The kindness of strangers

I once believed November was the down time of the year, with its dismal, gloomy weather. The Christian month during which one remember the dead. But then it got personal, people around me fell ill, died. Too many anniversaries and now I realise that Feb/March isn't so good either. Last year I broke my ankle, a family death the year before and the other day I discovered that humans really should not attempt low-level flying over tarmac, at least not without a safety net.
I was not alone, but still strangers stopped to offer help. A couple clutching a mobile wanting to phone for an ambulance; a chap who jumped from his car with blankets to ward off shock; a young man who rushed home and returned with a bottle of water and the offer of shelter in his porch until the ambulance arrived; an off duty paramedic who flagged down a passing ambulance (my apologies to whoever was left waiting...)
I felt an idiot (well, you do don't you? causing all this bother), but also warmed that strangers should care. My thanks to them all.
They encircled me, watching but not staring. Without anything being said, taking turns to look out, around, as though checking (for the ambulance, no doubt). The youngster crouched down, talking just enough to make sure I was okay, conscious.
Thinking later, I wondered if this was part of an instinctive behavioural pattern, why we survived as a people in the dark times.
No-one rushed off to be somewhere else until I and my other half were whisked off to the experts in A + E for several hours before being discharged and guided in to a friend's car, clutching the obligatory leaflet listing all the bad things to watch out for over the next few days.
No bones broken, although sporting a scary fang (a cap broke off a front tooth) and the promise of some ostentatious bruising.
Ah well, soon be spring!
(Note to self - must check pond for frogspawn).

Unexpected cake

I really should know better than to tweak untried recipes, especially unusual ones that have been greeted with some scepticism. I am interested in ways to deal with food intolerances and found a recipe for Dulce de Leche which did not take hours to make and was dairy-free. It said to use coconut milk (I used hazelnut as I had some) and raw cane sugar (I had light muscavado). I did have the vegetable margarine.
So now I needed to find a use for this sweet, milk-and-fat liquid.
Fortunatly there is a forgiving recipe in my notes that I use for a yummy Almond slice (with marzipan) so I adapted that, adding chopped, lightly roasted hazelnuts and just over half the well-mixed liquid. When baked, it was iced and decorated with some of the remaining hazels, caramelized. It was cut so there was some for samples and a (small) piece for us to taste. It was soft, delicate in flavour and I hoped there would be some left unsold, to bring home - alas, it all went, hence no photo. There is some liquid left in the fridge....
At this time of year, there is always something left to bring home from the market, an unexpected treat. This week there was Choc-Orange Marble Slice -

 

a packet of double choc-chip cookies and two Balsamic Onion + Goat's Cheese Tarts. Last week there was a Lemon Cake, with homemade lemon cheese (yes, I know there is some debate about it being curd, but when I was growing up lemon cheese was what your Mum made at home and lemon curd was some gloopy stuff that stuck to your teeth and was bought in a shop),

 

and some Butterflies, that elegant, old-fashioned precursor to the cup cake.

 

 These were well received as even a one egg mix will make six or eight little cakes (depending on the weight of the egg and yes, weighed in the shell), too many unless friends are coming round for coffee. Making them brings back memories of Sunday mornings, basketwork patterns on my knees from kneeling up at the kitchen table, beating fat and sugar until almost white.
Perhaps next week there will be some Coffee Walnut slice left, after all, it is half term and who knows how many customers there will be......

Snowflakes on a spider's web

Today it is Lenten ashes and grey snow falling with rain, tiny flakes clinging to a fragile web drifting in the air. The yearly treat of crispy pancakes sprinkled with sugar and dripping with lemon juice a fading memory from a shriven Tuesday.
Yesterday, the sun peeped out through the mist, birds flitted from tree to branch, clouds of yellow crocus glowed under the copper beech, a seagull cried overhead and I looked up and......saw a heron!
Yes, definitly a heron. Honest. It was opening and closing its beak and everything.
Nature is a wonderful thing and I have learned lately that if we stand any chance of understanding it at all, it must be studied at the molecular level.
Watching a programme last week, I gathered that the most exciting place to be is on the edge of a proton waterfall. (I think this is the place from which genius leaps towards Nobel prizes.) And the most surprising thing about GPS is that it registers an increase of electons in the high atmosphere, just before an earthquake.
So perhaps technology ia also a thing of wonder.
And the heron? Are they supposed to sound like gulls? I have no idea. Perhaps this one had just been spending too much time down on the beach, hanging around with the wrong crowd.

Winter sunshine

In a kitchen, the seasons all have their own smell.
Several years ago, when our passports were still young, we visited Cordoba in January. The streets were edged with orange trees, full of bitter fruit that grew big and bright and fell unnoticed to the pavement below. The inner cook wanted to search the luggage for bags in which to pack this disregarded bounty - the frozen traveller decided the snow was too thick.
Yes, it had snowed, for the first time in 60 years, apparently. Sunny oranges covered in soft white hats.

So making sweet/bitter marmalade while it is snowing outside seems appropriate, somehow. The smell of snow mixing with that unmistakable tang of cooking Sevilles  evokes memories. And at the end, a shelf full of orange jars topped with white lids. 

Beginnings are chancy, full of hope, expectation, fear and dread.
Re-starting can be just as iffy.
The first market of the year poses questions such as what to bake? Will our regulars remember that this is re-start week? And how much should I bake? What will the other producers bring? New year, new ideas, new products? Or same old reliables, only less? Should I share my indecision or just muddle along in ignorance?
Eventually, after counting the eggs, I decide to make only what I am happy to bring home.
So I bake, getting back in to the rhythm after only limited baking over the Christmas break. Then I pack, adjusting bags and card with lots of sticky tape. (Note to self - must buy correct sizes this week!) Pinny, herbal teabag, red and blue pen.
Car has decided it is too old to go out in the dark, so may not start, but there are friends and a back-up plan.
I hope the alarm works.
Next morning, it snows. Beautiful fluffy flakes of white devastation. Some customers brave the weather but for others the temptation to stay indoors is overwhelming. Disappointment and lots of goodies go home, but it is only the first of the year - first market, first disappointment but also first hope - that it will get better. It will, promise?