Cottage Pie

Posted on September 10, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes


I wanted some variation with my usual shepherds pie but it had to be similar enough that no-one noticed.   They actually did notice but they also loved this variation that I produced.


Ingredients
Olive Oil
Onions
Beef mince
Brown Sauce – I had HP in the cupboard
Carrots diced finely
Frozen Peas
Tomato Sauce
Potatoes mashed – I had half a yam left so added this in which sweetened the mash.  
Butter and Milk
Cheese –  cheddar grated

Heat the oil




Add the onions and fry gently, removing when soft and beginning to caramelise.  Line the serving dish.









In the same pan, fry the meat till it is browned all over, then add a good dollop of brown sauce, Mix well then add to the onions.






Without cleaning the pan,  drain it if there is excessive fat;  add the carrots to begin cooking after a few minutes add the frozen peas and mix well.     Add another good dollop but this time of tomato sauce  and mix well.






Layer this above the onion and meat.   If it has become very dry add a few millimetres of boiled water to keep it moist whilst cooking.







While all this is going on have the potatoes on and boiling so they can be mashed with butter and milk.  You will have your own method of making the perfect mash for your family.   Layer this on top of the carrot and pea mix.




Sprinkle liberally with cheese and put in a high pre-heated oven for about 25 minutes until the mixture is clearly bubbling and the cheese on top is turning a golden brown.




Serve piping hot with a salad or further bright coloured vegetables.   

This is a great pre-prepared dish that can sit ready and waiting till you are ready to cook when you get in from the school run or work.  It works very well for a cosy supper dish with relaxed friends that can be organised before they arrive and then cooked when needed.

Spice it up by swapping the brown sauce for Worcestershire Sauce or add a chopped chilli to the meat.

let me know what you try and enjoy.


Tiggy
Find out what I am up to in my other blog  Dawn Chorus



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Pin-less and Portable

Posted on September 9, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

Sitting looking around a now all too familiar coffee shop; waiting.    Not as you might imagine for a coffee to arrive, I already have that by my side.   I am waiting for No 1 Son to come out of theatre and back to the ward where I may visit him.

This we hope is the final chapter in a long running saga or at least it seems so to him.

It was just over two years ago reaching the end of a particularly successful rugby season for him having come back from injury once before; he had begun to regain confidence and fitness and was playing incredibly intuitive rugby.    He was warming up for a game when he felt a twinge in his hip but being a boy besotted by his sport he carried on; not telling anyone.

The hip continued giving him pain throughout the game and finally he admitted he was suffering later that afternoon.   Eyes rolling to the heavens; I diagnosed and treated his latest pulled muscle, thanking God it was nothing worse.

The following Sunday when the pain had not subsided I vetoed him joining the sevens competition and became the most hated evil mother in the world.  Did I not understand how important it was for him? All season he had worked up to this very day and I was ruining it.

I, of course already knew this, but having been a rugby mum for many years by then, also knew how long a pulled muscle or torn ligament could take to meander its slow journey back to fit.  After all had he not been on crutches for 10 weeks with plantafacialitis; ruining the whole of his previous summer holiday and delaying the start of this season for him.

I stood my ground and he did not play.   As the pain continued without appearing to get better so we booked into to see the doctor who agreed he had pulled a muscle and gave him a cocktail of medicines; Ibuprofen cream to dispel the inflammation together with an anti-sickness tablet to offset the effects of the cream.  He is allergic to brufen and all derivatives thereof.   Not a good allergy for a rugby player.

Three weeks later the pain was increasing rather than decreasing and another visit to the doctor raised concerns of a slipped femoral epiphysis.  Could we have an urgent x-ray done?  As it was a Friday night nothing could be done and we were put on the urgent list.   One week later saw me taking No 1 Son up to the X-Ray department to check out this irritating hip.    As we left I thanked the radiographer and she told me that the results would take a week to get back to the doctor and if I could make an appointment then for them to be discussed.

The natural instinct in a mother is to protect and nurture her child and to me this had already gone on too long.   The Doctors fears playing heavily on my mind I trawled the internet to find every possible entry for femoral epithisis that has ever been written, becoming more and more anxious as the moments and information flooded my mind.   I phoned the surgery and unable to speak directly to the doctor left a fairly curt message saying that following his request for an urgent x-ray they had done this finally and if he was happy to wait for the result I would accede to his knowledge and experience.

We heard nothing!

Friday evening arrived and a friend came over for a meal.  We’d opened a bottle of wine, served out the meal and called the children down to the table.  That was when the phone rings.   Often I will actually leave it with the knowledge that they will leave a message or if really important ring my mobile.  Something, niggling deep within that I am unable to explain made me answer it as the others tucked into their meal.

The doctor had got my message and was not in the least happy to wait, he like I, knew that the X-ray results are instantly on the system and he would meet me at the minor injuries unit in 20 minutes to see them.    Grateful that Sexy Sporty Dad had been delayed getting home from work so had not had an opportunity to have a drink yet, and that the poor friend invited to tea now was there to look after the other two, three of us drove up to meet the doctor.

