Butterflies

I’m sorry, butterflies. The buddleias are in such a sorry state, like the rest of the so-called garden and it’s my fault. I’m not responsible for the lack of rain or the heatwave – did I miss that? – but we went away for weeks on end, leaving plants to look after themselves. Garden neglect. No sooner were we back from our travels south, when we were off in the caravan. We didn’t go far, probably only a half hour walk away from home to Marton Mere for a Haven break. It wasn’t a holiday, though being there made it feel like one. We left our house to the mercy of the company entrusted to replace our damp course. We relaxed with ice creams, beer and whatever was on the menu in the Boathouse, then returned home to a job perfectly done. Thanks, team. Within days we were missing caravan life and quickly organised a trip north to join family and celebrate our wedding anniversary. The garden was beyond all hope, so I left it.

Buddleia, white blooms and quite majestic, fared better than the purple or pink and a few butterflies were enjoying themselves, but not the abundance we’ve known in previous summers. Those summers when we’ve stayed at home and I’ve tended the garden properly.

One dry day when the air was still, I spent time chopping up bramble that had crept along the ground. At last, a path for me to reach the marigolds and dead-head them.

Not a single nasturtium has graced us. Lack of water, so down to my absence again. The grandchildren were fascinated with watching the caterpillars that fed from them, growing from tiny to huge. The survivors would go on to become butterflies. The grandchildren have grown out of the story, ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’, but I haven’t. It continues forever in the infant’s library I help to look after.

When I started school, age 4, 1959, my coat peg had a picture of a butterfly above it. Each child could identify their peg by a picture. Children have names, now. I would have recognised my name at the time, but it’s just the way things were done in those good old days.

I found this poem,

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted,
And each morning we tried who should reach the butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said, ‘Do not eat the poor butterfly.’
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing,
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry 1888 - 1923

The butterfly cross stitch is one of mine, from when I could see what I'm doing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x      

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In The Freezer - What's For Tea?

Travelling home from a few weeks touring southern Scotland in our caravan, our conversation turned to “What’s for tea?” We had been eating out more than usual and the meals I’d put together on board were perfectly adequate though simple, using the microwave, toaster or George Foreman mini grill, and lots of salad. As yet, the pristine gas cooker is untouched by me, due to being timid of gas bottles. The answer to our question was “Something in the freezer,” as it often is.

We have a massive larder freezer and you’d be hard pressed to find a gap amongst the contents. It matches the massive larder fridge, which by comparison, is almost empty in our absence. We used to house a family of four or more. Just two of us now, but feed any number of grandchildren a couple of times a week, depending on after-school activities and us being helpful. There is always something to eat in the freezer or the tins cupboard.

I think we take it all for granted because we’ve got used to relying on being able to store food the way we do. Not too long ago it was different. When I was a child, one of our pubs had a few bedrooms for residential guests and provided meals. I was fascinated by the chest freezer in the cellar, and the ice cream inside it. I’m sure there was plenty of food as well, but having ice cream at home was a novelty. As a young adult, my flat was a cosy little home but without a fridge, never mind a freezer. I managed. I stood my bottle of milk in a bowl with cold water to keep it fresh and hoped for the best. I got a cool box and that was good for butter as well. I had tins and packet foods and bought fresh food as I wanted it, usually picking up something for tea on my way home from work. I didn’t have a handy shop nearby back then. I have two or three now within walking distance – and a stuffed freezer.

I try to keep some sort of order in my stuffed freezer. Homemade items are labelled and dated, there’s a drawer for vegetables and another for potato based food. Fish, meat, pies, pizzas and a supply of Bernard Matthews unicorns, dinosaurs and similar goodies all have their place and a generous amount of ice lollies so we are always ready for visiting children. With all this organisation, I can’t understand how the entire contents are always untidy and often lost, to be found in another drawer.

My poem,

In The Freezer

Some of Iceland’s apple strudels,
Opened stir-fry veg with noodles,
Gregg’s sausage rolls to bake yourself
Pushed to the back of the wrong shelf.
Someone’s put all the chicken pies
In the same drawer as oven fries.
Only ‘tatoes in those spaces,
McCain Jackets, Smiley Faces.
Fish in batter, salmon fish cakes,
Our favourite butcher’s gammon steaks.
Tubs of homemade Bolognese sauce,
Curry and chilli, too, of course.
Escaping sprouts and corn and peas
And tasty pastries filled with cheese
Left over from our Christmas fayre,
Like croquettes I forgot to share.
It’s past its best, that corned beef hash
And so is that left-over mash.
The Dinosaurs are good to eat
And Unicorns, the children’s treat.
The kids will love a freezer feast,
Pasta and garlic bread, at least,
A triangle of pizza, too,
Coleslaw and a few dips will do.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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