chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies

I don't love talking about politics, not here or anywhere else. I also don't love valentine's day. But I think, considering everything that's going on right now, that it's a bit hard to miss the irony. I walked into the store the other day and looked at the news stand at the front. The newspapers, headlines to the back page, filled with hate. Hate from the people for a campaign that's built on it; the words of its supporters. People killed, families torn apart. The shelf next to the papers, the valentine's cards. The pinks and reds and roses, telling husbands and wives and friends you love them.

I don't propose we all start to love everyone, because we don't all live in some fair trade commune in southern Philadelphia. Maybe we need to rethink about how we think about love. Perhaps it's been over complicated. Perhaps we should just dumb it down to acceptance and quiet respect. Not even acceptance, just tolerance. That there will be people who don't want to celebrate valentine's day. That there'll be girls who want to show off their hair and others who'd prefer to keep it covered. That there are happy families with parents who never married and content kids with parents who married in a church. That there are some guys that love toting guns and driving tractors and there are some who curate art and live in lofts with exposed brick.

Maybe it's because we're actually scared. Maybe have good reason to be. Maybe we're not as accepting as we thought we were. Maybe it's because fewer and fewer families are actually composed of a mother, a father, two kids, a dog, a suburban detached house with a double garage and a toyota. Maybe the acceptance of change is on the outside. Maybe we did it because it's the cool thing to do, to feign openness; maybe it became trendy. Maybe, deep down, we cling to tradition. The tradition that love is romance, or perhaps duty to care. For soul mates, your children, a sibling. Maybe it's what we were taught. We grew up watching TV shows were people give each other candy hearts and pink cards and wait breathlessly for the popular boy to ask them to the dance. But maybe things have changed. Maybe now there are people getting hurt, pushed aside, loosing opportunities. And there's no moral high ground. You know how you read everywhere, every day, that we can't go on eating processed wheat and sugar because it's just not modern? Not sustainable. Not healthy. People have seemed very happy to jump off the ship of what health food once was, into a very stormy sea and onto a very shaky lifeboat that is what eating well has now become. In the same way, maybe love as it once was isn't sustainable, healthy or modern. Would we abandon our ship of chocolates and slinky black dresses and acceptance being cool? Watch the sinking of the concept with which we're comfortable? People will moan that we have jumped ship and that I said it myself. That we're not all married in churches anymore, we're ok that some people don't marry at all, some of us are hipsters these days. But love was simply supposed to keep people afloat, stop them from getting hurt, stop the coldness. Whatever we've done, then, is far from love.

On the one hand we've hijacked the concept. Not just that it's cool to claim tolerance. The number of bloggers and social media people who sign off with a 'love you friends'. People ask you in class whether you know the funny guy, and you're supposed to say 'him? I love him! he's so funny'. We're supposed to love our friends, right? So is this our broader, trendy definition? If it is, why I am I so put off by saying that I 'love' the neighbours? They're fine, but to say I love them would be going a bit far. Because, like everything else, we've taken love out of context sometimes, when kicking the tradition is cool and ok, detached. On the internet, it goes out to too many people to really think about. The funny guy? He'll never find out you said that.

Your friends? Well, maybe, you love them in a way. If love can encompass actual, quiet tolerance of individual quirks, warmth and acceptance, then it's there. Acceptance of differences and that you'll never see some things the same way, that your values and priorities might even clash. Maybe it's just not been something people think about. That love could be much simpler than the marriage-or-not debate, than a cold analysis of the number of broken families, and a whole lot more simple than dinner dates and bouquets. More rational than trying to make acceptance the new in thing. Maybe it could just be letting people walk down the street without feeling unsafe; or being able to take public transport without funny stares or being asked where you're from. Maybe we do love our friends because we put up with all their eccentricities, like we do our own family. Tolerance for differences has always been there, as part of love, in our living with kids and siblings and soul mates. Maybe we can stretch that out a bit - just the tolerance, to all the people around us. The hate has evolved, maybe it's time that love does too. It's not love as we know it. But then it's not just candy hearts and popular boys and the world as they said it was, either.

But there are cookies and there will be cookies as long as I'm around :) since I posted the house loaf cake a few weeks ago, I now present the house cookie. I pretty much sum up its amazingess in the recipe header but seriously. So good. Rye flour isn't bitter as you may have thought, it's actually quite mild if used with sweet, rich goodies (cherries, hi) and the cocoa really highlights the beautiful colour. The little flecks of oatmeal add some chunky texture and the cherries are so moist and sweet. They'll be a bit more puck-like than regular cookies because of the oil but still. So good. To share, on Valentine's Day. Whether with your little loved crowd or a bigger crew. treat yourself. Big hugs and cookies for you all xx

Ps. I would've made something for any doggie loves you have but Prune is meant to be on a diet (!!!!) so you could make these if you'd like, my monkeys are crazy about them.

[kindred-recipe id="2128" title="chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies"]

blackberry & ginger spelt scones with honey (dairy free)

I have a feeling that if I just started writing about my life in this space that my very, very small band of readers would desert me, like I desert me when I start writing randomly about my life. Or if I just started a post talking on and on about the recipe to maximise search engine hits by chucking in the key words 3000 times. Scone scone scone scone. They try for subtlety which makes things worse , because once you've read the recipe title three times in the main body, it's a bit hard to miss it. Then I don't need a discussion about how 'every one needs another chocolate chip cookie recipe' or a novel as to how the first time they used too much leavening. Or their justification for making and eating a whole tray of brownies. 'I'm just listening to my body', they say. Go for it! I tell them, but I'm not listening. Anyway. If it ever becomes any of those here; if I bore you with an in depth discussion of spelt flour or I start giving reasons for the extra bar of chocolate that ended up in my green salad just let me know, ok?

Which group do I fall into? I just write... what's in my head, I guess. And it looks like my head is a very chaotic place. I've kept journals all my life. I used to write two pages a day, now it's come down to one every other day, if I remember. But sometimes the writing cleans things up. It's like taking a charger or a cable out of a cupboard and detangling it, in the mess there's purpose and clarity. My blog is a bit of a journal, which is why it's such a jumble.

Do you ever just look at the sky? Perhaps it depends on where you live. Maybe you look out to sea? I used to, when we first moved to Norfolk and we stayed by the beach. I could stand for ages on the cliff, in the wind, Prune girl sitting beside me. The sea was often gray, there'd be a halo of light in a slim parting of clouds, North Sea trawlers patrolling the horizon. But we moved inland, into deep rural Norfolk where there is... fulfilling emptiness. So much of so little. All fields and skies. I can look up and I can look across. At the chimney smoke rising from farmhouses in the valley. At the gaunt bodies of the winter beech, at the shine of frost on fallow fields. When there aren't fields, when there isn't the ocean, there's always the sky, for space and perspective.

