Pulled pork and onesies

We are having pulled pork for lunch. It's in the slow cooker as I write, and just about beginning to release lovely aromatic fumes into the kitchen.

Here's the thing, though. I'm quite annoyed with pulled pork. When we were in the US, it was a staple, and always popular. What a lovely way to eat pork, I invariably thought. None of that sawing away at a slice of grey meat that's a little bit tough, under some gravy that might or might not taste of anything nice. So I had plans. Plans. Not for world domination, or anything like that, but for pulled pork in the UK. I was going to magic up that little number when I did a Sunday lunch for visitors, or was catering for a number of hungry teenagers. "Pulled pork," I was going to say. "It's an American thing."

But waah. Pulled pork preceded me across the Atlantic. Pigs might fly, and they obviously did. I got back to a nation already in love with pulled pork. I am so yesterday already. Even owning and using a slow cooker isn't as raunchily "ranch" as I'd thought.

The same thing happened with onesies, though my plans for those were not to introduce them and enjoy their novelty. No. I was all ready to share with my British friends a good laugh, as I described to their wonderingly unbelieving faces these ridiculous baby-gros that were being marketed to grown-ups in the US. I was looking forward to many a smug "they don't really buy them, and wear them, surely" moment, full of cultural superiority, and what do I find? The onesie had done a reverse Christopher Columbus and discovered Britain while I was away. Gaah.

What about you, fellow expats? Have there been new things that you've come across on your travels, only to find them already back in Blighty?

.

What do you do when you've nothing to do?

Even the busiest of us have times when we do nothing. Those times when we're at home, no-one else is around, or if they are, they're occupied. I'm feeling the need to have something that's my "go-to" thing. Some kind of default activity that's just there, waiting for me.

If I had a sewing room, maybe I could have a lovely patchwork quilt project (this is a secret aim of mine... not so secret, really). But I can't default to it for the odd hour here and there, if it's always going to involve clearing the dining room table and setting it all out.

I have a tapestry on the go. My children laugh at me, because I tell them how Husband gave it to me the first Christmas we were married. That's 17 years ago. It's not my speediest project.

I've long given up having houseworky projects as defaults. It's just too depressing. You never finish them all. You never have a perfect house. Better by far to accept your imperfect house and find other things to do.

I'm not going to join Facebook or Twitter, because I want a default activity, not an addiction.

There's always blogging, but... sniff... blogging is so lonely these days, now that all my comments go into people's spam filters. It's a sad, one-way conversation. It makes me feel voiceless and frustrated (please, rush off and rescue me from your spam filter, and click on the "this is not spam" option, before I give up blogging altogether).

My children spend hours petting the dog, and rubbing his tummy as he lies goofily on his back. But he is too smelly for me to want to engage in that. I do quite often walk him in an idle half hour. He's so pathetically eager and grateful, that it's easy-pickings in the "emotionally rewarding activity" stakes. But I'm looking for an indoor activity.

Half an hour is usually enough to catch up with The Archers on iPlayer, or a quick burst of something recorded on TV (an episode of Scrubs is my current fix of choice, or Downton Abbey if I have a little longer).

If I was a generation older, I would read the paper, but these days, if I buy a paper, I find I recycle it unread, while browsing the news online.

I sometimes browse recipes, and think about delicious dishes I could cook, or sweet treats I could bake. Then next time I have a window of empty time, I do cook them. Sometimes. You have to be quite organised to cook in that way.

I often write emails to friends. "Haven't been in touch for ages. How are you?" I like doing that. Or I phone my mum for a chat. I like doing that too.

I have a book on the go, but I find it hard to settle down for a read, unless it's bedtime. Why is that?

I wish I could be that person who will do just a few yoga poses, or abdominal exercises. Then I would be more toned, and less wibbly-wobbly in the midriff area. But the journey from knowing that would be a good way of spending 20 minutes, even 10 minutes, to the actual doing of it is such a very, very long road. I did buy a yoga mat. I do have yoga dvds. They are in what is called "as new" condition.

