Time stands still

 Hello! Sending you all lots of love from Northern Ireland, where nothing much changes just as everything changes, as usual. Time has stood still here, in the Land of the Kitchen. I had noticed that the battery in the clock had died, but I decided to do absolutely nothing about it, and haven't let anyone do anything about it either.

A quarter to four is such a lovely time in the afternoon - just in from school, too early to make dinner, the potential of evening aspirations ahead (even though they generally come to nothing). I'm quite happy to stop the clock right there!

I suppose, post-Covid and mid-war and (unknown prefix) Protocol, I've tried to stop the clock too. Life still just boils down, as far as possible, to school, home, and a wee swim. And thankfully at the bottom of the hill, if you catch the tide, it's always Lough o'clock.

So, dear bloggers, on your gentle path into summer, may it always be a quarter to four, or _____ * o'clock.

Mags x

* blank for your own joy

An end to ordinary time

 The Ophelia tree-gauge is now well and truly bare. I see her every day through the kitchen window, and she makes me think. I was watching her today as I listened to the devotional app I use quite often. Today, as I'm sure all of you already knew, was the Feast of Christ the King. Now this immediately made me smile, as we loved and adored, and loved and adored in, the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King when we were in Liverpool at half-term. So, I decided I needed to know about Christ the King, because we Presbyterians from the frozen North are not entirely renowned for our mutual understanding, and there it was.


The Feast of Christ the King- and I am going with the very rudimentary research I did this afternoon, based on the broadest interpretation I could find- marks the end of Ordinary Time. Now, my app usually talks about such and such a week of ordinary Time, but to be honest I have been hitherto just far too lazy to look it up. When I did today, I was entranced. The first period of Ordinary Time begins just after Epiphany and lasts until the start of Lent. The church then celebrates the whole of the Easter season- right up until Pentecost, when it enters the second period of Ordinary Time, which ends- well, today was the last Sunday of Ordinary Time because next week we will begin our Advent journey.


How wonderful! We live the seasons of ordinary time between Christmas and Easter. Then we live Christ's birth, the Spirit's arriving, Christ's death and His glorious resurrection. We live them every day. I know this. I live this. But today, in this strange last week before It All Begins, I found it profoundly God-full to mark the last Sunday of my year's Ordinary Time. To give thanks for all that I could think of, and to acknowledge that my year is dying as quietly and as darkly as the days. To allow the advent of Advent to stir my soul.


Jo and I studded some past their best clementines with the rest of the jar of cloves. They are hiding at the back of the hotpress now, waiting quietly and darkly to share the perfume of their thoughts when the time is right. I am very excited!

A Secret Irish Scones Challenge

 Every year we have open house Mince Pies and Mulled Stuff on a Sunday afternoon, which is really our way of not sending Christmas cards. The larger than life Martin Edwards (not the crime writer) always brought Christmas scones, but would never tell us the recipe. Goodness, these scones were amazing. Dried fruit steeped in Christmas spirit and added to his scone mixture. Finally two of us wore him down and he relented. Anne has been making them ever since- the cinnamon ones too. I finally got around to it on Friday night, inspired by Simone's Friday Cake Bake which is back and which is one of my (many) favourite things in Blogtopia.

Now, in celebration of two posts in one month, I am going to share the secret Irish scone recipe with you, but keep it under your hand-crocheted hat. The hard thing about these scones, and believe me, this is hard, is that you have to work fast. Jo and I were ready. We had absolutely everything all lined up and ready to go. He even had a stopwatch to time the tricky part. So, here it is- word for word as I wrote it down that day on the first scrap of paper that came hastily to hand.

 In a "dry" bowl you need 2 lbs of soda bread flour and then an extra 1/4 lb. (These are Irish scones and I don't know how you're going to get soda bread flour.) This bowl also has 4 oz of sugar and an extra oz. In a "wet" bowl you have 3 eggs, beaten, and a pint of buttermilk. (These are Irish scones and I don't know how you are going to get buttermilk.)

