Of boys and boats

This morning on the radio I heard the old nature v nurture argument again, and a woman who has obviously never been near a small boy was coming up with the old chestnut about conditioning. Well, having spent the weekend with three of my grandsons, brought up by gentle parents but invariably armed to the teeth with an assortment of weaponry, I would take issue with her. And we have a good example in our family: triplets, where the boy is all Boy, and the girls are, well, girls. Admittedly one of my sons could knit cable stitch when he was young, but he now designs racing cars. And yes; I'm sure there are girls who design cars, too, but I'm also sure the men outweigh the women.


We are off tomorrow, for ten days on this ship,  and I can't wait. We've been before, and it's a huge treat, but we're worth it...I think (we won't be worth much when we get back, but no matter). We might even see the sun (but will we recognise it?).

But the week-end wasn't all bad...

...because we went to a beautiful country house/adventure playground with the grandchildren, and we saw this beech tree. And beech trees in new leaf are (for me) the epitomy of spring.

(For a modest mobile phone, it takes a mean photo!)

After the lemon meringue pie, another lesson learnt

And that is: if you've had a small grandson in the back of your car, do check that he hasn't left the window open before you take it through the car wash.

I don't like car washes at the best of times. They make me sick and disorientated. And when water(?) began to put through a back window, it took me some time to close the window. Now, the back seat is soaked, and I am drenched in what could be either water, soap, or polish. Whatever it is, it tastes funny.

Other grandparents: take note.

Thrice-baked lemon meringue pie

Thanks to yesterday's little experience (see post), I have discovered a wonderful new recipe. I hope you'll let me share it with you.

Method:

Bake pastry base and fill with lemon filling

Add meringue topping, and place in very hot oven for twenty minutes. The meringue should be an even black colour.

Get someone to hold the rubbish bin and carefully remove all the burnt meringue. It should come off more or less in one piece (this part is oddly satisfying). Discard in bin.

Make more meringue, and bake for an hour in cool oven this time. The meringue should be a nice golden colour.

Voila! Thrice-baked lemon meringue pie.

Aga saga

We inherited an Aga with our house. At first I was terrified of it. You are told to use special pans, a special kettle, and learn How to Cook on an Aga. When we went to the Aga shop (to buy the special kettle), there was a daunting bunch of tweed-clad women watching another TCW demonstrating. I thought I was going to have to learn to cook all over again (and wear tweeds. And a headscarf. And green wellies. And drive a Range Rover with labradors in the back). But in fact, all that was b******s. You can use any old pan, and cook just the way you always did. The mystique surrounding Agas is all invented by the Aga people to encourage you to spend more money on  your treasure.

 

But there is a downside. Several, in fact. And one is that if you put something in the oven, you cannot smell if it's burning. You have to remember. And this evening, not only did I not remember; I put my lovely lemon meringue pie (actually, I hate lemon meringue pie, but it is loved by a visiting son) in the hot oven to finish off rather than the cool one. And it burnt. It came out looking like the kind of cowpat that might be produced by a cow fed on coal and spinach.

 

 

Phew. Now I've got that off my chest. And I still love  my Aga. I think. (But it's not clean and shiny like the one in the picture. It's not cream, either.)

On an old fashioned son, and modern technology

My eldest son said recently that everything we really need had been invented by the 1970s. He will have no truck with social networking, refuses to text, and must be the only person on the planet who has  asked (and been refused) a mobile downgrade (he now uses his wife's old mobile).

Having given this some thought, I think he has a point. I see my grandchildren glued to their little screens (when they're permitted; this son's children have very little of that kind of thing, and his eleven-year old  is the only child in his class who hasn't a mobile); young mothers texting as they walk their children to school; people tweeting what they had for breakfast; ever faster and more sophisticated gadgets...and I wonder whether we need any of it. I know computers are useful (son has one as he  has to have it for work), but we managed without them; we used to speak to each other and write to each other; proper conversations and real letters. We don't need to manage the whole house via a switch, which I gather is coming soon.

Meanwhile, everyone is "stressed" (why?), trains are filthy and crowded, meadows of wild flowers have vanished (probably beside the point, but still...)and no-one seems happy. So I've come round to thinking he's right. All the things I really need (washing machine, vacuum cleaner) were there long before 1970. Apart from a word processor (forget the computer; and I know I'm using one now, but that's because it's there), there's nothing post-1970 that I really need.

How about you?

The gas man cometh

Every year, we have our ancient boiler serviced. Every year, we are warned that we could die in our kitchen from Toxic Fumes; that we have inadequate ventilation, and are At Risk. And when the boiler has been serviced, a little sign is appended to it which reads: DO NOT USE THIS APPLIANCE (??). Sometimes, they remove the door from the ancient cat flap (we have no cat) to provide ventilation and are told that if we replace it, no-one will know (nudge, wink). And then we are advised to buy a new boiler.

A nice man from the gas board came this morning to advise. He talked of flues, and neighbours, and water drainage and "the issue of products in the property". What did that mean? we asked. Gas leaks, he said. Ah. I see. And of course, if we do have a new boiler, we would have to get permission from the listed buildings people because of outside flues etc. etc. etc.

We lost the will to listen, be interested, even CARE.

We are not going to buy a new boiler. I'd prefer to die together, peacefully, in the kitchen.

(And if you've actually read all this, you deserve a medal.)