I do enjoy a quick canter round hilarious videos on Youtube, but don't tell my children. Obviously, Youtube videos are a waste of time. You don't want to grow up to be the kind of person who fritters away their time watching cats slipping on wooden floors, or dogs looking very guilty, do you? And that's what happens if you don't develop other interests. We all know that.

Writing. Whatever happened to writing? I used to do more of that.

So what about you? You're at home. You don't have anything that HAS to be done. You can do what you please. What is it you turn to?

.

Smoked haddock quiche

I have made a smoked haddock quiche tonight, which looks exactly like the picture in the recipe. That never happens, does it? Never. But it did tonight. I thought it an important fact, worthy of sharing with you. I'm not going to post a picture, because food is very hard to photograph, and it wouldn't look as nice as it looks in reality. Oh, alright then.

Those little flecks are yummy chives.

The quiche is for an indoor picnic we're going to tomorrow evening. We're on a jolly table of excellent bods, and our theme is "The Great Gatsby". Cue flapper dress, headband, feather, and shoes which were half price in Sainsbury's earlier this week and look very 1920s. I love those shoes so much I think I might have to adopt them and make them joint beneficiaries in my will with my existing three children.

Bit of a stressful evening, Bloggy Friends. Our realtor was going to closing (that's the terminology) on our house today at 10.00am Midwest time, ie 4.00pm BST. There were a couple of emails from her. One was asking where the garage openers were (clicker things, a bit like tv remotes, that you open your automatic garage door with - and just why is it, exactly, that Britain hasn't caught on to automatic garage doors? I suppose it's because we use our garages for storage and leave our cars outside them, so we're not opening the doors on a several times daily basis.) Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Two emails from the realtor. Well, I knew where the garage openers were, so that was ok. Phew. In a kitchen drawer. The second email, however, was a little more problematic. And I quote:

"One thing that I just found out about: Last night there was some hail. They are getting a roofer to look at it. I don't believe it was large enough to cause damage but I will let you know. If there is damage we would need to possibly call your insurance. I will let you know."

Well now, if that doesn't warm the heart of anyone on the brink of selling their house, I don't know what does. Actually, I do know what does. It's another email saying that they've had a roofer out, and he has given the roof a clean bill of health. The roof, incidentally, was brand new last June, because there was a hail storm seven weeks before we were leaving the country that caused so much damage that we had to have the house completely re-roofed. No mean feat to get that little baby sorted in seven weeks, I tell you. Especially as we spent the first one or two in denial and didn't even get anyone round to assess the roof damage because we couldn't face having to deal with the consequences. Sometimes I think I should go on "The Apprentice" - piece of cake, what those young bloods have to achieve, compared to moving continents.

So who knows what is happening regarding our house sale, except the money has gone into our bank account, so I guess either (a) all is well and those fabulous buyers have themselves a new house with an undamaged roof on it, or (b) the sale has stalled, but the title company set up the bank transfer in advance of closing, and couldn't stop the money going through. (a) would be best, but I'll take (b), because who the heck needs confirmation of a house sale when they are able to cook a smoked haddock quiche which LOOKS JUST LIKE THE PICTURE IN THE RECIPE?

Amen

PS I haven't forgotten that I need to report back from last week-end's camping trip.

PPS Can you have a PS after an Amen?

.

Rocket science - sorted

Look at these chocolate banana muffins! All light and fluffy and risen out of their cases. Thank you, Nigella Lawson, rocket scientist par excellence.

A good question

A question from 8-yo yesterday:

"Mummy, is rocket science difficult?"

I just said yes. I said it must be very difficult and complicated to send up a rocket into space. But it's an assumption, isn't it? I could have said "Rocket science? Nah. Any old numpty can work for NASA if they want. Baking muffins that turn out light and fluffy. That's what's really difficult."

Because that is what I find difficult. Nay, impossible.

And remembering that red wine, though delicious, doesn't agree with me. (It's an age thing, I think; this is a new problem.)

And reversing in a straight line (I'm ok manoeuvring, but I find it hard to reverse straight back).

And spelling "manoeuvring", (though I hadn't thought about that one till just then).

