Our Daily Bread

This is bliss. I am the only person awake and can enjoy the first cup of tea of the day in peace, uninterrupted!

I have been thinking about the new house, where to put the furniture, what curtains we shall hang, the herb garden that I will plant outside the kitchen door, the conservatory that will become the children's playroom... and the kitchen, with plenty of room for a dining table. It becomes too easy to imagine a new life, taking shape, moving on - the cupboards tidy and never bare, the children polished and never unhappy, our dog-eared realities and mundanities filed alphabetically in new glossy folders...

I had a long chat with my mother about the properties of ginger a few days ago. She likes it grated fresh into a cup of hot water. She has successfully smuggled it into warming dishes, wary of my father's nervous and pedestrian taste. It inspired me to do the same and Pork, Apricot and Ginger Casserole was concocted yesterday and served up for supper to the approval of The Husband who found it "jolly good". I hope you do too...

We were given a breadmaker for Christmas, and I finally got around to making our first loaf yesterday. Oldest Son and I sat in the kitchen last night and ate the first slice, still hot from the machine, with butter and my homemade plum and blackberry jam. Heavenly! Had I 'but world enough, and time' I might have been tempted to dispense with the technology and give it a try with my own bare hands, but when? Anyway, for a first attempt, Oldest Son and I were delighted. We ate half the loaf...

A Dog's Dinner...

Middle Son decided to have marmite and honey, together, on his toast this morning. Now I know I'm pregnant, but it actually tasted delicious, and you know I am all for culinary experimentation!

Talking of which, I have added two new recipes - Chicken Chowder, which is the ultimate comfort food and perfect for the slightly nervous cook as it is almost impossible to go wrong. Well, nearly... and there is a lot of room for experimenting with different flavours once you have mastered the basic idea. The other is a Spinach, Plum and Black Pudding Salad, an absolute doddle to put together. I always like hearing about how you get on and the variations you have tried, so do let me know!

We had the most revolting sausages for super last night. The budget was a bit tight this week, and I made the mistake of buying frozen instead of our usual fine quality ones. I was tempted by the offer of buying one bag and getting another two free. I won't be doing that again! No wonder they were giving them away... They tasted of nothing but rusk and had the texture of soggy cardboard. Even Oldest Son, whose nickname is 'Bin' for obvious reasons, didn't ask for second helpings. It just goes to show that spending money on the best quality meat you can afford is not a luxury, there are savings I could have made elsewhere with the housekeeping. Now I am left with 24 hideous things that I don't know what to do with. They'll have to be disguised in a casserole, I think. Lesson learnt.

The kettle is misbehaving. There is a loose connection somewhere and it means you have to stand with your hand on the wretched thing and wiggle it every so often or it just stops dead in its tracks. Making a cup of tea takes forever. So I have added that to the list of chores that Oldest Son must do, poor boy, along with unloading the dishwasher and taking out the recycling. Even the tots have jobs - putting their clothes in the laundry basket and lining up the milk bottles on the front step. Now, where can I find someone to cook tonight's dinner, run me a bath, and massage my aching back...?

Deliverance

The milkman is driving me round the bend. It seems that there is less call for doorstep deliveries these days, and so he is only visiting our house three times a week, instead of every morning. We have two pints a day, which means that on Saturdays he leaves me 6 pints of milk to last until Tuesday. I'm sure he is a very nice man, but my fridge is too small for all those bottles and I always end up throwing some of it away... I don't want to buy my semi-skimmed from the supermarket, but what option do I have? I want to support the local small businesses and not encourage the monopoly of the supermarket giants, but sadly the convenience of doorstep deliveries and the friendly local milkman will be relegated soon to the great dairy in the sky because it is no longer economical to continue this service. I, for one, think it is terribly sad - not least because it is a well-known fact that milk tastes so much better from glass bottles than those nasty plastic cartons...

This new life rolls within me with greater urgency now. How will my boys feel when the new life arrives?

Sexism in the City...

Yesterday I was Tired.

Today I am Tired and Angry.

Every night I am 'on call', most nights answering two or three emergency distress calls - usually along the lines of "I need you to tuck me in" or "I need a drink of water" or "The monster is under the bed - make him go away" or just "WAAaaaghhh!" Last night Smallest Son awoke in the early hours to find his finger mysteriously wedged inside his blue plastic racing car.

