Jane Brocket's Blog, page 61

as i walked out one sunny spring morning

 
 

Bright and early this morning, I stepped outside in my pyjamas, baggy dressing-gown, and Tom's huge, couldn't-be-any-muddier school shoes, looking every inch the suburban bag-lady, to pick the first proper bunch of tulips.

The earliest tulips for picking are pretty but always a little tentative, with paler colours and smaller heads than the bigger, sturdier, deeper and brighter tulips that like to soak up light and warmth before revealing themselves. (The exceptions are the amazing T. pulchella Persian Pearl that have just finished; they are deep magenta with a saffron centre but I don't pick small species tulips, preferring instead to leave them in pots or the ground so that I can see them every time I step outside.)

So these are pretty yellows, oranges and salmon pinks  that make stepping out into the garden in the cold and dewy morning a real pleasure. It's also exciting as I never know what's coming next; as ever, we didn't label as we planted and completely mixed up blocks of early, mid and late tulips so that the triangular patch where we grow them has a wide variety of heights and stages of development.

 

I stood the tied bunch in a border to photograph it next to some hyacinths and wallflowers - what a shame tulips don't pop up naturally in ready-made pretty arrangements...  

 

aperçus

 

:: This page is one of the most useful of all my bookmarked pages. Hõw mùch fün çàn ÿòû hävé wìth àççènts¿¡ The oñly oñe missiñg is for the Spañish ñ but I looked elsewhere for that. It reminds me that Phoebe should really be Phœbe, just as you see it printed in the books of lady Victorian novelists. I am not joking when I say that accents were one of the reasons I wanted to study modern foreign languages in the first place; I thought it was terribly exciting to know where to place a cedilla, an umlaut, a circumflex and an acute or grave accent on a word. (And before you ask whether I should have been getting out more as a teenager, the answer is no.) 

:: The scent of hyacinths, no matter how beautiful a shade of lilac they are, sometimes become so overpowering that they have to be removed from a room. The same applies to lovely lilies that not only leave indelible mustard-yellow marks on your clothes when you brush past them, but also make me feel like I'm trapped in some kind of Wizard of Oz poppy field, so heavy and cloying is their perfume.

:: Farley Granger who died yesterday had a wonderful name, was strikingly handsome, and appeared in one of my all-time favourite (but chilling) films, Strangers on a Train. Very oddly, because no-one could have foreseen the timing, his other great Hitchcock film which is rarely ever shown, Rope, was on TV at the beginning of the week and I taped it. I've never seen it and now I must.

:: I am reading The Fountainhead partly to find out why so many millions of copies have been sold, and partly because it's about architecture (an unusual subject for novels) and follows on from Bricks and Mortar (although you probably couldn't find two more dissimilar architects than Howard Roark and Martin Lovell - even their names spell it out with 'roar' and 'love' giving them away). But mostly it's because I've long wanted to see the film version starring Gary Cooper but it's impossible to track down. Mind you, I've just looked on You Tube and found this and it's not quite how I imagined it.  (Almost immediately, the book reminded me of the Soviet Socialist Realist novels I once studied - and then I found out that Ayn Rand is a child of the 1905 Russian Revolution.)

:: The first tulips are just beginning to open up. Time to get the scissors and vases out.

as sure as eggs is eggs*

  

Just as surely and famously each year The Times prints letters from readers claiming to have heard the first cuckoo of spring, so each year this blog infamously shows a first picture of painted toe nails. This season opens with bright emerald green in homage to Berlin and Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles in Goodbye to Berlin/Cabaret (although hers are more dramatically dark).

 

It's also the same colour as the beautiful cauliflower I made into a curry yesterday. I hadn't given this humble veg a second thought or glance until I folded back the leaves and saw what I realised could be construed as the flower of its name.

*I used this old phrase in one of my books and had to laugh when an American copy editor 'corrected' it to 'as sure as eggs are eggs'. I had to correct it back to the correct incorrect version.

visual thanks

 

[fritillaria meleagris]

A flower for Roz who has created the amazing Rosie Flo's Colouring Fashion Show, a masterpiece of whimsical ingenuity and the perfect gift for girls of all ages. 'Awesome' says Phoebe, who is scouring the house for colouring pens and pencils.

 

[houses round the corner from the equally colourful Leverton Street, NW5]

Colourful houses in Kentish Town for Gary, the only person I have ever thanked for leaving a comment with f**k in it, and whose favourite colour is grey.  

 

[1960s stained glass windows in St Hedwig's Cathedral, Berlin]

Quilt inspiration for Kay who sees quilts everywhere and is quite an inspiration herself.

 

 [a Maid of Honour]

An original Maid of Honour served in the original tea rooms opposite Kew Gardens for Charlotte who loves plants and cake, London, Windsor and Bristol.

 

[Columbia Road Flower Market]

Bags of potted daffodils for Book Snob Rachel  in New York who writes so well about books but misses England's seasonal highlights.

 

[cakes at Albion caff]

London cakes for Anne in Edinburgh who cheers me up and makes me laugh.

 
[Open Day - W London allotments]

Looking at other people's gardens for Ali who makes funny and perceptive analogies.