Because there are some thoughts that no amount of writing can ever untangle. They are so tightly coiled and knotted and messy and heavy. The fields and the sea are good but the sky is better because it's sometimes black and cold, sometimes blushing pink and powder blue. There are birds; the bass chorus of migrating geese, the sweet songs of blackbirds, the doves who are the delicate harp. Sure, the sky doesn't hold answers, it can't get into that tangle of thoughts but it's empty and there's space where that coil can straighten itself. People tell me that I can so clearly put into words what I'm thinking, which is sometimes true; I'd rather write to you to apologise or to say thanks, because what I can write is with more meaning than I could speak. But still I laugh because I wish that I could neatly organize what's in my head and write it all down. If only my thoughts were as simple as punctuated sentences. What I think is more like this post. An abstract mess. Sometimes the chaos is worse than other times and I tell myself to remember that the stars I'm seeing, they're no longer alive, and they're little puddles of light. Apparently there's hot blood flowing through me, so surely somewhere inside there's light.

I still haven't answered my own question. How do I write, what do I write about? My bed is under the big window of my tiny room and when I lie awake, thinking, I can see the stars. It's something for which I'm grateful. Till I moved here, to this tiny blip where the country meets the sea, I'd never seen so many. At night, here the sky is white, not black. If you look at one spot of darkness, a thousand more stars will emerge, some tiny, others huge. I've never really found any constellations, the stars seem scattered and oddly placed, perhaps confused. I miss them on cloudy nights when the skies seem quiet and dark, but so often the morning will dawn clear and a few odd specks will be there; three stars in a tidy row, aligned with the moon. I write because maybe it'll straighten out those thoughts, they'll align, and light up the darkest patches of my head.

As I said in the first paragraph I'm actually really sorry that I can't seem to construe a normal post. Like just something down to earth and chatty, like other bloggers... but literally if I was just writing about the day to day, it would be an expletive filled passage about university, so I'd rather leave you with some abstract stuff that you (and I) can spend the rest of the week deciphering. Scones with a side of rambling! Just what you asked for. Two options: cut out the rambles and skip down to the recipe which is pretty damn good, or check back here in 20 years time when I have some incredible career and some sort of mental clarity. Ok. So scones.I was looking through my (tiny) recipe archives and I saw only one scone recipe. Only one! And I love them so much. So I knooooow they're nothing like the real deal since they're practically dairy free and they're wheat free but that actually makes them much less high maintenance. Yogurt instead of butter means no need to keep them cold, and the low gluten of spelt flour means they stay very tender and crumbly without worrying about over working the dough. Putting all the berries in the middle may seem odd but stops them sticking to the baking sheet and burning, and the color and sweet jaminess is such a great surprise. And obviously blackberries + ginger + honey is an amazing combination of a fiery kick, tartness and gentle sweetness. Especially if you grate your finger on the microplane while handling the ginger! So don't do that ok it hurts. And blood etc. I was probably too busy thinking. Anyway these are really very simple so I really encourage you to try them, they'll make someone and yo'self really happy. Thanks for putting up with me! You guys are the best.

[kindred-recipe id="2059" title="blackberry-ginger spelt scones with honey"]

Bangalore

There were white towels hanging on the clotheshorse; they looked even brighter against the pale cream walls. There was a new toothbrush by the sink, an unopened tube of toothpaste. Two lip balms by the bedside table. Moisturizer that was infused with coconut oil. My feet made a familiar slapping sound, skin on the heavy marble tiles of the staircase, I remembered to put all my weight on the arm holding the dark wood bannister and swing my legs down the steps. Grandma had bought the yogurt I’d always eat, they always remember, from the towels to the yogurt. I sat at their dining table, wicker chairs, grandpa turned on the TV. 6:30pm. It was dark out, the lights were glowing amber, moths fluttered and cast shadows on the walls of the patio. I listened. To the whirring fan overhead. To the chit-chat of Tamil television from the living room, the neighbors’ kids ringing bicycle bells. A car reversing; in India the parking sensors sing. A pressure cooker, a tomcat on the wall. Stillness, the warmth of day dwindling. Grandma moving steel dishes, looking for the sambar.

7:00pm. I’d seen upstairs, in the room that used to be mine, the notebooks were still there. From that year I’d lived in this house. The year I would sit, at 7pm, studying geography or biology, math running through my head. An odd, out-of-body feeling, I wasn’t sure if perhaps tomorrow, I should be back in the car going to school. I needed to go sort my tie and find the wretched leather belt. Check facebook, see what I missed. But that was three years ago - facebook and school. The problem with this house, with this place, was that it was so deeply caked in memories, every thing was a time suck. The house was big, too big for my grandparents really, with high ceilings. Grandma had planted succulents in little terracotta pots; the Dutch clogs that were a gift from dad years ago, grandpa had cleaned the photos on the walls. You’re home, the grandparents said to me, feel at home. Straight away, I did.

6:30am. AC running, the room was cold. Barefoot on the colder tiles, mosquito net over the windows, the balcony beyond. Bougainvillea cascaded over the tiles of the neighbor’s roof in a rich swathe of riotous pink ; pine trees and coconut palms fluttered slowly, like wings of a bird in to land. The sky was coral, fading somewhere to peach, elsewhere to blue, the moon a skinny crescent over the rooftop. I could hear the morning activity downstairs; grandma and grandpa are up so early they could run a racing stable. The steel vessels were filled with water, grandpa sat in his chair, reading the BBC on his I-pad. The air smelled fresh, a dog was barking, the place was coming to life. The cleaning ladies were out with their coconut-branch brooms, swirling the dust into hazy clouds, but the sky was clear, tropical blue, a color engrained deeply somewhere in my subconscious, in the same way as how I could interrupt my grandparents’ Tamil conversation with some comment without ever being able to speak a word.

Bangalore moved quickly, scrambling to stay ahead; a socialite at a shiny dance. A new mall had come up, next to our old haunt, we went in anyway. Some kind of smug satisfaction in thinking ‘ok so there’s a rooftop bar here, but you’re still not as cool as Phoenix’. In Phoenix, the old haunt, Zara was still packed with the cool crowd, every foreigner was queuing at Starbucks, the Apple store sold tech like the Belgians sell hot waffles on a snowday. Our bookstore still had the dusty, musty shelves of old books, the old Macleans you can’t find anywhere else. But there was a Le Creuset store now, across from it. I was happy, but it was strange; Sephora and it’s sensory overload were taking over real estate, there was a Kiehl’s next to an ayurvedic cosmetics place. At the gated complex where my grandparents lived, the boys had switched from obsessive cricket to football. One wore a Chelsea shirt, another’s dad drives a Jaguar, more and more of the girls were wearing shorts, a bunch of people had adopted rescue dogs. I stood, at the end of our road one day, watching a kid in a Barcelona shirt kick a football. The perimeter fence of the compound was behind him, bougainvillea grew there too. In the distance against a powdery evening sky, the silhouettes of buildings, they never used to be there. The ball bounced, a truck hooted, a dog barked. I could’ve been anywhere. But it was India and my grandparents’ place for sure.

