10.30 Coffee Time, A Very Simple Pleasure

When my dad reached his three score years and ten he must have decided that he might not have many years left, and wrote an essay on the things that gave him pleasure in life.  I can’t remember all the details but I do know I wasn’t really surprised by any of his choices.  Family, food, coffee, maths, chess, books, nature, cars, crosswords, and - the word I skimmed past very quickly - sex.  

My dad loved food - any food.  Although my mum tried to keep him under control he could frequently be found in the kitchen eating chunks of cheese on thickly buttered bread (Camembert a particular favourite - the smellier the better) As my mum had no sense of smell it was left to the rest of us to complain loudly as we entered the house and were confronted by a strong cheesy stench.  Eventually, the Camembert was double wrapped in foil and clingfilm and banished to the lean-to. 

As it happened, my dad had another twenty three years to enjoy those simple pleasures, and enjoy them he did. Every night at 9 o’clock my mum and dad would each have a Cornetto.  If I was staying, and refused one, he would tell me how delicious it was.  Boxes of chocolates couldn’t be left out if dad was in the room.  He had been diagnosed as diabetic, but never took it as seriously as he should have.  Biscuits and cakes disappeared mysteriously with nobody knowing a thing about it. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t nagged him when I was there.  I was concerned for his health, but maybe he’d got it right: his enjoyment outweighed any risk. 

Seafood and, in particular, lobsters, became a firm favourite.  He found that Lidl sold them and asked for a constant supply, panicking if he ran out.  I can still see him with a knife and hammer, cracking the shells, his mouth watering at the prospect of the meal ahead.  Although lobsters were a bit of an extravagance, not all his simple pleasures were expensive.  Most cost nothing at all.  Trips to the library were frequent and regular.  He enjoyed a wide range of genres, from whodunnits and biographies to intellectual books on philosophy and religion.  

My dad was a life long learner, who had missed out on a university education due to his family's lack of finances, and his father's desire to have his son join him in his one man optical business.  Dad would have been an ideal university student, but sadly it wasn’t to be.  Instead, he continued to educate himself, enrolling for Open University courses and thriving on discussion and debate. Most subjects interested him, but particularly philosophy, religion (he was an atheist), and maths.  He would sit at the computer for hours, reading and composing emails to his fellow students.  I think this was dad’s way of validating himself.  He would never admit it but I’m sure his lack of university education was a huge regret to him, especially as his best friend, my mum’s brother, John, was sent off to get his degree (my grandma working three jobs to pay for it) and then follow it with lecturing for many years at Kings College London.

Although I am no intellectual, I can relate to many of dad’s simple pleasures.  I love reading, and guess that came from growing up in a houseful of books, with both parents being avid readers. Food goes without saying, and I also love to learn - but not such intensive and deep subjects as those that consumed my dad.  One thing we had in common was a morning coffee.  It’s not just the drinking of it, it’s the whole ritual of boiling the kettle, heating the cafetière, grinding the beans, making the coffee, heating the milk…….It’s a very special pleasure, and one that I still love.  As the smell of the coffee hits me I think of my dad.

The night before Spamhead suddenly died (yes, that was his nickname for obvious food related reasons), my brother phoned to speak to my mum.  In the background dad called out proudly, “I finished the Telegraph crossword by 10 this morning, and I’m just cooking sausages!”  That summed him up in one sentence. It makes me very happy to think he was still enjoying his simple pleasures right up to the end.

10.30 Coffee Time

Scoop beans

Rich and black

With oily sheen

Pour into hopper

Grind fine 

Savour smell

Freshly ground Continental 

Two large spoons full 

Into heated cafetière

Water boiled

Wait a second

Tip kettle

Gently pour 

Into pot

Stare dreamily 

Through rising steam 

Sniff in sniff in 

Full force of brewing coffee

Lid on

Careful, don’t plunge yet

Meanwhile

Choose favourite mug

Just for coffee 

Not for tea

Pour in milk 

Heat thirty seconds 

Dream of treat to come 

Five minutes

Time to plunge!  

Inhale smell

Coffee brewed

Pour slowly slowly 

Onto milk in mug

Watch as bubbles rise

Let cool for seconds

Before that first delicious sip...

