I’ve blogged about my lemon cake recipe before. It is one of my favourites. This time, I baked it as cupcakes, and I dressed it up a little. I added a cup of coconut (stirred in before the egg whites) and a dollop of red currant jam on top.
The coconut and lemon flavours go well together, and the tart jam on top adds colour and zing.
An excellent combination!
There’s nothing like springtime…
…to make you realise how filthy the windows are.
Not quite warm enough to have them open, but nice enough that you want to look outside more frequently than you did in winter.
Like most people, I don’t particularly enjoy washing windows. But as cleaning jobs go, it’s one of the most rewarding. Who notices if there’s a little extra cat hair on the rug? But look out the window, and the fingerprints, grime, and mould of winter are painfully obvious.
Unfortunately, springtime is such a busy time for me, I don’t always have time to clean the windows. I have to be strategic about it. My office windows are the first to be cleaned—I spend all day in there, and dirty windows are particularly irritating.
Next are the kitchen windows—I like to look out while washing dishes, but not if there are streaks of bird poo on the windows.
Then come the dining room windows—who wants to look through grime while eating dinner, especially now that it’s light enough to see something outside at dinnertime?
Bedrooms, living room, bathroom…they can all wait—I don’t spend much time in any of those rooms during the day, and I don’t notice dirty windows at night. Maybe someone else will wash them if I don’t.
I bought cream earlier this week, thinking I’d make pumpkin pie this weekend—you can’t possibly eat pumpkin pie without whipped cream, right?
But my husband wondered whether pumpkin pie would be even better with cinnamon ice cream, so he and my daughter used the cream to make cinnamon ice cream.
The ice cream is quite nice, and the pie is delicious.
But for my part, I still think plain old whipped cream is best.
Einstein before
Today was our first shearing of the goats. The boys were pretty shaggy, and having trouble seeing around the mops on their heads.
Our lovely shearer was very patient and gentle with them, and made a point of talking to them and calling them by name as he worked. Newton and Darwin submitted quietly, looking like a bag of wool with hooves as they lay on their backs. Einstein was more indignant—he bleated the whole time, as though he was being tortured.
Einstein after
Of course, once they were shorn, they didn’t recognise each other, so they had to re-establish their dominance hierarchy. Artemis, the remaining dairy goat (still herd queen, of course), was offended—she spent the afternoon nipping them all on the bottom.
I feel a little bad for the boys—it’s going to be a chilly night tonight—but they seemed relieved to be free of the weight of all that fur.
Now I have two big bags of mohair…I suppose it’s time to learn to spin.
A dozen things I should be doing
But I am at the piano instead.
Rodgers and Hammerstein,
Gary Portnoy,
Roger Post,
Scott Joplin,
Johann Straus…
Paths my fingers have travelled before,
New ones they do not know.
I sing along
Or not.
A key sticks.
It doesn’t matter.
In the notes,
In the silences
In rest and beat
Between bass and treble clefs
I find the centre once again.
Dissonance
Resolved
The last note
Carries me on.
We’re a week into spring, but winter wanted a farewell party, I suppose. The wind is howling and the rain falls sideways. Hail scatters like buckshot off the windows. The power has been out once already this evening, and we’re all expecting it to go off again.
But it’s September. We know this won’t last. We know that, no matter how cold the wind might blow, when the sun comes out tomorrow, it will be warm on our faces. We can, instead, enjoy the comforts of winter one last time—a blazing fire, a cup of tea, an excuse to do nothing but curl up with a book.
Farewell winter. See you next year.
As I head into spring, I always try to bear in mind my list of garden don’ts…
Today was the day—the day to finally crack open one of the parmesan cheeses from last October. Eleven months in the fridge, and they were every bit as disgusting as they always are. Covered in mould, in spite of my efforts to avoid it, and with a hard, dry rind.
And as usual, once the rind was cut off, the cheese underneath was the most divine, flavourful cheese ever.
My parmesan is drier than the standard commercial block, a bit less salty, and with twice the flavour punch. It takes at least ten months to reach full ripeness, but it’s worth the wait. We put commercial parmesan on pasta, in risotto, and in pesto. My parmesan, we also sneak onto our sandwiches for lunch, or onto crackers for an after school snack.
Of all the cheeses I’ve learned to make, it is one of the most rewarding for its sheer over-the-top gourmet decadence. I’d say we live like kings, but I wonder if even kings get cheese this good on a daily basis.
Definitely hygge
It was way too warm this evening to need a fire, but I lit one anyway. After two brutal days in the garden, I just wanted warmth and comfort.
Apparently, it’s very trendy. Just two days ago, they were discussing this very thing on National Radio—hygge—a Danish term (pronounced hooga) that means comfort, well-being, cosiness, and contentment all wrapped up in one word.
Taking care of yourself. Doing those things that bring happiness and comfort—a picnic on the beach, curling up with a good book and a cup of tea, enjoying a glass of wine with friends.
For me, curling up with a good book by the fire is hygge, and that’s what I’ll be doing this evening.
But hygge for me is also an evening stroll in the garden, after the day’s work is done. It’s half an hour at the piano. Lunch outdoors in the sun. Scones on Sunday morning. Milking in the dark at 5am under a sky full of stars. Morning coffee among the tassling corn in mid-summer.
What is hygge for you?
I’ve been making oven fries for 25 years, and the only thing I don’t like about them is that they stick to the pan, and it takes an overnight soak to clean it.
It’s because I’ve been doing it wrong.
I only learned this a few weeks ago. I was making fries for dinner, and had just slipped the tray into the oven when my daughter asked me to play a game of Bananagrams with her.
I can’t possibly turn down Bananagrams (we usually play two games every evening), and I had the time…
Half an hour and two games of Bananagrams later, I remembered my fries. Whoops! I usually stir them after about 15 minutes to ensure they bake properly and stick less.
I opened the oven to find a tray of perfectly baked fries.
They’ll stick badly, I thought.
Nope. They popped right off the tray—much easier than usual.
Well, you learn something new every day. Since then, I’ve made them several more times, “forgetting” to stir them, and tweaking the technique until I’ve got the best oven fries ever. Here it is…
Cut your potatoes into fries or wedges, however thick you’d like. Toss them generously with olive oil and salt on an oiled baking sheet (I use a jelly roll pan).
Bake on fan-assist at 210°C (400°F) for about 40 minutes, until the fries are nicely browned. Enjoy a glass of wine or a game while they bake—no need to do anything to them!
Robinne Weiss 