I knew it was, because grandma would take us to her grocery store, and I could find pomegranates bigger than baseballs. I would sit on my grandparents’ swing, the jula on the patio, and I could hear the sing-song Hindi ads interrupting grandpa’s cricket matches, and grandma would be sorting the coriander leaves, or perhaps popping mustard seeds in a steel pan. The maids of the people behind us were washing clothes on a stone slab, someone was looking to buy an electric car. I went out in the heat, looking for the family of kittens Layla and I had adopted; one was stuck in a drain, we coaxed him out. There was a stray dog who had befriended the guards, I called her Jessie. The old tomcat Bob was embroiled in bitter feuds with a younger, fitter male; he ended up with a bloody leg, sleeping on top of the Jeep belonging to a woman who fed all the strays.

Three weeks went by, I felt at home, people stared at me at the mall like they’d never seen a girl in shorts before. I took an auto rickshaw; we went to a doctor’s office deep in a leafy Bangalore suburb; we avoided people we knew, years and lives ago. It was a foggy morning on our last day, my grandparents were wearing matching red fleeces, a stray dog sniffed at the hand luggage. We had tight connections and they wouldn’t let my grandparents into the terminal; procedures madam. We waved to them, I waved goodbye to the concrete jungle that the garden city was becoming, block after block of flats, grid after grid of housing complex. Cars, trucks, bikes on the road. I thought of my family of kittens, Jessie, my grandparents, Bob and his fights, change. ‘Wait for me’, I whispered, as the plane took off. Practical info My sister has also done a stunning Bangalore/Mysore/trains guide on her site, where she has kindly used my photos and added a lot of useful info, so I'd recommend reading that post if you'd like some more details.

Sleep: well we stay in a rather nice Mediterranean style townhouse in a gated community with a tennis court, pool, palm trees... no I totally do not mean to make you jealous. There are lots of reliable chains like Taj and Oberoi in the city centre and knowing Indian hospitality I'm sure they're amazing, and also less out of the way.

Do, see and shop

The area around MG Road is what I am going to call the center; it's where it all happens. There are great places to find nice sandalwood carvings and un-tacky souvenirs, jewelry stores for real gold stuff and great atmosphere in general.

You should visit the Vidhana Soudha which is really impressive as the seat of the Karnataka state government. From here you can get to Cubbon Park which is also great for culture - picnicking families Indian style, frolicking young couples, lots of plants. It's also car free.

Not in the same area (nearer MG road again) is Lalbagh Gardens for similar sights but there's also a lake which is nice for a walk around.

Phoenix Market City is my mall!! I know it's a mall but you have to visit, ok? Also they have one of the best stores for really worthwhile souvenirs that are both nice looking (I would buy all the plates and dishes and dark wood chairs) but are also made working with local artisans and craftsmen; keeping all those arts alive. That's Fabindia but there are quite a few other home furnishing stores that are worth a visit. Also Om Book shop for cheap books and older books (Dick Francis, alistair Maclean) and the sales at many known brands - Zara, Steve Madden, Aldo - are way better than in Europe. And also Apple products... and you might as well to go Big Bazaar because it's fun. There's groceries toys clothes houseware the works.

The other mall that's worth a trip is UB City which is in town near MG road etc and it's where the cool kids go... I was invited to a party there when I was a cool kid (yes those days existed) and it's got all the designers - both international and local talent. It's all fountains, glitzy tiles and great people watching. Also all the above mentioned cool kids used to go get smashed and have an ahem fun time in a neighbourhood called Koramangala (in the south-east). I've never been because I'm not that cool (if at all) but it was the place with all the nightlife, bars, etc, so if you're into that sort of thing, it all used to happen there :)

If you don't have time to take a train trip to see some of the everyday India I would recommend taking a drive - my old drive to school believe it or not was a really nice insight into village life- cows, pastures etc. Try a drive from the Whitefield road area to Indus international school :)

Eat Go to my grandparents' house and ask my grandma to make you chappatis with my vegetables - I wouldn't know the name but they're a colourful combination of carrots, beans, peas and some unpronounceable gourds in a broth-y spicy mix. Also ask for sambar - lentils, carrots, raddish, pumpkin, some other guord, a secret spice blend. Ok I joke but at Phoenix mall the places for Indian food that are always always packed are Copper Chimney which is pretty fancy and also Raj Dhani where you can get all these different chutneys, lentils, rice, veggies... in steel dishes, on banana leaves. Also try the Indian version of Starbucks - Coffee Day, which all my friends used to swear by.

Just a heads up that the traffic in Bangalore is bad. Like, really bad. A 5 minute drive can take 35 if a tractor parks somewhere inconvenient. So always leave with plenty of time. Taxis themselves are quick and cheap, they are also really into Uber these days. And there's also the good old auto rickshaw. Oh and the Metro works in the centre-sort of area around MG Road, it's very clean, safe and efficient.

Hope some of you found this helpful/interesting. The snow is starting in Norfolk... big hugs xx

India by rail: Bangalore to Mysore

The man's face was like a book, but unreadable. It was so weathered, deeply darkened by time spent under scorching sun. The dark eyes seemed to hold stories, epics of unforgiving landscapes, a life where nothing came easy, where every day was survival and little more than that. My eyes met his for the briefest second, his train was just leaving. It was an all-blue second class sleeper. No AC, no windows. Battered benches. People spilling out into the walkways between the carriages. Their faces all spelled something similar. Restless lives. Funny that ours should overlap for that short second.

There was a family on the platform across from where I stood. My backpack was the ubiquitous Kanken. They had none. A few jute bags, the young girls' heads were shaved, they'd been to some temple. They had on their best saris, powder pink, shocking blue, the men wore all white. They slept under the benches of the platform, I smiled at one of the girls, she looked away.

It was some sort of traveller's epiphany, if the concept exists. I realized why people did it, why half of the western world seemed to want to take one of those trains across India. To get lost, to wander, to meet the real people, to hear their stories. I'd never been interested. Maybe it was a kind of complacency that came from being lucky enough to have lived there, traveled around lots since before I can even remember. But I'd scoff at the mere idea of an Indian rail trip. And there I was, waiting for the Shatabdi express from Bangalore to Mysore. It wasn't one of those really rough trains; the people were all vaguely middle class, a few foreigners in the mix, but it was a taste of trains in a country that relies pretty heavily on them. Pigeons fluttered around the rooftop of the station, on the peeling panes of the railway house. My granpdpa was next to me, looking up at them. Years and years ago he'd stayed there, with grandma when my mum was still tiny, when the railways were a booming and well financed asset, before the pigeons claimed the rooftops for their own. His eyes are dark blue, always thoughtful, I could see him drift, his eyes, too, they were filled with something.

Bangalore didn't fade away peacefully. The urban crush stayed, shanty towns seemed to rattle as our train chugged past, testament to a city that was growing quicker than its limbs could carry it . Nothing unexpected there, a stark reminder where you were. But it did fade to a luscious patchwork of green. Village life, pure and simple. Oxen ploughing the fields, buffalo here and there. At the railway crossing a lone rickshaw would stand, people were working the fields with scythes, growing maize and tall grasses. The sky was bright blue, the soil was deep red, the train was moving slowly and the sun was streaming in. My sister and I wanted to jump off the train, take off into that green wilderness, sit in the coconut groves in the shade. I could imagine the gentle rasp of the big leaves, the singing of tropical birds. So far from the chaos and dust of the city, from what you expect of this country.