Needless to say the doctors diagnoses was correct and No 1 Son was admitted that night and operated on the following morning to place a pin in his hip joint holding him together.   The next anguished event was to establish what this meant for his rugby career.   The internet had painted a very doomed pictured of him ever playing sport again let alone a contact sport like rugby.  How could I ever tell a 14 year old his playing days were done.

We began a long relationship that night with a very wonderful surgeon.  He sat down with us and explained that he understood the passion and need for No 1 Son to play but; the young man would be out for a whole year, all being well he could go back then.    I could have kissed the man.  My son on the other hand felt like his world had ended.    He hopefully will never understand how close he came to never, meaning never!

What followed was two years of tears, trials and trauma, as 6 weeks in a wheel chair led onto 6 weeks on crutches and then finally onto walking, slowly beginning to jog and a lot of physio.   Just as his confidence to run began ebbing back he began complaining that the other side hurt.  We spoke to the surgeon who had an X-ray done that day and they operated on his other hip that afternoon.  Back to square one.   Another few days for me in the paediatric ward rushing up and down to grab food from the coffee shop.

Is that not enough for any young teenager to go through without mention of his poor parents who have had enough.  Two years on and we were back six weeks ago after they had tried to remove the pins.  One stubborn one would not be moved and they had to send over to America for the specialist equipment to get this tiny tenacious tack out.

This time it has all changed though; he is 16 and classed as an adult which I clearly dispute.  Having been here at the allotted time of 7.15am, he was finally called for and I was dispatched in the opposite direction, none of this motherly holding of hands as they put him to sleep now.

I left him in the hands of two capable nurses who worked in theatre and assured me they would take care of him.  I will not be called as in the past to bring him out of recovery back to the ward, I have been given a ward name, to go and see him on later.   A little stroll via the hospital chapel, a quiet place I also know well having spent a few hours there each time one of my children goes down to theatre before settling with a cappuccino to wait.

Hopefully this will be the end of a chapter and he will be fit and ready for this season’s even more brutal rugby as he moves from youth to colt.  At least in rugby he is not quite regarded as adult.

Several cappuccinos later and I know he is out of theatre and they are talking about discharging him today but I am not allowed access yet to him.   I don’t care when he turns into an adult he will always need his mother particularly in times of stress and operations.  I am going to find him now and probably embarrass him by creating a scene about him needing me.  Underneath the embarrassment I hope he will be happy to see me.

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

PS  I found him eventually having been sent on a wild goose chase around the hospital.  He eventually called me and told me he was still in recovery and as no-one could find me, he could not go home.  Almost jogging with excitement; I arrived to see him sitting up, dressed, signs of recently eaten toast at his side and eager to get going.   They had been calling me on one phone at home, despite me leaving my mobile number with them.  I had been calling on the other line, never the two spoke to each other!

The pin came out in minutes and although still rather tired he had come straight out of the anaesthetic without his usual sickness and long drawn out recovery.

Chapter closed.   Hopefully!

 

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Running Rungs

Posted on September 3, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

Do you find there is a certain treadmill quality to life?

I know the seasons rotate in an orderly fashion; months following months, hot sometimes following cold.  Cold, wet winter chases the crisp frosty autumn days, just as blossoming spring precedes the fullness of summer and so on. The full moon wanes leading to the next crescent of new moon as the cycle begins again.

Was it only six or seven weeks ago we were all breaking up for that

Keep on climbing

long balmy summer ahead?   Plans of how we would survive those days trying to entertain the children were being drawn up.   Childcare being divided up between parents, grandparents and unusual educational activities.  Holidays to be prepared for, shopped for and enjoyed, precious days spent with loved ones.  The morning rush eased to permit treasured time to lie in or permission to watch CBBC. It already seems a blur on the fringes of our short term memory.

This weekend found me stepping back to the Rugby club with a new season already upon us.   Youngsters the country over will have been registering with their clubs, learning new laws as they move up an age level, meeting up with old friends they may not have seen since April.

I; too caught up with friends who I have missed over the months. Friends who have stood solidly by me over the years as our children have suffered injuries, lost important games and grown with the game.   There was a certain reassuring buzz of activity, smell of bacon butties and the constant flow of cheap instant caffeine that passes as coffee.

Even the forecasted sunshine kindly waited till the end of training to dry out the drizzle that had arrived on cue to welcome in the new season.   Routine resumed its rightful order as boots were tried out for size, outgrown shorts that had just about lasted till the end of last season were replaced and shiny new mouth guards bought to protect developing teeth.

This rugby heralded the cog in the ever moving treadmill of life; children will this week return to school.  Back from all the holidaying; now only a distant memory, flashing past on the digital photo frame.   The juggling with childcare is finished as we hand our precious children back over to their new teachers.   Some will be moving to new schools, colleges or universities; some will climb a rung on the well-worn ladder of their school hierarchy and some will be out in the world wondering where to go next.

I know this week will bring tears and heartbreak for mothers of reception aged children suddenly seeing their tiny tot in a complete new school uniform, breaking the baby bonds that up until now have been unyielding.  Little people venturing out into a world without their mother’s perpetually protective hand supporting those faltering fearful footsteps.

