I love Saturdays and it has been a great one - I will come to the rather sickly section all in good time.
We had a late breakfast - well late for us - and headed out to Stewarts Garden Centre. We stopped on the way at the seaside and had lunch - an ice cream ... which was to prove one of the healthier things we ate today... and bought some new clothes - yes WE .... even Nigel succumbed to the bargain.
We bought a few new shrubs for the garden to fill spaces left by things we had killed last year. OK so we are NOT gardeners. Not much seems to grow in our soil but heathers, azaleas, rhododendrons and Pieris and so we bough four different varieties of pieris to kill - I mean to plant.
Actually, I have to say the garden looks good at the moment. The weather conditions must have been just perfect as we have a terrific show of azaleas this year - beautifully vibrant and each of the dozen or so plants we have are absolutely covered with blooms. They all bloom at slightly different times too so the ones that have just about finished are replaced by the ones just about coming out. It means the show lasts for a good 6 weeks if not longer.
Anyway - plants bought we stopped off to get Nigel new shoes and me a new handbag and beach wear for holiday and then came home to plant said plants.
And then the sickly bit happened.
We had a stupid stupid stupid idea of baking cupcakes for our Jubilee Street Party. I could see them in my mind - perfectly formed cupcakes in red white and blue cases, frosted to perfection, little flags stuck on them presented so beautifully for the rest of the street to admire. It was a very Nigella - or actually Kirsty - moment.
I KNEW they would be perfect but figured it was only sensible to have a dummy run first to check they were going to be as perfect as I believed.
Heck who was I kidding. I hate baking, I am no good at baking, I didn't even have a recipe I had to ask friends.
So Nij did some shopping - no we didn't have any store cupboard ingredients. I don't have a store cupboard - well not with anything that is still within sell by date. I have a fridge, which we eat empty each week, stocked with fruits and veg and salad and stuff. I have a freezer stocked with mostly stuff Nigel eats, I have a condiments cupboard that is amazing and some of the things get used. And then I have three cupboards full of .... um porridge (eaten daily) granola bars, crispbreads, tinned stuff I thought might be a good idea, left over oddments from previously thwarted baking efforts that need throwing out and nothing much else of any use. Oh and three cupboards full of all the gadgets that I thought would turn me into a domestic goddess.
The thing is I am not a good cook. I am not a bad cook. I can cook everyday meals and I do a mean Christmas dinner, but I don't like cooking. No - change that. I HATE cooking. I really don't find anything enjoyable in it at all. And I think when you don't like it you are not good at it. There is no love in it and I think something like cooking has to have love.
Anyway, armed with recipe from my padder friends I set about making a mess ... I mean making cakes. Now in the olden days, back when I was young, we didn't have cupcakes. We had fairy cakes and these were going to be fairy cakes as they were small. I didn't have a muffin tray or anything. I had little patti tins and little paper cases. So small was the order of the day.
I figured I would halve the recipe as I only wanted to make a test batch and six would be fine. So I carefully measure half the dry ingredients, half the butter and then put the full amount of eggs in! See - that's why I don't cook.
So I added the same again of everything figuring now we would have 12.
They were actually very very light and tasted lovely. We over-indulged, however, on the raw mixture. OK I KNOW you shouldn't eat it. Something about raw eggs and salmonella etc. But we never bake and we were like two five year olds with Mommy's baking bowl. YUM.
However, as adults with no-one there to stop you it is possible to over indulge. Especially if there are not enough cake cases for mixture and you hate waste! You can see where the sickly is heading can't you.
They looked small but OK when they came out. Mind you the empty case shows the one we ate when it was still warm! We really ought NOT to be allowed in the kitchen unsupervised by a responsible adult.
Then we made the frosting and realised we didn't really have a piping bag. We did have a very very old (older than me as it was Mommy's) piping set - the metal syringe and plunger type. We boiled it to ensure it was OK and then realised the only tip that fitted was tiny. So very very very small piped frosting ensued and then I gave up and Nigel piped and I made 'snow effect' topping. And then we ate what was left and then - well, if anyone asks me to eat a cupcake int he near future they may get a different reaction than they bargain for.
So - no cupcakes for the street party. I'll buy more wine instead. Far more sensible and far less likely to make us feel ill. I can hold my drink .... it's the sugar I can't cope with.
So my picture of the day - the worst ugliest sickliest cupcakes in the world. ... now in the fridge as that is where I put anything vaguely edible and because I have no clue what to do with them as neither of us want to eat any more.
So, I am absolutely pants atbaking but I am OK at scrapping so I am planning to stick to what I can do OK with.
The page I have to share today is another with Dawn's new Cowboys and Indians kit.
When we did our Wild west tour we had one of those special moments. A moment you don't plan but that is just right. We never planned on staying at Cheyenne but we travelled further than we anticipated and so as Nigel thought it had a great sound of the old wild west we booked in there for the night. It was a Saturday night - with a great hotel and a fab meal - and we were up and out early on the Sunday. The town was deserted. We just didn't see any people. It was early on a Sunday and so they were all obviously resting after a night on the town line dancing or whatever. And we had it to ourselves. We were fascinated by the huge pained cowboy boots. This was long before London's elephants, Bournemouth's lions etc. and we had such fun finding them and taking daft pictures.
Today I am thankful for
- having other skills as baking clearly isn't one I possess
- Laughs together
- simple Saturdays
and my one minute devotional calendar
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I told my stepmother, Gloria. She’d called in the wee hours of the morning to tell me my father didn’t have much time left.
Dad had battled with emphysema and lung cancer for years, and he had told me a week earlier that he was ready for the pain to be over. Still, I wanted him to hold on long enough to know that I was with him at the end. I would have to hurry. Dad was nearly a thousand miles away, in Grand Island, Nebraska.
My husband, Max, and I hopped the first flight we could to Omaha. I prayed that I would make it to Dad in time. Dad, I’ll be there, I hope you know it.
As the plane landed, I checked my watch. 10:30. We hurried to the rental car and drove to the hospital.
When we stepped into Dad’s dim hospital room, Gloria explained the situation.
“He’s still in a coma,” she said. “The doctor says he could go at any moment.”
Max and Gloria left the room so I could talk to Dad alone. “I love you, Dad,” I said. “I’m very proud to be your daughter.” I was glad I got to say it, but I still wished Dad knew I had rushed to be by his side. I hugged him and prayed to God for a sign that Dad was aware of my presence.
But there was no sign, and he died soon after.
After the funeral, I asked Gloria if Dad had ever regained consciousness after entering the coma.
“Only for a moment,” she said. “He did something strange the morning you arrived. He sat up in bed and said, ‘The plane has landed. It’s time to go.’ I looked at my watch, just to see if I could make some sense out of it. It was 10:30. I still don’t know what he meant.” 10:30. Just when I landed. He knew I was there.


































