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Do You Feel Old?

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I ventured into London to watch my daughter’s choir. It was both enjoyable, and a learning experience (I felt older than most people). Here are some observations and ‘feeling older’ thoughts:

It is no longer possible to guess the age of women by their hair colour, as nearly everyone dyes it. However, there is a clear age-indicator in their shoes. At a smart event, women over 65 (I am guessing their age) wore high-heeled shoes; women 50 – 65 wear low-heeled shoes; women under 50 wear trainers. Even with floaty dresses, young women wear trainers—how wonderfully comfortable! I shall copy this.

Showing lots of flesh is the norm. I rather like the rule that you either uncover your legs, or your shoulders. It seems that some young women today feel comfortable uncovering practically everything! Perhaps this is good—they are clearly comfortable with themselves. But I’m not sure what messages it sends to the strangers they pass (some of whom will not be honourable people). Should we dress purely to please ourselves (in which case, I will throw away all outfits except for jeans and wellies) or should we be aware of how this affects other people? Is it rude to not dress appropriately, or is it freedom? And who decides what is appropriate anyway?

Men in jackets and ties is a rarity. On my journey, and at the event, the only jackets I saw were carried by girls from a private school, and worn by the porter on the door of the Ritz hotel. It seems jackets and ties are going the same way as bowler hats (which you see in the hundreds on old films, but rarely ever in real life today). This is, I think, okay — times change. But perhaps they should still appear for funerals? What do you think? Weddings? Posh restaurants? Important meetings? Again, it sends a message whether we want it to or not.

Young people are tall. Very tall. Okay, so not all of them are tall, but the tallest young people seem to be much taller than they were when I was young, and there seem to be more of them. Unless I happened to be in the same place as lots of models, which I suppose is possible as they were also beautiful.

Most people are completely oblivious to other people—lots of task-focussed behaviour. I don’t think the people who chatted loudly through the choir performances, or those who moved to take a photo and stood in front of people who were sitting, thus blocking their view, or those who let their litter blow away, were necessarily selfish people. I think they genuinely did not notice, they simply didn’t think about how their actions were affecting other people, they were busy focussing on what they wanted to do. Perhaps they achieve more than my generation did, or maybe they were rude. I blame their mothers.

A lot of people eat dinner very late at night. After the recital, we went to a nearby restaurant for dinner, and it was almost full, every table with noisy people enjoying a meal. This was long after the time I usually eat (let’s be honest, it was past the time I usually go to bed!) yet other people obviously eat at this time. I wonder if they need less sleep than me, or if they get up late too.

When we left London, which was even later than dinner (obviously) I was surprised by the number of people arriving at the station. Were they just beginning their night out? Did they live in London? Were they shift workers? I was too tired to ask (plus the family discourage me from approaching strangers to ask why they are there) but it was interesting. I wondered why they were there and where they were going. Perhaps I shall go back another time and follow them. (If I am arrested, please send help.)

Anyway, it was all very interesting, and I feel I should go into London more often, so I don’t completely lose touch with normal society—though I rather like my world of theology books and animals.

Hope you have a great week and encounter some lovely people, whatever their age. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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anneethompson.com
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The World is Fuzzy

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When I run along my lane, I always see a herd of deer nestling under a tree, a stag standing guard with his antlers against the sky. It’s a beautiful sight, and makes me smile.

Husband never sees this. Husband informs me that the deer are sheep, and the stag is a fallen branch from the dead tree. He is probably correct, as his eyes are better than mine, but I rather like living in a fuzzy world.

Unlike most people my age, who have gradually deteriorating eyesight, I lost most of my long-sight in a couple of weeks, when I had the brain tumour. I have not seen my feet in focus ever since. Maybe this is why I dislike wearing my glasses so much (I did have a brief flirtation with contact lenses, but we didn’t like each other much). I understand why people want to see—because it’s safer, and often missing details is a shame. But sometimes, in my opinion, living in a fuzzy world is okay. Certainly people are prettier. And younger. Needless to say, I rarely look in the mirror when wearing my glasses.

