Father's Day + A Time When I Didn't Like Pizza

It's Father's Day on Sunday. Both my kids have been plotting, planning and preparing over the last week for their daddies special day. They idolise him and approach this day with considerable excitement. My role in their carefully thought out plan is to try and turn the list of ever-so-slightly random and adventurous ideas into reality. 

Then there is my own dad of course. He's actually spending the weekend with my brother and his family, which will be a real treat, given that the distance between them (Isle of Wight - Tynemouth) doesn't allow for too many occasions spent together. I've written about my Dad before on the blog (you can read it here), but today I want to share a little story that came back to me recently.

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In 1980, we had a family holiday to America. It was a big thing. It was the first time that my brother or I had been abroad. We have a big extended family in Michigan, so this trip was spent in the company of our American cousins, all of who showed us a great and memorable time. Although only eight at the time, I remember it being an amazing adventure.

Naturally, many of my memories evolve around the food we ate. It was so different to what we ate back home: all the sweets were different and called 'candy', jam was called 'jelly' and as for breakfast cereal - I'd never seen so many varieties! I remember the pizzas too - great big things the size of dustbin lids. 

However, at eight I didn't like pizza. Even now, I can't give a legitimate reason why, I just didn't like it. These pizzas often marked the end of days sightseeing with relatives, but like I say I didn't like pizza. So my dad would go on a wild goose chase for a McDonalds to by me a burger (no gerkins). He wasn't a soft touch and I'm surprised he put up with such fastidious behaviour. On one such occasion, I remember him returning with my paper-wrapped bun rather incensed muttering something about 'almost getting run over trying to cross the busy highway to get to McDonalds'. To top it all, I dare say his pizza was cold when he got back to us all.

I love pizza now and wouldn't step within 100yds of McDonalds. Dad: sorry that I was a fussy-eating eight year old.

The Birthday Cake Recipe

Following my last post about Lily's birthday celebrations, I've had a few requests for the birthday cake recipe.

One such request came from my friend Sarah who now lives with her husband and little boy in California. We go back a long way, first having meet at Art school (Sarah was in the year below me, but we were on the same Fashion Promotion & Illustration degree course). My first job on graduating was working for the then newly relaunched fashion label Biba. I had an 'untitled' creative role that involved all manner of things, including sorting out the promotional imagery for the said season's collection. 

I remember holding a fashion shoot in the hallway of my old house, using Sarah as my model (she was, and still is stunning). At the time, the house (which had previously belonged to my grandparents and still featured much of their decor) had the most amazing metallic blueish/silver wallpaper in the hallway which we used as a backdrop for the shoot. This wallpaper, which I'm pretty sure had been around longer than me, had a certain air of vintage glamour about it thus providing the perfect, if rather unconventional, shoot location. 

The amateurness of it all makes me laugh now: the label has changed ownership over the years and is nowadays sold through House of Fraser. Their glossy advertising campaigns feature celebrity models of the moment such as Daisy Lowe and are shot by serious fashion photographers. How times have changed! 

Mine and Sarah's paths crossed once again, when we both worked for Urban Outfitters during their UK launch. But today, despite our distance, the wonders of social media has allowed us to keep up-to-date with each others life. Sarah is a longtime follower of Buttercup days, so I can only but oblige with the sharing of this recipe. So from Brighton to Santa Monica, here is that recipe for Rose & Almond Cake.

For the sponge:

225g butter, softened

225g caster sugar

2 tbsp distilled rose water

2 tsp almond essence

4 medium eggs, beaten

60g plain flour

225g ground almonds

3 tbsp milk

For the lemon butter icing:

150g butter, softened

115g icing sugar, sifted

Juice and zest of a lemon

For the rose icing:

1 tbsp distilled rose water

1 tbsp lemon juice

140g icing sugar, sifted

Rose petals to decorate

Preheat the oven to 200C / GM6. Lightly oil two 18cm-wide Victoria sandwich tins. Line their bases with baking paper.