10.30 Coffee Time 

Thanks for reading.......Jill

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Snow - Fun in Padfield

It snowed yesterday. Just a tiny bit. Enough for my grandson to notice and tell me and sure enough, there was a flurry. We watched through the back room window, taking a break – I should say another break – from my efforts to home school him. Some snowflakes were big, but they didn’t hang around. The sun came out again, the sky was blue, and the last snowflake melted on the window and rolled down like a big tear-drop.  My grandson isn’t bothered. They’re not used to snow. He didn’t want to go out in it the other day when we had a depth of half a centimetre. He’d rather stay in and keep warm, but as he had walked round in his wellies I thought he might be hopeful of us quickly fashioning a tiny snow person in my back garden.

We hardly ever get proper snow here on the coast. I think it was 1981 when I trudged home from a nearby friend’s house in borrowed wellies which just about protected me, so deep was the snowfall that took us all by surprise when we opened the door. Luckily, as we were planning on staying in, I had walked. Usually I would take my car expecting us to be going off somewhere. The snow lasted a few days. Telephones were not working. I couldn’t get a message to work, but it didn’t matter, no one else made it in. There were a couple of times in the ‘90s when school was closed due to snow and my children played out in it. Very rare. It’s different further inland.

Padfield School 

During my childhood, for a short time we lived in Padfield, a village near Glossop in the Peak District. My parents were managing the local pub / small hotel, The Peels Arms, still there and it’s a great place, by the way. I made lots of friends at the village school and had a party for my ninth birthday in the hotel dining room. It was a very quiet neighbourhood and not many cars in those days. We had previously lived in pubs on busy streets or in town centres so being allowed out to play was a first for me and I loved it. Once, and it was only ever the once for reasons you’ll understand, I was allowed to take my toddler sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the nearby playground where she watched me play on the swings and roundabout with my friends. I must have got distracted. I don’t know the length of time involved, but at some point back at home, someone asked, ‘Where’s Anne?’ and the realisation hit me. I’d left her at the park.  She was still there, safe and well and I expect she was happy that someone came to rescue her. I was in the biggest trouble.

It snowed that winter, as it does every winter up there, and we were cut off. It must have been after Christmas because I remember sitting  by the fire in the ‘snug’ bar making the baskets from the gift of a basket weaving set I had received. No one could get in or out of Padfield.  Everything carried on as normal. The school had four classes with three teachers. Standard One and Standard Two shared a classroom with one teacher and all the staff lived locally. Snowy schooldays were fun, messing about all the way there and all the way back. The problem was that deliveries couldn’t get in, so provisions at the shop ran low or eventually ran out. I remember my mother helping out with food from the hotel to whoever needed it.

If the travel news on the radio gives information about the Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow, I know that Padfield and possibly Hadfield are cut off. I think back on my time there with fondness – apart from the incident with my sister – some great memories.

Padfield in the Snow
A snowman stood by every gate
Watching us marching down to school.
“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late,
Last one in is Mrs Swift’s fool!”

It’s hard to rush in such deep snow
With a blizzard freezing your face,
Making snowballs ready to throw
At some mates, nearly keeping pace.

Mrs Swift is standing, waiting,
About to close the classroom door,
Watching us dripping, creating
The puddles on the wooden floor.

Her eyes are narrow, looking cross.
Above her glasses, angry frown,
No doubt to nine-year olds who’s boss,
“Come in quickly and settle down!”

Prayers, assembly and work to do.
Writing and reading and hard sums,
Then we’re painting in shades of blue.
At home time, some letters for mums.

More snowball fighting up the street,
Climb the hill, laughing and falling,
Icy fingers and frozen feet,
“Pamela, your mum is calling!”


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

The photo is Padfield School, not mine.

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The Guest List - My Dream Dinner Party

It’s Feb 2021 and we’re in the midst of a pandemic. The dinner party was arranged over a year ago and it’s been in the planning stage ever since. I sent out the invites back in March and got some lovely replies. Dolly even said she would cancel her concert at The Super Bowl. I told her I’d rearrange the party but she was adamant - my event was far more important. She must have heard about the other guests. 

Michael sent a beautifully handwritten letter on Hotel notepaper, all the way from Bangkok. He said he would come by train. Joan and John had actually got together and sung their reply, which was spectacular and very touching. The response from Father X was predictably formal, typed on expensive looking vellum, informing me he had several food allergies, and signed in a spidery script. I used the letter to light the fire that evening.  Miriam was the only one unsure whether she would make it. She was supposed to be filming but hoped she could come as she ‘loved a good nosh up.’ She would let me know nearer the time. I was on tenterhooks for a while, waiting for the final reply, till I got a scribbled message on the back of a beer mat pushed through the letterbox, ‘Thanks, I’ll be there, JBJ’  I was slightly disappointed at the brevity of the note and the absence of kisses from my long time heart throb, but I guessed he must be busy. 