However, there are dangers in my fuzzy world. If I don’t wear my glasses when I leave the house, I misjudge corners and end up with bruises, or trip, or twist my ankle in holes. The lane is okay, because I have learnt every pothole (there are many) but anywhere unfamiliar requires glasses unless I want to risk pain.

All this made me think—I wonder whether all shortsighted people see the same thing. Would another nearly-blind person see deer in the field—or would they create their own fuzzy image? There is no reason to think we would all see the same imperfection, we would probably all make those brown splodges and the weird sticking-up shape next to the tree into something different, trying to make sense of what we can almost see, sort-of, if we squint.

Which makes me think about how we see God and Godly stuff. We all know that we don’t see God properly, because to see God would be too much for us.[1] Even things about God—most of the theology I have been studying—is slightly uncertain. We have the Bible, and our own experience, but we all come to slightly different conclusions because we don’t see clearly. We don’t properly understand because we are physical beings trying to grasp something beyond our understanding.[2] So whether you follow the teachings of Augustine, and believe in original sin, or if you believe like the monk Luther that we are saved by faith or whether like Origen you believe it will all be okay for everyone in the end—you cannot actually know. You can base your belief on what seems logical to you, you can choose how to interpret the Bible, decide who you trust, but you cannot know. Because when it comes to theology, we all have fuzzy eyes.

I think this is probably okay. I think this is how we were designed. But we do need to remember this. Because it is not okay, and it becomes a massive problem, when we start to tell other people that what we see fuzzily is, in fact, seen clearly. Sometimes it is necessary to grasp firmly the things we see clearly, and admit with humility that there is an awful lot that is fuzzy. Living in a fuzzy world can be comforting, but if I start to drive believing I don’t need my glasses, I become a danger to everyone.

Thanks for reading. Have a good week—and remember not to be too certain about things that are fuzzy for you.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

[1] Exodus 33:23.

[2] 1 Corinthians 13:12.

My Father

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Yesterday, it was Father’s Day in England.

My own father died in 2006. Recently, when I told someone this, they said: ‘Oh, about 20 years ago then,’ and I opened my mouth to tell them, ‘No, 2006, just a couple of years ago,’ and then I closed it again. It feels like just a couple of years ago. I wonder if it always will.

What are the strongest memories of your father? When I think of Dad, the memories come in a jumble. His smell: Old Spice aftershave and Extra Strong mints. Whenever I smell those, I am zapped back in time, I can almost feel him. Radio Four playing too loudly on the car radio. His great belly-laugh, which was rare, but reduced him to tears (I especially recall this laugh when our dog emerged from a river coated in black mud). His delight when cooking a tasty meal—especially his gravy. His huge hands. His wonderful singing voice. His loud piano playing, especially when he was angry. His smart appearance—he nearly always wore a shirt and tie, and kept his shoes shiny.

 I also remember the feel of my dad. He was a great hugger, and I remember his hugs engulfing me. I also remember when I was little, pretending to be asleep in the back of the car so he would carry me upstairs to my bed. I think my sister did the same, and sometimes, as his heavy steps plodded upstairs with us, one of us would giggle, so I suspect that he knew we were pretending, but he did it anyway. Perhaps he liked carrying us as much as we loved to be carried. I never thought about that before.

When I shut my eyes, I see him in his white butcher’s coat. This is an odd memory, as he sold the business when his father died (I guess about 1979) and went to Bible College, and then was a Baptist minister until he retired. But mostly, to me, my father was a butcher. When we were little, we would sometimes ‘go to work’ with him. He had sandwiches and a flask of coffee, and he let us deliver orders to the homes where we would get tips, which was very exciting.