Beat the butter and sugar, until pale and fluffy. Gradually beat in the rose water, almond essence and a quarter of the eggs, until throughly combined. Beat in the flour and remaining eggs, then mix in the almonds and milk.

Divide the mixture equally between the two tins. Bake for 20 mins, or until risen and golden. Press the sponge lightly with your fingertip - if done, it should bounce back. Transfer the cakes to a wire rack and cool completely.

To make the butter icing, beat together the butter, icing sugar, lemon zest and 2 and a half tbsp of lemon juice. Spread over one of the sponges and top with the other, best side up.

For the icing, stir the rose water and lemon juice into the icing sugar until thick and smooth. Spread over the top of the cake, allowing a little to drizzle down the sides. Finally just before the icing sets scatter with rose petals.

Musical Youth

Way back last year, whilst in our loft, I came across an envelope full of pin badges that David use to collect from the various and frequent gigs we use to go to. I finally put them to use, displaying them in an old printers tray, which is next in line to be put up on the wall.

Looking back, much of our 'courtship' was carried out in music venues: the Town & Country Club, the Astoria, Brixton Academy, Subterania, the ULU and local venues to us back then such as The Old Trout in Windsor.

David still goes to gigs, though to be fair, not nearly as often as he once did. Occasionally, if I like the band or artist, I will tag along too.  But nowadays the venues tend to be local Brighton based ones, rather than the trek into London (up on the train, back on the night bus) and the experience seems to be an altogether more civilised affair. The venues are smoke free and the drinks, although still served in plastic cups, are more refined: organic lager anyone? The old familiar flickering haze of cigarette lighter flames has been replaced with the glow of camera phones and when I  recently attended a Spiritualized gig I was offered complimentary ear plugs. I never saw any pin badges for sale either. A sign of the times for sure.

6 years ago today

It was six years ago today that we moved to Brighton. As we drove down the motorway with our life-long belongings packed into brown cardboard boxes and a colicky three-month old, we were excited about starting our new 'family' life by the sea.  Unknown to us, while we were making that journey a terrible event was unfolding in London. Four terrorists detonated three bombs on London Underground trains and a fourth aboard a double-decker bus. Fifty-six people were killed in the attacks, and about 700 were injured. It wasn't until we unpacked and plugged in the television that evening we saw the severity of the attacks. I will certainly always look upon this day each year with bittersweet feelings.

Things have really changed for us in those six years. Back then we knew only one other person here; Phil 'Hair', our good friend and hairdresser. I know I'm fussy as to who I will let near my hair with a pair of scissors, but that wasn't the reason we came here (well, not the only reason). Six years on, this is home. We've made the most amazing friends. Everything that was so new is now so familiar. I love our city with its faded Victorian grandeur, fresh sea air and individuality. I love the fact that my children know no different to living in this vibrant city. I love the fact that when I see the pier all lit up on a summer's evening still get a thrill. It's my patch now I have no desire to leave.

The Reason Why I Support Oxford in the Boat Race ...

The reason that I chose to support Oxford in the boat race is because my dad did. I had, and still don't have any interest in the boat race, or indeed sport in any shape or form. But when that annual day came around and you had to opt for Oxford or Cambridge, I wanted to be the same as my dad, so Oxford it was.

My dad was a huge influence on me when growing up, and still is in some forms today. I think I am probably more like my dad than my mum in some ways; we're both nostalgic to the years we grew up in, he shaped my musical tastes with his 70's vinyl, we both have a mild case of OCD, we'd both sooner buy the Radio Times than the TV Times, we love Macaroni Cheese and detest milk .... I could go on.

My dad was the stricter of my two parents. I remember being banned from watching Grange Hill in case it should lead me astray (but that was nothing compared to the girl next door who was banned from watching Rentaghost in case it made her 'mad' ... yes, really. There was also the spell of not being able to play outside of our own back garden on a Sunday. Back then, Sunday was the grown-ups day of rest and they didn't want to hear children playing out in the streets. Fair point dad, I can see your thinking now. I never really questioned anything my dad said as I assumed, without question he was right. He's my dad and he knew the answer to everything. Now as a parent myself, I expect he was winging it at times like I do, but he never gave that impression and that in turn gave my childhood a feeling of comfort, warmth and security.