Now the dinner party is looming and,  amazingly, all the guests have agreed to my suggestion of self isolating for ten days before the night, and remaining here for ten days afterwards. This adds quite another dimension to a simple dinner party. I’ve changed all the beds and put chocolates on the pillows, but I’ve made it clear that if anyone goes down with covid they’re on their own, no matter how famous they may be. I’ve ordered the champagne, the flower arrangements and some ridiculously expensive candles that don’t actually smell as nice as the Aldi ones, and bought the ingredients for a meal that I hope will be impressive but not so complicated or time consuming that it keeps me away from my guests.  

Tonight is the night. 

I wonder, nervously, who will be first to arrive. I think I’d prefer Dolly or Miriam as I’m sure they’d keep the conversation flowing. There would be laughter and possible a quick song. I check the table, give the wine glasses another wipe and remove my apron. I don’t normally drink alcohol but I pour myself a large glass of Dutch courage just as the doorbell rings.  

I peer through the side window, my heart thumping. Yes! Dolly is at the door, looking tiny and glamorous, with the biggest bouffant, and a designer suitcase by her side. She is smiling that massive smile and laughing at someone in the shadows. Michael has arrived at the same time.  I welcome them in, take Dolly’s case and Michael’s rucksack, and offer them drinks, hissing at the husband to fetch the canapés. It seems Dolly and Michael are well away, which is a little worrying. Although I want my guests to get on, I need them to be here on my terms. Does Michael not realise he’s the one man I’ve been wanting to marry for the past thirty years? I decide I’ll give it a bit of time before I mention that. And Dolly, well, Dolly is a visual treat and part of the entertainment. 

Miriam and John also arrive together. I’m glad to see John has his guitar - and Miriam is looking as dishevelled and barmy as I’d hoped she would. Joan - also with guitar - is next here, and by this time the pre dinner drinks are going down well and conversation is flowing nicely.  I do a quick head count and surreptitiously signal for the husband to move away from his spot overlooking Dolly's chest and go and fetch more canapés. 

Suddenly, conversation stops and everybody looks up. There is extremely loud music coming from outside. My heart throb has arrived. I check myself in the mirror, open the door and JBJ bounces in, guitar blasting out. I thrust my burning cheek towards him for a kiss but he’s gone, lost in the music, and already in the middle of the group. Before I can offer him a drink there is a tapping at the door, and I retrace my steps. Here is the guest I’ve been waiting for. Father X stands, bent, resting on a stick, looking weak and vulnerable. His eyes are pale and watery, practically unseeing. I invite him in and call for the husband to take his coat. I feel my heart lurch as I grab his arm and guide him towards the music. 

I realise the old priest must be deaf as well as practically blind as he allows himself to be led into the room and settled in a chair. He doesn’t seem to register the group in the middle, bouncing up and down, playing guitars and singing like there’s no tomorrow. It would be a really happy sight if it weren’t for my stomach churning every time my eyes rest on the priest in the corner. 

As we settle at the table I explain about the place cards, which contain not just their names but the reason each guest was invited. In turn they pick up their cards and read aloud. 'Joan Baez, John Prine and Dolly Parton are some of my favourite singers and seemingly kind, caring people.' They smile at each other and nod and look happy with that.  Michael reads aloud, ‘Michael Palin, you are funny, kind and appear totally genuine. For this reason I would like to marry you if it ever becomes possible.’ He laughs, gives me a wink and takes a gulp of his wine. 

Jon Bon Jovie picks up his card: ‘Jon, you have been my heart throb for many years.  My children laugh at me but I go weak at the knees when I see you.’ He grins and blows me a kiss as I blush deep red. 

‘Miriam Margolyes, you are funny, rude, intelligent, outspoken and full of great stories,’ Miriam laughs, ‘and I love the fact that you wear outrageous clothes and don’t care what anyone thinks.’ She looks up and gives me a powerful high five. Finally, it’s Father X. Dolly nudges him and his eyes come to rest on his card. ‘I can’t see well enough....’ he starts. I grab the card and tell him I’ll read it. ‘Father X, I met you a long time ago,’ I begin, hesitantly, ‘you...... were the priest we saw before we got married.’ I think I detect a slight flinch. ‘I...... thought you might never get another opportunity like this to meet these famous people, so..... here you are.’ I slip the card into my pocket, as the priest, puzzled, casts his eyes around the table. Dolly pulls him to her bosom and everybody cheers.  I breathe a sigh of relief and give the husband a nod to bring in the prawn cocktails. 

