technical difficulties

For some reason, Blogger is not allowing me to post comments - on this blog or any other Blogger account. When I go to sign in, it just redirects  me to my 'anonymous' comment and the whole process starts over again. So I am not ignoring you! And if anyone knows how I can fix this, I'd be grateful for advice.

this moment: the s'more the merrier

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

inspired by amanda soule

recipe: blueberry herman pancakes

My grandparents had a little cabin in the North Woods of Minnesota. As a child, I did not realise how lucky I was to have the experience of spending long, lazy days on an unspoiled lake at the edge of an endless forest. It wasn't fancy. 'Having a shower' meant slinging your towel around your neck and descending the hill to the lake, where you'd hang your head over the edge of the dock, counting to ten before plunging it into the icy water. 'Using the facilities' meant picking your way through brambles to the little leaning-over outhouse, praying that you would niether collect splinters in your bumcheeks nor become the victim of a marauding bottom-biting spider.

But it was the stuff memories were made of: learning to play gin rummy, baking kolaczki with Grandma, canoeing out to the island and toasting s'mores on the campfire. And there was a special treat for a child growing up in the tropical heat of Florida - blueberry-picking. Those dusky, purplish marbles we plucked from scratchy bushes seemed so exotic to me. I savoured every berry, popping each one into my mouth and rolling it around on my tongue before squishing the juice out sharply between my teeth.

When I first came to England, blueberries were hard to find. But now, like most things, they are readily available in the supermarket (during the summer months, at least). I bought two punnets the other day. When the impatient children had given up on begging to eat them right away, I sneaked a round little berry into my mouth. Pop! Not quite as sweet and juicy as I remembered. But close.

Blueberry Herman Pancakes with Blueberry Syrup
The sour Herman starter, buttermilk or plain yoghurt balances the sweetness of the syrup and the sharpness of the blueberries.
makes about 16 4-inch pancakes

for the pancakes
2 C plain/all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp white sugar/honey/barley malt syrup/sweetener of your choice
1 C Herman starter (if you don't have any starter, you may substitute buttermilk or live yoghurt)
2/3 C vegetable oil
4 eggs
1 C milk
1 C blueberries

Sift the dry ingredients into a bowl. Mix the wet ingredients, including the Herman starter, in a large glass or ceramic bowl. Stir dry ingredients into the wet mixture, mixing well - don't worry if your batter is lumpy. The batter may be used right away, but it improves if left for at least half an hour and can be kept, covered, in the fridge for a couple of days.

Preheat your pan (I like to use a well-seasoned cast iron skillet) to a medium heat. You should not need to oil your pan because there is oil in the batter. Drop 1/3 of a cup of batter into the centre of the hot pan.  Right away, drop 6-10 blueberries into the batter in the pan. When the top of the pancake is full of little bubble holes, use a spatula to turn it over and cook on the other side for 30 seconds or so. Pour syrup over and eat immediately, or keep warm in the oven until all your pancakes are ready.

for the blueberry syrup
1/2 C blueberries
1C golden syrup (or maple syrup if you're feeling indulgent)
1/8 C water

Place the water and the berries into a small saucepan on a medium heat. Cook until the berries begin to break down. Reduce heat to lowest setting and add the syrup. Stir and keep warm until needed.

this moment: farewell babyhood

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

inspired by amanda soule

on the allotment

In England, most people's homes don't sit on enough land to support a large fruit and vegetable garden. As early as 1000 years ago, people were clearing and cultivating pieces of land held in common: these were the first allotments - land that is owned by the government, local authority or parish and is rented to individuals who wish to grow food upon it. In the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, allotments were provided for the landless poor who might otherwise die of starvation. Food shortages during the First and Second World Wars once again proved the importance of these parcels of earth - an estimated 1.3 million tonnes of food were produced on allotments during the 'Dig for Victory' campaign of WWII. Through the 1980s and '90s, high housing and land costs led to a decline in the number of plots available, and 'growing your own' fell out of fashion. However, recent concern about genetically modified produce, a desire to eat more organic, locally-produced food and a yearning for the simple life have all led to an upsurge in the provision and use of allotments.

We took on our first (and second!) allotment plots last March. Our two plots sit alongside each other at the bottom of the hill. We had a choice of plots throughout the field, but I chose these because they get little passing traffic; I didn't want to become famous in the village for my inability to build a bean wigwam or grow onions in straight lines! Back in wet, gray March, I had visions of the whole family, elbow-deep in soil, munching our way through various heritage varieties of fruit and veg that are normally too expensive for us to buy in the shops. I envisaged row upon row of Kilner jars, full of home-canned produce. Yes. Then I came to my senses and realised I would be happy to just produce something! Somethat that lived and that we could eat.

Well. Call it beginner's luck, but we haven't done too badly so far. We started with the leeks we inherited from the former allotmenteer. We've savoured the sweetest, juiciest, reddest strawberries; picked blackcurrants till our fingernails were permanently stained purple; pulled more radishes than one family could possibly eat; popped pod after pea pod in our mouths and freshened our breath with tickly fronds of fennel (or, as the girls call it, 'children's chewing gum'). In short, we done good.

Taking care of a patch of dirt has proved much harder work than I - who have only ever grown food in boxes, pots and bags on concrete patios - ever imagined. Digging through wet clay for ten inches' worth of dandelion root is not exactly fun. But this little rectangle of earth has also proved to be very good for the soul. I have spiked my anger and hurt into icy mud after a particularly unpleasant conversation. I have wondered at the tenacity of pigeons and spent weeks trying to outsmart the crows, who seemed to beat me to every ripening strawberry in the early days of June. I have observed a four-year-old struggle, heave and eventually conquer the weight and sloshingness of a full watering can. I have chuckled at the suprised delight on the face of my littlest as she pulled her first radish from the dirt. I have sighed, knowing childhood is dancing away before my very eyes, as I watched my eldest daughter carefully plant her own tiny seeds, tucking them into their earthy beds and whispering prayers for growth. I have loved my husband more fully, knowing that as he dug potatoes from the soil, he was recollecting a time when he followed at the heels of his grandfather, himself a potato farmer. I have swelled with the pride of a new mother as I've harvested peas, beans, chard and beets: I made you. I grew you.

Many months ago, I declared that my word of this year would be 'grow'. We are indeed growing so very much in this rectangle at the bottom of the field on a hill.

on a serious note: child marriage

Perhaps not a subject I would normally discuss in this space. But, having learned a little about it, I cannot not talk about it.

I know a woman who has spent many years of her life documenting child marriage, a practice which takes place in at least 50 countries around the world. Photojournalist Stephanie Sinclair, whose work is regularly published in National Geographic, Newsweek and Marie Claire, has now distilled eight years of her work into a film that - beautifully, hauntingly, frighteningly, shockingly - reveals the human face of this tradition.

I encourage you to watch the film (scroll down to find it at the end of this post). The images and words of young girls who have been given, traded and sold into marriage do not make for easy viewing. As a mother of three little girls myself, I was deeply moved.

As a result of her work on this issue (which she writes about here and discusses on the PBS Newshour here), Stephanie and her friend Susanne Kreig set up The Elsa, Sifirash & Friends Soap Cooperative.  This small-scale vocational training program is empowering young women to build safer, more stable lives for themselves and their children. If you feel moved to help, there is a donation facility via Paypal or Amazon Payments. You may also wish to share a link to Stephanie's film about child brides.

Theirs is a story that deserves to be heard.

this moment: summertime

A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week a couple of weeks ago. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

inspired by amanda soule