It's the little things.

Sometimes when I'm in bed at night, lost in my own thoughts, I ask myself, 'was today a good day?' I suppose any day where I don't get mauled by a bear or set fire to the kitchen is a good day. A better question would be, 'did I enjoy today?' After realising that something as small as a new episode of my favourite TV show can actually have we looking forward to a Monday, I came to the conclusion that it's important to find joy in the little things. Normally sentimental crap like that (usually found on the Internet, printed over a picture of a kitten eating an ice cream) make me roll my eyes, but I've found that there's no denying it. And while I would love to spend each day bungee jumping off the Eiffel Tower while sharing an ice cream with the afore mentioned kitten, that doesn't mean I shouldn't enjoy the other days. So whether it's the first warm day of the year or just getting to a toilet when you really need to pee (ahhhhh), enjoy it. Sometimes the happiest people aren't millionaires, but people who are merely content with their lot and enjoy their lives, and the days just spent sitting watching old films with a friend are the ones we'll miss the most when they can't be recaptured. Hell, the promise of a good meal can get me through a day.

Today I woke up a few hours too early and got to go back to sleep, bit into the seam of a Cadbury's Creme Egg, split it perfectly down the centre and scooped out the filling with my tongue, found a film on TV I hadn't seen for ages, ate gnocchi and pancetta for my tea, had a shower (and tipped the water out of my ears) before putting on clean PJs and climbing in between fresh sheets, with a nice toasty laptop on my knees and the promise of a good book. What a good day.

This is Halloween

Hope everyone had a great Halloween.




Chocolate cake, with marzipan decorations (except the fence, which is made of cocktail sticks painted with black food dye), took two days in total, but worth it.

 



Didn't deter the Trick or Treaters.




Only just remembered where I put all the cobwebs around the house.



Contestant #4: Bradley

Today's contestant I have named Bradley (he looked like a Bradley), and he was buying butter. Just butter. nothing else. No bread to go with his butter, no flour to make a cake with it. And it wasn't just a 'damn I'm out of butter, better nip out to the shops', this was four packs of butter. Just butter.

This lack of other purchases has left me rather stumped. What was the butter for? There were no clues, no hints, not even one of those free recipe cards that they give away at the supermarket. Never have I been so curious about fat? All I can tell you was that it was good butter. This cluelessness has led me to some rather wild speculation. Maybe he has a cat that had become stuck in the banisters, maybe he's part of a coffee morning and is responsible for the bagels (Bradley, you forgot the bagels), maybe he has developed an automobile that runs on butter, maybe he is allergic to everything but butter, maybe he is a butter sculptor, maybe he is planning some Home Alone -esque trap by buttering all his floors. who knows? But as Julia Child said, 'with enough butter, anything is good'. Except heart attacks...

Contestant #3: Jeremy

Today's contestant I named Jeremy. He looked like a Jeremy. He was dressed in his finest garb, sported a haircut that would probably pay for my grocery shopping for the whole year, and to top it all off wore the smug expression of a man who knows exactly why everyone else in the queue finds him annoying to look at, and has gone out of his way to achieve this.

If he wants to look like a prick for his own personal satisfaction that's fine by me, each to his own. But the shameless display of carefully arranging his purchases along the conveyor belt in a manner that allowed, nay forced, everyone else in the line to observe them (and made me feel far less sneaky and spy-like) was another thing altogether. Yes, we can see your organic vegetables, your baguette, your fancy pasta, your truffle oil, your sun-dried tomatoes, your bruschetta, your pate, and your Gü desserts. Yes, I am slightly jealous, you have nice food. Again, I have no problem with that, but take that superior look off your face. And don't you dare give my fried chicken and Monster Munch the stink eye.

M. Night Shyamalan should really do a film about this...

I can't believe I forgot this one, although to be fair, it's more of a 'notice', and therefore wasn't stored in the sign compartment of my brain. I came across this sign last summer. I laughed, and then I felt a little bit guilty.



Fredericksburg, TX, USA (2010)

I hope your surgery went a planned.

Also from the same trip...



Somewhere in Texas

Hmmm.

And yes, I know they are most definitely signs. However, I think my brain was concentrating more on this at the time, hence why the internal filing system didn't quite work:


 Happy Sign Spotting, folks.

Why does the kitchen smell of raccoon?

Despite being 20 years old, having the house to myself for the weekend is no less exciting than it was when I was 15. And despite the fact that I am too lazy to actually call my friends and get them round, having the house to myself is still a face-slapping, bed-jumping, stair-sledging good time.