The food - and the booze go down well. The dinner party draws to a close. The guests make their way upstairs and queue for the bathroom.  I’ve put Miriam and Dolly in the attic as they're both game old birds, and watching them climb the stepladder could be the best entertainment of the night.  It also keeps Dolly well away from future husband, Michael, and heart throb, JBJ.  Father X looks lost and worried. He wants to go home. He’s forgotten his wash bag and needs a clean cassock for the morning. He assures me he’ll self isolate for ten days at the presbytery. I call him a taxi, remind him to wear his mask, and wonder if he’ll last that long. 

As I get undressed the priest's place card falls to the floor. I pick it up and read it slowly, although I know it off by heart. ‘Father X, you are here as you were very unkind to me a long time ago. You asked to see me and my fiancé two weeks before we were due to be married. You told me, an atheist, and Dave, a Catholic, in no uncertain terms, that mixed marriages don’t work.  I cried. I was angry and upset and felt strongly that you should have kept your views to yourself. Tonight you meet us both again. You can see we’re still married nearly 50 years later. You were wrong and we were right. I wanted you to see that. I think an apology is in order.’ 

I screw up the card, and drop it to the floor. I'll use it on the fire in the morning. 

With thanks to Dolly, John, Joan, Michael, Miriam and JBJ for being such great company. And to Father X for making up the numbers.

The Guest List by Jill Reidy

Who should I invite 

On this so special night 

I could do with a really good mix 

Intelligent chat

But not too much of that 

It’s more about getting my kicks 

John, Dolly and Joan 

As a trio unknown

Michael was fantasy spouse 

And old JBJ

Well what can I say

That hair, those eyes, that mouth 

Then Miriam M

Mad hair, what a gem  

And no chance of being a bore

She’ll entertain us

With a joke and a cuss

And her belching and farting galore.

The elderly priest, 

A reminder at least 

Of the bigoted views from that day

Once so mean and unkind

He’d be trapped as we dined 

Would I voice what I wanted to say?

Thanks for reading...... Jill

Disclaimer: Just one part of this is true - guess which? 

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Sauce - Keep It in the Fridge

 

Most of the door compartments of my tall larder fridge are taken up with sauces. Apparently, everything needs refrigerating when it has been opened and must be used within six weeks or sometimes only four weeks. We often go beyond that, with our general rule of ‘no fur, its fine’ unless it is obviously curdled or changed colour. Mint sauce, full of sugar and vinegar, in a jar with a two year ‘best before’ or ‘use by’ date, would surely not just ‘go off’ if left in the fridge for seven weeks instead of six? If you don’t hear from me for a while, I might have poisoned myself. Joking apart, nothing hangs around for too long, except the seafood sauce that I bought too much of one Christmas. I’d over-estimated the prawn cocktails, again. The name ‘Seafood Sauce', when did that happen? I searched the shelves in our massive, well-stocked Tesco looking for Thousand Island Dressing, in vain, on a rare physical food shop for last minute Christmas stuff.  Seafood Sauce would have to do. Anyway, I’m melon, not prawn cocktail, it is for dinner guests. Someone suggested mixing mayonnaise and tomato ketchup. I haven’t tried it.

Like lots of people, I was brought up in a family which had two sauces, red and brown. My dad loved tomato ketchup and plastered everything with it. He would have swamped his Sunday dinner if he could have got away with it. My mum liked H.P, Brown Sauce, or mustard, but mustard was a powder that needed mixing and that was a lot of faffing for one sausage butty. I was with dad on the ketchup, but only a small amount on the side of my plate and when it was gone, that was it. The glass bottle took ages to pour and my dad would push a knife in to get it going. Those were the days.

I blame Mrs Bridges, the cook from Upstairs, Downstairs, for my desire to make homemade sauces. I’m not a domestic goddess, I’m more for feeding a family or just the two of us these days, by affordable, practical means and I haven’t got a kitchen maid to help either. I love my own cheese sauce, perfect for cauliflower, broccoli or both, but my favourite is seasoned onions and mushrooms in cream with steak or pork. It is from a recipe for Boeuf Stroganoff but seems to work well,

Amongst the fridge door contents is the irreplaceable Heinz Tomato Ketchup, no other will do, and the H.P. Sauce. They were kept in a cupboard when I was a child. I keep Soy sauce and Worcester sauce in a dark cupboard with the vinegar, salt and pepper. I hope they are alright.

