Are you sitting comfortably?

I'm going to tell you a story. It is the story of The Beds That Went Out in the Snow. It is not a picture story because I still cannot get pictures to work. This may well be the end of fraise, and it distresses me beyond measure. So here is the beginning of the end. It is actually the beginning of the end of the Land of the (sometimes tearful) Strawberries anyway, but that's The Moving Story, with which this tale connects. I think all good stories do...


Once upon a time there lived a grandmother whose grandchildren lived very far away in another land. Across two seas, and three borders, and many mountains. At that time there were three grandchildren, though now there are four.


Occasionally the parents of the children would journey back to the land of their birth and stay a while. Even more occasionally the children would stay there and perhaps go to school, because Other Things were happening in the far off land. The grandmother lived in a small house, so she had sturdy bunk beds brought for the two older girls, while Adam, the first-born son, slept on a little bed next to his grandmother. These beds carried the children safely and snugly through many seasons of their fledgling lives.


All children grow, however, and bump their heads on upper bunks that are suddenly much lower, and fight with the sister who was once such a close ally. Then of course Other Things led to a return homeward for everyone, and the houses of the families were now mere counties apart, instead of countries. Shiny new furniture soon replaced the worn pine bunks.


I think they stood there quite some time, those faithful bunks, not at all sure of what they could be without children, even transient ones. But they still glowed warm and hopeful.


Now it so happened that friends of this family were a wild and chaotic lot. They were small in number, and most of them were very small in stature. They made up for this, however, in noise and passion and fuss. High their principles may have been, but their ability to realise anything was limited indeed. The calm and experienced family had oft set a clear example to these floundering folk, and quietly stepped in when a question of new beds arose.


The bunk beds arrived one dark night in Strawberry Land. 'Twas the start of a riotous adventure.


In early times a canopy of blue and stars enfolded the high bunk, and under night skies at all hours of the day great conspiracies were hatched and empires forged. Later and below, dark dens of caves were formed from thick walls of quilt and at all hours of the day midnight feasts and ocean voyages and piles of books flowed far from adult eye.


All children grow, however, and bump their heads on upper bunks that are suddenly much lower, and fight with the brother who was once such a close ally. Then of course Other Things led to a looming move, and the brothers didn't want to share a room any longer.


They stood there quite some time, those faithful bunks, not at all sure of what they could be without children, even riotous ones. But they still glowed warm and hopeful.


Now it so happened that the Strawberries saw that someone was looking for bunk beds. Having ascertained that the calm and sadly separate family no longer had a use for them, the Berries offered them to a big family with four year old twins. The bunk beds left Strawberry Land in a fluster of snow and a billow of frost, and set forth once more into the dark night.


If one day you see them glowing warm and hopeful, with stickers of Lego men at head and foot, do smooth your hand along their worn pine sides and tell them we loved them!

Bienvenue au jardin potager

Years ago I worked for a few summers on colonies de vacances en France and there was a song that we sang at a Holiday Bible Club that went: "Bienvenue au jardin potager..." and I've forgotten the rest! Floss or other francophones/francophiles/francovivantes, do you know this chanson? I do remember loving it. We sang it in a little salle just outside Marseilles. Lovely!

Jo and I spent much time this afternoon tackling the raised bed out front. We were planting out some squash and lettuce that we were given, prompted by Mattman's impatience to get his sunflower seedling into the ground. We dug out nine fantastic potatoes- sown and harvested three years ago! We also put the leek seeds into the vacated tub on the kitchen window sill. Thank you, Nedboy!

Jardin potager would be more of my more aspirational lifestyle dreams- I am always intimidated by your allotments and plots and green fingers! My achievements amount to some strawberries, here pushing through in the front flowerbed, given to us last year and put there because the strawberry bed was full, at that stage.

They live next door to this wonderful beast, the name of which you will instantly know and I instantly forgot when it was originally given to me in The Very Prestigious School where once I worked. It's a pearl of rain catcher.

The apple tree has been covered in blossom this year, and I am desperately trying to keep it clear of footballs, rugby balls, frisbees, Nerf darts, space hoppers...

One end of the strawberry bed is looking as promising as ever, though the other is very sparse. Job #1 that I might actually do is to buy a few more plants to supplement. We usually get a fine strawberry harvest, but sometimes miss the best of it because it comes when we're on holiday. This year the flowers have come much later than usual so I am saving strawberry recipes in the hope that we will be here for the glut!

 Job #2 that I would really want actually to do is weed out the rhubarb bed. It has also always been very good to us, and I should reciprocate!

Job #3 is replenish the herb pots. The little bay tree finally gave up, and I miss it. The rosemary is looking very woody, and the thyme battles on!