I of course do all the ironing that my mother left me, but once those crazy antics are out of the way, then the real fun can begin. So here's a check list (nothing says fun like a check list) of the vital components for a weekend free of parental supervision, and friends, and a life.

1. Take away menus. Be it pizza, chinese, indian or a combination of the above, no weekend to yourself is complete without food that comes served in cardboard. The pizza boxes on Monday morning will also let the bin men know that this resident had a real crazy weekend. So that's your reputation on the line there too.

2. TV. With great take away comes great entertainment. Why eat by yourself when your friends from the lands of the small screen and the big screen can keep you company? Without chilli fried beef and Bruce Willis it's just not a Saturday night. Welcome to the party pal.

3. Revelling in the fact that now I'm 20 that constant feeling that I should probably start my homework before Monday, is nothing but a long distant memory.

4. Number 3 of course leaves plenty of time for YouTube.

5. YouTube tends to lead to the losing of all sense of time. Which leads to not realising that it's actually 3am. This of course would have been the whole point of a parent-free weekend when I was 15, but after one too many years of knocking back caffeine for too many days straight just to reach essay deadlines, I need my sleep. So this one is really a personal judgment call on sleep deprivation Vs number of brain cells left.

6. Doing things you can't do when your parents are at home. I may be 20, but my mum will still shout at me for jumping on the furniture. So cue sofa gymnastics and science experiments (mostly just setting fire to stuff if I'm honest).

7. Dancing round the house. Okay, I do this even when the house is full, but for some reason it's just more fun when you have an empty house as your stage. And as that audience in the mirror isn't going to mock you, you can also practise oscar speeches, etc.

8. You can also play single player games you probably haven't had the time for, what with all that ironing, such as Hot Lava, re-enacting your favourite movie scenes, and which is the highest step you can jump from.

9. Another game in which I regularly partake when home alone, is called 'scaring the bejesus out of myself'. That highly over active imagination from my childhood has certainly not been damaged by all those caffeine-fuelled sleepless nights, to the point where I did see a face at the window. I swear.

10. Of course if you are Macauley Culkin a visit from Joe Pesci is actually not paranoia. Which does however just lead to even more joyful shenanigans, and a nice taking at the box office. So there's a weekend well spent.

11. And finally, after all this tomfoolery, you get to play that final game of tidying up, getting dressed, and guiding that stray raccoon out of the kitchen before your parents get home.

Who needs to go clubbing on the weekends?

Contestant #1: Joyce

Having been relatively housebound for the last couple of months, venturing into the outside world is now a lot more interesting than it previously was. For example, last week I went food shopping and couldn't help but notice what everyone else was buying. This soon turned into a competition with myself to find the most interesting selection of items being purchased (it was a long queue and there wasn't a whole lot else to do).

Contestant number one I decided to call Joyce. She looked like a Joyce. She appeared to be in her late 60s, neatly dressed, with pristinely coiffed hair. She began to unload her shopping onto the conveyor belt one space in front of me, and it all looked relatively normal. As you would expect of many elderly people, Joyce was purchasing bran flakes, prunes and wholemeal bread. She also had a punnet of strawberries and a carton of cream, nothing unusual during Wimbledon. Just when I thought this game had failed before it had even begun, out came the vodka.

Good on you, Joyce.

For just £200, you too can pretend to have a good time.

With the first Facebook posts regarding festivals starting to crop up, it's that time of year again. No doubt tents will soon be being purchased, wellies packed, and showers missed. Teenagers and students up and down the country will be trying to figure out how much beer you can fit in a rucksack, and counting down the days til they can act like complete tools. And while the festival websites do make them look like bohemian, sun-bathed havens. They are in fact usually the opposite. Beware the lies of the festival websites.

Lie #1: You will get to lie in the grass, with a drink in hand, while the strains of an acoustic guitar waft in on the warm flower-scented breeze. 
FACT: There is no grass at a festival after the first 5 minutes. There will be no space to lie down. If you do manage to find a square foot of mud in which to plonk your arse, some drunkard will inevitably fall over you straight away. 
Top tip: Take a square of turf with you.

Lie #2: Sunshine.
FACT: There is no sunshine at a festival.
Top tip: Be albino.

Lie #3: Despite the sun, everyone is wearing wellies (because after you have taken this photo is will rain), but these happy revellers will still have the time of their lives in their cold cold wellies.
FACT: Despite wearing wellies you can still get wet feet. Rain + gravity = rain raining into your wellies.
Top tip: Become a hobbit.