Other mothers will suffer the effects of their children’s nerves; they will tolerate the self-importance of young adolescence and take a step back as their little one grows independent and superior joining the masses at Top School.   Giving their once infants the space to be a big child in a world of even bigger children and learn to make their own waves in this ocean we call life.

There will be mothers who will reluctantly transport their offspring away to some way off university.   Leaving their homesick tearful teenager in some bleak utilitarian room to carve their own way in the world, knowing this is the final bond to be broken as they allow their child to grow away from them.     Reluctantly, leaving alarmed adolescents with reassurance, resolutions and reliance despite all their own reservations.

I feel lucky this year that I do not have to overcome the emotions of a momentous change in the cogs although No 1 Son is moving into sixth form.  The change for him will not be as dramatic as he stays at the same school; nonetheless he will have to make his own decisions about how much he studies, what he wants to achieve from his A ‘levels and how he will apply them to his life.  It will be a big jump for him to take control of his future; the same future he does not know what he wants to do with.

Middle Son glides up to this final year of GCSEs which he will find harder than before, not only due to the level of work from school but from the level of support for his schoolwork he will receive from his parents.    Here is a boy who could achieve so much if he only focused long enough to acquire the necessary information to apply it.   Had there been GCSE’s in BMXing, X-boxing or I-Padding he would be guaranteed straight A s.  Unfortunately he is going to have to work hard this year to get the grades within his grasp.

Mini Son becomes a big fish in the small pond as he joins year 6, the final year before moving up to big school.   He will be a role model for the younger classes a task he will fulfil brilliantly.  He will be coerced into independence as he learns to accept responsibility and study hard filling in the missing bits of his education before bridging the gap and joining throngs of know it all secondary school children.

I will also return to my job at the school this week, sad to say farewell to the summer that never really materialised in terms of the weather.   Reluctant to welcome those manic mornings trying to get all five of us out of the door in different directions on time with all the remembered kit for the day ahead.  Unenthusiastic to return to the drudgery of routine after my long weeks of freedom from humdrum tedium, I know that it is only a matter of time before the wheel of time turns further.

Before we know it, half term will be upon us with Christmas poking its pointed head in our direction.  The New Year will be here all too soon and then we will be half way through the school calendar.  Exams will be sat and then the long holidays upon us again turning yet another full turn of that wheel.

I shall continue to climb the rungs of the treadmill expecting to reach the haven of happiness at the top but never quite arriving there as the wheel turns again for another season.

Whatever stage of the wheel you are at, keep climbing and keep focused.  It is so easy to fall off the spinning circle but never easy to climb back on.

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

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Chocolate Cake

Posted on August 30, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes


Time to have your cake and eat it.  

Its snack time in our household and I have three hungry mouths so this week I have decided to bake a cake.   This is just a very quick easy sponge with a bit of decoration that goes down as if I had paid a fortune for it.

Ingredients

175g  butter
175g  caster sugar
175g  self raising flour
3 large eggs
2 heaped tablespoons of cocoa powder (I used drinking chocolate because I had run out)
blackcurrant jam
chocolate spread (I use a cheap supermarket brand – Beware some have NUTS in)
chocolate buttons
sprinkling of icing sugar

I am not professionally trained and I know I will upset some bakers but this is my method of making the sponge.



Put the block of butter in the bowl and put in microwave for 20 seconds, check then add another 20 seconds.  This will be mostly melted with a few very soft bits left.

Add the sugar and whisk till smooth




Add all the flour and cocoa powder and fold in with a spoon then add the three eggs and whisk thoroughly checking that all the ingredients are well and truely mixed in.







I always put a touch of butter in my cake tins and heat them then spread around the tin so that nowhere is not greased.





Add the cakes to the tins and put in the oven, medium heat (190 C  / 375 F / Gas 5)  for about 20 – 25 minutes




Once cooked with still a little sponginess in the top turn upside down and leave, with the tin on, to cool.





When cooled take the bottom layer and spread thinly with chocolate spread.  Then on the top layer spread the base liberally with the blackcurrant jam before turning to sit on the chocolate covered layer.





Using the chocolate spread cover the top and sides of the cake.

Decorate with chocolate buttons (big ones look good if you can get them)   and a sprinkling of icing sugar.



Serve to the waiting throng and don’t expect to have very much left.  

Enjoy, tell me how you like to decorate your cakes.    I have to make cakes with a chocolate flavour if I want to stay popular but what flavour do you choose?



Tiggy

Find out what I am up to in my other blog  Dawn Chorus





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Getting the Grade

Posted on August 28, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

It’s been a long week of waiting especially for 16 year olds and their wearied families.  Last Wednesday brought a stream of successful A’level results; leading to young futures being mapped out as scenes of happy teenagers realise they had won that coveted place at university as they study the sheets of paper handed to them.

This week it was the turn of the GCSE results.  Boys and girls up and down the country have been back apprehensively attending school; for one long drawn out moment of intense emotion, as they learn how well they have done.  All those tedious hours of study, those nagged timely homeworks and all those missed activities; were they enough?

I made a point of being up early.  I had not been asked but I knew it would come and when it did it would be instant.   “I need a lift now?”

The last two years have been a long haul for No 1 Son dealing with more than just the usual teenage angst, lack of motivation and general ennui that his classmates seem to have overcome.