I also think of his carpentry skills. He liked making things, but if I’m honest, I was never too impressed with the outcome (I was a tough audience). He made fitted cupboards for me and my sister. It had a dressing-table area, and we left heated curling-tongs plugged in, and nearly burnt the whole thing down! (Not on purpose.) He also made toys for my brother, and he would sneak me into the shed before Christmas to show me what he was making, which made me feel very grown-up, and part of the surprise. When I had my own children, he made toys for them too—a platform for the train set is the main thing I remember because it was huge, and heavy, and impossible to tidy away in a cupboard. (Still a tough audience.) He helped one of my sons to make a wooden sewing box for me, which I still use today.

My father was a good talker. He spoke to everyone, and he gave good advice. One of the more serious conversations I remember with him was in the wedding car, on the way to my wedding. He asked me if I was completely sure that I wanted to get married, because afterwards, if it didn’t work out, I wouldn’t be welcome at home again. I mainly remember this because it was such bad advice!

I think most brides are stressed/over-tired/not rational by the time they arrive at the day of the wedding. Absolutely the wrong time to make a life-changing decision—especially one that would deeply hurt another person. No one deserves to be jilted at the altar. Better to stick with the decision made months before, when you are sane, and if things have changed, then sort it out afterwards and quietly get an annulment. But I understand why Dad said it. He was feeling protective, and wanted to say the right thing, and I suspect emotion took over, and he said what he thought he ought to say, rather than what was sensible. Which is another of my father’s traits—speaking from emotion. Mostly it was good, and I knew I was loved, even when we disagreed on almost everything through my teenaged years.

Finally, I think of my father as a grandparent. He delighted in his grandchildren, and gave them all the time that he didn’t have when we were young. I have never seen anyone as besotted with another person as when I watched my father playing with my babies. His pleasure was tangible.

I had a good man for my father. I still cannot quite believe that he is no longer here. I hope that you have, or are building, happy memories of your own dad. Life is short, and time moves quickly.
Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson
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A Week of Milestones

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Hello, hope you’ve had a good week. Mine involved a crossing a few hurdles—nothing massive, but some were quite significant.

Firstly, my daughter moved into her new house. This feels very significant, as it’s unlikely that she will ever live with me again. She sold her flat a few months ago, so she and her fiancé moved in while they were between houses. I was hoping it might take longer than it did, but this week they completed all the legal stuff, and on Tuesday we visited their new house. It’s very nice, but I don’t envy them having to unpack lots of boxes and learn how to use new boilers and appliances. Moving is never fun. I will miss them.

The ducks also moved home. They are now fully feathered, so I started to put them on the pond (gradually, so the old ducks don’t panic and fly away). Each day, there was one less than I had put there the day before. It’s possible the fox was taking them, though it felt weird that it was only one each time—as they usually copy the established ducks and move to the island for the night. It’s also possible they have flown to another pond. Or are hiding. If they return, I will let you know.

It does mean I have an empty cage, which is very nice. Ducklings are mucky animals, and make a soup with anything they can reach. I cleaned out the cage, added some clean straw, and planted grass seed. Hopefully by the time Goose and chick are big enough to be outside, it will have some grass.

Roommates, if not exactly friends.

I have put the chick in with Goose. This is a risk, as it might get trampled. I have joined them for short periods, and watched, and a couple of times the chick was stepped on (much squealing) but nothing dangerous (like its head) so it survived, and is now alert to clumsy goose feet. The chick is completely desperate to be with the goose (it thinks it’s her mother) and was in danger of being hurt by trying to squeeze though the bars. It was actually in one of those plastic laundry baskets, within the goose cage, so close to goose, but safe. The clothes basket was left here by one of my moved-out offspring, so I hope they don’t ask for it back any time soon as it’s now rather grubby. Anyway, the chick is ecstatic that they are now together. The goose ignores her, because Goose thinks that I am its mother, and only wants to talk to humans—but it tolerates the chick, and I am still hopeful they will become friends. Maybe when they move into the outside cage.