Lie #4: You too can be stalker length away from your favourite band.
FACT: Unless you want to stand in the pit for 8 hours while being crushed by large smelly boys, Elvis himself could be on that stage and you wouldn't know, because he'll still just look like a tiny blurred dot.
Top tip: Take a photo of Pete Doherty with you.

Lie #5: There will be working porta-loos!
FACT: They will only be usable slightly longer that the grass, then they too will just become large mud pits.
Top tip: Don't take your bladder with you.

Lie #6: Everyone is happy and friendly, united by their love of music.
FACT: People will drink, people will get drunk, people will invade your private space, throw drinks on you, scream in your ear, and try to get a little too friendly.
Top tip: Avoid eye contact. 

Lie #7: Everyone looks like a model. So you should wear your latest pristine summer trend. Afterall, this is a festival, this is where all the cool kids hang. 
FACT: Mud wrestling; not always optional. 
Top tip: Remember, you're not Kate Moss. Stop kidding yourself.

Lie #8: Your hair will look, like, totally awesome. That boho chic, surfer thing you've got going on, will last the whole weekend.
FACT: You leave on the Thursday, You return on the Monday. You don't shower inbetween...
Top tip: Take a wig.

Lie #9: Everyone is dancing around having the time of their lives.
FACT: Unless you have a damn good head nod, you will not be dancing. You will be getting crushed. 
Top tip: Roll in dog poo. This should create a nice space around you, suitable for dancing, or building a hamlet.

Lie #10: You will sleep in a tent.
FACT: Okay, I slept in a tent, but that's probably because my friends and I were the only ones at the whole festival who set it up while sober. Every other tent was reduced to a pile of poles and canvas by the first night.
Top tip: Build an elaborate Swiss Family Robinson-style tree house. This can't be opened with a knife either!

Lie #11: There will be food for sale.
FACT: Okay, again, I was able to eat food, but that's because we were the only customers I saw at the nice Oxfam pizza place all weekend. Everyone else ate the £7 'burgers' because this didn't involve walking the extra 30 feet or so to the Oxfam tent.
Top tip: Take your plumpest friend. Inconspicuously season him/her on the journey there.

Lie #12: The campsite will have a friendly atmosphere, where you can sleep soundly and replenish your energy for the next day of dancing and merriment.
FACT: The campsite is a scary place. You will be robbed, stalked, and introduced to some rather unsavoury characters. And you will get no sleep, courtesy of music, air horns, and idiots with megaphones. You will freeze at night and boil in the morning. Try as you might to stay away from dips, hedges, toilets and the bit nearest the arena, you are doomed.
Top tip: Learn to apparate from the arena to your SOUNDPROOF tree house.

So, what have we learnt today?
Lie: Festivals will be the highlight of your youth.
FACT: They won't
Top tip: Don't go.

Feel free to call me a miserable cynic, but when I'm sat at home, on a comfy sofa, in my PJs, with free food, a roof, a warm bed and a way better view of your favourite band thanks to my TV, I may still be a cynic, but a happy one at that. And £200 richer than you.

Take one Kangaroo tail

Yes, this is a real instruction from a real recipe. A few days ago I was flicking through some old cook books and discovered 'Kangaroo Fritters'. Clearly written at the height of the British Empire and the Commonwealth, I imagine it would now be somewhat difficult to find such ingredients at the local supermarket. However, as is the nature of humans, we often take things too far. Having moved from such laborious meals, you can now find most food items in some variation of the 'instant' variety. While fans of organic, free-range, something-free, food are currently living in a (naturally coloured) golden age, the wealth of choice offered to today’s consumers allows the same shop to sell eggs with smiling chickens on the box and instant pancake mix (which probably doesn’t even contain eggs from sad chickens).

Don’t get me wrong, I consider microwave pizza one of mankind’s greatest achievements, I love Chinese take away, and believe that, in the UK at least, bread should be shop bought (bread machines are the Devil’s pungent work). But ham shaped like a bear, really? Food is so much more than fuel. While I will agree that smell is probably the most stimulatory of the senses when it comes to memories, taste isn’t far behind. Food is such an important part of our lives, my parents once vowed, were we ever to find ourselves in financial trouble, we would sacrifice almost everything, but good food.  