Mysore revealed itself, over the next afternoon and morning, to take life at a much more doable place than Bangalore. We'd rented a little apartment near the Chamundi hills, it teetered on a cross roads. From the balcony we watched a cow try to steal coconuts from a vendor, a fruit seller under a mango tree. Flame of the forest lined the streets, school girls in starchy blue uniforms tied their hair in braids knotted with jasmine. At Mysore Palace throngs of people stripped off their shoes to wander the halls with all their glory from the days of the Raja, I promptly turned my back on the monument and took photos of the people instead, a riot of color, confetti at an Italian wedding. Mysore felt less - less transient than Bangalore, the streets near the apartment seemed like the residents had lived there forever, there was a feeling of community that Bangalore couldn't quite muster.

On our last morning the owner of the apartment offered to take my sister and I on a hike in the Chamundi hills, 1200 steps to a sacred Hindu temple complex. We left before light, his radio blared out the morning prayers, the Sanskrit words shrouded in ancient mystery. We were by no means the earliest on the steps, locals were flocking down as we started to climb. There were others taking the steps purely for the sport; local boys did the whole trip at a run with Bollywood pop screaming out of their mobiles, the devout stopped at each step to make an offering with red and orange powders. Bare foot. Halfway to the top stood a man, I'll call him a sadhu though I don't know exactly what he was, he sung a haunting tune, maybe also in Sanskrit. Mournful words, robes all white, a graying beard, looking at the world through guarded eyes.

The temple complex was unremarkable, it was too foggy to really get a good view of the city. Some of the trees bore light pink blossom, macaques stole bananas offered to the gods. There were more tourists climbing as we went down, the sadhu had barely progressed, but I had a feeling he wasn't in it for the sake of the climb or the dawn-lit photographs.

We left Mysore that afternoon, back on the rails, Mysore station was quieter than Bangalore, we were on the first platform and I couldn't really see the second class trains. But I knew that the people would be there, people who'd have seen the stars pass through those grilled windows, people who'd have come, barefoot, to climb up to the temple for the blessing. When I was unpacking, I found my all white Stan Smiths, the shoes I'd stupidly worn on the hike to the temples. The toes had little marks of red and yellow, from where offerings had been made on the steps. I'd like to think that we'd been blessed too, in our own way.

Practical things I lived in Bangalore a while ago and I consider myself a bit of an India veteran buuut this was my first time really travelling as a tourist. funny. anyway, if you are interested in a very short, doable rail trip: - the indian rail system is quite clearly laid out for the AC, civilized type of train we're talking about :) the Shatabdi Express goes non-stop Bangalore to Mysore in about 2 hours. You can book tickets online, the official website is the IRCTC site but it's not at all user friendly, I thought the site Book My Trip was much easier, a lot like expedia or anything. If you shop around I'm sure there are others and trains are really affordable anyway. -in Mysore we stayed in a serviced apartment because we prefer to cook and do our own thing. The Red Lotus Suites were really close to the Chamundi hills and the palace but a fair bit away from the real city centre which we didn't have time to visit. The owner was also very helpful with organising taxis etc. They're simple but clean and spacious. Uber is huge here for taxis. - we visited Mysore palace which wasn't architecturally incredible to be honest but culturally was fascinating so it's worth a visit, there is also a rose garden which is nice. After the Taj mahal, it is also the second most visited tourist spot in India! - I think we probably enjoyed the steps to the temple in the Chamundi Hills most, it's a must do thing in Mysore apparently. Just be aware that some people do it for the religious aspect so just wear the usual respectful gear and you'll be fine. It gets very hot very quickly so plan on arriving by 6am, the pink skies at dawn are also gorgeous. - we also visited this Ashram. I'm no hippy dippie chakra talking person but it wasn't really like that. There is a rehabilation centre for birds with a pretty aviary, a couple of temples and a bonsai garden which we all loved. It's quiet and not too crowded and very green.

I will include more details about Bangalore in my next post, as I said I lived here for a bit so I know a couple of things about the place ;) Anyways I hope you found this post interesting, if you are planning something similar you can always get in touch and I'll see if I can help. Sorry for the dearth of info about the trains themselves.

And I'd like to thank all of you lovely people who read nutmeg and pear, even once and a while. If there is anything you'd especially like to see on nutmeg and pear, please let me know, I'd love to hear what you think. Any certain recipes you'd like? Anything you're seeing too much? From what I hear 2016 was a bit rough for some people, so I really hope that 2017 is amazing for you all. Wishing you the brightest New Year's and hoping it brings you and your people lots of goodness. xo

cardamom-cranberry spelt wreath

There is a strange familiarity about the whole ritual. It usually involves climbing into some loft or burrowing through the shed to some degree to find the Christmas tree, that we swear to replace every year. The decorations are like meeting characters from an old book you haven't read for a long time - you remember all their quirks, where you were when you first noticed them. Someone plays Christmas music, the dogs sniff in the boxes and bash the shaky tree with their tails.

A couple of years ago my dad passed the light-stringing-up altar to me. Nothing official about it, but he was travelling for longer and longer during the holidays and I was, perhaps inappropriately, deemed the most competent in this field. The lights still shine and twinkle in the evening, but I've never managed to curl them evenly round the tree like dad has, the lights themselves are so old that a few have gone out, but no one's really had the heart to buy a new set. We've been using the same decorations for as long as I can remember, the little round baubles and the intricate figurines my dad used as a kid. We are not so much of a family for tradition. We travel too much, the family as a whole is too spread out. And when I asked my parents, when I was young and these things mattered to me, they asked me what Christmas was really about. Did it have to be gifts around a tree, a big dinner, celebrated on the 25th? Or was it about the principle - the gathering with people you love, sharing food that you've made with love, giving, more than just material gifts?

It makes me wonder. This season of craziness... the crazy is everywhere. The pressure on mothers to cook a perfect turkey, to choose the best gifts for their children. The pressure on dads to put up the best outdoor lights, to earn the money to finance it all in the first place. Pressure on kids to stay cool throughout the affair, to get the best most expensive presents. Pressure on the dog to not steal the turkey from the table, dammit, and not to bark when an army of strangers rings the doorbell. Pressure on everyone to keep a good face, to laugh with family members you don't really know.

I go back to bread. We have no great expectations of the holiday, nothing to go back on, I doubt I'll make this wreath next year as a Christmas tradition. I started making my own bread some time ago, but that was after a long break from the habit. Somehow my hands remembered it, the smell of the yeast was familiar, my hands could fold and knead the dough without a second thought. It gave me something, some quiet zen, two minutes to think amid my crazy; travel prep and essays. I think about the puppies who'll be abandoned because the kids couldn't handle the well meant gift. About the wives who'll fall out with their mother in law because the turkey didn't work out. About the dads who'll feel like crap because they didn't get that promotion in time to get that shiny new phone.