Here is Lake District, from Sir John Betjeman,

I pass the cruet and I see the lake
Running with light, beyond the garden pine,
That lake whose waters make me dream her mine.
Up to the top board mounting for my sake,
For me she breathes, for me each soft intake,
For me the plunge, the lake and limbs combine.

I pledge her in non-alcoholic wine
And give the H.P. Sauce another shake.

Sprint of Grasmere, bells of Ambleside,
Sing you and ring you, water bells for me;
You water-colour waterfalls may froth.
Long hiking holidays will yet provide
Long stony lanes and back at six for tea
And Heinz’s ketchup on the tablecloth.

John Betjeman  (1906 – 1984)

Thanks for reading. Stay safe and keep well, Pam x

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The Sweets on Grandma's Sideboard

Sideboard - it’s a funny old word, isn’t it? Hardly used these days.  Apparently, the definition of a sideboard is 'a flat-topped piece of furniture with cupboards and drawers, used for storing crockery, glasses, and table linen.'  Do people still have sideboards?  Or are they just cupboards with drawers these days? I wouldn’t know. I’m not well up with the world of modern furniture, and never have been.  

When I grew up in the fifties, sideboards were quite the thing.  I don’t think my parents or grandparents knew the true purpose of a sideboard.  We weren’t posh enough to have table linen - apart from the odd tablecloth, usually handed down from some Great Aunt, who had probably spent hours, under poor light, religiously embroidering the four corners, only for us kids to wipe our messy hands and faces across the delicate handiwork.  Most days we used raffia mats to protect the table. They were loosely woven and caught every last piece of spilt food. Squashed peas, grains of rice, custard, all nestled in the gaps - there was probably a whole meal in there somewhere. And, if not, some festering virus.

If I remember rightly, the sideboard in our house was a bit of a dumping ground. It did have a drawer with a miscellaneous collection of cutlery, and two more with random items such as sellotape, old birthday cards and pens that didn’t work.  But the top of the sideboard was the place where everything was abandoned.  Half eaten bars of chocolate, library books, crayons, odd dominoes, and any number of used cups and plates.  I don’t ever remember having a buffet spread out on the top, which, of course was the original purpose of the sideboard.  In those days a buffet was something you had at a wedding or a funeral and never in your own home. The nearest we came to it was a Jacob’s Join, but even that went straight to the table.

Christmas was the time the sideboard came into its own.  Each year we alternated between sets of grandparents, and I can remember the thrill at the first sight of the sideboard, laden with the sort of food any child of the ‘50s found magical: bowls of peanuts, tangerines and grapes, sweets in shiny wrappers, Liquorish Allsorts, Ritz crackers and, of course, the inevitable tin of Quality Street - which made secret eating a bit of a challenge: for most of my childhood the lid on the Quality Street was far too big for my little hands to open. 

Occasionally, I would go to stay with my maternal grandma, something I loved for three main  reasons: firstly, I got spoilt rotten; secondly she used to take me to jumble sales; thirdly she lived by a railway line, and I loved to lie in bed, listening to the trains rumbling by. Getting spoilt rotten was categorised by one thing in my young eyes.  The bowl of toffees that usually lived on the sideboard - and lasted for weeks - was ceremoniously placed in my lap as I sat and watched TV.  At the time, my pocket money was one old penny every other day - for sweets after school (four blackjacks/fruit salads or a sherbet dab if anybody’s interested), so to have a full bowl of toffees at my disposal was like a dream come true to my greedy little mind. Grandma went out to the kitchen to wash up and granddad disappeared into his shed.  I was left alone with the sweets.  I didn’t give a thought to making them last.  One after the other, I gobbled them down, leaving just a bowl full of wrappers.  In a panic, I put the bowl back on the sideboard, sat back down, and, as the door opened, pretended to be asleep.

My last encounter with a sideboard was about thirty five years ago, when we hadn’t long moved into our new house.  This house was twice the size of the old house with large rooms and high ceilings.  Our furniture looked lost.  One day I was doing the rounds of second hand furniture shops when I spotted the perfect piece.  It was huge, with a giant mirror, three drawers, two doors and lots of fancy wood carving.  I loved it.  I can’t remember now how much it was but I do remember wondering whether we could stretch to it.  Before telling the husband I decided to rope in an antique dealer friend to tell me whether it was worth it - or if I was being ripped off.  Martin arrived and promptly took me to one side to hiss that this was the bargain of the century, worth twice the price and to snap it up.  I bought the sideboard, Martin transported it in his van for me, we presented a united front to the husband who stood in the doorway looking bemused (his default expression whenever anything new appears at the door) and we installed it in its last resting place. 