All advice and encouragement will be most welcome!

Friday Cake Bake: Pumpkin Pie

Sorry, Nedboy et famille. I know we weren't very talkative tonight. I know we planted our children in with yours in front of a DVD. I know we planted ourselves in front of the wood burning stove in your front room. I suspect that I may even have dozed off at some point?

But thanks for the couscous. And the cheeses. And the fire! (And PC says thanks for the wine!)

I don't have...

I don't have photos of the single primrose shining yellow in the front garden because it's dark now, or one of the year 8 boy in Challenging School for Challenging Souls who said, "Thank you, Miss." when I said, "After you!" at the door.

Nor do I have photos of Jo air-surfing across the kitchen floor five minutes ago, or of Mattman apologising to me immediately after his swine 'flu jab because he screamed in my ear.

I don't have photos, thankfully, of Nedboy who is recovering well from 18 hours and 40 minutes of surgery on Tuesday, of the sound of suns practising piano, of the blessed relief of a snooze after the C School today while PC made dinner, or of the frustrated tone in Mattman's voice when he laments the inability of lands to live together in peace.

I only have one photo of my favourite mug. Because it makes me smile too!

In praise of stripes, sponge and Folly

So here are the stripes. I couldn't take a photo that didn't look dark and unimpressive. Not even of the reading chair that now sits at the heart of the home and where we all spend some portion of our day! We love the stripes.

Really couldn't say the same of tonight's first attempt to make a real sponge cake. Oh my. We had even invited very good friends for tea and the cake. Flat as omelettes and tasted as eggy. Cranks cookbook said to use 4 eggs and vanilla essence and only one ounce each of sugar and flour. Can this be right? I didn't think my whisking was effective though. Salvaged by making mini sandwiches with cream inside and jam on top. Politely eaten. Comestible as Nedboy would say!

Took refuge in Erasmus. Only because Prince Charming has driven down into the slow marshes of academia for his latest Local Preachers unit. "Have you heard of Erasmus of Rotterdam, Mags?" he foolishly asked from the reading chair last night. I am still living with the consequences of my proud and patronising response!

Julie and Julia

Nedboy confesses himself most "chuffed" at all the wonderful comments, and he promises to make further guest appearances. Me, I haven't dared raise my head since! Instead I have been discovering, light years after the rest of the bloggiste community, the joys of Meryl Streep and Julia Child and the wonderful Julie who makes me weep and laugh and smile at her romantic relationship with her husband!

And the food! And the feel of Paris! And the blogging! I'm loving it in small doses as I curl under a blanket at lunchtime, just before walking down the increasingly leaf-wet hill for Jo. It's a nice way to end September!

Friday Cake Bake from Nedboy, the Guest Blog writer

It was Friday afternoon and off home a bit earlier than usual...to find Magsmcc, Prince Charming and 2 Suns just arrived at the house. So the weekend began early.

For the first day in weeks, it seems, it wasn't raining. "Who wants to pick the plums?" Rather late in the season, we set to shaking a tree full of ripe and over ripe plums. "Aaagh, I got hit with a plum!" cried a small voice, as the small purple fruits rained to the ground.

When enough good fruit was gathered, washed and cleaned, we threw them in a bowl with some sugar an a shot of 'eau de vie'. Something to soak some sweetness into the otherwise sour fruit.

No time tonight to make jam, but improvised a French recipe for Clafoutis *, usually for cherries or apricots.

The tree was planted by my grandparents before I was born. The fruit was used every autumn by my grandmother to make jam. It was the first and only jam I tasted that had stones and skins in. A natural product, but inconvenient obstacles. Eat with care, or lose a tooth.

Perhaps that's a bit like all we get from our family: The choice of a tree planted half a century ago, isn't necessarilly my favourite fruit. They might not be as sweet or plump as shop bought plums. But they are a gift. There for the picking. To take or leave. A time limited offer: It's now or in a year. As much or as little as I choose. Jam, pie, sauce or whatever. A gift challenges our creativity.

And if I want some different fruit, its up to me to plant something different. It will take some ground, a lot of patience and care, to benefit me and whoever follows - and if all goes well, for every Autumn to follow.

So thanks to Magsmcc and team for calling today, and allowing us to share in who we are and what we have received. To describe it as a Eucharist of plums would overstate the case. But there was today a fellowship in the harvest, a thought of gratitude towards the faithful departed, and a hope for the rising generation...Someday we may share at one table, at the bridal feast of the Lamb.

If it's to last all Eternity, at some point, we're sure to have plums on the menu?

Clafoutis *,
http://www.marmiton.org/Recettes/Recettes-Incontournables-Detail_clafoutis_r_45.aspx