Every morning I am woken somewhere between between 5 and 6am. The nights in this house are fragmented and short.

But that is not why I am angry. How can I resent the needs of the children I chose to bring into this world? No, it is not that.

Yesterday, while I was cooking supper, I caught a minute or two of a televised discussion about sexism in the city, and how women who work Out There in the Big Wide World have to deal with the attitude of their male colleagues day in and day out. One side of the argument took the attitude that to get ahead, women have to embrace that culture of sexism instead of whining about it, and actually use every feminine wile in their armoury to climb the corporate ladder because Men Aren't Ever Going To Change.... The other side was appalled and urged women to jump up and down about it and sue the pants off their employers because Women Need To Change Everything...

I couldn't help it. I waved my wooden spoon in the air and shouted at the screen something along the lines of "But why is it always Women who have to do the compromising?..."

The Husband smirked. Yes, he smirked. "You're missing the point, dear," he replied calmly, "this is a discussion about Women..."

I returned to the stove. Exactly.

Then last night I read another discussion across cyberspace about the prevalence of 'domestic' blogs and the tone was dismissive to say the least. Women who stay at home obviously can't contribute Anything of Importance because their experience is limited to the trivial and mundane... In search of lighter relief I moved on to a discussion about the integrity of a woman's choice to stay at home and not Go Out To Work...

I went to bed late and grumpy.

On waking I fed the children breakfast, put in the first of the day's laundry, unloaded and then reloaded the dishwasher, sorted the clean washing into piles, made the children's beds, got Smallest Son washed, dressed and toileted, and arranged Middle Son's wooden train set to his satisfaction...

Over an hour later The Husband falls out of bed, makes coffee, smokes a cigarette, reads the paper and steps into the shower. "God, I'm tired" he yawns.

He works long hours, doesn't beat me or maintain a gambling habit or expensive mistress. And more importantly he pays the bills, as he constantly likes to remind me.

You see, I don't have a job... and thus, no voice.

Sexism in the City?

Sexism begins at home...

Bad Mother Day...

Today I was a Bad Mother.

I shouted a lot, instead of applying patient calm reasoning. I plonked the children in front of a video, instead of organising a brisk walk across the field or a cutting and sticking session with empty cereal packets and sticky-backed plastic. I bribed them with jaffa cakes, instead of insisting that they eat all their chicken soup first. I threw their clean clothes onto the floor of their cupboard and closed the door quickly, instead of folding small t-shirts meticulously and arranging in age-appropriate piles. I didn't wash behind small ears or shampoo curly heads at bathtime, instead I sat and blew soap-bubbles and sang three verses of 'Old Macdonald' while judging a 'who-can-squirt-water-the-furthest' competition.

Today I was a Bad Mother because I was TIRED with a capital 'T'.

The birthday lunch on Saturday went really well. I totally strayed from the original plan, of course, partly by design and partly by accident! There was a county-wide dearth of root ginger apparently, so the Whisky Mac Syllabub was a non-starter - I ran out of plain flour so the shortbread became sponge fingers - and I completely forgot to make the gravy, but I did make a ton of red onion marmalade, which I then completely forgot to serve! However, the haggis was good. Why do we Sassenachs tend to eat it only once a year?

Many thanks to all those who have pointed out that The Good Wife's Guide is a hoax. It did make me laugh though - scarily believable or am I terribly naive? Or feministly cynical?

Anyway, tomorrow I am resolved to be a Good Mother, but right now I am going to enjoy a large gin...

We Have Meat and We Can Eat...

Thank you all for your kind birthday wishes. It was a bit of a non-event really, but I did get chocolate cake at teatime from The Husband who had dashed into town to the supermarket at the last minute, I think! And very delicious it was too...

We have a houseful arriving for lunch tomorrow to celebrate the four family birthdays which fall this week. I thought I would do lunch with a vague nod to Burns Night which falls on 25th January, so the menu looks to be Haggis and Pork and Apple Sausages, with Creamy Garlic Mash, Roasted Butternut Squash and Sweet Potato Wedges with a Mango Glaze, Baby Spinach and Fine Beans with Pancetta and Pine Nuts, and a sweet Redcurrant Gravy. For pudding there will be my Lemon and Rhubarb Cheesecake, a Chocolate and Fruit terrine left over from Christmas, Nigella's Whisky Mac Syllabub, and a Red Wine and Raspberry dip with homemade Shortbread. Well, that is the plan, and depending on how the children behave today and how much 'help' they offer, we will see how much actually gets done!