He, not surprisingly being such a keen sports player, opted to take Further PE as one of his options.   He would of course focus all his passion on rugby as his main sporting activity.  Fate however, was not of the same opinion and he was distraught and devastated by the distressing news he needed pins in his hips and would be out of contact sport action for a whole year.  The first operation was just before he embarked on his GCSE course.  Six weeks spent in a wheel chair and a further six on crutches before he tentatively began walking and gently jogging.  Then tragedy struck as fate dealt her next blow; the second hip gave way and he was catapulted back to square one.

The second operation took us less by surprise as we now knew there was weakness but the timing could not have been worse.   Weeks into the new school term and days before the first set of exams in his modular English, Maths and Science GCSE were due to be sat.   When the pain came it was almost routine, one phone call and we leap frogged the waiting list to be seen.  That day we were admitted and the operation took place early the next morning.

No 1 Son still suffering from the anaesthetic was taken from his hospital bed straight to school to sit his maths exam.  Unable to keep track of the time due to severe bouts of sleepiness; how was he ever going to remember how to divide fractions or work out the circumference of a trapezium.  He sat uncomfortably in his wheelchair wondering what day it was, as he filled in the hazy paper in front of him.  Two days later still heavily dependent on pain killers, still tired and angry we dropped him back at school to discuss the merits of the chosen topic book.  A story in which he had already struggled to find empathy with any of the characters.

Disappointing results were met with his school wanting to move him down a group in maths and to monitor his English.   I don’t get belligerent often, but armed with an arsenal of justifying persuasions I tackled the school who gave in without fight on the proviso his next results were better and he would retake these modules studying on his own.  The battle rules were laid.  Only he could pull it back, but at what cost.

The first year of his course for PE he watched longingly as the others played their sports and developed their skills while he read the theory.  Once fit but unable to play rugby he took to refereeing the game which helped his study of the laws and added another strand to his practical sports.  He took up tennis with less chance of being in a crash or wipe out. Sluggishly his serve found its home as he sauntered along the base line hoping for a long return with restricted stretch.

He had taken the battle rules and reworked them for himself, he was not going to let them move him.  He knuckled down and worked; creating revision timetables to focus his time and energies.  He limited his party going, opting if not preferring to have proper sleep rather than beer infused dozing.  He exercised his way to peak fitness, losing all the weight that had begun to drag him down after months of inactivity.  Back on his beloved rugby field he came from nowhere to take the end of season “most improved back” trophy.   He practised his new found tennis skills and can return a mean backhand down the line challenging some of his county level playing friends.

Notes of revision were posted over the house explaining assonance, alliteration and adverbs.  Diagrams of algebraic fractions and wigwams began appearing on the bathroom walls!   He dragged himself reluctantly off to extra classes and took on extra homework to catch up on his lost year.  Finally he sat the last exams and today he will want to go and collect his results.

Whatever his results give us he has scored an A* for his dedicated, disciplined and determined attitude to achievement and he deserves so much more than a sheet of paper with a few letters on.   He has overcome huge obstacles to get to this stage.  We asked for best effort and that is exactly what he delivered. So well done No 1 Son!

Dedication, discipline and determination A*

“Mum are you doing anything, could you just give me a lift to school my friends are meeting there in a few minutes……..!”

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

PS:   Of course I cannot reveal his results as they are between him and who he wishes to divulge them to.   To say we are proud is an understatement but I feel my belligerence has been vindicated.  His English and Science were above predicted and his Maths was way above all predictions. Two years ago he was in a wheelchair; today he has exceeded all expectations delivering an incredible result in his Sports GCSE.

 

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Turkey Pasta

Posted on August 14, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes



We had just got back from holiday and desperate for a cupboard meal rather than do a big shop while still unloading the car and between copious piles of washing,  I raided the freezer and cupboards.  Yet again threw it all together and it was so welcoming at the end of a long day of travelling.  It took minutes to actually cook once defrosted but a great idea if you plan it before you go away.

Ingredients

Turkey steak – diced   (I used a combination of turkey and chicken from the freezer)
Onion – chopped finely
Condensed soup (I had chicken but mushroom would be fine)
Large splash of milk
Pasta


Fry the onions for a few minutes to make them soft then add the meat.









Fry this off till browned on all sides.





Stir in the soup and add milk to rinse the tin.

Bring to the boil for a few minutes then turn down and allow to simmer.  If it begins to look dry or sticky add a little more milk.







I put the pasta water on at the same time and then added the pasta as I turned the meal down.



Just before the pasta is ready,  drain and finish off in the milky sauce.







Serve with bright coloured vegetables such as brocolli, carrots, peas.     We had frozen peas from the freezer.   This will probably work well for most meats if you adapt the soup.    If you use beef or lamb you may need a vegetable soup or a jar which would need a red wine rinse rather than milk.

Enjoy and let me know if you have any quick cupboard style meals that can be rustled up.



Tiggy

Find out what I am up to in my other blog  Dawn Chorus




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Impromptu

Posted on August 14, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

I am a creature of habit and sadly my weeks follow a pre-planned timetable with my meal menus befitting the activities the family will be subjected to.   Weekends have their own mini timetable which we all adhere to in some small way.

