Poppalina

Parkin

Cook Suse's parkin.

Trust me on that one.

History of Parkin can be found here.

And what a rich and extensive one it is.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's hot

Nothing left to do but drink these, with a double shot of espresso,

And faff vaguely about the kitchen, the one cool room in the house (upstairs is just incredible. We can forget about sleeping up there for the next week).

Try not to go out if it can be avoided. It was 32 degrees (or 90 degrees Farenheit) when I left for yoga at 5.30am.

Spend an afternoon musing on the possibilities of a silk/cashmere interpretation of Alison's Sumidity.

Hmmmm....

So, let me get this straight: yoga in the morning, drinking iced coffee and browsing knitting patterns in the afternoon.

As my mother often reflected, reclining on her own, personal tanning rock on the Yarra, in the days when bathers were redundant and the sun still felt good on your skin.....

I wonder what the rich people are doing?

Midnight Black Diamond Plum

I shit you not.

There is a plum named Black Diamond.

How groovy is that?

A huckleberry is NOT a blueberry

Huckleberries - although a lot like blueberries - are actually a different bird. Huckleberries grow mainly in the pacific northwest (Seattle) area whereas blueberries are the northeast (Maine) and midcoast (New Jersey) areas. I think Huckleberries are generally smaller and sweeter than blueberries even though they are quite similar. This is my experience, anyway, for what it's worth. My question is, what the hell do you all down under call a sweater? I'll start using your term here and we'll call it an even trade! And your jam...I'd be willing to bet it's better than sex.

Thank you, Sarah, for clarifying that. I was already onto my mistake, thanks to the culinary bible that is Joke. My embarrassment is offset, somewhat, by the fact that people delurked to comment - always a nice thing - but compounded by the disappointing realisation that it's unlikely that I will ever taste a huckleberry (sigh).

Never mind. For the record, we call sweaters jumpers - because that's what they are, y'know, like, really warm things to wear when you feel the need to jump. And blueberry jam, while maybe not better than good sex, is almost as good, and is most definitely better than bad sex.

Not that I'd know, of course.

More exciting adventures in jam-making

I believe they're called huckleberries, in the Land of the Free. And although we've converted to US names for so very many things - my daughter now bakes cookies and she can't find her sweater as she runs out the door - when it comes to fruit, we are Children of the Empire still, and refer to them as blueberries.

I have to admit, though, huckleberry is a marvellous word.

5 punnets of blueberries gets you three precious jars of jam. That's about 10 bucks a jar, all up. I call that expensive.

So, is it worth it?, I hear you ask.

Um.....(speaking with her mouth full, can't take her anywhere)....

Yeah.

Fuck, yeah.

Where Shula muses stickily...

Strawberry jam, while undeniably lovely,

Is not a patch on raspberry, which is fabulous (though expensive and a lot of work for not much return).

But apricot, though pretty and delicious, is such an utter bastard to cook that I can't even look at it for awhile afterwards. I fuss, and watch, and stir like a Woman Possessed, but it always manages to stick to the bottom of the pot. Shits me to tears. See those little specks?

Dammit.

Having said that, I always make plenty of apricot because, come next mid-Winter, I know I'm going to be very glad I did. Nothing chases the Winter blues away like a jar of homemade apricot jam. Well, except maybe a bottle of Irish Whisky, and then you have to pay...

And, of course, the best part of all this is that I get to eat generous quantities of said jam as I produce it.

We take Quality Control seriously, here at Chez Poppalina.

Things to do When you Should be Doing Something Else #56

Bake cranberry and chocolate muffins with spelt flour.

And then eat them, steaming hot, with a cup of tea and the paper.

Inspired by a post (with recipe) by Tiny Happy.

Hot Cake

A Good Day is when you have both the time and the presence of mind to bake a chocolate banana cake.

And when there are no grownups around to tell you not to eat it all at once.

When it comes to hot cake, there are no grownups here, I can assure you.

Or ladies, either, for that matter.

A Force of Nature

No time for breakfast this morning,

We had A Date With The Folks.

I flew east, grabbing giant platters of Lebanese sweets from Balha's in Coburg, while Gillian covered the South with chocolate babka from Aviv, in Elsternwick. We couldn't decide who had the better haul, but did agree that we both had Very Discerning Taste in cake.

Down to the Bellarine Peninsula drove The Tribe, singing loudly and in various states of tunefulness to Abbey Road, to meet up with More Tribe, whereupon we devoured our bodyweight in cake with lashings of hot tea and much talking over the top of one another.

A violent storm broke over the house, raging above us for the rest of the afternoon, but we ate and talked on, barely noticing. Zeus himself would think twice before messing with this crew, and although men, from time to time, have attempted intervention, all have subsequently come to ghastly and mysterious ends.

I, personally, would advise against it.

When it was finally time to go, we waved our arms airily, the storm cleared, and home we drove, this time to the rough mixes from Sarah's new album, and more singing, though perhaps just a smidge more subdued this time. Which was good, because I thought my head was going to explode.

And now, having been the Nominated Driver (ie. Possessor of Coolest and Most Comfortable Car, with Excellent Seats and 6-stack CD Player), and poorly constituted for industrial levels of conversation, these days, I'm heading for bed, before I drop dead from exhaustion.

ps. A camellia on Sarah's kitchen table, this afternoon.

Spring Cleaning

Is not high on my list of Favourite Things To Do.

But armed with a fortifying breakfast,

I took a deep breath,

and performed that particularly icky (and spidery) number, the Cleaning of the Garage.

And now I look like someone from the cast of this:

which should give you some idea of how badly it needed doing.

Coming soon....

The Bit Where Shula Takes a Long Bath.