So you see, from that day on, I’ve been a grown up with a sideboard.  It’s been a buffet area for thirty years of Christmas dinners, laden with mince pies, crackers and cheese, Christmas pudding and trifle.  It’s been a makeshift baby changing station when the grandchildren were tiny.  It’s been a display shelf for family photos, and now, finally, I’ve come of age and it’s become a dumping ground for dead candles, the plastic novelties out of crackers, old till receipts and children’s pictures that I can’t bear to throw away.  I daren’t even open the drawers, although I do know, in there somewhere amongst the playing cards, Mastermind and Monopoly, is a beautifully embroidered table cloth passed down from Great Aunt somebody, just crying out to be used.

Grandma’s sideboard by Jill Reidy

Amongst the bowls of fruit 

and photos of children 

Frozen in time

Is a small dish

Full to the brim 

Shiny Golden wrappers

reflecting orange light 

From the two barred fire

They wink at me, those toffees

Grandma bustles in

Picks up the bowl

Places it in my lap

and bustles out again

I hear her humming in the kitchen

As I take each toffee

Unwrap its golden casing 

And pop it in my mouth

Greedily chew and swallow

The humming stops

Silently I reach across 

And replace the bowl

There's a kind of sadness now

About those wrappers

The insides don’t glow

As the outsides did

I feel a little queasy

The door opens

I close my eyes and pretend to sleep

Thanks for reading........Jill 

 

 

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Christmas..... I Remember..

I can still feel the excitement from Christmases more than sixty years ago when I was a child. I can taste the satsumas from the bowl on the table at my granny’s; hear the crackle of a Quality Street wrapper as the chocolate was revealed - and quickly consumed; smell the cigars distributed to the men by my grandad just once a year. 

As 1950s children we rarely had such feasts as the ones my granny set out on that polished wooden table: dishes full of chocolates and sweets; bowls piled high with oranges and tangerines, grapes and bananas; Turkish Delight in a thin wooden box, icing sugar snowing down on the table as we sneaked out a sweet jelly cube; nuts with a special nutcracker that you had to squeeze as hard as your little hands could manage, before passing it to dad or uncle to do the job properly. If they were very clever they could produce a nut, perfectly whole and unscathed. 

At home, we were never allowed to help ourselves to food, we always had to ask. Here, at granny’s on Christmas Day we were encouraged to dip into the bowls and fill our glasses with fizzy pop (something else that only appeared on special occasions).  It was always a magical day. My cousins had travelled, with my aunt and uncle, the eighty miles from Margate (another world to us kids) and were already at granny’s when we arrived. 

Each year Father Christmas appeared at the back window, heavily bearded and hooded, a big black sack over his shoulder. There was great excitement while one of the adults went outside to let him in. Although we had our suspicions, it took us a few years to actually admit to ourselves and each other that Santa was our dad dressed up for the part. After all, it was strange how dad was never in the room when Father Christmas came in. 

One year the man in red appeared as usual, and knocked on the window to be let in. Sure enough, dad had left the room only minutes before. We children grinned at each other. “It’s only dad,” said my older brother cockily, watching for my younger brother’s reaction. “It’s not!” insisted John, close to tears, while Geoff continued to nod his head and grin. 

Just then, Father Christmas made his entrance and we gathered round the sack. Presents were distributed, and, with a lot of ho ho ho-ing Santa turned to go - just as the door opened and in walked dad. It was sometime later that we discovered my mum had persuaded her brother to call round and act the part. Such was our shock that I think we all had a couple more years of believing after that. 

Each Christmas my brothers and I would ‘do a turn.’ One year I persuaded my little brother to don a headscarf, apron and women’s slippers and act out a monologue (which became a duologue) with me. He told me recently he still remembers the words. The next Christmas it was Charlie Drake’s, ‘I Lost My Mummy,’ with lots of fake crying from the youngest actor, and another year we all mimed to Bernard Cribbins’ ‘Hole in the Ground.’  My older brother’s turn invariably ended with a squirting cigar or something flying through the air at the audience.  I can hear the family’s laughter as clearly as if it were yesterday. 