However this weekend the weather man said “tomorrow will be sunny and dry but with a gentle crosswind, a little choppy towards the coast”

“Shall we go sailing then?” suggested Sexy Sporty Dad with more enthusiasm than he has had since he left work for our holiday.   This was not on the agenda!  It was not even a couple of precious hours that could be squeezed into the rest of the day with an early start or late finish.

Sailing isn’t really my thing.  I can be tempted on to the water; In fact I do love the sea, the rushing of the waves, watching surfers catch the waves then crash and splash as they lose out to the power of the water.  I love watching the boats bobbing on the horizon and the sight of hundreds of sails all fighting the elements, is exhilarating.

I do not like the sand getting into all my little creases which there seem to be even more of this year, then finding its way into the box of food which I have desperately tried to keep closed, or the tiniest folded item of dry clothing.  I hate seaweed clawing at your feet as you paddle, brushing past like an unknown predator then wrapping your legs, re-igniting fears of some horror film about the deep.

My kind of sailing does not involve hanging on for dear life; waiting for the boon to whip round and take you clean out of the boat landing heavily in too deep salty cold water.    My kind of boat has an engine, it has soft leather seats to relax back into as the wind whips through your wayward hair.   My boat has a large deck for me to catch the rays of the beating sun as I sip a large fruit filled chilled pimms.  If I am totally honest my boat also has someone to sail and definitely someone to serve the pimms.

So dream on; I will have to keep buying my lottery ticket and hoping for that.

Good sailing days are so unpredictable and usually do not fall conveniently on a weekend.

It took a couple of hours to prepare the 420 which to our horror has not been out for 2 years, together with the little topper for the children to try to exert some power over the mighty sea.   An impromptu picnic thrown together and we were on our way.

You know how you always say things like “oh next time you must come with us”; next time comes around too quickly and everyone is too busy.   This time we stopped for a moment; Natty my neighbour has been sailing before and provides me with a wonderful excuse not to venture into the boat; we invited her along.   She had her sister and family staying so they all came along.  No 1 Son’s friend Stuart loves the water as do his family so we invited them and  they came along.

We all met up at harbour side in Poole where the boats were then rigged and ready to launch.   My role in this is to hold.   I hold the ropes, I hold the boat, I hold the launch trolley.   Then I hold my breath as I watch the waves batter the boats; sails bending tantalizingly close to the surface before being pulled back to the correct position.

I count them out and I count them back in again.

We were not the only ones to have listened to the forecast and decided days like this were not guaranteed.  The sea was alive with sails, jetskis, motor launches and the odd ferry cutting through the crowds.  Waves and over swell causing the boats to bob brazenly above the turbulent waters.

I tiptoed gingerly into the freezing water my shorts rolled as high as they could be without cutting my circulation.   After the initial three or four minutes either my legs were so numb they lost sensation or the water was actually not as cold as expected, but I could no longer feel a thing.   Venturing further and further into the water I clung to the edge of the bouncing boat as it tossed and turned tumultuously against my chilled hands.  Wet suit clad bodies climbed in causing the boat to move further out to sea dragging me with it.  My now soaked shorts clinging to clammy legs; I clasped the edge in a desperate bid to keep hold. Once everyone was seated my last task; a final push and the current carried the crew from my clutches.

Back on topper watch I stood on the beach watching as the children capsized their craft.  The wait was interminable as the sail appeared momentarily before the next wave took it back into the water.   Each near attempt to pull the craft upright thwarted, by an upsurge of water, followed by another drift towards the busy ferry route.    My breathing now limited to the wispy views of the sail as I paced the beach contemplating how to rescue the child.

Swimming out to them was never an option; I am a hesitant swimmer these days and anything out of my depth is guaranteed to leave me slowly sinking southwards.   Not that I would have the knowledge or strength to haul the hull back into sailing mode.   Also having rescued the boat I would be stranded without even a life jacket, which all the sailors and visitors were enforced to wear, and unable to swim back to shore.

I tried yelling to Sexy Sporty Dad that the topper was in trouble but my voice despite the raised volume and desperation was carried far off to France on a furious gust.  After several attempts to catch his attention; he did spot or rather couldn’t spot the boat so turned tac to make for the sail lying forlornly on the water surface.

With a final hold of breath and a lot of psychic willing from the remaining shore based party, the sail rose gloriously out of the water; fleetingly teetered on going over the opposite way, righted itself before a body bumbled into the boat.  The topper sailed majestically through the sea towards the 420; not requiring any help at all.

The two boats then turned tail and chased each other up and down Poole harbour.  There were lots of quick

chasing the wind

changes as crew and sailors swapped life vests and in some cases wet suits.   The day drew into evening, the wind dropped, clouds cleared and the sun began setting on a perfect sailing day.

Unable to say good bye and end the camaraderie and general enjoyment, everyone came home with us.  The ginger and garlic remained in the fridge. Lids on the cumin, coriander and cardamom all stayed firmly shut   Saturday night curry was relegated to another night as a takeaway was hungrily consumed by some very tired and hungry individuals.