With my mother’s parents being one of six and seven children each, cooking for a large table has become a continued habit, despite there only being three of us two generations later. This has led to me being able to eat portions meant for an entire family, and as such I have always left restaurants and friend’s houses feeling like I’ve just been nibbling at the bread basket. No matter how often I am exposed to other people’s eating habits the thing that I still find most shocking is the lack of home cooked food. It with increasing frequency and increasing disappointment that I see people attending cake sales with shop bought cakes! This is nothing short of blasphemy in our house. A house where cook books have their own bookcase, and are read as bedtime reading, huge folders full of recipes and cuttings fight for space on the shelves, and the omission of a familiar seasoning from a much loved dish can be tasted straight away, and suitably condemned. While it is a joy to see people’s delight as they sample my mother’s desserts (they are her speciality), the look of surprise on their faces and their exclamations of amazement are almost sad. Home baking should not be such a rare treasure, except for Kangaroo Fritters perhaps.

I'd like to buy myself a Coke

I said that this would be a blog to house my day dreams, and all I can think about right now is Coca Cola. I am unable to drink my beloved Coke at the moment, and have discovered that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. Coke and I have a long and happy history together, from hot summer days, to late night revision, and every Christmas dinner in between. As far as the hallucination-inducing effects of sleep deprivation during exam time go, Coke was pretty much the only thing that kept me standing. Despite my love of wandering into Whittard’s just to smell the aroma of coffee beans, I am not a fan of coffee where my taste buds are concerned. In fact, I am not a fan of any hot drink really; even tea, much to the disgust of the rest of England. If the weather calls for it I can be partial to the odd hot Ribena. But I find that in general hot drinks just make me more thirsty, where as I was under the impression that a drink is supposed to quench one’s thirst. Enter Coke. Caffeine booster, refresher, taste bud pleaser, and friend to all.

This life long love affair with Coca Cola has never faltered, and every time I gaze upon that classic, never bettered, glass bottle design, I am swept off my feet. And I still believe that Coke from the bottle is far superior to Coke from a can. The whole Americana of the product is enough to make me swoon, a look and style that has influenced pop culture and become part of a heritage beginning in 1886. Sweets have been dubbed ‘cola-flavoured’, many shops have tried unsuccessfully to imitate its unique taste, and its Christmas advert signifies the start of the festive season. Some people will even claim that it was due to Coke's advertising campaigns that Santa is now depicted wearing that signature red suit, a myth which Coca Cola themselves deny, yet year after year jolly old St. Nick is often still plastered across billboards with a bottle in hand. One of the most universal brands in the world, that famous red and white logo is instantly recognisable, and found everywhere from the Amazon rainforest to Zimbabwe.

If you still doubt my devotion to this drink, I must inform you that I have in fact visited the Coca Cola shop in Las Vegas. In the form of a giant bottle, this shop is like a monument to the brand, rising out of the desert. Yet before you start to worry about what seems like a slightly startling obsession with a beverage, this was not a pilgrimage, merely a pleasant surprise discovered whilst visiting the town. Although I did buy a T shirt and a fridge magnet... But really, who doesn’t love this carbonated delight? So please forgive me if you ever find me face down and nose covered in Coke, Tony Montana style.  

We have water on tap

I love American food.

Regardless of the many wonders we have witnessed during each visit there, we will always have at least one travel anecdote regarding food. These include such tales as ‘The bottomless glass of Pepsi’ ‘The full rack of barbequed Everest’ ‘The tomato jar counter’ ‘The Canadian-hating burger’ ‘The generous gambling chicken’ ‘The fire alarm breakfast sandwich’ ‘The mountain top fries’ ‘The coma-inducing lemonade’ ‘The 42^nd Street pizza’ and ‘The desert pasta’, to name a few.

However, possibly my favourite beverage related story took place in a small deli in New York. My cousin was the last person at our table to order her drink, and when the waiter got round to her, she asked what they had. Big mistake. The waiter reeled off a list of drinks so long that it would have been quicker to go out, milk a cow, pick some strawberries, drive to Vermont and buy some freshly made Ben and Jerry’s, and make her a nice strawberry milkshake. She then proceeded to ask for water. He responded by asking which type of water she would prefer. Not a milkshake-worthy list, but still rather impressive. She asked for tap water. Yes, that’s right folks, tap water. Here we were, the land of the free refill, and she asks for tap water. I almost choked on my double colossal super-size cow sandwich. That very morning I had seen cheese in a spray can, but only now, as I stared at this sudden stranger sat opposite me, was I truly disgusted.