Virginia Woolf wrote that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is going to write." Sadly, I do not have the first and my study has become the general dumping ground for everything that hasn't found a home anywhere else in the house... The boxes of Christmas decorations are piled in the corner where they were thrown on Twelfth Night because I couldn't face the bother of taking them up to the loft. An assortment of children's toys litter the floor, the Welsh dresser is stacked with piles of newspapers for recycling, and my desk positively groans under cookery books that need to go back to the kitchen and trays of correspondence which One Day I will get around to filing. Today I must sort through everything as I suspect this "Room of My Own" will become a make-shift bedroom tomorrow.

Every time we move house I promise myself that I will become More Organised - that I will develop a proper filing system for all my notes and research, that I will have pots of pens and trays for papers neatly lined up on my desk, that my books will be alphabetically arranged, that this will be the year I Write The Bestseller... No doubt I will make all these promises again when it is time to up-sticks and transfer our chaos into the new house. It looks as if we will be moving around the time that Number Four is due to arrive, so things might get a little complicated! I wouldn't mind knowing exactly where I'll be delivering this one - I hope that we will still be here so the lovely carpets in the new house won't be under threat... But as Rabbie himself said "The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley". Very a-gley in our case.

The Green Bean admiration was short-lived, with Middle Son announcing yesterday that he thinks they are "S'gusting!", so we had chicken in a creamy parmesan and lemon sauce with linguine for supper, with fresh tomatoes which are also "S'gusting" apparently.

Kitchen Talk

Saturday was a busy day. In the morning, we bought a house - as you do - and in the evening we had friends to supper as it was The Husband's birthday. We sat down to slow-cooked lamb with garlic and rosemary; charlotte potatoes roasted in their skins with figs; red and yellow peppers with feta and pine nuts; and a warm salad of baby spinach and fine beans in a mustard and honey dressing. Pudding was a Bailey's tiramisu, and an awful lot of cheese and port.

So many people have emailed to say that my simple Shepherd's Pie recipe encouraged them into the kitchen, some for the first time! It is so good to hear, and I have added two more recipes which are equally as easy and just as delicious. I have kept them simple and have offered some taste alternatives, and tried to be a little more specific about quantities - but as I usually chuck things together depending on mood, feel free to tinker accordingly! One is just perfect for a quick lunch - Creamy Bacon and Mushroom Muffin - and the other makes a great family supper - Sausage, Lentil and Apple Casserole. Do let me know how you get on.

Today is my birthday. I'm trying not to think too hard about it...

Smallest Son has taken to sleeping the wrong way round in his cot, but having insisted on that alteration, now seems more than happy to be tucked in and drifts off like a dream. Middle Son has developed a taste for green beans, which I am encouraging. Oldest Son is having a tricky time at school, complicated by the arrival of a pretty new girl in his class...

Life goes on...

The Good Wife's Guide

I absolutely hooted when I read this - perhaps it explains where I am going wrong! Thank you to my lovely sister-in-law for bringing it to my attention. I have copied it here so we can all measure our inadequacies or at least breathe a sigh of relief at how things have changed. I particularly thought Kathleen might stifle a giggle at this one...


...from 'Good Housekeeping Magazine', 13th May 1955

THE GOOD WIFE'S GUIDE

• Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious dinner ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favourite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.
• Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. he has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
• Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
• Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.
• Be happy to see him.
• Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him but the moment of is arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
• Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late, or goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure.
• Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. have a warm or cool drink ready for him.
• Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
• Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement or integrity. remember he is the master of the house and as such will always excercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
• A good wife always knows her place.

Real Life

I can feel a rant coming on. It has been brewing for a couple of days since I read in the paper that Anthea Turner is making a new programme about how to be a perfect housewife, a domestic goddess...

This new cult of domesticity is potentially quite damaging for women, as far as I can see. I've said it before in A New Domestic Goddess, and in The Happy Housewife and Domestic Blitz but isn't the pursuit of domestic bliss just another stick for women to beat themselves with? Can we realistically compare ourselves to Nigella or Anthea or Rita? Are they really the best role models to aspire to?

