctor knew. I was about the same age as Carmen is now and caught from my infant-school-age brothers, who both probably suffered more than I did. I had a few spots in my hair and showed no sign of unwell-ness. The same is true of Measles, German Measles and maybe Mumps. I have been in contact with these diseases several times in adulthood with no ill-effects.
The idea that these illnesses are worse when you're older is certainly borne out by my sister Beatrice's experience, as she had both Mumps and Chickenpox in her 20s. She told me about the mumps and how she could only eat porridge for about a week and how much it hurt.
Chickenpox she had whilst living with me in about 1979. She was very unwell, with a high temperature and lots of nasty, blisters on face, body and legs. The illness took a couple of weeks to clear, but its effects were felt for considerably longer.
The first effect was that one at least of the sores on her legs triggered a cellulitis attack, because of her Milroy's disease. I remember the argument with the doctor's receptionist who would not allow me to collect the necessary Flucloxacillin on her behalf, nor agree to a home visit for the incapacitated Beatrice. We attempted and failed to manhandle her into a taxi. I called the surgery and attacked the receptionist so fiercely that she eventually passed me to a doctor who agreed that we could have the medication. We collected it but several precious hours were lost. So poor Beatrice again had a sky-high temperature and was laid up for another ten days or so.
At last we were free of infection and one Sunday morning I was just heaving a sigh of relief when I heard a huge shout from Beatrice's room. Up I dashed to find her in the middle of an epileptic seizure; the high temperatures having weakened her defences.
So much for Chickenpox being worse when you're older; I sincerely hope you have had it, Carmen, and will be immune in the future.
Today
My nephew was on Facebook bewailing the fact that he'd chosen to go to Ikea on a Sunday. There was chorus of "what were you thinking?" in response.
In My Day
Although friends and family had been extolling the virtues of Ikea for some time I wasn't persuaded into a foray until the year 2000, following the creation a new bedroom at 7 Mead Close. We needed bedroom furniture; simples! Off to Ikea - everybody was doing it and it's Scandinavian so must be a Good Thing. We set off to Bristol with Becky and a friend of hers one Saturday afternoon.
Having to join a queue to enter the carpark ought to have been our warning. We should have turned around right then and there. But, having come so far we weren't going to be deterred. Eventually, about half an hour later, we managed to squeeze into a place.
We confidently walked into the store, planning to go to the bedroom dept, buy what we wanted and leave. Oh no, that's not a possibility at Ikea. The only way to get where you wanted was to walk through every department. Little jolly footprints on the floor marked the way and there were no shortcuts. In fact, I don't think I've ever been in a shop, other than Ikea, that uses this bullying sales tactic.
The shop was heaving, children ran uncontrolled through the aisles. We became more and more irritated and still hadn't seen what we wanted. At last we got to the right place and saw a useful wardrobe, bedside table, wall mounted cupboard and glazed cabinet. Perfect! Now to buy them.
This turned out to be almost as hard as getting into the carpark. Clutching our little dockets which told us in which aisle in the warehouse our items were, we then had to go through the entire rest of the shop before getting to the warehouse. There was scant help if the items you were after were on the highest shelf or were too heavy for you to manage.
At last we dragged our overloaded trolley to the checkout where the queues were about an hour long. We waited and waited and waited. Ikea's only solution to the problem was to come round with dishes of boiled sweets as though all we needed was a sugar top-up to maintain our stamina and good humour.
We eventually got out and home and unloaded our stuff, only to discover that one item had a crack in it and the only solution was to take it back. I called Ikea "Which is your quietest time?" I demanded. "Tuesday mornings" was the answer, so we trekked back to change the item the following Tuesday, growling "never again".
I took proper umbrage a few years ago when a friend, admiring an original painting on my wall, asked, "Is it from Ikea?" (It was actually by Alce Harfield). Ikea is not my standard for art with which to adorn my walls!
I can't even avail myself of the consolation prize suggested by some, which is just to head for the cafe and wolf down meatballs, as I'm a veggie.
