Domesticali

A whizz by weekend

Monday again? How did that happen?

There has been a small triumph this week, in that we've finally succeeded in teaching the ginger moggie that the new, expensive, microchip activated cat flap is fine to use. He is a stubborn feline, and not too overly blessed in the brain cell department. I dare not tell you how long I spent crouched by the back door, with my arm stuck out through the cat flap clutching a pet treat. In the end though, locking him outside in the rain when we weren't home seemed to work best. Tough love.

The other cat has used it nonchalantly from day one of installation. Only slightly disturbed by being chased by an owner brandishing a yet-to-be-installed cat flap, attempting to scan the microchip in her neck. Some people just do change better than others.

I am two weeks into a printmaking course. In spite of having no real idea what I am doing or much natural drawing ability, I am enjoying myself enormously. Helps that I get to see Monica once a week too, of course.

Johnny spent a chunk of Sunday afternoon making a baseball bat. I know. It's a log. I think he may have been trying to avoid music practice.

That's a dulcimer. It sounds beautiful when he plays, but I would hesitate to recommend it as an instrument for a child to learn. Mostly because he cannot carry it himself and it will not fit in the boot of hubby's Mini. If I had to choose a musical instrument for them to play all over again, it would be the piccolo. For obvious reasons.

 

Cooking with friends

This morning, I found myself extolling the virtues of Alicia's  Sour Cream Apple Pie to some friends.

I'd made it on Sunday, in lieu of a birthday cake for hubs (whose birthday fell on the busiest Saturday in living memory the day before - you know the sort I mean - when the family need to be in many different places at slightly offset times and parents need to focus and be sociable, when quite frankly, we would rather be hunkered down with a coffee and the weekend papers).

By Sunday, we had all earned a nice slice of pie. But before I could hit the oven, I had manfully volunteered for the Sunday touchline shift at Rugby training. Hubby was to be gifted a couple of hours peace at home. The pie would have to wait.

And then the pictures began appearing on my phone. Sue was in her kitchen, making pie. It looked suspiciously like MY planned pie. Instagram confirmed it - the very same recipe! Her pie moved on - ingredients in a bowl, pie shell filled, topping sprinkled on and fresh out of the oven. I was salivating like Pavlov's dog - marooned in the field with only my rapidly cooling coffee for company.

I bundled muddy boys into the car and raced home. Seldom before has a recipe had to live up to such heightened anticipation. Luckily, this one delivered.

So this morning, I was praising the wondrous pie to some playground friends. Sounds good, they said - which book does the recipe come from? Oh, it's online, I replied - google 'Posy Gets Cosy Sour Cream Apple Pie'. When they rolled their eyeballs at me, I decided against telling them about the Instagram pie envy episode.  But you get it, don't you?

How the whole weird online sharing thing can not only point you towards a recipe for a good pie, but enhance the whole experience of baking it and eating it. Or are we just turning into a world of compulsive over-sharers? Discuss.

Colour Collaborative : September : Earth

My Father showed me how to perform all manner of practical tasks when I was fairly young. He being of the generation who knew how to fix stuff, and being an engineer to boot.

And I made a most willing apprentice - I loved the mystery of the toolbox - its tiny compartments filled with all manner of small, shiny treasures. And the pegboard wall at his office, with the tools neatly outlined, so you could tell which belonged where. I loved their names and their totally specific purposes, and the feeling of responsibility in being allowed to handle something sharp or otherwise dangerous.

But some things made no sense. Like plug wiring. Brown - live, blue - neutral, green and yellow - earth, he explained. Nooooo, surely he had this wrong. How had we not all been electrocuted? Any small child will tell you, the colour of the earth should have been a rich, soil-y brown. Green made better sense for live - like plants, living. 

It didn't matter how patiently he told me that the system was planned to provide the lowest possible likelihood of mix ups, even if the electrician was colour blind. Intuitively, it still felt all wrong to me.

If the colour collaboratives were responsible for allocation of hues to the wires, we might not agree on the shades we used - neutral might be a soft grey or taupe, possibly charcoal, live would lead to a brisk debate - do we go neon bright, or more predictably bold red for danger? But I'm pretty cretain that faced with a choice, earth would have been brown all the way.

 

Don't forget to check out the other great 'Colour Collaborative' blogs for more of today's posts, just click on the logos below ...




What is The Colour Collaborative? All creative bloggers make stuff, gather stuff, shape stuff, and share stuff. Mostly they work on their own, but what happens when a group of them work together? Is a creative collaboration greater than the sum of its parts? We think so and we hope you will too. We'll each be offering our own monthly take on a colour related theme, and hoping that in combination our ideas will encourage us, and perhaps you, to think about colour in new ways.

 

Unexpected pleasures

When Sue suggested we visit Charlecote Park, certain things were a given. There would be good chat. There would be drinking of coffee. There would be a convivial lunch. There would be the beeswax scent of the National Trust.

But today was full of unexpected pleasures too.

The kitchen had  a fire in the grate, a stocked larder and apple and blackberry something-or-other simmering in a copper pan. I like this new habit of the NT to show the kitchens at work.

There was sculpture in the trees.

And a 180 year old Mulberry tree in fruit (would have been rude not to sample).

But best of all was the most wonderful farm shop. So many pumpkins and squash.

Too many, in fact. I was paralysed by the choice and didn't end up buying any. Silly me.

I did bring home some dahlias - though not in as elegant a basket as Sue's.

Happy Day of pleasures - both anticipated and unexpected.

The difference a week makes

Do you sometimes take a picture and then realize that the thing which shows up in the viewfinder says much more to you than you were thinking as you pressed the shutter button? Or perhaps it's just me.

The little larch cones were collected this time last week - we were in Northumberland and I cried off from watching a cricket match to spend the day with Tess - some gentle garden strolling and yarn buying (and tea drinking, scone munching and plenty of nattering). A good day.

The inky fingers are courtesy of this week, back at school. With Mr left handed mastering his now-compulsory fountain pen. I'm feeling for him - he has beautiful handwriting but is struggling with trying not to smudge, as his hand passes over what he has just written. The imperfection bothers him greatly. I'm wondering why he can't just write with a pencil. But along with velcro shoes, they symbolise to him, the trappings of childhood he seems eager to leave behind.

I'm not so ready. Pushing on to the next phase used to be one of my great pleasures too. But these days? Not so much.

Especially when the photograph is such a poignant reminder of what a difference a single week makes.

 

Serendipitous sunset

The extra heft of my bag had me regretting absentmindedly leaving my camera inside when we went out yesterday evening.

But then we came across a murmuration of starlings.

And as we watched, the sunset kept getting better.

And better.

And carrying the extra weight turned from a burden into the most glorious opportunity.

Even if my philistine offspring did ask me 'Why do you keep stopping the car when it's the same old sky?'

But it really wasn't.