On Sunday despite the thunderstorm crashing about our ears, the family were subjected to the planned BBQ even though it had to be cooked inside.   One impromptu day in a weekend is more than enough disruption in my ordered life for the family to cope with!

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

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Holiday Dreams

Posted on August 3, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

What of the dream?

The holiday brochure looked so appealing.  Those descriptions online were incredibly irresistible with their crystal clear waters and multi water slides.   Shops, bar and take-away all there on site so you do not have to move from your accommodation.   Just look at the photos and check out that deep azure sky, not a cloud in sight. So what are we waiting for?

Hours on the phone negotiating ferry times and co-ordinating which accommodation will be available on the dates the ferry allows us to arrive.  Of course if madam wishes to upgrade to the deluxe chalet, that is available anytime!

No madam, you have to book a seat or cabin for the ferry crossing.  Yes I know madam that it is a daytime crossing and with such an early start you will be in the restaurant to start with, but we have to charge you for a cabin or seat.

Oh and does madam need bed linen and towels?

Can we not bring our own towels?   Of course you can bring your own but if you require bed linen then the towels come as a pack.

The one concession I do agree willingly to is the welcome pack: – tea, coffee, milk, washing up liquid, tea towel and matches, the essentials in life, just waiting when we arrive. The extra cost will be worth it and Sexy Sporty Dad need not concern himself too much over little details such as cost.

It does not matter what the starting price in the brochure or on-line says.  The final pay up front deal will always be more than you budgeted for, whether you fly, ferry or remain firmly fixed in this country.

The deal is done and we have 6 wonderful months planning it, what it will be like, what we will do and eat while there.  How we will use the facilities and all the French we will talk, how many friends we will meet and make.  Those French teenagers ooh la la!

With six weeks to go the final payment is handed over and the travel documents arrive.  The car is booked in for service to check that it is up to the journey.  The insurance is checked, we are covered by our car insurance and by our travel insurance.  A search reveals we have not lost the paper parts of our driving licences and all our passports are current with the E111 which now has an expiry on them but are still in force.

A week to go and I remember to order the Euros, we check whose swimming kit still fits and who needs new shoes.  Suitcases are dusted off and packed.   The old travel wallet is dug out from the back of the wardrobe where it has languished idly since the last European trip.   A zipped compartment reveals £30 worth of Euros which were not worth changing back into sterling so have been forgotten,  together with £20 worth of Turkish money which we will not be requiring on this holiday.

It’s here!

All of a sudden our holiday is upon us and with a very early start we arrive at the ferry point for 7 o’clock in the morning.   Despite the only half wakefulness, crammed into the car with three growing boys and enough luggage I swear for a month away, emotions are hyper, expectations are hopeful and excitement is heightened. We creep slowly onto the ferry and into the allocated parking spot.   Unload what we think we may need for the crossing and follow the tide of passengers surging up the metal stairwells.

We have ordered and begun breakfast even as the ferry edges its nose away from Portsmouth Harbour out into the clear open sea ahead.   Apart from a few seagulls and breaking waves the view is uninterrupted sea, to the front, to left and to the right; sea.

As mid-day approaches we discuss what we should do for lunch.  After all we do not know how long the journey may take and what will be open at the other end on a Sunday evening.  We tucked in to a second meal on board the ferry before being ushered off the boat and onto the continent.

From this point on we were in the hands of the tour operators.   My tom-tom is unable to get European roads so I had printed off detailed directions from the operator’s web site.   They are; one would assume the most experienced at directing all and sundry to their campsites. They had also sent us with our documentation, a map to guide us.  Naively, I now realise; I should have double checked the map.  It only covered the small area of Brittany that the camp site was situated in.  According to the illustrated map of France on the back cover we need two adjoining maps to find our way from Caen to Quimperle.   Thank goodness I had printed the directions.

After 2 hours hesitatingly following the directions, discussing and debating why we needed to go to Cherbourg to get to the bottom of Brittany; we pulled off the road not far from Mont St Michel and finding a little tabac still open we managed to buy a road map of the whole of France.   As we suspected we had no need to be anywhere near Cherbourg or Mont st Michel; so under our own steam we turned tail and trekked back down to the right route.

Delayed as we were, we looked out for a service station to break up the journey and enjoy un tasse du thé and

Services without a smile!

a biscuit; at the very least to use the facilities such as they might be.  We left the main road following the signs two or three times to be met with ramshackle old buildings that had long since closed for the day.   One man would not let us in but was kind enough to direct me towards an old lean-to shed; I hesitated to close the door in case the whole structure collapsed.  The family convinced I would be hoisted in to the air chitty chitty bang bang style waved a furious good bye as I entombed myself in the dark.  At least there was a toilet and not just a hole in the ground.

Much relieved I dug around the depths of the packing to find a packet of biscuits meant for the morning but needed now and we picnicked in a very dodgy car park described as services, on biscuits and squash.  Onwards and downwards, we climbed back into the cramped car and resumed our journey south.  It got so late that I phoned ahead to inform them we were on our way and were near L’Orient and hoped to be with them before 11pm.  That was fine they did not close the barriers till 11.

Finally reaching the local town we didn’t dare stop to grab a pizza in case this brought us over the 11 o’clock deadline.  We got in just after half ten, having tried again to follow their directions only to be directed one way, while eagle eyed children insisted the sign said the opposite way.  We went with the children on this; only for them to be proved right.