 
[2010 tulips, including red and yellow 'Helmar']

Rembrandt-style 'broken' tulips for Anna Marie who is growing modern Rembrandt tulips with historical interest.

hello to berlin

 

[Brandenberg Gate]

Until this week, I hadn't been back to Germany since we left in 1995 after living near Frankfurt for three years. Tom and Alice were born there and we had a good time, learning not to put out washing or mow the lawn on Sundays but never quite getting the hang, so to speak, of net curtains (we took all ours down, no doubt scandalising the neighbours). But we loved the houses we lived in, the cafes with their wonderful breakfasts and kaffee and kuchen, the heated outdoor swimming pools, the food markets, the snow, the medical care, and the fabulous sonneblumenkernbrot (sunflower seed bread). We then moved to Brussels where Phoebe was born (so we have two Frankfurters and a Brussels sprout), planned to visit Germany sometime, and never did.

 

[Holocaust Memorial]

So Berlin this week was going to be interesting in lots of ways. I prepared by painting my toe nails emerald green (thinking of Christopher Ishwerwood's Sally Bowles), took my camera, a copy of Goodbye to Berlin, a couple of guides, some walking shoes, and set off in the sunshine to enjoy the city.

 

[Jewish Museum]

Unsurprisingly for a formerly divided city, there is no real centre, more a number of centres. I was in the former East Berlin side of the city and it is still full of building/rebuilding works. There is no getting away from the horrific history of the 1930s, the war, the Berlin Wall, and that is as it should be. No wonder the night life and contemporary art scene are flourishing; it's a place that is reinventing itself again, yet can't and shouldn't deny its past.

 

[C/O Gallery]

It's also undoubtedly a city of galleries, and my visit was packed with them. A 19 euro three-day pass opens up the majority; the highlights were the Jewish Museum (incredible building by Daniel Liebeskind with hauntingly moving rooms), the German History Museum (fantastic collection of photographs that covers the whole C20), the Old National Gallery (beautiful galleries, highlight: this painting by Renoir), the Hamburger Bahnhof (wonderful converted railway station, some truly barmy stuff, but the first time I've appreciated Andy Warhol). I also saw an exhibition of Robert Mapplethorpe's photography at the C/O Gallery in the converted main Post Office building; you need to take a deep breath before entering this but I was struck by the way that he photographed flowers, especially his exquisite images of tulips, in the same way he photographed male body parts.

Back now with aching calf muscles and much to digest. We watched Christopher and His Kind last night - the timing could not have been better and I thought Matt Smith's voice and accent were pitch perfect (although Phoebe got a bit of a shock when she came in at one point and wondered what on earth Dr Who was up to).

last word of the week

 

For someone who said a while ago that she would be posting hebdomadally, I seem to have broken my word quite spectacularly this week. Ah well, it's all been good stuff here on the blog, and very interesting, too. Thank you again for all the comments. I have managed to reply to a few, but won't be able to tackle any more as I am going to be away most of next week.

Have a lovely weekend. We shall be making cheesecake, doing some sewing, working on a new app idea, watching rugby, looking at daffodils, wondering how one day there wasn't blossom and the next day the little roads of Berkshire are full of it, and enjoying a very nice Chablis from Majestic Wine.

And here is my very last word of the week: free. (As in blogs, apart from those at the meanie Times, are free. I think it is important to bear that in mind.)

lost for words

 

[mini cakes from Treacle, Sunday morning inspiration for Phoebe]

You must have thought I'd gone out for a Captain Oates' style walk ('I may be some time') but in fact I came back an hour later, ready to delete the post, and found that it had already sparked yet another huge discussion of negative comments which is absolutely not what I'd intended, and it would have looked very odd if I had wiped it all off the blog.

No, it wasn't all about negative comments. I had a crappy time once, and I could tell you some horror stories about some of the awful things that happened, but it was a while ago and I have moved on. And moved on enough to see that the dissociation that the happening between on-line and real life is having a very interesting effect not just on me but in a much wider circle. In fact, Simon's business books are predicting that people will return to more face-to-face, physical and community activities in which we meet and talk to real human beings, and don't write down what you think of each other's looks/clothes/jokes/opinions/children's behaviour/taste in wine as you go along. Goodness me, we even have one teenager in this house who doesn't use Facebook (hasn't updated his profile in 16 months) and who actually spends time chatting to his friends on the phone, just we did  in the 1970s. How quaint. How reassuring that he prefers to hear the nuances and tones of his friends' voices and words, rather than struggling to convey meaning on-line language and running the risk of giving offence or being misunderstood. This is what I was writing about.

This year Tom and Alice will be going to university. One of them is still going through the unpleasant experience of a very protracted application procedure; even after more than five months there has been no response from two of the five universities, not even a rejection, and we simply don't understand how it can take so long to make offers and why they do this sort of thing to students who have enough anxiety this year anyway. The other is all sorted which is lovely, but doesn't always help matters. I think the prospect of them leaving is making me think quite deeply about what comes next and in the shorter term has made me want to enjoy every moment I can when they are around and not working in Boots/revising/playing rugby/Facebooking/wearing high heels (only Alice)/lying on a bed talking on the phone. I certainly don't want to end up as an aged Bridget Jones figure with only my computer for company, so we are planning a new phase with just one child at home during term-time and a lot more going out. In fact, we think we shall eventually retire to central London: forget the seaside retirement home, we are going where the bright lights, baked goods and bookshops are.