 THIS IS THE HARD BIT: you quickly dump the wet bowl into the dry and from this point on you have three minutes to get the scones in the oven- which has been pre-heated to 220 degrees C. My fan oven needs slightly more than 20 lower than that.

 Fold the wet mixture in to the dry mixture and stir in 4 oz melted margarine. Quick, quick, quick.

 At this point you will be confidently putting the scone mixture on to your floured surface. At this point, I realized that because I had halved the mixture, having used some of the buttermilk last week, something in my calculations had gone unfortunately awry.

 So handful after handful of flour was thrown and whipped into my mixture until it resembled anything capable of being dolloped on to the floured surface instead of drooling all over the floor. Jo is jumping up and down in time-keeping panic behind the camera.

 So, as I said, put the scone mixture on to your floured surface and sprinkle flour on top. If this extra flour isn't the extra 1/4 lb of flour then I don't actually know what that extra flour is for. Nor can I help with the extra oz of sugar!

 Flatten mixture with hands to 1 inch. Cut into scones and re-squish. Cook for 10-12 minutes. Martin used a midwife analogy: if you roll the belly of the scones and it moves, it is not ready. Hmm.

 I was convinced that our scones would be inedible. They were not. After disastrous amounts and very dubious tummy rolling, they came out perfectly. We were both delighted- as was everyone else. Our half mixture made a large tin full of scones that gave us supper on Friday, snack on Saturday morning and afternoon tea with friends on Saturday afternoon.

I think I'll make full dose next time and try the cinnamon scones with the rest: when the mixture is rolled flat to 1 inch, sprinkle 2/3 with cinnamon and brown sugar, currants and squares of melted (?) butter. Swiss roll it, cut into 1 inch chunks, lay flat in baking tray. Freeze after cooking if desired. Other variations were 4 oz grated cheese/ generous handful Christmas fruit/basil and sun-dried tomatoes added to original 3 minutes mixture.

Phew.

Our daily bread

 Mattman baked his first loaf of bread this week. It was Savoury Irish Bread week in Home Economics this week and he came bolting out of school brandishing his box and a smile. There were three mouthfuls left! Two were buttered and left for Jo and Dad.

 I have been soaking lots of fruit in lots of brandy and ginger wine for Christmas cakes, but I haven't got much further than that, despite today's great plans, because Prince Charming has had the fire lit in here all day, and it's very hard to leave!

 Jo did the second of his three transfer papers for Big School this morning. Two down and one to go, and then it will be Christmas! So we're all at very humble stages of getting things done this week- all very ordinary, common activities that don't set the world alight, but that are nonetheless filled with lots of personal satisfaction. They're the sort of things that warm the house in gentle ways.

This weekend winter wanted to make sure that we knew it was here. We had lots of stormy snow last night, that didn't lie, but left us with low temperatures and the stark beauty of November in all its fullness. I do continue to love November! It is my time of my getting ready, quietly, gently, humbly.

What I have discovered this month though is the website of Our Daily Bread. The photography is lovely, the resources are extensive, and the readings are very helpful indeed. Love to you all, and to you all a good night x

One Weekend

It's Friday, Friday, Friday! It took me a ridiculously substantial amount of time after going back to work five days a week to realise that I was working five days a week, and that it was thus acceptable to feel the Friday feeling. First full week back done.

There are wild strawberries up that tree out there. This is not to imply that they have no homework, oh no. But it is not raining, it is not cold and it is not yet (completely) dark and there are two very happy wild strawberries up that tree.

Did you hear David Nicholl on Bookclub this week? He was lovely. He talked about how his title for One Day would have been St Swithin's Day, but that the marketing panel had insisted on One Day. It makes me think tonight of the one weekend we have each week, and of how life moves on slightly each time we put school uniforms into the washing machine, put away the lunch-boxes and breathe.