Also, this was the week that I completed my dissertation proposal. This has been very stressful. I am not a planner, I am a ‘sort-it-out-when-it-happens’ person. I am very good at reacting to situations and averting disaster, not so good at sitting down and planning what chapters will be in a research project, and how I will find the resources for intelligent-sounding citations and (horrors!) writing a timetable of what I will do between now and April 2024. But it’s done, submitted, finished. I can now start the fun part of actually doing the research and reading some of those fascinating books.

I actually have bit of a problem with books, as I have developed attachment issues. I borrow a book from the library, spend hours reading it, enjoying the greasy pages and absorbing the words, feeling the weight on my lap as sip coffee and make notes…and then it ends…and I am supposed to return it to the library. But we have bonded. The book has become part of the fabric of my day, and I don’t want to abandon it to the unloving shelves of a dark library. So I renew it. Even though I have read it, made notes, finished with it—I renew it. I’m not quite sure how many times I can renew books, but I suspect I shall find out fairly soon. I do sometimes buy a copy to keep, but they’re not the same, they have shiny pages and they’re often too large, and they tend to cost a fortune (and sometimes the number of books arriving in the post is commented on). Maybe I will fill the now-empty duck cage with books that I have smuggled into the house. I can keep them in the grubby laundry basket.

Sadly returned…

Hope you have a great week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

A little social interaction before the ducks moved out.
Anne E. Thompson
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Meet Goose

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If you follow my blog, you may remember that last month, when we were staying in the Peak District, the farmer kindly gave me three goose eggs. Each one was the size of four chicken eggs. I wrapped them up in toilet paper (I didn’t have anything better) and we drove them home. After letting them rest for 24 hours, I put them into the incubator, and searched online to find out how to hatch geese eggs.

My incubator automatically turns chicken eggs, but these were much too large. Every day I turned them 180˚ an odd number of times (thus ensuring that they were never the same way up for two nights in a row). This is because the embryo can get stuck, and won’t develop properly. I kept them at 37.5˚C, and 50% humidity.

Different birds incubate for different periods. A duck is 4 weeks—though often hatch a few days early. A chicken is pretty much always exactly 21 days. A goose is anything from 28 to 35 days. After a week, I sat in a dark room, and shone a bright torch through the shell. Two eggs had the clear shadow of the yolk, turning as I moved the egg. One egg had tiny threads of veins, and when I turned the egg, the shadow of the yolk stayed still—fasten in position. Which meant I had one fertile egg.

Birds need a flock, so one goose would be lonely. Goose eggs are expensive, and I wasn’t certain that I would manage to hatch them anyway, so was loath to buy more. Instead I went on Ebay and bought some Buff Orpington chicken eggs. They should have arrived the following day, meaning they would hatch potentially at the same time. Unfortunately the annoying seller didn’t post them immediately, so they were about two weeks later than the goose egg going into the incubator (and therefore one week later hatching). But it was the best I could do.

A goose egg next to a large chicken egg.
First crack.

After a couple of weeks, I started to spray the goose egg with cold water—mimicking the mother goose returning to the nest after a swim (not sure what the chicken eggs thought about that, as chickens are not known for their swimming). Only one chicken egg was fertile, so now I had two eggs, and hoped the hatchlings would be friends. After 28 days, I stopped turning the goose egg, and raised the humidity to 70% (which is not great for the chicken egg, but humidity is unlikely to kill it—they are only vulnerable to temperature change, and that remained at 37.5˚C).

After 29 days, nothing. After 30 days, nothing. After 31 days, I decided I would wait until the 35-day mark, and then chuck it away. After 32 days, I could hear very loud cheeping from inside the egg. After 33 days, a crack appeared down one side. After 34 days, the crack was a ‘zipper’ around the egg, and the gosling managed to push off the end and wriggle out. It was a poor little thing, very weak, and a chunk of fluff must have stuck to the shell, because it had a bald spot. It was also enormous!

Not a looker! Poor thing was exhausted after hatching.