It's not that I don't have warm memories of Christmas, or that I have a problem with traditional holidays, I think it's great to have something to look back on, to warm you somewhere inside. Childhood Christmas for me was lots of light, more laughs, some fun gifts that I'd play with the whole year. This year will be similar. We'll celebrate after the India trip, on January 10th, when the people who've fought with their mother in law and chucked their puppies have moved onto the most depressing month of the year and salad diets. I just spare a thought for those people who believe that they're making it Christmas, and I go back to my bread. My thoughts on the puppies and the grains, on the holiday from which so many of us took the spirit when we first put up the lights.

I understand that lots of people are scared of working with yeast but I promise that, like the aforementioned holiday, it's also overcomplicated by most people! Just make sure it's really puffy after proofing time, otherwise the yeast is dead and it will also kill the recipe. Also, the temperature of the water is important - I found a sneaky method to do this, see the recipe notes if that will help you. As for the swirly wreath pattern - I tried to get photos, but they weren't great so I will direct you to this site I trawled the internet for, which quite clearly shows how to get that pretty pattern going.The bread is gently sweet, a nice contrast to the sharp berries and fragrant cardamom - it's more the kind of bread for eating chunks plain, rather than slicing and slathering with jam. The best kind of bread, I'd say. It's kind of cozy but light, which is how Christmas should be. Whether it's the traditional kind on the 25th, or something a bit unconventional like ours, wishing you the brightest, warmest holidays with people + pets you love. xx

[kindred-recipe id="1918" title="cardamom-cranberry spelt wreath"]

I am away on holiday (India!!!) right now, so it may be a bit quiet on my end. If you are looking for more baking inspiration, I will direct you to this baked oatmeal to serve holiday guests for breakfast, this granola for edible gifting and these scones because why not. and (coconut oil) gingerbread cookies. And again, I thank you for visiting this little corner of the internet, have a wonderful Christmas. I'll be back with a few photos in a bit.

doggie oatmeal-ginger cookies

Pruney and Suzi, For years I tacked ' a dog' on to the end of my Christmas list. You two have been the best gifts I'll ever receive. Prune, you came just before my 13th birthday and Suzi just as I was taking some of the most important exams of my life. And you know my life can be crazy, full. School work, applications, work experience. The blog, editing photos, fitting in runs, more work. My world just seems to be spinning really fast, my seasons keep changing. But amid all of that crazy are you both. The real center of my universe.

What I won't do is say that because of you, every day feels like Christmas because that just wouldn't be real. But if Christmas is about goodness, light, and joy, then you two are Christmas. You two little monkeys light up my whole damn universe. Every. single. day.

I wanted to make my dogs a cookie, something a bit festive for when I am stuffing my face with gingerbread. Dogs can have ginger - in fact, it's often used as a natural way of easing travel sickness, so if you are planning on taking your dogs on any car trips these holidays, these cookies might be fun to take along. They are totally gluten free so they are a little fragile, but my two monsters have been pretty good at cleaning up any crumbs :) they also come together in one bowl, with really only one measuring utensil, because your dog isn't going to care whether you spent four hours making them or 20 minutes. mine always do know. though, that they are homemade. They were eaten in a ratio of 10:2 Prune:Suzi, hence the photo of Pruney doing what she does best.

[kindred-recipe id="1891" title="doggie oatmeal-ginger cookies"]

Gingerbread cookies

They asked me to be Mary. I think it came more down to the fact that I was one of the few dark- haired girls, but the others were jealous anyway. All I really had to do was sit on the stage in some kind of a gown, behind the 'manger' and rock the baby every now and then. The village school was a Church of England School (I only recently realized I spent two years of my life saying a prayer every morning, without having any idea of what I was saying. ah the innocence of primary school ) so the annual nativity play was quite a show, even more so when you're five years old.

Most winters in that part of Suffolk weren't too cold. Usually clear, bright winter sunshine, sharp wind off the North Sea, I managed in tights and black suede boots and somehow avoided wearing a winter hat. Still, I was a sickly kid, one of those who was perpetually out with an ear ache, a scary cough, on antibiotics, vaguely asthmatic. The year I was Mary it was a chest infection. I remember the burning pain, like my little ribs were a cage, a cage too small for the bird that was valiantly flapping its wings to escape. I coughed so hard my whole body shook, I couldn't leave my bed, my mum gave up going to work and read books with me, my dad stayed up all night watching The Wombles (does anyone else remember them?). This year it was a gray winter, there was no watery sunshine through milky clouds to dry out my damp lungs, that ever-present wind left people hurrying from house to car with scarves up to their ears, hands shoved deep in pockets.

Those low hanging gray clouds were like the feathers of the doves that sat on our fence, cooing softly, like snowfall on a slate roof. My dad would look up at the skies and say "snow skies", my chest would burn, I'd hope he was right, I wanted a white Christmas, I spent another December afternoon at the doctor's office and coughing myself to sleep.

The other girls were probably hoping that I'd be too sick to come in and play Mary. It was clear that I wouldn't be in the choir, singing Little Donkey and We Three Kings, but the teachers said I could just come in and sit on stage as planned. My grandparents plied me with marshmallows 'for strength', I wore the gown and sat behind the manger, the others sang about Bethlehem and yonder star. I wondered if it snowed there, if Mary had been able to cough on her donkey ride, whether yonder star was that brightness I saw from my bed when I lay awake at night, the white light that left little pools of silver in the puddles.

It started to snow. I was back to school by the last week of term. Forced to wear a hat and scarf. I wasn't happy because it's not the kind of thing that princesses wore and jeez mum I am a princess. It was just a light flurry, airy white flakes, like the dusting of flour on country bread. I was sitting by the window, they were playing Christmas songs, I was making an ornament out of dried pasta and silver spray paint, then a chubby fairy. By the time it was break, the snow was gone, but it was like a promise. The skies were still dove gray, small puddles on the ground were freezing, I could feel the burn through my jacket.

One morning it started in earnest. I dropped my cheese on toast to climb up onto the couch by my sister, to watch the fat flakes come down hard. It was like those American tv shows we watched, where they could build snowmen and throw snowballs. We went to school feeling light, cheery as the Christmas mantel. The adults murmured on the playground that we'd be home by lunch, the boiler was on its way out. Our dad came to pick us up and we told him our big plans. We needed a snowfort, to make snow angels, teach us how to throw a snowball. My mum provided the warm clothes and wrapped a woolly, musty scarf around my neck, gave dad explicit instructions that I wasn't to get wet.

The doves sat on the roof of the garage and watched us. We built the world's smallest snow fort. My dad taught us tactical snowball warfare, involving sneaking up on the opponent from behind the shed. The snow was too shallow for snow angels, it wasn't cold enough for the snowman to last. But the magic was there. My mum wrapped me in fleeces and flannel, we turned on the little gas fireplace in the living room. I sat in that old blue chair and the Christmas tree's lights flickered, mellow, in the corner. It was simple, I was warm, I was wrapped in the quilt of a quiet and gentle childhood, the doves were my friends, at night I could watch the stars, my sister lay in the bed beside mine, my parents were in the room next door.