Now don't get me wrong - while I am realistic enough to know, without any doubt in my mind whatsoever, that being a housewife is not up there on the list of the World's Most Glamourous and Sexy Jobs (and no amount of Nigella or Anthea or Rita is going to convince me otherwise), if someone offered me the same money that those domestic 'icons' have made through their pontificating, I know I'd don a clean apron (that's the give-away) and spend it on hiring the same army of cleaners, nannies, stylists, gardeners, and housekeepers, that those women use -with a glad heart. Idealistic I may be but stupid I am not!

Anyway - back to real life. Smallest Son let me tuck him in at bedtime without a peep and went straight to sleep - the stock-pot is simmering on the stove with yesterday's chicken bones ready for soup tonight - my bump is now so enormous that I haven't seen my feet for weeks - and the dishwasher is not behaving itself...

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This...

I don't like Mondays one bit. The dirty laundry is piled high, as are the dishes from Sunday evening's roast dinner. The week stretches out ahead with all the meals to plan and the shopping to do, and my inbox is full of emails offering miraculous ways of obtaining a larger penis...

Smallest Son's bedtime routine is proving very successful. He still grumbles and has fallen asleep standing up at the end of his cot on occasion, but at least he has got the message - bedtime means bedtime and no amount of complaining loudly or turning those puppy-dog eyes on me will make a jot of difference! Last night's performance took just ten minutes so despite feeling utterly heartless at times, I think we have come to an understanding...

When we sat down to dinner on Sunday night - roast duck with a creamed roast-garlic mash and port and redcurrant gravy - I was struck by how our taste memories are triggered by evocative smells. For a second I was transported back fifteen years to a poky little unheated house in the depths of winter, where sitting cross-legged on the floor, in front of the open door of the gas oven, I shared garlic bread with a gentle hairy biker with grey-blue eyes.

It got me thinking about how we associate certain meals with certain times in our lives, with special events or special people. Being asked to do some of the catering for my grandmother's wake was an honour and a headache. I desperately wanted to do her justice, but found the cold chicken with grapes in a tarragon and cream sauce was ruined - having no room in the fridge the dishes were left outside in summerhouse, in the cold of the February night, and they set like stone...

I remember being wooed by a man who brought strong turkish coffee and organic strawberry ice-cream to my bath; eating duck-breast with plum and red onion marmalade in a tiny Cotswold pub with a painter and decorator obsessed with the Roman Empire; a simple picnic with oozing brie, crusty bread and soft juicy peaches on the bank of the River Isis while being read the poetry of John Donne; sharing sickly baby-pink candy-floss on a shingle beach with a geography lecturer; still needing fish fingers with cheese sauce and mashed potatoes and tinned sweetcorn when I am ill, because that is what my mother used to bring to our sick-beds...

What will my children's taste memories be?

If they had their way, I suspect only one would matter - chocolate, courtsey of Mr Cadbury.

Salad Days?

It seems a little early to be 'nesting' but I had an overwhelming urge to organise cupboards yesterday. What a load of junk we accumulate! There is something so therapeutic about clearing out the clutter and starting the new year with a clean slate, so to speak. I also had a burning desire for salad yesterday - probably the result of too much Christmas pudding - so supper was baked potatoes with a cherry tomato and crispy bacon salad.

I have added a salad of Smoked Fish and Quail's Eggs to The Happy Housewife's Recipes, which hopefully will appeal to anyone else who is feeling the post-Christmas-expanding-waistline-blues. It is so easy to prepare, full of wonderful textures and tastes and is somehow comforting while pretending to be quite healthy. You could of course be sensible and leave out the butter and oil and dressing altogether...

Bedtime Blues

Smallest Son is in my bad books. It was his first session at nursery yesterday, a momentous occasion, and I was a little nervous for him. He will only attend for two afternoons a week, but his brother, Middle Son, has not found nursery particularly easy being of a shy and nervous disposition, so I was a little apprehensive that it might be difficult - even though they will be together. Well, I need not have worried - without a backward glance Smallest Son took off to explore the toys on offer, stopping only to kiss a little girl who said hello, and to remove his right shoe. I was ridiculously proud. However, I think his first triumphant stab at independence went to his head because he was insufferable for the remainder of the day! Bedtime is 7pm, and he yelled blue-murder for two and a half hours. I followed my usual strategy (which luckily I rarely have need to implement) of leaving him for 10 minutes, then tucking him back in with a firm "Goodnight". The second time I left him for 20 minutes, then half an hour and so on, but he is a persistent little so-and-so, and I found myself drawn into a discussion (much against my better judgement). "It is time for bed!" I said sternly at one point. "But I don't want it!" Smallest Son replied, his desperate sobs catching in his throat. Oh Cruel and Heartless Mother. I persisted, though not without a little nail-biting on my part, and he finally fell asleep, clutching his Bunnit, one arm extended through the bars, still imploring even in his slumbers.

