A birthday experience

When I was a child I could never understand why adults "didn't bother" with celebrating birthdays. As I have got older, I still don't understand it. Today was my birthday and it was a quiet affair, but this evening was joyous. I got to go berry picking.

Now I picked bush berries as a child. We went brambling at our caravan on the N. Yorkshire moors, and dad had gooseberry, blackcurrant and raspberry bushes. He also planted redcurrant, which are a real pain to pick. So, I know how to pick berries, but as a child, it was a little bit under duress; I would have preferred curling up with a book or playing with friends.

This evening, I picked blueberries, which until recently were only in my memory box marked "Canada". My great aunt, who emigrated there before WW1 was making blueberry pies for 70 years. I still remember being knocked over by how different they were to the berries of my Yorkshire childhood. They definitely like a warmer, drier climate than could be provided in soggy Yorkshire!

Our neighbour grows organic berries. He has about 2000 bushes and he and his wife tackle them all themselves. But this evening a neighbour invited me and about a dozen others to pick for lunches over the next couple of weeks. It was wondrous.

It is such a privilege to live in this valley amongst friendly neighbours and delicious items for pies!

Salad days and sweet clover

Our lawn is cut once a month by a man with a ride on mower. I love the short back and sides grass cut, but in the summer I also love the shaggy mullet of wild flowers which appear a few weeks later. In summer, we lie in bed at dusk and hear the grass and the weeds growing.

This year, as well as the regular wide leaf flowers like Queen Anne lace, hawksbeard and lesser hawkbit, and their bobbing cousins daisies and buttercups, we have clover, the white and the purple varieties.

As a child, I remember plucking each tiny petal of the clover and chewing the base for the sweet nectar it gave up. A milligram here, a milligram there. It was supposed to have magical qualities, and I dreamed that it would turn me into a princess. Dad kept a lawn worthy of a bowling green; his tiny daughter eating the clover which occasionally deigned to appear was not discouraged!

This lunchtime I threw together a quick salad and had to smile at the 1960s simplicity of the ingredients; lettuce, radish, tomatoes and cucumber - an assemblage which my dear uncle would only eat if it was smothered in Heinz salad cream. I recently found a bottle of this iniquitous dressing in a local supermarket and bought it purely for nostalgic reasons. It turned out to be half decent and I have found myself occasionally wanting to drown cold boiled eggs in it.

The memories are very healing for me. I miss my dad every day, and mum is so far away, physically and mentally that I feel I have lost her too. But there are so many wonderful memories jogging around I'm so very thankful and realise how blessed I have been. Thanks dad for letting me eat the lawn and mum for making simple salads. They made me who I am today.

Meatballs and reindeer

The weekend started with a mammoth meatball making session (from lamb, not mammoth). I made them for us and an elderly lady we know. This morning we headed to a local market which was also Pouch Central. I personally had conversations with a Beagle, a Toy poodle and a Rhodesian ridgeback. We picked up all manner of goodies, including a beautiful copy of Claudia Roden's Arabesque cook book, a Russian long handled kasha spoon, basil and rosemary for my herb box and a lavender plant. This is the beginning of my AirBee and Bee project; luxury food and accommodation for the honey making friends.

The market sells local produce, baking, soap makers and hosts various crafters including Mrs Teapot Cover maker

And Mr Flat Pack Reindeer maker, who assured us that Rudolph and crew would only take up a small part of the garage once dis-assembled!

What we didn't tell him was our frightening lack of ability to use screwdrivers, flattening instructions, or read Swedish.

So back to the meatballs. I'm off to attempt some cranberry sauce to bring back happy memories of IKEA, which I had to go all the way to Israel to visit recently.