After we left England Christmas was never really the same. We started to travel, we were out in the bush over Christmas more often that not, the lights and trees and bells loose their sparkle. But sometimes I'm taken back to that living room, the Tweety blanket over my lap, red Ikea couches. Doves on the swing-set in the garden, the smell of ginger and cinnamon from the little Dutch pepernoten cookies, the refrain of Little Donkey forever engrained somewhere in the back of my mind.

Little Donkey, carry Mary, safely on her way, they said.

It was those little pepernoten cookies that inspired my gingerbread. I've never made gingerbread cookies before but I was curious to try because of their bold spices; the flavours of whole grain flours and unrefined sugar would only make them better. And molasses, obviously. I specify this directly in the ingredients list but there are a few options for flours. I'd planned on tried & trusted spelt flour but then some einkorn flour I'd ordered arrived and I couldn't resist. Einkorn in also an unrefined whole grain, similar to spelt it is an ancient relative of wheat (apparently the oldest strain of wheat) but is low in gluten, higher in protein than wheat and is a source of iron and vitamin B, which is quite special for a flour that's very easy to use. It's similar also to kamut, which would work here, but I understand that spelt it easier to find (I know this would not be of interest to everyone, but for other whole-grain obsessives out there). Even easier to find is whole wheat flour, which will probably work too - you may just need to add a couple of teaspoons of water to the dough if it's very dry. I just hope this gives you a way to have homemade & whole grain gingerbread this Christmas. And I want you to have the best holiday season ever. Laugh a lot, eat lots of good food and keep fingers crossed for snow. Big hugs xx

[kindred-recipe id="1879" title="whole grain, coconut oil gingerbread cookies"]

PS. I have a really fun mini-post that should come out on Friday. Pup friendly ginger oatmeal cookies, so no family member is left out of the fun this christmas. Keep an eye out for a newsletter! Also I'm leaving for our trip to India tomorrow, so the next post will be scheduled, but I'll be back with something special before Christmas. Gingerbread shall grace the subcontinent and a long haul flight.

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orange & cranberry (holiday) granola

I wasn't particularly planning on writing to you, you were just rolling along being yourself, I'd just written to your sister and I didn't want to bore everyone. But then you hurt your claw (that was partly my fault for not trimming the damn thing. For that, I'm sorry. Promise.) and I changed my mind, but that's not the only reason why. I've been thinking about you since we put up the Christmas tree .

You came, little tail wagging. Sticking that velvety muzzle into all the boxes, sneezing in the glitter and pine needles. You look at life through fresh eyes, don't you? You're not like your sister, not like Prune who is the cynic, she knows what she wants. You're like that little amber bauble in the box of decorations. There are lots of similar ones, many are bigger, maybe more shiny, maybe a perfect sphere. You'd be slightly dusty, maybe chipped, slightly forgotten. But then I'd pull you out and dust you off and you shine. There's no face that I want to grab and cuddle more than yours. It may not be an elegant face, your paws may be too big for your body, you may bark too much but the real problem is that you have too much to give. You expect nothing from anyone, you're surprised when we talk to you, when we call Suzi over just for a cuddle. You want to give it all to us- joy, love, whatever, expecting nothing in return.

In some ways I think I see myself in you, Prune too, but sometimes with you it's so obvious I have to laugh. There was that day we went to the vet's, we'd lined up on the ramp, the receptionist came to open up. And there's Prune, all tail wags, friendly licks, instantly loved, lots of hugs, a roomful of new friends. And you? You stand in the background, alone, and you even bark. It takes a long time for people to realise how sweet you are - I'm nowhere near as sweet as you, but I'd be the one waiting at the back (I don't bark yet, but people don't ever take to me straight away, so I might as well). It takes you a long time to trust people, you'll do with your own company, but when you do start to trust, you'd do anything for them, you show them in your own suzi-like ways. You have so much love to give. The way you always bark at strange men, the way you climb onto my bed sometimes, how you curl your whole body around our legs and sleep like a little bean.

And before this season of giving, you've taught me so much about true generosity, patience. How do you manage, even if you're worried and scared, even though you've been hurt, to make us all smile and love us so much? I've learnt to give you time to warm to us, time to calm down when you're nervous, and it's been worth it, for the tic tac of your paws running to meet me when I'm up in the morning, for your snuggles and how you rest your whole face on my lap. So to you, the little forgotten bauble, just know for me you're the shiniest of the bunch. You can be the angel on the highest branch. Thank you, suzi, for teaching me that in our own way, we all know how to give. And thanks for giving me something every day, all year. You could teach Santa a thing or two.

I think I mentioned giving in my last post? To me the nicest things to gift are homemade, and I this granola would fit the role perfectly. It's pretty adaptable and looks cute + rustic in a glass jar with a little pine sprig, and granola keeps forever too - so make the whole batch and gift some. In case you were wondering what this had to do with Suzi, the answer is not much, but she simply doesn't ask for anything or expect anything - and that's just so rare. I expect and ask for my Christmas granola to be really tasty, warmly spiced and distinctly festive, and this recipe ticks all those boxes. The orange juice & zest in the syrup with a hint of molasses and ginger puts a Christmas candle in your breakfast (or snack)(I've never eaten a candle before though) + cranberries & oranges are made for each other. At other times of year, I switch the molasses for honey and tone down the ginger, which makes for a really bright and refreshing taste, so this recipe is a keeper for the whole year. In the notes under the recipe I give some switches for making the granola gluten-free and pantry friendly, so I really hope you try this one out. Try to make some time in the craziness for homemade gifts and cherishing the less-shiny baubles, whatever form they come in. The cheer is upon us. Happy holidays xo

[kindred-recipe id="1790" title="orange & cranberry (holiday) granola"] ps. This blog has been in existence almost 2 months now... I just want to say a huge thank you to the small handful of loyal readers who visit my little corner of the net often. Every comment, email, just you reading means the world to me. As a heads up, I might be changing the URL of the blog because after 'settling in' to the blog, I'm not sure how fitting it is. I will send an email to my subscribers when a change happens and I'll try to set up some kind of redirect. Thanks for all your support, if I could bake you all a cookie, I would.

suzi, the littlest one

pear-cocoa muffins with a walnut crumb

"L'hiver", he said to me. "Il fait froid". I had a working understanding of French, I understood more than I could speak. Winter, he'd said, it's cold. And it was bitter, Belgium was snowed in. The flakes had fallen, thick and hard for the past few days, it was Friday afternoon. Our first snow day. I think we almost died when we heard school was cancelled. Our bedroom was the loft room so the sloped windows were blacked out and the garden had become - just white, like Jack Frost had been visiting. The skeletal ribs of trees were lightly dusted, the whole garden looked soft and downy, it was magic. There was a sweet hush, a feeling of coziness, that the neighborhood was under a soft quilt.