What about you? What do you find difficult?

.

I want the perfect muffin, or nuffin

Why can't I bake muffins? I've tried several times. They don't turn out light and fluffy, and poking over the top of the muffin case. They turn out a bit hard and a bit dry, and barely reaching the top of the muffin case. I don't do any super-healthy wholemeal recipe. In fact I've probably tried several recipes over the past few years. I don't think I can be a proper American mom until I can bake muffins (and yes, I do already make a mean apple pie).

Let's have a poll. I'm relying on you, Bloggy Friends. Don't let me down. I can't accept I have no future in muffins. You can select as many answers as you like, and/or leave me a comment with further information.

Hallowe'en

Well, one culinary triumph follows another. The Bavarian chocolate cream used 6 egg yolks, and what's a girl to do with 6 leftover egg whites?

Make meringue ghosts for Hallowe'en. That's what. And here they are.



It felt all wrong, really, because in my childhood, meringues were Christmas fare. But I thoroughly enjoyed making them, accompanied by all the memories of helping my mother make trayfuls of the things, and then sandwiching them together in pairs, flat bottom to flat bottom, with whipped cream. My mother had meringue-making down to a fine art. I loved feeling the friendly ghosts of meringues past hovering around me, as I tried my own (and no, I've never done them before, since I hear you all asking, in surprised voices - listen, I'm only 45, when would I have had time to try making meringues before now?).

If I'd been writing the recipe for meringues, instead of St Delia, I'd have said something like this: "Heat the oven to 300 degrees, but the minute you put the meringues in, turn it down straightaway, immediately, right then and there, don't forget to do that, don't get on with clearing up, and have a good looky round your kitchen cupboards for black food gel icing for the eyes, because if you leave the oven at 300 for 15 minutes before you check back to the recipe and remember that it told you to lower the temperature, the meringues will still taste fine, but they will be slightly brown, instead of ghoulishly white". Which is why I don't write cookery books, because they would probably turn out rather long. On the other hand, slightly brown ghosts are good, in these politically correct days.

Here's one who didn't make it to school for 9-yo's party, because 9-yo was fond of it, and wanted to keep it at home, all for himself.



Here are some other treats I made for the party.



The website called them forked eyeballs. Forked eyeballs, peoples, forked eyeballs. I made some with red gel icing, and some with ordinary red icing.


Husband said that the ones with gel icing were more realistic, which really begs the question: how does he know what an eyeball on a fork looks like? He also said they looked more realistic than the picture on the website, which is why I married him. Well, it's not exactly why I married him. I don't remember eyeballs on forks feeding into that decision, 16 years ago. But Husband, if you're reading this, you'll be pleased to know that forked eyeballs or no forked eyeballs, I'm glad I did. Decide to marry you. Actually, I don't think websites were even invented then.

Where was I? The eyeballs weren't all as perfectly round as these ones. Dillons (who never replied to me about my query on aseptic drinks, by the way - bad customer service Dillons!) had run out of their own fresh baked doughnut holes, so I had to use the kind that have been sitting in a packet on a shelf since May, and they were so dry that when I forked them, they tended to split in half. Some I managed to catch before they were completely split, and glue together the crack with the melted white chocolate. But I ended up using some halves, to produce oddly shaped eyeballs with one flat side. But this is Hallowe'en, and oddly shaped is good too. Might even be politically correct. I mean, why should we discriminate against people with oddly shaped eyeballs?

Dillons also didn't have any black plastic forks, which would have looked much better than clear. I am falling out of love with Dillons.

Meanwhile, on the costume front, we have been decidedly lack-lustre in our efforts. 13-yo declares himself too old for dressing up. 9-yo is sporting the same alien commander costume I purchased last year from Target. It's a long black robe, with a scary mask which won't stay on very well, so in 9-yo's case, it's a long black robe. 6-yo is a fairy, in a fairy dress that is a little small for her, but looks fine over a long-sleeved stripey top and stripey tights. Originally she was going to be the tooth fairy, as she was last year, but then she thought perhaps she'd be the candy fairy. I suggested the stripey fairy, but that was met with a certain scorn - "the stripey fairy?" - and she concluded that she'd just be a plain fairy. Which suits me just fine, because I'm all out of creative juice after my exertions in the kitchen, and a plain fairy needs no accessories.