Sadly, although there will inevitably still be laughter this Christmas, it is one tinged with sadness. It’s the first in sixty six years without my dad (AKA Spamhead), who passed away three weeks ago, and although I’ve not seen him every one of those Christmas Days he’s always been around before or afterwards to receive his presents and accept thanks for the ones bought for us by mum. Over the years we all came to realise that dad didn’t really like presents unless they consisted of food, or vouchers to be exchanged for something edible.  He loved an outing to M&S Food where he would drive mum mad by filling a trolley with Spam (hence his nickname), cheese, ox tongue, prawns and his favourite lobsters.  

I hadn’t got round to buying the voucher before he died, but I had bought extra warm socks for his bad circulation, and an apron to catch the food that always ended up on his jumper. I’m wearing the socks as I type, and my mum tells me he would never have worn the apron: he didn’t believe he spilled a thing. My eldest son tells me he will wear it with pride.

My dad was ninety two, he had a great life, right up to the end, and that makes me happy. He was a lovely dad, granddad and great granddad and he was the best Father Christmas ever. 

I usually write a poem on the week’s theme but today I’d like to pay homage to my lovely dad and post part of the eulogy I read out at his funeral. This was something I wrote for Father’s Day a few years ago, and amended just recently. I’d based it on looking through old photos, which seems even more poignant today. 

Dear Dad,

You are the slim young man with the thick wavy hair, caught forever in the 1940s, strolling with mum along the prom at Margate; you are the proud father of one, two and – whoops – three babies, reluctantly posing against the1950s décor; you are the stressed looking thirty-something, sprung to life in a fading Polaroid, with three grinning teens in ‘60s shades; you are the pale, gaunt figure, with empty eyes, in the grip of a deep depression – knife poised above the Silver Wedding cake; you are the handsome dad, smiling self-consciously at your sons’ weddings, beaming at the congregation as you walk me proudly down the aisle;  you are the relaxed and happy grey-haired man in 70s sweater, gazing fondly at the first of eight grandchildren; you are the proud husband at the end of the century, fifty years married, squinting as the sun makes a sudden break through the clouds, and your family laughs around you; you are the octogenarian magician, mesmerising great-grandchildren; you are the slightly stooping, white haired man, serenading mum on your Diamond Wedding Anniversary, as I wipe away tears; you are the grinning 90 year old, looking down adoringly as you and mum cradle the long awaited twins, nearly but not quite, the last of your nine great grandchildren……

You were my 92 year old dad. I loved you dearly and I always will.  Your favourite daughter, JK xxx

Thanks for reading,  Jill

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I Am the Queen of Excess

Where would you like me to start?  With the wardrobes full of clothes in every size, every colour, every style? With all the food I've eaten over the festive period?  Or with the piles of diet books and magazines I've accumulated over the years?

Although I aim for it, I'm not very good at the 'happy medium.'  In fact, I am the Queen of Excess.  Don’t ever offer me the box of chocolates with a casual, “ Would you like one?” 

I will smile at you and turn away virtuously, whilst a loud angry voice inside my head is yelling, “ONE?? ONE?? ONE’s no good to me! Go away, and leave me with them all.  Come back in the morning for the empty box!” I’m afraid it’s all or nothing.  And judging by the tightness of my jeans since Christmas it’s been an ‘All’ kind of season.

I don’t often do dinner parties these days, I’m too lazy, but when I did I would buy and cook enough food to feed at least twice the number of guests (even the greedy ones).  Now I’ll have informal suppers, but I’m not happy unless I’ve got back up food filling the fridge and freezer – and at least half a dozen bowls of snacks before we even start to eat a proper meal.   I've watched friends stagger down my front path at midnight, clutching their stomachs.  At least two have had accidents requiring A&E, although I suspect the liquid refreshment might have been to blame, and not the abundance of food.

For about the past thirty years I’ve cooked Christmas dinner (with a few reprieves).  This year we were having dinner cooked for us, which meant no festive entertaining other than a small gathering on Christmas Eve.   I heaved a great sigh of relief.  No frantic food shopping for me in the run up to Christmas, I thought smugly.  An unprecedented calm settled around me. I looked on sympathetically as people raced past me in town, clutching huge Iceland bags, their faces reflecting worry and exhaustion. I felt sorry for these poor saps, filling their fridges and cupboards (and ultimately their bellies) with all sorts of over indulgences.

