Keris Stainton's Blog, page 40

Fried egg with slightly burned vinegar

I do love a fried egg on toast, so when I saw this recipe from my fave Catherine Newman, I knew I’d have to try it.

But, inevitably, because I am a total nit in the kitchen (and, let’s face it, in most other rooms too), I burned the butter/vinegar sauce thingy. I poured it over anyway (I’m not fussy) and then added a splash of balsamic and it was indeed delish.

It also, for some reason, seemed lighter and “healthier” than an ordinary fried egg. Maybe because the balsamic made me think of it as Mediterranean, I don’t know.

Anyway, it also enabled me to yell at Rachel Khoo (on the radio) when someone phoned in and asked what sauce she would recommend with her Croque Madame Muffins for someone who’s not keen on dairy (the recipe features a cheese sauce). Rachel seemed to flail a bit and then plumped for “a red wine sauce” which sounds mad to me. “Butter and vinegar, Rachel!” I bellowed. And felt very smug.

Exploring Avenham Park

Even though it’s not at all far from where we live, we only discovered Avenham Park last year. I saw it from the train on the way in to Preston and it looked amazing, so we went investigating.

It’s an absolutely gorgeous Victorian Park with wide open spaces, shady areas, a lovely cafe, a Japanese Garden that I’d love to investigate further, a river, fountains, sculptures, a playground… even a couple of cannons.

Harry and Joe ran off across the grass and David and I had a little sit down and watched swallows darting and playing and skimming the ground. I’ve never seen swallows so close before – they were beautiful.

Joe found a branch underneath a tree and Harry decided he would keep it as a “souvenir”. When we told him it would die – was, in fact, already dead – he got really upset. He thought it was too sad, leaving it behind in the park, all alone. So he planted (erm, stuck) it in the ground and David said a few words (no, really) and then H asked me to take a photo. Oh little branch… we hardly knew ye.

(After the park, we went to Waterstones to visit my books – squee! – and I saw Stanley’s Stick by John Hegley. I’d read a rave review at Playing by the Book, so I wanted to read it anyway, but it turned out it couldn’t have been more perfect. I read it to Harry, who sniffled again, but then wandered off quite happily to find a billion books to nag me to buy him.)

Obligatory Jubilee post

I’m not fussed about the Jubilee. It doesn’t offend me massively (yet), but I’m not excited about it either. I was, however, excited about the Silver Jubilee in 1977, because I was six.

It’s the only street party I can ever remember going to – I’d like to say there should be more street parties, but perhaps not with my neighbours… That’s me in the middle, above. My sister Leanne is on the right and my friend Angela is next to me. I thought me and Leanne had worn our special Jubilee outfits, but it doesn’t look like it. Special Jubilee outfits? I hear you cry. Why yes.

The tops were handknitted by our mum. They were red, white and blue, obv., and had little crowns around the bottom. You can’t see them very well on the above photo. But you can on this’un.

With white pleated skirts and knee socks. Lovely.

Harry and Joe are mildly interested in the Jubilee. Joe insists that all the bunting and flags are actually for his birthday (which is in January) and won’t be argued with. Although he has made one slight concession and is now calling it “My Jubilee birthday.” Earlier he said he wanted to send a message to the Queen to “thank her for my lunches”. When I said the Queen’s got nothing to do with his lunches, he hissed at me.

I did feel slightly guilty that my lack of interest was robbing my children of a lovely memory, so on Friday we had a Jubilee picnic lunch. At home. Seventies-style.

They seemed to enjoy it. Harry said, “We’re celebrating the Queen for all the laws she’s made and things she’s created.” Well… not so much, no. But sausages on sticks are always the right answer, eh?

52 Books: 11.22.63 by Stephen King

I think Stephen King’s an amazing writer, but I just can’t read horror so I’m always interested in his non-horror books. I was particularly interested in this one because I’m sort of fascinated by the Kennedy assassination (isn’t everyone?) and because I always like the idea of going back in time and changing the future (that probably comes out of my early Back to the Future obsession, eh?).

I thought 11.22.63 was going to be sort of like Mark Lawson’s Idlewild, i.e. it was going to be about what the world would have been like if Kennedy’s assassination had been foiled. It wasn’t like that at all, but it was just as brilliant as I expected it to be. I won’t say any more than that because I don’t want to spoil it for anywone. (I spoiled it for David with one syllable. Oops.)

Kathryn Joosten

“Some people in Hollywood think of me as a model for dramatic midlife transitions: suburban housewife to Emmy-winning actress. But I never plotted out a master plan for following my dreams.”

I had no idea that Kathryn Joosten didn’t begin her acting career until she was in her forties. All I knew about her was how completely awesome she was in The West Wing – it’s one of my favourite all-time shows and her character, Mrs Landingham, was one of my favourite characters.

When I heard that she’d died (via my friend Anne-Marie), it made me cry. Joosten was a wonderful actress and, judging by the bio on her website (where the above quote is taken from) a pretty amazing person too.

I got an email from Miss Representation this week, suggesting subscribers should “champion” an inspiring woman. Kathryn Joosten certainly fits the bill. She’ll be very much missed.

Remember CeCe Peniston?