I left it in the incubator to dry off, but when it started playing football with the chicken egg, I decided it was best to move it to the brooder. (Fancy name for a plastic box in the garage stuffed with hay, with a heat lamp hanging above it.) It had pots of water and chick crumb, and a mirror for company. It spent a lot of time chatting to the mirror. The following day was sunny, so I decided to put it in with the ducklings for a little while. As a social experiment, it was a failure. Even though they were separated by netting, the ducklings (almost fully grown) tried to push their heads through the bars to peck it. The gosling stood up, and raised its little stubby wings in a cute imitation of the scary pre-fight warning that adult geese do. I worried it might decide to go near enough to be pecked/killed, so put it back under the heat lamp with its mirror-friend. I will try again when it’s bigger.

Sometimes a friend in a mirror is safer than real life.

Hoping the chick hatches on time, and grows big fast so they can roam the garden together. I will keep you posted.

Hope you see some friends this week, and that no one makes aggressive gestures towards you. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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*****

The Baal Cycle — a story from an ancient world

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The Baal Cycle

Here is an ancient story, from Ugarite, a civilisation that has lots in common with ancient Israel. The characters of the story are referred to during the Old Testament, because this is a tale the people would be familiar with—you might have noticed references to Baal, this is his story:

The Canaanite’s God, El, created all things. He is an old man, with a long white beard (he sat on a throne, not a cloud—but the description sounds familiar…) There is a Heavenly Realm, and El makes Yamm the king of all the gods. Yamm is a seven-headed sea dragon, known for his pride and creating chaos, sometimes called ‘Lotan’ (There is bit of a fuzzy divide between gods and monsters in some of these ancient stories. I guess they were trying to represent the things they didn’t understand with images/stories.)

Two other gods, Athtar and Baal resent this, and Baal threatens Yamm.

Baal is a young god, the son of Dagon, and his wife is Asherah (a name you might also recognise from the Old Testament).[1] He is a warrior god, he often brings thunder and lightning, and is in control of both fertility and rain. (This is particularly interesting in the light of the OT story in 1 Kings 18.)

Baal goes to Kothar, who is the god of skill and wisdom, and asks him to make two magical clubs. Baal then uses them to crush Yamm. He’s helped by his sister, Anat.

So we have Baal—thunder and lightning, defeating Yamm—chaotic sea. Baal is less chaotic than Yamm, so this is seen as a good thing.

They have a feast to celebrate (as you do) and Anat goes to ask El if they can build a palace for Baal on Mount Zaphon. Kothar (the god of skill and wisdom—remember?) helps to build the palace.

When the palace is complete, they invite Mot, the god of death to visit. (I find this is interesting, as ‘mot’ is the Hebrew word for ‘death.’) Mot says he will come, but to devour Baal, not to celebrate. Baal is defeated and killed (but not permanently, so don’t make a cuppa just yet). Anat (the sister) then fights Mot (because this is what sisters do when their younger brother is beaten up) and she manages to get Baal’s body. She kills Mot, and scatters his body to the birds (though he pops up again later, so this bit is a little confusing). During this battle, Athtart, another sister (obviously one who doesn’t like Baal so much) tries to make one of her sons king, but they all fail.

Baal and Mot then fight again (don’t ask me how, it seems ancient gods didn’t really stay dead, even when fed to the birds). Baal is declared the winner.

*****

I don’t feel the story has much traction as a bedtime story, but I found it interesting to see where some of the beliefs about Baal and Asherah came from. They pop up a few times in the Old Testament, because people tried to worship both them and God. The story seems strange/weird to our modern minds, but I guess the stories from every religion seem strange when you’re new to them.

[1] 1 Kings 14:15.

Thanks for reading. Hope you have a great week.

Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Wedding Days

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A friend of my daughter was married on Saturday, and the bridal party used our house to prepare for the wedding. This was very exciting! We spent the week before the wedding tidying the house and garden (well, to be honest, I more moved muddles into rooms they wouldn’t use than actually tidied, but most of the house looked pretty by the weekend). We ordered some decorations online. Daughter bought some lace bunting, which was very pretty. (Husband muttered about it looking like a chain of thongs, and tried to rename the kitchen ‘the knickers room’ but we ignored him.) We bought big bows, and bunches of flowers, and it was all lovely.