That feeling of calm lasted until I found myself in Sainsburys at 8.30am a few days later, desperately hurling food into my trolley.  I knew then I was a lost cause.  Extra large packs of peanuts, huge jars of pickled onions, giant boxes of Quality Street, enough milk, cream and cheese to open a dairy, and for some reason, a family size packet of frozen chicken gougons and sate strips – what was that all about?  I didn’t come up for air.  Like a mad woman I barged my way past sweet old couples cooing over chocolate Snowmen for the great grandchildren, frazzled looking mothers trying to remove Christmas baubles and selection boxes from their over excited kids, and a single man carrying a basket containing a mini Christmas pudding for one, a single chicken breast and a small Toblerone.  I envied him but I did have to wonder at the sort of person who buys a SMALL Toblerone. 

You see, that’s not my style.  If you’re buying one, go straight for large; if you’re buying two then you might as well have half a dozen.  If it’s a BOGOF that’s even better.  I’ve only recently realized that my obsession with buying things in even numbers is just that – an obsession.  I don’t know when it started but I do know I feel very uneasy if I just buy one and not a pair.  I have been known to leave my shopping on the conveyor belt and hurtle back down the aisles to collect another jar of beetroot to accompany its partner by the till.

Pondering on this blog earlier today, I began planning meals for the coming week, opening cupboards and peering in the fridges and freezers (note the plural – more excess, I am ashamed to say: two fridges, three freezers).  It dawned on me that we could probably survive, in the event of a nuclear explosion, for at least a few months without shopping, feeding ourselves on meals that would continue to be healthy and nourishing but no doubt become more and more bizarre as time went on.

Now, please excuse me while I count how many pairs of black jeans I possess.  Don't wait up for me, I could be some time. 

A Greedy Person's Haiku 

by Jill Reidy

Just one chocolate

Eat it slowly, savour taste

Sorry, no way, mate!

Thanks for reading      Jill 

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Here's a triolet I made earlier

My first attempt at baking was a disaster. Aged 22, I was making pastry for some pie or other and the pastry just would not form into a ball so that I could roll it out. Cue tears, nigh on hysterics, as time and again the separate crumbs wilfully refused to play ball, literally. I had no-one to tell me, show me how make pastry. (Advice from older self – pull yourself together and rub in a bit more butter or add a bit more water.)

My poor Mum, cook and baker extraordinaire, exhausted by full time work and four kids, never had the time or patience, bless her, to show us the ropes. She was too preoccupied with heaving meals onto the table for the six of us with monotonous regularity to assume the role of a saintly Jamie Oliver on top of everything else.

A few years later, I was churning out the pies, cakes, curries, stews like a good ‘un. This was because I was now experienced. I had tried and failed, then tried again. I had met with triumph and disaster and had treated those two imposters both the same. My love of food knew no bounds and I would have a go at anything, over and over again until I got it right.

 I love everything about food – browsing in food shops, buying it, finding out for myself what goes with what, reading about it, getting bargains, turning disparate ingredients into something delicious – and, of course, eating it.

 Here’s a triolet I made earlier:

Balanced Baking

 

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour

For a perfect Victoria sponge.

All must weigh the same, same power.

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour

Whisk and fold and blend and now you

Mix with love to a sloppy gunge.

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour

For a perfect Victoria sponge

 

I think I was a pretty poor mother at the start, too! I was terrified by these beautiful little scraps of humanity, cast upon the ocean of life with me to protect them. I felt inept and ill-equipped to deal with something so momentous. I can remember pleading with my 4 month old (!) son, after I had fed, winded and changed him and still he was shrieking implacably, ‘Please tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do whatever you want.’  (Advice from older self – pull yourself together and take him for a walk.) My Mum was a tremendous help – these were her GRANDCHILDREN. Do not underestimate the power of that statement! In the intervening years, I hope I learned through experience, to be a good Mum myself, from very shaky beginnings. Again, I learned through all the mistakes, the ups and downs, the highs and lows that contribute to experience.

 Then it came my turn to be a Gran and what a revelation that has been. Somehow, I just knew instinctively what to do with them, all the old self-doubt evaporated and I had confidence from the outset with all three of them.

I am down with the kids, oh yes - I can sing JLS and One Direction's (appalling) songs with the best of them! Amelie thinks I’m cool because I write stories, drive a car and make the best broccoli. (????) Harris thinks I’m hilarious because I make him do Glad All Over, with all the gestures and because I pinion his little arms to the floor whilst bellowing ‘Ah One-ay, Ah Two-ay, Ah Three-ay’ like an old-style wrestling referee. Yes, I know it sounds like child abuse, but he chuckles uncontrollably.  Evie likes singing, reading and saying nursery rhymes with me - and loves doing Asda with me. And I have loved every minute of these special new relationships.  

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