We're breathing with Brownies tonight. The fabulous Niqi was incredibly clearing out some scales and now they live with us. As does her little black stove, which currently gives gracious home to the tomato plant and will very soon give gracious heat to homework sessions. Cooking Catherine's bread machine lives with us too. We're most accommodating here at the Meadowplace! Hospitality as a sign of the Kingdom- obedient living which Europe seems to be embracing in a much less facetious way than us.  Bon weekend x

Views and eggs

 I've invented a new colour. It's Meadowplace Blue. It's the wide, uninterrupted blue of the sky over our heads when the weather is glorious and you feel you shall never again wear more than two layers. It's the blue you get when you're not even wearing socks.

Yes, I did neglect to remove the laundry draped over every possible outdoor surface. Although you feel you shall never again wear more than two layers or need to dry clothes anywhere but outside, a small voice whispers that this could nonetheless be an opportunity not to be missed.

 We continue to struggle with illness in this house. It definitely gets better as Spring takes firm hold, but a dose more vigour would not go amiss. Great encouragement to the morale arrived on Monday night with Cooking Catherine and two great goose eggs. Never before has such a sight been seen in our little lives. Our meadow-dwelling must surely be complete?

 Number one went the way of all eggs, well most eggs, well, most eggs in this house, except for baking. Egg A got into some hot water tonight. I kept waiting for it to jump up in true Gingerbread Man fashion and rush out to have adventures through the fields with the goats, the chickens and a ubiquitous fox.

But it didn't. The white of a goose egg is very different: discuss. The white shell is incredibly white, much tougher and held on by a significantly thicker layer of membrane? Then the cooked white was much thinner around the yolk, I found. Taste-wise, no remarkable difference. Except that it was lovely, and very, very yellow at its core.

What should we do with Egg B? Unless it decides sit on a wall...

Happy New here we go again xx

 So we have squeezed the juice from 2014- and moved house and moved school and settled more in to a new church and a new job. It must be time for our traditional tarte au citron to go with some fizz.

 And the empty case of 2015 awaits! Another little kitchen metaphor to make you think I am at all proficient in that room. I hope all good ingredients will be whisking around in your kitchen this year, and that you'll manage to make something tasty even from the ones that at first may not seem appetising.

We have made our usual New Year gingerbread men, but I should point out that they are Janus figure men, and women, looking back into the old year and forward into the new.  Bloggy blessings to you all from all at the Meadowplace xx

Belated Pause III: Scrooge alert!

 So, Advent. Every year for six years Catherine and I have been running our Preparing for Advent event, and this year we talked about the things I've put on here for Ang's wonderful Pausing for Advent blogfest. And I'll tell you what our Preparing for Advent has done for me. Gradually. Overwhelmingly.

 It has taken away Christmas! Not put the Christ back into Christmas so much as make the whole time a nonsense. A very nice nonsense, mind you. A glittering, funny, food-soaked few days. But to focus so much effort on so few days is now something I do because that's what my family wants. It's either about Jesus or it's not. If it is about Jesus, then it's a spiritual time, and Advent has become a very spiritual journey. If it's not about Jesus, then my next-door neighbour is right and Christmas has lost all its meaning and no amount of shortbread or snow cake will give it sense.

Last Sunday was our annual Mince Pies and Mulled Stuff open house. I spent all day Saturday baking. Yes, I know that if I was organised the baking would all be done, but you know me well enough now to know that this is fraise. So, I spend all day baking, and then all Sunday afternoon we have a house full of lovely loved and loving friends, new and old. And at the end I sat down on the stool in the kitchen and looked at all the empty plates and cups.