I read every comment you left, for which many thanks. There's a lot of collective time in those comments and I appreciate the fact that so many of you wanted to say something. Of course, what you said was fascinating: I should walk away/I should carry on, I have zest and energy/I am arrogant and flippant, change the blog/don't change, turn the comments off/be grateful for all the comments, do as you like/show us your home, you family life, your children and your book projects, bring back yourself/move on.

For once, I am lost for words here.

separation and synthesis

 

It's a bit of struggle to write the blog at the moment. The sun is shining, there are tulips on the windowsill, I've met a couple of deadlines recently, and real life is very real. Indeed, its pull is greater than that of the blog.

There is also another reason that I've been considering the blog recently, especially now that I have passed the six year mark in blogging. And this is that I feel I don't recognise the me that's in the blog as well as I used to, that's there's a separation between the blog me and the real me, and I am finding this a little wearing. I've read elsewhere that it is often the case with bloggers and Facebook users that we edit and present what we are comfortable with and end up denying or not revealing much of what really makes us tick. I know why I do it - it's to protect myself; after the maulings I received when my first book was published, it was hard ever to feel fully confident on the internet again. Of course, I dislike myself for feeling like this (but if you read Richard Mason's article in The Observer yesterday you would have got an idea of the impact that negative comments can really have) and wish I could be more devil-may-care. But I do care, especially about self-preservation.

I need more synthesis between the blog me and the real me if I can keep going here. Or maybe I solve the problem by changing the blog to suit me rather than the other way round? I'm off out for a walk and a think.  

castling

 

[just seen a teeny tiny Union Jack in the bottom left hand corner]

I know 'castling' is a chess term, but I like the idea of using it in the context of visiting castles. 'To go castling' sounds, and is, a good way to spend a day. I've always loved castles and used to get very excited as a child when we visted Peveril Castle and rolled down the steep hill , and my ambition was always to see the classic motte and bailey design of Clifford's Tower in York (ambition achieved). I have several other favourites including Corfe, Urquhart, Kenilworth, Skipton and Orford but no castle will ever be better than Conway (now Conwy) Castle in the 1970s. My brother and I ran up to the top of two different towers each with a little brother/sister in tow and, with no concern for health and safety, leaned over and waved to our vertigo-suffering Mum sitting below, frightening the living daylights out of her.

 

[the Round Tower]

There is no such freedom in Windsor Castle where security is tight and there's no shouting from towers, chasing siblings around the wards, or rolling hilariously down the motte of the Round Tower. This time, I stayed with Mum (though I would have loved to wave from her from the top of the tower) and we were suitably astonished by the scale and history, as well as the price of entry.

 

It's an incredible place with its very enclosed garden in the dry moat (below), the greatest expanse of gilding we've ever seen, the most amazing collection of paintings vying for space in the state apartments ('oh, surely not another Rembrandt - where should we put it?'), and the most impressive use of scarlet and emerald in drawing room decoration.

 
[moat garden]

Plus, the lamps have little crowns in top and there's some very pretty forsythia.

 

All in all, not a bad castle to castle. But next time I go castling, I'll try to remember my proper camera.

 

butterfly cakes

 

This is the recipe for butterfly cakes, as requested. It's just a very simple, basic sponge with old-fashioned buttercream on top so the directions are very straightforward. If you don't want to add sweets or sprinkles to decorate, butterfly cakes look very pretty with a light dusting of icing sugar. A paler version can be made with plain vanilla sponge (4-4-4-2 for those who remember the imperial mantra) and vanilla buttercream. I don't have different oven and US equivalents to hand, but they are easy enough to find.

 

Chocolate butterfly cakes

Makes 12 normal or 10 large butterfly cakes

Ingredients

Chocolate sponge

135g soft butter
135g caster sugar (I use unrefined)
two large eggs
105g self-raising flour
30g cocoa powder (I use Green & Blacks')
half a teaspoon baking powder

Buttercream

65g soft butter
175g icing sugar
30g cocoa powder
milk to mix (approx 3 tablespoons)
sweets or sprinkles to decorate (optional)

Directions

Pre-heat the oven to 180 C.
Put 10/12 paper cake cake cases in a bun or muffin tin. 
In a large mixing bowl beat the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Beat in the eggs. Fold in the dry ingredients until well mixed. Spoon mix into cake cases. Bake for 20 minutes or until risen and springy to the touch. Leave to cool.
When the cakes are cold, make the buttercream icing. Beat all the ingredients together, adding enough milk to make the icing smooth and spreadable.
Cut the tops off the cakes at a slight downward angle, making a little hollow as you do so(rather than cutting straight as you would a boiled egg). Cut each top in half to make wings.
Spread each cake with buttercream and replace the wings, right side up, to look like butterflies. Decorate as desired.