Through my childhood eyes I very much saw my dad as head of our family. He worked hard at his job doing shift hours and when at home he worked hard around the house. He was always doing something practical; gardening or battling with nature down the allotment, making homemade beer or working under the bonnet on string of 'unlucky' cars.

He is strikingly intelligent and has an appetite for knowledge and the arts. I don't think that rubbed off on me as I'm not particularly intelligent in any academic kind of way. My brother is more that way inclined - I'm creative. My head is too full of pictures, colours and patterns to hold onto any knowledge. I can't see it changing now. As children, my dad would instill into my brother and I how important it was to work hard at school and how it would go someway in shaping our future. I can see that now. My dad's education failed him and he wanted more than anything for us to succeed. I always wanted to please my dad and make him proud. A highly skilled job, native in several languages and a love of Shakespeare and Opera I don't have, but I do have a strong work ethic, which I like to think came from him. I still always push myself in everything I do, sometimes when I don't always need to. I wonder if it is something deep within me, an ingrained habit looking for 'approval', needing to 'please', wanting to 'step up and beyond expectation' from way back.

I know my dad is proud of me. He was proud when I got my degree and he is proud that, together with David, I have my own business. To me, he is slightly disillusioned: my degree is in Art and therefore creative not academic and our business keeps us ticking over - business woman of the year I am not. But maybe I'm just doing that 'pushing myself to the next level' thing again. See what I mean? But,  who knows it could have been much much worse if I had been allowed to watch Grange Hill.

My dad lit a lot of sparks in me that have made me who I am. Take his love of nature. I remember as a child looking at his collection of 'Observer's Books'. My favourites were 'The Observer's Book of Birds' and 'The Observer's Book of Wild Flowers'. My dad has always done his bit for the world of animal welfare. My first beloved pet was a cat called Dinkie. She was a kitten from a litter of stray cats born in one of the hangers at Heathrow Airport, where my dad worked. The cats were deemed a nuisance and were to be destroyed, so my dad bought one home. She lived a happy life with us for 15 years. When I was very young we lived on the top floor of a maisonette which had huge windows. There were lots of Dutch Elm trees around which homed a lot of birds and we'd sometimes have them flying into the glass of our windows causing themselves a little concussion. My dad pick up the dazed birds and would care for them until they were recovered. It's the kind of thing dad would do.

I wanted to find a photo of my dad with me as a child to put with this post, but I don't seem to have any (other than the one I opened my first blog post with). So I've used this picture of my dad, taken a few years back with Lily. Like me, she adores him. She hangs off his every word as I did as a little girl and I love seeing them spending time together.

And, for the record, yes I do still support Oxford in the boat race and will forever more.

Windmills & Hoovers ...

Do you remember having any irrational fears as a child? Most of us had them. They can be quite random. I remember being spooked by a musical wooden windmill my grandparents had. I think it was a souvenier from a trip to Holland. They kept it on top of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. You would wind it up and it would play 'Tulips from Amsterdam' and at night you could plug it in and its windows would light up yellow and orange. To me as a young child it appeared rather sinister lit up. I'd have to ask my nan to remove it from the room if I ever slept over. Oddly enough, I never had a problem with 'real' windmills; I was actually quite fascinated by them.

Lily has a few fears that can be classed as irrational. I can see my younger self in her. The big one was vacuum cleaners (or Hoovers as we have always referred to them whatever the manufacturer). It could be quite a problem, having to schedule any hoovering for when she was out of the house. If at home and the hoover came out, she'd fly upstairs to her bedroom and shut the door, not coming out until we promised it was back in the cupboard. 