On the way to Asda this morning, I remembered – out of the blue – another female singer I used to be mad about: CeCe Peniston. You probably remember Finally and I did love that one, but I listened to the whole album constantly and I think this was my favourite (I had a hideous unrequited crush at the time). (In fact, the song brings back that period of my life so vividly, I’ve gone a bit dizzy.)

Guest review: Alys, Always

My friend Anstey Spraggan reviews Alys, Always by Harriet Lane

Keris describes me as a book hater – it’s so not true. It’s more that the older I get, the less time I have left and, frankly, life’s getting too short for bad books. Or, come to that, even ‘just ordinary’ books.

Alys, Always is not an ordinary book – it’s a great book.

Nowadays, if a book doesn’t snare me with the Kindle sample, I won’t buy it. Really, my life is that short. Lane’s debut novel was sufficiently intriguing (and well-written) to have grabbed me hard by the end of the first two chapters.

Our heroine is Frances Thorpe, a desk editor at The Questioner newspaper, and the first witness on the scene following a car accident. There are a series of consequences to Frances being the last person to see the occupant of the car alive; some deliberate, some not so much, some even caused by misplaced kindness. The story evolves by harmless increments into a dramatic cautionary tale.

I deliberated on whether to read this book for two reasons. Firstly, the title made me think it might be a gooey love story when, in fact, it’s very far from that. Once the eponymous Alys is revealed and the story behind the title rolls out, it becomes an utterly fitting headline – I wouldn’t have called it anything else.

The second is that several reviews that I’ve read of Alys, Always refer to it as a thriller. I saw Lane’s book more as a story of human nature red in tooth and claw (with the intricacies of the human condition revealed with an exceptional candour) and as a shrewd assessment of life in a society that stills fails to be classless.

I wasn’t particularly alarmed by Frances’ journey from ‘cuts I’ve been browsing online’ through ‘online research’ on social networking sites (which, deliciously blames Polly for her ‘slack Facebook privacy settings’ as if her lack of thought is at fault rather than Frances). I still wasn’t unduly perturbed when even Frances herself had to categorise her ‘interest’ as ‘internet trawling’. And – here’s the bit I don’t know whether to reveal – I didn’t think that all this made Frances a sociopath or a character in a thriller. I thought it made her plausible and deeply real. I am lucky that the internet was still in its infancy when I left the game of ‘dating’ (so I wasn’t tempted to stalk) but I’ve got friends who’ve done far worse than Frances! It’s true – I really have. And I’m sure Harriet Lane has too.

It is perhaps the air of autobiography that gives this charming story its realism. Lane’s experience in newspapers and magazines lends a depth to the fabulous characters that surround Frances in her newspaper office. The transition from journalism to fiction is not always pulled off easily but Lane adopts a fluid and ornate narrative with ease. When she describes a ‘guest soap’ in Frances’ mother’s house as being ‘as tiny and pearly pink as prawn dim sum’, you know that non-fiction is behind her and a career as a novelist has well and truly begun.

Lane has disguised the real names of her villages but such is the power of her sense of place that I am hankering after a visit to the Suffolk Heritage coastline to cruise the glorious housing stock of Walberswick, Dunwich and Southwold. I will be looking for the people I know I can find there; those with the ‘sense of entitlement’ that Frances is both so impressed and intimidated by. She learns quickly that these are people – even the teenagers – who think that ‘The Wolseley’ rather than Cafe Nero is the kind of place one goes for coffee. These are people who know that they will succeed in life – and that they have the connections to do so.

For me, this story is – on so many levels – a classic cautionary tale. It takes very little effort for Frances to manipulate those around her once she realises how shallow and easily-impressed they are and I, honestly, cannot blame her. Every relationship in her life is affected by the colour that her acquaintance with the bereaved family brings. Her boss breezes in one morning and offers, ‘Cappuccino or latte?’ oblivious to the fact that she has never in seven years, offered Frances a cup of coffee before.

All sorts of opportunities unfold for Frances due to her new connections but the ultimate message of the book is that, whatever the circumstances or the particular events, people never really change. We are who we are – for better or for worse – and that’s who we will stay.

Emma on Tour!

As of tomorrow, I’m hitting the (virtual) road!

I’ll be bleating on about Emma Hearts LA on various wonderful blogs  and talking about all kinds of things, from food to music to films to hot geeky boys.

I’ll post the links in the sidebar and it would be lovely to see you on one (or more!) of the stops.

Remember Voice of the Beehive?

I don’t know how I managed to forget about them, but I totally did, until last night when we saw them on an old TotP compilation. I was OBSESSED with their album Let It Be. Obsessed. My favourite is Sorrow Floats, but I still bloody love Don’t Call Me Baby.

It’s funny, I think my iTunes is quite male-heavy and if you asked me, I would probably say it’s always been that way (not iTunes, obv, but the music I’ve listened to over the years), but thinking about it now, it really didn’t used to be the case at all.

As well as Voice of the Beehive, I was totally obsessed with En Vogue (particularly Funky Divas), Whitney Houston, Janet Jackson (from Control to Janet, but particularly Rhythm Nation 1814 – god, I LOVED that album), Alanis Morissette, Catatonia, even bloody Martika.

I don’t listen to any of them anymore (except occasionally Alanis). What happened? How come I stopped listening to them and, not only that, completely bloody forgot I ever had?

Emma Hearts LA launch: you’re all invited