Fearing we were too late we stood bewildered in the reception waiting for someone to turn up.  Finally the girl arrived, gave us a barrier code to let us drive through and led us to our chalet.  As she opened the chalet for us I asked about the take-away.  No that was all closed for the night now.  Ok could she point me in the direction of the shop and we could get something to make a snack.  The shop was back near the main reception and was all closed now.  What about the bar? Yes that was open.  Did it sell food?  Only ice-cream!

We entered the musty chalet; I suspect we were the first to use it this season by the old smell and dusty feel.  At least I knew a cup of tea would not be far away now.   But where was my welcome pack.  Deep apologies she would go and get one.  Suspiciously I wandered into the bedrooms; where was the bed linen and towels?  On the table were four swimming wrist bands, why only four when the chalet slept six and we had requested five sets of everything.

Had I really ordered all that?  Oh yes and paid for it, I produced my travel documentation and found the receipted list of extras.   Again deep apologies and she would be back in a few moments with it all.  True to her word she was and with her a bottle of placatory wine, although I am not sure that shouldn’t have been included in the welcome pack.   Only when I emptied the pack out did I realise the milk came in tiny packs of cream powder, the coffee was a tiny pack of filter coffee and the two tea bags were not going to go very far.   At least the wine was welcome.

Starving and shattered we all fell into the welcoming beds having made them first and were instantly asleep.  I woke sometime in the night to find torrential rain beating relentlessly on the roof of the chalet, matching my mood.   So much for deep azure blue skies!

The old junior choice song “Camp Granada” springs to mind.  “Mudda, fadda kindly disregard this letter!”

We overslept deep into the morning, then wandered leisurely to the shop in glorious sunshine to fetch fresh croissants, pain au chocolate, baguette and milk a plenty.  Laughing and hilarity from the water slides and swimming pool area hinted at the fun we were about to embark on. Music already blaring from the bursting bar beckoned us to join in.   Suntan lotion smothered over our winter whitened skins, swimming togs under our clothes we followed the sound of fun.

Have fun on your holiday this year wherever you decide to go.

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

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Growing Pains

Posted on July 28, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes

Sometimes you do wonder how much bad luck you are able to take?   How can some people and families sail through life with no real life changing scares, upsets or worries and other families get the worst of all scenarios.

I remember a close friend of mine, we both worked together and ended up job sharing as we both went part time together.  We both had three boys all within days of each other.  Her three were all planned, she thrived in pregnancy and they were born quickly and easily without problem.  Mine may have been planned but came along bringing with them, miscarriages, emergency C-sections and a spell in special care baby unit.

Commenting on my struggles she told me that I was the strong one and that was why things happen to me.  She said she could not have coped with the trauma and that is why all the bad stuff all seemed to happen to me.   

Image

Arrow marks the spot!

No 1 Son had to have an operation yesterday, it was a simple operation would only take a few minutes and he would walk out later in the day.    At the crack of dawn we arrived at the quiet empty hospital at the appointed time to be booked in.   We still endured a two hour wait before the moment arrived.  

There was a marked change in this operation to his previous ones.  At 16 he was deemed an adult, the staff consulted with him; asked if he had questions, told him what they were planning to do and he had to sign the permission form.  To be fair they did include me as I was there with my list of ifs and buts.    As the nurses came to get us, we started to walk down to the prep room; I was gently directed in the opposite direction.   It is not my favourite past-time watching my children be put to sleep but I do feel it is my right as a parent and at 16 he is still my little boy.  I waved him off, guilt ridden at leaving him to be escorted by two albeit friendly motherly nurses promising to take care of him.

There would be no call from recovery for me to help him come round but he would be up on the ward in about an hour and I could see him there; he had his mobile and would call when he got there.

After nearly two hours of waiting, wondering and worrying I moved to debating, deliberating and deciding to get another coffee, knowing the minute I did they would call.  I got up and picked up my phone and bag.  Ping, ping, ping went the phone as I moved a fraction; to where I got a fleeting signal.   Two messages from Sexy Sporty Dad and one missed call from a blocked number.   I tore up the stairs, no time to wait for the lift to arrive then dawdle its slow passage upwards.   Finding the ward I looked around for staff or someone to tell me where my son was.   A nurse began checking, no they had not called and definitely no-one had come back from theatre to the ward yet.   But had they not rung me?  No!

Perplexed and anxious I turned to go, maybe I would get my coffee after all.   Another nurse rushed up and asked if I was No 1 Son’s mother?   Yes, at least someone seemed to know he was coming to this ward.   Then the punch;   the surgeon needed to speak to me could I go to theatre.  

Woooo!  Winded!  Why would the surgeon need to speak to me.   Half running, slowing to stop that sick feeling flooding my stomach, I fled through the corridors of the hospital back to the theatre waiting room.  “Are you….?” “Yes yes,” I panted “I know he wants to talk to me where is he?”  Probably, I realise now “he” is not the correct way to refer to this God like character you have entrusted your child to; but etiquette was not uppermost in my mind.

“Take a seat” was the answer.    