However a few weeks ago, she suddenly declared that she no longer had a 'hoover issue'. I'm unsure what happened to change her mind, but she now is totally cleansed of any fear, so much so that she insists on turning it 'on' and 'off' and packing the various components away into its storage bag. I'm glad she overcame her fear and it's comforting to know that when she is older she will have a clean dust-free house ... I did worry for a bit.

As for that windmill, I don't know what happened to it, but I'm quietly relieved that it didn't end up in my house.

Memories: The Original Glamping

 

 

You may have read my recent post on Niton, my childhood holiday village. Writing that post took me back to the wonderful holidays I had there. The magic ingredient was a place called Hoyes Farm. Hoyes Farm was where we would stay. It was a working farm with ten caravans perched up high on a hill that boasted a wonderful view of patchwork fields. The caravan site was called 'Meadow View' which was frankly very apt. It is still there today, but in a very basic form. You see much of the magic was directly due to the family who owned and ran the farm and holiday accommodation; the wonderful Brian and Orion Lacey. I probably holidayed there on and off for a good twenty-five to thirty years and it never changed a bit. I took my first holiday there at just months old and my last holiday there as a married women, yet in all that time Brian and Orion never changed; they managed to remain ageless. That certainly says a lot for the country air round those parts. 

 

My dad used to stay at the same farm as a child in the 1950's when Brian's father ran it. Back then the accommodation consisted of a few old buses which had been converted to house guests for their annual summer vacations. So by the time I started holiday there we were very much old friends of the family. But Brian and Orion treated everyone who stayed with them like old friends of the family. As a child the best thing was being able to get involved in the farm. Brian was always happy to take willing children under his wing. He was a bit like the pied piper with a trail of children behind him. He had all the time in the world for you. I've milked cows, helped herd cows down from the top field, bottle feed lambs, gone on tractor rides and fed the rabbits. 

 

Down the bottom of the hill was a caravan of an older model that wasn't rented out and as kids we were allowed to go in there. It had a black and white portable television and I can remember watching Top of the Pops on it. As older kids we were allowed to take some of the tame rabbits from their hutches into this caravan with us - I used to just love it; in my own space surrounded by these cute bundles of fur. I loved being on the farm helping out and having that freedom. When told we were off to the beach for the day it was usually met in a rather bitter-sweet kind of way as I'd quite happily just hang out on the farm.

Sadly Brian has since passed on, but Orion still lives in the village with her family close by. It's always a treat to bump into her down the village when we are there visiting my parents. When I think about those holiday's now I know that my children would have loved them. But I wouldn't dream of ever staying there now as it would never ever have the romotest chance of living up to my Hoyes Farm days. I guess I just got very very lucky.

Everyday is like Sunday

 

The blog posts have been a little slow of late due to half term stealing any free moments I might usually be able to eek out of a day. So here is another 'photo' heavy post, which I hope still as enjoyable as the more usual 'wordy' ones.

These are from a selection of photo's I took whilst at my parents house in the Isle of the Wight the other weekend. It's my photographic illustration of the small but perfectly formed village they live in. It's called Niton and consists of a charming post office that also serves cream teas, a pub, a grocery shop that stocks a good example of local produce, a general store that sells a variety of bits you might need from books to begonia plants, a primary school and a library run by villagers (they took charge after the council tried to close it down). Its houses have names rather than numbers. It's big on community and stunning views. 

It used to be to the little village that we would come every other year on holiday, so it is very familiar to me. Not much has changed - it has almost stood still in time. Visiting there now I can't help but notice how quite it is. It's probably the sharp contrast to living in a city and the fast paced life we have. If I walk five minutes from my front door at anytime, I can tell you what day it is and roughly the time by the activity going on around me. But in Niton it is always quite and never busy. Everyday feels like how Sunday's used to be. I love the vibrancy of the city I live in, but it's great for us to have this place to come to for a recharge every now and then. It allows us to have the very best of both worlds.

Memories: Mother's Day ...