Our house was on top of a small hill, the driveway was at least 250m long and very steep. Since school was cancelled anyway, we persuaded our dad not to start shovelling - we were going sledding. We didn't have those nice wooden sleds, rather these plastic things, almost like saucers, that you just sat on, pushed off, curled your legs under and hoped for the best. They made for a pretty exhilarating ride and pretty wet clothes. So we spent the next few hours happily running up the driveway, finding new and more perilous ways to 'ride' those sleds.

Our neighbors were an elderly couple who lived at the bottom of that hill. Number 6 was a charming white cottage, mint green shutters, a small wooden deck, a row of tidy trees. They kept two sheep in their hilly garden, a few greenhouses and all winter I'd watch the smoke rise from their chimney, smell the veggie soup. They often spoke in Dutch with my dad, I knew they were nice people, but I was a shy 12 year old who didn't speak much of the language, I'd offer a wave and a smile when we passed them. The man's name was Frans and he'd come out along his snowy driveway to check his mailbox, which is where my sister and I crash landed every time our sleds brought us down. I knew he spoke both French and Dutch and under pressure to say something, I think I mumbled 'bonjour', he'd said hello, big smiles, weather talk for the 2 kids who enlivened the neighborhood. I think he was happy, to see us scrambling around in the snow, the town was aging, we brought with us the shrieks of laughter and spontaneous joy that add something to a white Christmas. After that he'd often wave, and we started to bring Therese and Frans muffins. Nothing fancy, maybe banana, blueberry if we were feeling creative, just a friendly neighbor thing.

In their garden they grew beautiful fruits and vegetables in weathered glasshouses. the vines were heavy with purple grapes, green stalks slumped under the weight of tomatoes and zucchini in summer, when they'd bring the overflow of their produce. Quiet, hardworking people who'd toiled away for years, actually living for a while in what became our house while they worked to build their own. They'd made something out of that small, hilly patch of land.

I grew up fast in those years. Snow went from being a fun novelty to an added chore, 4am we'd be out in -15 degrees darkness, listening to the tune of a Siberian wind that ate through our ski jackets. The charm quickly faded, and so did Frans. Dementia gets the best of them. It was fast, sudden, bitter, like a cold snap. My first funeral, gray February, dark spirits, black clothes, stone village church. He'd written us a letter, probably one of the last he wrote, he thanked us for the muffins, said he remembered us. Therese would visit him at the care home often, and we'd go down to the cottage, with muffins. To share with Frans, we'd say. And he remembered us as the two girls with the snow and the hill, the sleds. That winter had been years ago, I was way too cool to play in the snow, I preferred to clear it, salt it, watch it melt. I wondered what Frans would think, the melting snow made me think of childhood, giving way under the grit that life throws at it.

Till the day we left Belgium we went to see Therese. We branched out from muffins to tea - Therese loved tea, we'd buy it whenever we went anywhere new. Peppermint tea from Tanzania, earl grey from England, Darjeeling from India all passed through the doorway of that stone cottage. We'd talk about frans sometimes (my Dutch had improved to monosyllables at this point. It's not so hard to say 'ja' is it?) and she'd always say, whenever she brought the muffins and said it was from the snow girls, his face would light up, like that weak winter sun.

I have a little folder in my desk drawer. A few birthday cards from my sister, some from my grandparents and my dad. The rest are letters from Therese. She writes in her spidery script, I write back in my broken Dutch. If there was one person who I wish could see this blog, it's her. It doesn't snow much here, but when it does, I think of that house, when they were both there, the smell of a wood fire and the small figure of Frans, fetching logs, him raising a pale hand in greeting. Bittersweet, just like the winter.

And if there was one person who'd love these muffins it would be Frans. A gluten and dairy free, honey-ish muffin with a walnut streusel is sort of a far cry from those muffs but hey, proof of my improvement as a baker. This recipe makes quite a few muffs, but it's that giving season. You could give some away - maybe you know an elderly neighbor who's spending their first Christmas alone? Or there's the Amazon delivery guy who brings you a parcel at 9pm on a freezing Friday night when you're sitting in front of a fire feeling smug/snug. Or you could freeze some, or just eat them, they're mostly fruit, if you need persuasion. If you don't want/need them gluten free, I've added a spelt flour variation in the notes under the recipe. Chocolate, pears and substitutions? I spoil you. The crazy starts now, you ready? Wishing you a warm + cozy festive season, give a lot if you can, stock up on salt. Jeez I'm a cynic. Go string up your lights, this grinch did plans to do sothis weekend! Hugs guys xo

[kindred-recipe id="1763" title="pear-cocoa muffins with a walnut crumb"]

I have some great stuff planned for the holiday season + festive baking, so don't forget you can subscribe for carols everything straight to your inbox :)

mixed berry baked oatmeal

It's been thanksgiving weekend in the States. I read a lot of American food blogs/sites and I think the cranberry population's been pretty much decimated, pumpkins too and I guess turkeys as well (I only really read veggie blogs... but they're the tradition I know). Anyway, looks like a fun holiday, getting together for a meal with friends and family when it's vague November and Christmas seems just slightly out of reach.

I know that some people find it superficial, giving thanks on one arbitrary day of the year. That you should be thankful every day, but sometimes it's hard and you just need a reminder. It's four o'clock, you're sitting in class, watching the light fade away, the night moves in and you wonder where the day went. It's chilly out, the sun won't be up till 8am, you've got a hundred tedious jobs to do tonight, there are puddles by the side of the road, cars plough through, you get an icy blast of scummy water. I don't know if it's so much thankful as... I've learnt to see the beauty in things, I suppose. I'm not saying that there's always beauty in life: sometimes I feel like I'm walking through damp sand, one step forwards, two steps back, often my sky nothing but a blanket of dark clouds. Keeping my head up is not always natural, but I've taught myself how. My room is small, the smallest in the house, and it's ironic since I think I have the most stuff. A whole shelf of cookbooks, camera equipment, an ice cream maker (yes, in my room).But it's from my room that I can lie in bed under the big window, watch the stars all night in winter, I'm sure I slept under a constellation. Summer mornings, I open the window, listen to the birds, watch a little deer stroll across the lawn, wave to a warbler sitting on the roof of the car. The room is small enough that the fairylights strung to the bed frame light the whole thing up, that if the sun is coming in and I close the curtains, the whole room turns into a little cocoon of white.

I moan about the farmers who till the fields and the big rubber tyres of their tractors drag mud out onto the road. The bottom of my jeans are never clean anymore and after every walk I crawl around on hands and knees, scrubbing the dogs' paws. But the fields are what the make the place. We watch deer jumping on sunset walks, the same little guy, we called him Stanley. There was once a group of four stags so big we thought they were horses, running in the long grass. Sometimes I stand in the kitchen, the kitchen that I curse for the gray tiles and strangely big windows, and I watch a pheasant sitting on the back fence. The fence that's old with peeling paint, but it's heavy with ivy, little birds have built a nest in the bird house by that fence. I'll long for a dishwasher and stand at the sink, a little robin will sit at the bird feeder, I'll meet his eye. In the garden that's a muddy swamp from all the rain, littered with leaves that cover the lawn, I've watched a baby pigeon fight his way back to life after his nest fell in a storm, bunnies eat fallen apples and blackbirds sing from the roof of the shed that I deemed 'such an eyesore'.