If you know about weddings today, you will know that this involves hairdressers and make-up people, as well as a florist and photographer. As there were eight bridesmaids, the hair and make-up experts arrived about 9:30, for a 4pm wedding. I realised that fainting bridesmaids would not be great, so had prepared pastries and fruit for brunch, and salads for lunch. I enjoy feeding people.

The bridesmaids arrived, and the air filled with hairspray and chatter. The tidy rooms were filled with bags of stuff, and a rail for dresses and a lot of shoes (I am pretty sure there were a lot more shoes than people.) I moved a plant in front of the incubator so the eggs wouldn’t be disturbed. The goose was due to hatch, but it didn’t make an appearance.

The bride has a small dog, so youngest son and partner arrived to dog-sit during the wedding. Husband spent most of the morning washing his car. This pleased me, as he had washed it the day before (apparently) and I hadn’t liked to mention that it was still very dirty. Him and son then fixed white bows and ribbons on the front. This took them longer than you might think, but it looked good by the end. All the blokes then went off to the pub for a long lunch.

I cleared up my bedroom and bathroom for the bride to change in—how exciting to see a wedding dress hanging, and a veil spread over the bed. They had a steamer, and set to work steaming the dresses to remove the creases. This is new to me, and I was terrified it would end in disaster, so left the room.

Mostly I kept out of the way, letting the young women discuss hair products and beauty tips (I know more about animals and babies). The flowers arrived—always beautiful—and we put them into the garage to keep them cool, and I prayed they wouldn’t fill up with spiders. The bouquets were in small pots of water, so before the wedding party left, I dried the stems on old towels.

A baby arrived to be fed by one of the bridesmaids. Later, I saw another bridesmaid holding her, and suggested that as she was full of milk (the baby, not the bridesmaid) she should beware of vomit. Bridesmaid clearly thought I was mad, but took the tea-towel I offered anyway. A few minutes later, I helped her to wash baby-sick off her gown.

There were a few photographs, and then it was time to leave. The bridesmaids drove off—I found their bouquets where they had left them, and put them in the boot to take to the venue. The bride and her sister sat in the back of Husband’s car, and it was all very lovely. Husband wore a nice suit, my mum was stationed by the roundabout in town ready to wave, the sun was shining, and my part was finished. I travelled with Daughter and her fiancé—and the bridesmaids’ bouquets.

The wedding was at Hever Castle, which is a beautiful venue. I felt they could have done better at keeping the castle visitors separate from the wedding party, but no one else seemed to mind. There were lots of flowers, and a string quartet, and the lake shimmering in the sunshine while the couple said their vows. Two people promising to love each other, and be faithful for the rest of their lives, is always moving. There is something distinctly right about a wedding.

I hope you have something lovely this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

No duck-poop in sight!

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The Coronation of King Charles III

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Hello, I hope you are enjoying the coronation weekend. In church this week, the service was introduced by the composer Richard Stilgoe (because he ‘knows’ King Charles). He said how both Charles and his late mother, were genuinely funny. Apparently, at a tea party with Queen Elizabeth, she picked up the teapot and poured everyone’s tea, commenting, “You see, I not only reign, I also pour!” Mr. Stilgoe also observed that if we decided to change from a monarch to a president, no one would be better qualified than Charles to take the role.

I was introduced to Prince Charles a few years ago. He might not remember.

We had a fun time on Saturday—Mum came for coffee and croissants, and we sat and watched people arriving for the ceremony while Husband made sarcastic comments. Our personal motivation was to get ideas for possible wedding outfits, as we have several weddings this year.

Orange seems to be a popular colour. There were a few big hats too—which in my view, is rather a selfish thing to wear to a ceremony where everyone will be vying for a view of the main event. I especially felt sorry for whoever was seated behind the soldier wearing the very tall helmet. Obviously he had no choice, given that it was his uniform, but can you imagine the person sitting behind him when he arrived? Not what you’d be hoping for.