Then I looked in the drained-dry mull pot. It was rich in everything. Colour, scent, flavour, conversations had, laughter shared. I think that Christmas is for me now the juicy remains from four weeks of listening, searching, remembering. Advent is the thing I need. The mulling pot is where I want to be! Like Mary pondering words in her heart, I want to be mulling darkening skies and bare trees and silent nights. I don't want to focus all my attention on one or two or three days (if you count a Christmas Eve brunch) and then for all it all to be over in a bin load of wrapping paper and envelopes. I want what's left over to be rich: drained dry of expectation and soaked in the glory of God. To paraphrase Scrooge himself, "I will honour Advent in my heart, and try to keep it all the year."

Not enough thyme in the day

 It's been a busy weekend thus far. We have been finally feeling brave enough to drag the suns away from the meadow and into the Wild World.

 Last night I demanded that they all came with me to a lantern making workshop that culminated in a lantern-lit walk up Carnmoney Hill to hear a storyteller at the old well.

 Gratifyingly, on the way down the muddy, slippy, dark, dark, magical hill, Jo did say, "That was much better than I thought it would be, Mummy." Life with boys.

 Not quite sure what this shot was exactly, but it was generally me trying and failing to capture some of the soft glow of battery powered lights in the night! This is what the lanterns actually look like, scattered around the Meadowplace. I slept with mine beside me last night!

 Tonight it's pumpkin time. Pumpkin soup and pumpkin pie for lunch with some new folk from our new church tomorrow. I have discovered that I didn't bring my pot of thyme with me in the move.

 One of our sixth form study supervisors in school is running a pumpkin carving competition in his room this week. He kicked it off with a welcoming one, so we have stolen his idea for the front step. I think I'll have to give the suns free rein on the second one, but we'll try to maintain the autumnal pumpkin theme over the ghoulish invasion that's coming in fast now!

Dealing with Iraq

Prince Charming is preaching tomorrow morning. I know. He's a busy boy. He is looking at Daniel, and at believers in the face of the fiery furnace. We've been gathering email addresses all day in an attempt to do something in the face of Iraq's furnace. There's a great article here.

I would like to think I could stand firm in my beliefs faced with danger to myself. But if someone came for the boys? PC's going with slips of email addresses for those who would like them, rather than impossible rhetorical questions.

Tonight I made Brownies from my latest Annabel Karmel book. There's a woman who has my culinary level. They are particularly fine with the caramel sauce. The boys loved them. I loved them too, and the Brownies.

Catch up on Views from Windows and Escalators!

Two weeks ago we had views from the bank barn. If you have time to spend in the English Lake District and are unafeared of tiny bestioles, stay here!

 Door opening straight onto Brackenrigg Fell.

Barn. Idyllic, except for midges. Sigh. The winnowing window is the one on the left above the door to one of the lower studios. The owl perch is the top one on the right.

Last Thursday we were in an extremely hot London for the day, so had views from Harrods' Egyptian escalator...

Views from the Natural History Museum, though you can see why we didn't pay much attention to the windows...

And views from that escalator that takes you journeying to the centre of the earth and out again. Possibly my highlight there. I made them go through twice. It wasn't that scary.

And yes, once again, a solo respite stroll round Liberty's, where windows, balconies, woodwork and all within amount to a hugely spiritual experience in the midst of an action-packed holiday with mighty men!

We're home again, so normal and utterly monotonous Views from the Suburbs will hopefully join Jane on Thursdays. Ang is also running a Thursday feature- based on Edith Schaeffer's Hidden Art of Homemaking. She has kindly lent me her precious copy, and I have carefully already had to wipe jam off the back cover- don't tell her.... Inspired by Ang's exhortation to artful food presentation, I Shaefferized today's lunch to hide the fact that it was just a Mother Hubbard melee of left-over picnic from Tatton Park on Tuesday.

And so to today's view. Lots and lots of holiday laundry thankfully on the line to dry.  Jo repeats incessantly, "It's so good to be home!" I can't quite concur with the same enthusiasm. We had such a fabulous time away. Thank you, Ang and Bob, for looking after us on our last leg, and making that homeward haul so much easier. Pictures will follow- as will the BP experience!