The lovely nurse who had looked after him earlier came and found me.  I jumped and turned to her.   She told me he was fine but the surgeon wanted to explain what had happened.    At least he was fine whatever fine was; but that niggling pain in my chest knew things had not gone as we hoped.

The surgeon did appear himself, to explain that only one side had been done and that they could not remove the pin from his other hip.   They were sending away to the US for equipment to remove the second one and could we come in next week.   No we were about to leave for France.  He was happy to do it the following week just before he himself left for a month’s holiday.

I know he was out of the operation because I had been speaking to the surgeon; but not allowed to go and see him in recovery, I returned to the ward to await his arrival.  Nothing in a hospital is quick and I endured yet another wait of an hour and a half, before my son was finally brought up to the ward.  I was going to have to give him the news it hadn’t gone as planned. He was going to be upset and angry and guess who would bear the brunt of this. Choosing my words carefully and re-writing them in my head before I told him, I tentatively asked how he was. 

“Do you know?”  He asked, yes I already knew but how did he know.  He had heard the nurses in recovery talking as he drifted in and out of sleep. 

Unlike his brother Middle Son who comes out of anaesthetic hungry and running, No 1 Son is very sick which he continued to be till late into the night, meaning he was unable to reach the targets to allow him to come home with me.

Children’s wards are great, tea and coffee on tap for stressy parents.  A bed in the cupboard pulls down to allow those same stressy parents somewhere to sleep.    Extra food is snuck onto the child’s plates to feed an additional mouth.  The care of your child is very much your responsibility.   No 1 Son at 16 is an adult on an adult male surgical ward.  There are no facilities for visitors.  In fact visiting is a short timed affair to which I did not adhere in the slightest.    The patient is responsible for his own welfare and asking for his needs.  A suddenly shy suffering sick teenager did not know what he wanted or needed except to be better.

I could not leave my little boy on his own in this alien environment still being sick from the anaesthetic.   I outstayed all the other visitors, and ran around finding things to make him feel better and in control.   He had the nurse call button just in reach, the bed control unit to raise or lower his head.  I placed his bag within reach knowing he had his book and phone in it, and an extra £5 note; just in case!  His table had drinks on which when he felt better he might enjoy and I also managed to pay for him to have 24 hour access to the TV/Radio/Telephone unit which together we managed to get not only the internet but his facebook page.  Reluctantly I did have to take my leave so with heavy heart and dull ache in my stomach, not only from not having eaten all day I wandered alone through the now spookily deserted hospital. 

Sexy Sporty Dad had come in to visit earlier in the afternoon but had been delayed by the car breaking down and having to call out the AA.  The starter motor had gone.    This is the car we are driving to France in today, the same car that had been in for a service all week checking it adheres to all the French regulations.     My tiny little car will not fit three growing boys in the back with any luggage for more than a few miles; we have 5 hours of continent driving.  Sexy Sporty Dad did manage with a bit of co-ercing to persuade the garage to squeeze in the extra job this morning; I have no doubt it will cost us.

I have managed to delay the ferry for a day to allow No 1 Son a little longer to recover, and we will be able to attend a family party en route to the ferry port.   What I could not do was change the booking with Travelodge to stay at the ferry port tonight. 

“I am sorry we can only change like for like and the price is different the night you wish to return.”

“I am willing to pay the extra just to change it”

“No the price is £30 cheaper per night per room.  Sorry we cannot change it for you!”   Where oh where is the logic in that!   So providing No 1 Son is feeling ok we are going and we will use the room.

Are we not entitled to now just enjoy a little good luck to take with us, maybe Harry Potter could spare me a small bottle of Felix Felicis, if I promise not to use it to win all the gold medals at the Olympics!

And in a couple of weeks we will revisit hospital and do it all again………

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

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Chocolate Crunch

Posted on July 23, 2012 by Tiggy Hayes



This really is too good!  So simple to make and yet so delicious. It is not something the doctor would recommend on a regular basis due to the extreme amounts of everything bad for you but occasionally you just have to go with it.  

Most people have their own version of this and it can be called all sorts of different things; chocolate crunch, fridge cake, polish cake, add some marshmallows and you have my version of rocky road.

We call it delicious.

Ingredients

2 pkt  chocolate digestives or I use chocolate covered oaties
8oz butter
6 dessert spoons of drinking chocolate
2 tablespoons Golden Syrup
large handful or two of sultanas





Melt the butter in  a pan over a low heat until all melted.







Take off the heat and add the chocolate and syrup.








Crush the biscuits into smallish pieces but not crumbs and stir them into the butter mix, followed by the sultanas.




Spread out onto a piece of greaseproof paper into a large dish.  I only use the paper to make it easier to lift out and cut into portions.  Score the portion sizes before it goes into the fridge and becomes too solid.






The longer you can leave it in the fridge the better, so overnight at the very least.



Remove fronm the fridge and re-cut the portions.

Serve as a treat at tea-time, or add cream for a truly sensational pudding.  This is not a treat to be left lying around as it seems to disappear into thin air in our house if left anywhere visible.

Let me know your version of this or how you might make it different.


enjoy



Tiggy 


Find out what I am up to through my other blog at Tiggy Hayes




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