Images taken from BBC One.

Some of the words were very moving—that Charles promised to serve rather than seek to be served, and that he vowed to reign before God. The ceremony was full of pomp and tradition, and there were lots of symbols that I did not understand. Especially the single glove. The Coronation Gauntlet, which I think represents ‘holding power’ as it’s used to hold the sceptre. I imagine it would be very irritating to wear a single glove, though Michael Jackson seemed to manage.

But I have to be honest, some things I found irritating. Firstly, some of the people attending did not bow/curtsey as King Charles passed them on the way out. Now obviously, some people do not recognise the monarchy—and that’s their choice—but I assume they would not then be at the ceremony. So for those attending, learn some manners, and if the monarch passes you, even if you realise at that moment that you will be on telly in your new frock—have the good manners to dip your head in respect.

Then we have the ‘Not My King’ protestors. Honestly! Get over yourselves. You have every right to not agree with the monarchy, every right to lobby your politicians, and to try to change the law. But to spoil an event that millions will enjoy? No, you need to stay at home and read a book. I’m not sure myself, if given a vote, which way I would cast my ballot—but I do respect all the people who believe the monarchy are good for the country, who serve and respect the king and for whom the pageantry is important. Personally, I dislike most sports, and would certainly not be excited by a parade of the England football team. I slightly resent that my taxes pay for the police who are necessary to keep order at football matches. But I would not go with placards and inflammatory signs and try to disrupt the parade; I do not have that right. It is both rude and ignorant, and it makes me sad that we think that ‘free speech’ means we can be as rude as we want, to whoever we want, when anyone disagrees with us.

When I am monarch, I shall make good manners obligatory.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend (and do try to be polite). Thanks for reading.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson
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anneethompson.com
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The Frying Pan Experiment

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I have several frying pans. One is a very expensive heavy pan, a Christmas gift a few years ago from my mother-in-law. It was perfect for a few months, but then every time I used it, the food stuck to the base and burnt—and it was a nightmare to clean.

I bought a couple of decent (but cheaper) pans from Lakeland. The instructions said they could go in the dishwasher, which was an added bonus. They were perfect for a few weeks, but then every time I used them, the food stuck to the bases and burnt—and the dishwasher never managed to get them properly clean.

Recently, I bought a heavy cast iron pan, which came with copious instructions (which I ignored). It was great the first time I used it, but then the food started to stick to the base and burn, and it was hard to get it clean.

You will notice a theme here.

Nothing seemed to make them better. My mother’s tip was to heat a clean pan with salt, to a very high temperature, and then wipe out all the salt and oil the pan. This improved things temporarily, but then the same problem started to occur. (I think the ‘salt method’ is good for thoroughly cleaning all the tiny pores in the metal.)

I dug out the copious instructions that arrived with the heavy cast iron pan. It said, very clearly, not to use detergent when washing the pan. I have heard this before, and seen chefs on the telly who claim to have never washed a pan in detergent. It seemed like a silly idea (because surely they would be less clean, and therefore more likely to stick). Discussed it with Husband (who does the washing up). He also thought it was silly, but eventually agreed we would try it, for a short period, as an experiment. He muttered a lot whenever there was a pan to wash.

For several weeks, we have not used detergent to wash the frying pans—just lots of very hot water and a plastic brush. I have designated one pan for ‘sweet’ food (pancakes) as the smell of onions and garlic tends to linger. But, to my surprise, food no longer sticks in the pans (unless I do something stupid like not use enough oil or get distracted and leave things to burn).

The experiment has worked. So, if you have a frying pan that sticks, I suggest the following:

  1. Wash pan thoroughly, and dry.
  2. Put salt into dry pan (enough to cover the base). Heat to a very high temperature, then scrape out while hot. I use paper towel to do this, and tip the salt onto a plate until it’s cool enough to go in the bin. (Be careful, because it doesn’t discolour when hot, so it’s easy to burn your fingers.)
  3. Rub a little oil around the pan if it’s cast iron (so it doesn’t rust).
  4. In future, wash frying pan in very hot water. DO NOT use detergent.