The thing is, I know too many parents who have made a rod for their own backs by allowing their children to either come downstairs for a cuddle when they wake, or even worse, to get into Mum and Dad's bed for the rest of the night. One only has to watch any episode of "Supernanny" to see where that kind of 'giving-in' gets you. I know of one couple who have not spent a night in the same bed together for six years, because each parent now sleeps with one of their two children in separate rooms. I have followed the same harsh and inflexible tack with both the oldest of my brood, and bedtimes have never been an issue...yet. Smallest Son has thrown down the gauntlet - let battle commence!

It isn't easy though, I would never say it is easy. But I don't think being a parent is supposed to be, is it? My children didn't come with a book of instructions (or 'destructions' as Oldest Son would call them) - one muddles through as best you can, relying heavily on the model one's own parents set. Now there is a woman with a backbone of steel - my dear mother. And her mother before her, who raised six children alone after the death of her husband, and went on to love her 22 grandchildren with the same firm Irish blend of gentle warmth and matriarchal discipline. When I feel my backbone starting to quiver, I will tie my gingham apron strings more tightly and look to my housewifely heritage.

Now talking of aprons, I am delighted to have received a very kind offer by my new friend Pinny Pinafore who having read my post A Gingham Pinny (January 2005 archive) has offered to make me my very own. I must also say thank you to Pinny for a very flattering mention on her site. She is quite an inspiration, even an education, on many levels! I wish her, and her partner Em, my congratulations and very best wishes for their forthcoming nuptials on Saturday.

Keep On Keeping On...

I have been overwhelmed by all your kind comments! It is heart-warming to know that The Happy Housewife has struck a chord with so many of you. There are days - today has been one of them - when it would be all too easy to give up on the traditional values that anchor me to my family, times when serving up a microwaved tray of gloop in front of the telly, allowing the children to go to bed whenever they please without a bath and a story, downing a bottle of gin... times when all of these seem like attractive and even sensible options! But of course I resist - and that is made easier knowing that I have your support. Thank you. Thank you very much.

After only taking Christmas and Boxing day off, I think The Husband felt duty-bound to spend New Year's Eve with me, so he arranged a babysitter so I could join him at the pub for a few hours! I am grateful for small compromises... Actually, I really dislike New Year's Eve! Does anyone else find it so terribly depressing? It serves only to remind me what castles I still haven't built, what mountains I still haven't climbed, and what masterpieces I still haven't written... gosh - what a lot of negatives! It also makes me re-evaluate the course my life is taking in more practical ways. I am resolved to Think More Positively...

Just before Christmas I landed a regular column in a local magazine - my first assignment was a look at the government guidelines on a national curriculum for the under 5's. It seemed to be well received and my second assignment looms. As all my children have been born at home through choice, the editor has asked me to write about homebirth as an option for women. Number 4 will also be delivered at home, and as the time creeps ever closer, I realise how soon my household routine will once again have to be rejigged! The Husband will have to make his customary trip to the builders' merchants for a roll of industrial-strength plastic sheeting in February, which will be stored in the shed for The Big Day. The children will have to be found a bolt-hole to escape to, while the new arrival does his (or her?) arriving. Perhaps I should start filling the freezer now? But I digress...

I also landed an assignment for an Interiors magazine on the culinary history of our Christmas traditions - which was fascinating to research, and a great excuse to mention the eccentric matriarchs in my family who have passed their kitchen wisdom down the generations. A new student website commissioned me to write two articles about cooking on a budget and to devise 15 recipes for their readers, which I duly did (curried popcorn, anyone?). So the ball is definitely rolling...

As for the great masterpiece - well, watch this space!

Just for the record, it was a difficult day, but I don't have a microwave so we had spicy sausage, chorizo and chick pea casserole for supper, the children did have a bath followed by Bear Goes To Sleep and Other Stories, and I have drunk three glasses of sugar-free blackcurrant squash topped up with soda-water.