Oktoberfest

One of the things I love about blogging is that it gives you a community of people from whom to seek advice on almost any question or problem you may have. It's like having your own personal Wikipedia.

Thus it was that when I was invited to an Oktoberfest, and asked to bring along a German dessert, I knew exactly what to do. My go-to person on German affairs (though I've never actually had any call to consult her before) is Metropolitan Mum, who writes a blog in impeccable English. I didn't know she was German for ages. Anyway, I emailed Met Mum and asked her for an idea for a very simple German dessert (Husband away this last week, and I knew I'd have no time or energy for trying out some fancy concoction). She emailed back, and suggested I give Bayerische Creme a go (that's Bavarian Cream to you and me), and sent me a link to a recipe on a website. This one, if you're interested. It didn't look too hard, and Met Mum had also sent me a link to a recipe for raspberry sauce which looked achievable, so I thought I'd give it a whirl.

The recipe involves making a creamy, eggy, sugary, milky mixture, adding gelatin to it, and then leaving it to cool. Before it sets, you fold in a comfortingly large amount of whipped cream (anything with whipped cream is going to be a success, right?) The recipe says something like "remove the milk/egg mixture from the heat and allow to cool until it begins to thicken". It doesn't say (and it surely should) "don't go off at this point and do something else like checking your emails, or putting away the laundry, or reading the newspaper, because you will probably forget the mixture for too long, and when you open the fridge, you will find it completely set and it will be TOO LATE to do anything about it". What kind of recipe leaves out a detail like that? I tried combining the stuff with the whipped cream (I use the word 'combining' because we were way past the possibility of 'folding in gently' as the recipe wanted), but the result was a clumpy lumpy mound of something that looked really very horrid (though still tasted quite nice - if you ignored the texture, and maybe there are people out there who like small gelatinous lumps in their smooth food).

So, Met Mum, Vorsprung Durch Technik and all that, I thought I'd better improvise. I spooned the lumpy mound into my blender, added a good amount of chocolate milk, and whisked the living daylights out of the stuff. It became light, fluffy, delicate, fragrant... so I quickly poured it into some white ramekins, because we all know that anything in a white ramekin looks good (I sometimes sit in one myself, just to feel better about life), and popped the re-christened Bavarian Chocolate Cream back into the fridge. Even having been whisked beyond death with the chocolate milk, it set nicely.


I'd rather lost heart by this stage, so I didn't try the raspberry sauce, but you can see that I kept the berry theme by decorating each one with a delicate slice of strawberry. You have to realise that these were going to be transported to the other side of town on the laps of assorted children, and I didn't think a flourish of whipped cream, or a dusting of cocoa powder, or a curl of dark chocolate tucked inside a sprig of fresh mint would make it.

When I ran out of ramekins, I used sherry glasses. Sophisticated is my middle name.


So thanks for your help on this one, Met Mum. Not only for the recipe, but also for your suggestion that I should wear a dirndl skirt (sadly, I didn't have one) and impress my friends by learning and performing this song.

Which I totally would have done, except I didn't want to overwhelm them with my multifarious talents, what with the Bavarian Chocolate Cream being such an unmatchable demonstration of my creative prowess.

One thing leads to another, and this whole venture made me realise that taking photographs of culinary delights is really tricky. It's a whole art. I mean, you can probably tell that my pictures just don't do justice to the triumph that was the Bavarian Chocolate Cream. Luckily, should I ever want to improve in that area (can't quite see a future in which I'll be photographing a lot of my cooking, but you never know), I can think of the ideal go-to blogging friend on that too. The blogging community isn't just a personal Wikipedia, come to think of it. It's an opportunity for a masterclass on pretty much any subject you like.

(And by the way, Met Mum, I don't speak German, so I hope that song isn't full of rudeness and obscenities. This is a family-friendly blog.)