You’re welcome. Feel free to share the tip.

Hope you have a good week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.

anneethompson.com

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Continuing Our Mini Break in the Peaks.

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The forecast looked bad, so we left home at 8am for our morning walk. Beautiful sunshine, with dark clouds looming over the hills. We went down into Lower Bradfield, where there’s a Post Office selling coffees, and several smart-looking modern buildings, including a public toilet. There are not many public loos in the Peak District. There was also a small commemorative plaque, above what looked like a toilet, in memory of Mary Ann Smith, who was ‘God’s Gift to Man.’ Not quite sure how to read that—was she incredibly beautiful, or was it written ironically by the angry wives of Lower Bradfield? I feel there’s a story here, but not one I managed to find.*

We then followed a footpath up the hillside, and walked across the moors. We didn’t see any other people, but there were grumpy sheep sleeping on the heather in sheltered places near the stone walls. Lovely windy walk.

As we walked down the lane, towards the cottage, we saw a dead ewe, with a tiny lamb shivering next to her. Another lamb, marked with the same red number 10, was attempting to follow a ewe who looked completely disinterested. I assumed the mother of the twins had died. When we got to the cottage, we went to the owner, to ask him to phone the farmer. It’s too cold for a tiny lamb to survive for long on its own.

We had brunch at The Schoolhouse. I am assuming this was once the school, now turned into a busy cafe, with a smarter area upstairs for meals. We had Eggs Benedict, which was absolutely perfect—freshly baked bread lightly toasted, a generous slice of moist bacon, poached eggs covered in hollandaise sauce. When you’ve been on a long walk, it’s perfect food. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

In the evening we ate more delicious food. There’s a restaurant on the edge of Sheffield: Rafters, which serves taster menus. We had a six-course meal (the courses were tiny, beautiful, and delicious.) It’s an unusual place, as usually restaurants selling ‘posh food’ have ‘posh staff’ and you worry that you might make a mistake—and I always feel that really, they would prefer someone posher than me to be eating the food. But Rafters had normal people, wearing jeans and white shirts, who were efficient and friendly. The other guests all wore casual clothes too, so it was another perfect dining experience. And the seats were comfy—I do like a comfortable seat!

This morning we left home slightly later—I was tired. The weather wasn’t as good—not terrible, but cold with a slight drizzle. We walked from the cottage, up into the hills behind the farm. There’s a ridge of rock sticking up over the hill, and streams bubbling out from the ground. It was a pretty walk, through fields of cows (who ignored us) and past sheep, who watched us suspiciously. We saw the sheep farmer, and asked about the dead ewe we saw yesterday. He said the number 10 twins were fine, it wasn’t their mother who died. The dead ewe probably had lambs inside her. He said most of the ewes in the field were lambing, and he checks each day to see what has been born. Apparently it’s healthier than lambing inside because you don’t have as many germs, but more risky when the weather is as cold as it is at the moment. But his sheds are full, so the remaining lambs will have to take their chances. Farming is difficult; hard work with brutal results if the weather goes wrong. I love seeing lambs in the fields, but I’m not sure I could cope with the loses.

As we arrived at the cottage, I noticed some eggs by the road, and an honesty box. Next to the cottage are beautiful white geese, and I rather fancy trying to raise a few in the garden. The eggs were a mixture—brown ones which were obviously chicken eggs, and some large white ones, which I am really hoping are goose eggs. I bought six and will incubate them when I get home. Really, really hoping they are goose eggs. (Or dragon eggs, that would also be fun, but I understand that is unlikely!)

Hope you have some excellent food today. Thanks for reading.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Thank you for reading.

anneethompson.com

*I later discovered that the water fountain originally had ‘WATER’ written above ‘GODS GIFT TO MEN’ but a naughty person had removed it. Made me laugh.

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