And The Husband has telephoned to say he is coming home early. The Power of Positive Thinking...

A Culinary Christmas

Well, thank God it's all over for another year. Actually, the whole festive thing went quite well considering... I was super-organised for once, and did all my Christmas cooking a month in advance (even down to the peeled and blanched vegetables, and the bread sauce with thyme) which meant I only had to remember to defrost everything on Christmas Eve. The only slight spanner in the works was the turkey. Having watched the most horrendous documentary some years ago about turkey farming, I have insisted on an organic bird for the last few years which my butcher - the lovely Alistair - gets for me. But it is always enormous and of course I hadn't thought exactly how it was going to fit in the oven - as this is the first year I haven't cooked Christmas lunch in the big catering oven at the pub. Luckily it fitted, but with absolutely no room for anything else!

Anyway, while the defrosting was in progress, Christmas Eve saw a traditional supper of fish - this year, crab and prawns in a dill and mustard dressing on lightly toasted muffins - followed by the dressing of the tree. As The Husband always works on Christmas Eve, it has become something of a family custom for Oldest Son and myself to decorate the house when the youngest are in bed. Before they go upstairs, we leave Father Christmas some supper on a tray (a pint of beer, a mince-pie and a satsuma - and of course a carrot for Rudolph) and pin up the stockings in a line (luckily they are still too young to ask how Father Christmas can gain access to a house with no chimney). Once they were safely tucked up, we set to with tinsel, fairy lights, an ecclectic accumulation of baubles, and the holly and ivy and branches of greenery that we had collected from the woods behind the house in the afternoon. I did some last minute present-wrapping with a glass of red wine while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and tried not to mind that The Husband would fall into bed much the worse for Strong Liquor long after I was asleep.

Everyone piles into our bed on Christmas morning for the Opening of the Stockings, and I was suitably impressed and surprised by Father Christmas's offerings to me this year. Chocolate, smellies, tea and a giant mug - perhaps he notices more than I give him credit for! Seeing the children's faces as they saw the house in all its Christmas glory, made the lonely evening so worthwhile. And Father Christmas had eaten his supper! Breakfast follows, still in pajamas - smoked salmon, barely scrambled eggs with cream and chives, and croissants.

Freshly-scrubbed boys forced into newly-ironed shirts have to wait a minute or two more while the turkey, with pancetta, herbs and cream cheese stuffed beneath the skin, gets crammed into the oven and then we can open the champagne and the presents. As usual, Smallest Son was more impressed with the empty boxes and paper - it does make you wonder why we bother... actually, I kept a firm grip on the purse-strings this year and the two youngest got a plastic steering wheel, furry animal slippers and a jigsaw, both exactly the same so there were no arguments and the bank manager will be delighted! I had the obligatory cookery-book and more silver charms for my bracelet which were safe bets, but no less welcome. But The Husband excelled himself with my main present. My lovely retro radio which is permanently tuned to Radio 4 died some time ago and I had wanted to replace it with something on which I could both listen to The Archers and play cd's. Not only did he find me a neat little machine which does both, but he included the soundtrack to The Sound of Music which I confess is my favourite sing-while-you're-cooking choice! Oldest Son was horrified, needless to say, but I warbled my way through "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?" and "The Hills Are Alive" while trying to make the brussel sprouts a little more digestible. (A lot of butter, black pepper, crispy pancetta and pine nuts is the answer.)

We did the decent thing and spent two hours at the pub in our capacity as friendly local Landlord and Landlady, doling out mulled wine and mince pies to the regulars, while I tried not to worry about whether the turkey would be spoilt and how much chocolate the children were consuming. Lunch was fine, in fact, and the addition of apricots and pine nuts to the sausagemeat stuffing worked well, the spicey red cabbage in apple juice was good, and the Christmas Pudding with orangey-brandy butter was excellent (even though I am the only one who eats it!) - but it was all quite exhausting. It is so tempting to spend a fortune at Waitrose on ready-made stuff, I think that every year - but I just know I'll be doing it all again come December, like my mother does, and her mother before her. Perhaps the hour and a half I spent with my hands in the sink at teatime took the gloss off my culinary triumph...

Anyway - Happy New Year to you all, and thank you for the lovely messages you sent at Christmas. Thank you also for your continued support - you make being a Happy Housewife easier to bear...