I'd like to think that I have always appreciated my mum. However, since becoming a mother myself my appreciation has gone up a level or ten. My mum gave up work to look after my brother and I in the early years. Her life as a mother was in many cases, give or take, much like mine is now. My mum would cook lovely dinners, bake amazing cakes and make us homemade ginger beer. She would take us to the park, prepare us picnics and put up my wendy house for me in the garden when the weather was good. She made me dresses and fancy dress costumes. When I wanted my straight hair curly, she would painstakingly plait my damp hair into masses of tiny braids before bed so that I could wake up with wavy hair. Mothering seemed to come natural to my mum. It was the kind of mothering that made you feel happy, safe and warm. If I can be half the mother to my children that my mum was to me, I will consider it a job well done.

At quite a young age I can remember sometimes catching a glimpse of my mum (and dad) in another light: as a young couple. Before I came along my mum was a Biba wearing girl who hung out at the Station Hotel in Richmond watching the Rolling Stones in their early days. I can't beat that for pre-parenting coolness.  I have memories of rare occasions (probably anniversaries, birthday's or work do's) when they would go out for the evening. Someone, usually my grandparents or a neighbour, would come round to babysit my brother and I. My mum would go upstairs to get ready and come down looking stunning. She'd look so lovely, I almost didn't want her to go out - I wanted to spend the evening looking at her. She'd be wearing a special dress, high heels and her 'going-out-for-the-evening' coat. When she left there would be a lingering smell of perfume in the room. I'm not a perfume wearing person - no particular reason other than I don't think to wear it. But on the odd occasion that I do splash on a bit of scent, at the age of thirty-nine, feel 'very grown up'. My childhood home had a number of pictures on the wall including 'La Loge' (Box at the Opera) by Renoir. As a child I would always think that the woman in the painting looked like my mum when she was 'going out for the evening'. It must have been the hair or something as she certainly didn't have gowns quite as full-on as the one in the painting. Even now that picture still gives me that warm glow inside.

A Tune for Tuesday no.2 ...

So, I started 'A Tune for Tuesday' last week and it's now time for another. I heard this much-loved song on the radio recently. I'd forgotten what a lovely nostalgic quality it had. It simply makes me smile. So turn the volume up a notch and enjoy.

Memories: Were you born before 1986?

Is it just a sign of getting old while donning a pair of rose-tinted spectacles, or were some things really better in years gone by? Here’s some food for thought to ponder over. I came across such an article sometime ago in a magazine and the words still ring in my ears today ....

According to today's regulators and bureaucrats, those of us who were children in the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s probably shouldn't have survived, because our baby cots were covered with brightly coloured lead-based paint, which was regularly chewed and licked.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles or latches on doors or cabinets, and it was fine to play with pans. When we rode our bikes, we wore no helmets, just flip-flops.

As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or airbags and riding in the front passenger seat - or the boot - was a treat. We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle, and it tasted the same.

We ate chips, bread and butter pudding, and drank fizzy juice with sugar in it, but were never overweight because we were always outside playing. We shared one drink with four friends - from one bottle or can - and no one actually died from it.

We would spend several hours building go-carts out of scraps, then go top speed down the hill, only to find out we'd forgotten the brakes. After running into a patch of stinging nettles a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back before dark. No one was able to reach us and no one minded.

We didn't have Playstations or Xboxes - no video games at all. No 99 channels on TV, no videotape films, no surround sound, no mobile phones, no personal computers, no DVDs, no internet chatrooms.

We had friends - we went outside and found them. We played French skipping and rounders, and sometimes that ball really hurt! We fell out of trees, got cut and broke bones, but there were no law suits.

We played Knock Down Ginger and were actually afraid of the owners catching us. We walked to friends' homes. We also, believe it or not, walked to school; we didn't rely on Mummy or Daddy to drive us to school, as it was just round the corner.

We made up games with sticks and tennis balls. We rode bikes in packs of seven and wore our coats by only the hood. The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke a law was unheard of, as they actually sided with the law.

This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem-solvers and inventors, ever. The past 50 years have seen an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all.