When does a place lose it's beauty? I realize that maybe it looks like I'm just really ungrateful. Complacent, whatever you want to call it: I live in some countryside idyll and I moan. I don't want it to come across like that - not like those people who'll post a photo on instagram, them in their expensive gym clothes with their great abs at some trendy gym in LA and write about how 'blessed' they are to be off to yoga at 9am on a Tuesday morning. Or the people who post overhead shots of brunches at cute indie cafes in Hoxton somewhere, predictably with a beautifully plated avocado toast (on sourdough rye bread, naturally. with an almond milk latte) and also write about how 'blessed' they are to have the gift of travel, or something. Nothing like that for me. My jeans are muddy, my room is still small, it rains, I get splashed, I live a normal life. I think I cried a couple of times in the past week, I fought with my sister over something irrelevant, I found the jar of granola was empty (yes, this is a disaster), I missed a huge deal on a camera lens, I stayed up way too late reading a cookbook and was so tired I was shaky the next day. There are times I laugh with my family, times when I'd rather sit in my room, door closed. I've learnt and I've set out very intentionally to try and see the little beautiful things a bit more, since the sun is always shining somewhere above the clouds.

I drive home in the night, I like the bouncing flashes of the headlights and tail lights, the dark and the road signs make me think of car trips, adventure. It's cold but the heating is on, sometimes it kind of smells of musty, but that's ok since it reminds of when we first bought this house and it was all new and exciting. Tractors run me off the road but I just sigh and take a minute to pat the doggies' heads, see that they're ok. There are days that I forget to do any of this, that I just plough on, autopilot, blinkers, just keeping my head above the sand. But then I'm reminded and I see the sun for a bit, no doubt night always draws in, but I take a step back. Whether you need a day to remind of you of the light, or it's just something you can do, either way, go you. Plants grow towards the light for a reason, and sometimes, you've got to make the clouds part yourself. If you celebrated, hope you had a good Thanksgiving. Either way, hope there's a li'l bit of light in your next week.

a sure-fire way to make your own brightness? A good breakfast. Therefore, I present you baked oatmeal. This ingenious idea is not my own, lots of blogs have similar renditions which all come from the famous baked oatmeal in Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Every Day. But anyway, it's seriously so good. Berries, because I thought we could all do with a bit of a vitamin C and an antioxidant boost at this dreary time of year and also because I don't want to bore you with more apple and um, it's in the name. Also I'm going to go and upset a few people and mention that c word Christmas. Yes this could come in handy over that crazy festive season we have in store for us - it's great for family brunches or something since its gluten free and vegan (which is where it differs from the original recipe) and easily feeds 9-12 people. It keeps well for 5 days in the fridge, so you can make it ahead or freeze extras for once you've cooked yourself out. And serve it with whatever you like, too. I hope you try this, even oatmeal haters, this is more like a very lightly sweetened crumble than anything porridge-y. Warm or cold, with a group or on a weekday, it's a keeper.

[kindred-recipe id="1742" title="mixed berry baked oatmeal"]

Subscribe to shutterberry, 'cause I have a really sweet/sad winter story coming up :) and muffins! Also, I may be making some changes to the front page of the site, so check back and tell me what you think! Hugs xo

summer Corfu: part 2

the sides of the valley were densely forested, covered in a quilt of pine trees. the trees cast a warm green glow over the little dirt path and in their shade ferns colonised. where the hills and trees fell away grew sudden shocks of wildflowers in gentle lilac and blushing pink, around them hovered hundreds of butterflies; white and delicate. on the right of the path, a crude wooden fence marked out pasture; on the left, a little stone hut that the ferns were slowly reclaiming. everywhere, a heavy hush. the call of a bird of prey somewhere in the forest, a view into the valley reaching the tree-clad slopes of the Turkish mountains. a feeling that here, nature presided - that you were in a rare place where the wild things could really run wild. you'd never see any, but you felt they were there.

we'd spent four days perusing Corfu's quiet northern coast, nosing in secret coves, climbing hills for sea views and eating feta. The European summer holidays had started and things were getting a little buzzy in our sleepy neck of the woods (one person. walking along the secret cliff path to our hidden beach. one person! shock. horror.)and we were so badly spoilt, we decided we needed to head inland. into the hilly hinterland of the island, which we'd read so much about in the books by Gerald Durrell. where there were endless fields of wildflowers in the spring, where streams gurgled through mossy dells. sure, the coasts were rugged and gorgeous, but we knew that for the real end-of-the-earth wild feeling, Corfu's vertiginous heart was where to go. But we hit a conundrum: we had no transport (long story), taxis were expensive and we didn't know where to ask to go ("a taxi please... to some place off the beaten track"). this, compounded by the fact that being just Layla and I, we didn't want to wander into Greek wilderness, yet we're not the type to join a tour. Solution: Corfu Donkey Sanctuary. yes, we are the kind of people who visit a beachy island and end up at a donkey sanctuary. donkeys aside (they broke my heart, but the work the people are doing is admirable) the place is a sanctuary, precisely because it lies somewhere in that valley under the watchful eye of the Turkish mountains. it's a maze of overgrown hunting tracks that criss-cross the luscious green, there is an incessant choir of birds. all the while, you're again imagining a goat herd wandering through the high grass, playing a flute; a conductor to the orchestra of cicadas who play the anthem of the middle of the earth. It's easy to forget a taxi brought you here.

we were kids again, playing in the ruins of the fort, firing the canons and looking over the shimmering bay at the enemy boats coming in. it was ubiquitous gray stone, no architectural marvel. but Corfu's old fort sat perched at a height in the old part of Corfu Town with a view over the slate rooftops, turning the labyrinth of little streets in the Jewish Quarter into a checkerboard interrupted by the loopy spires of the old synagogue. not quite the Acropolis, wild grass grew rife in the courtyards and between the cobbles, the place had an air of dilapidated mystery. but where else could we have wandered in the blistering mid day heat, hearing the footsteps of invading armies in the tunnels, the cries of the warriors echoing off the cool stone walls. we'd barely been on the island a few days and we could have written a novel, it is no surprise that Durrell could write a trilogy after growing up among these crumbling pieces of history. not that Corfu town was totally frozen in time - people were trendy, all golden skinned and wearing dark sunglasses, sitting on pavement cafes in the charming pedestrian precinct where the roads were a glossy cream marble. somehow we strayed away from the main course, into a warren of cobbled narrow streets, like the desert plates on the banquet table. washing fluttered on lines hung from wrought-iron balconies, black paint peeling while window boxes exploded in color. a cat slumbered in the shade of a doorway, Vespas rested against graying stone walls, the sound of someone practicing the violin floated out of an open window. we hadn't gone far looking for the real people: not on a tour that revealed 'local secrets', not into some seedy area of town, but just a step away from the buzzy main streets and we were immersed in Corfiot life.

our flight home was scheduled for the evening. on our last day, we took the bus to a small beach town nearby, sands were quiet, we were pensive. the trip had been one of those last minute things: lots of hurry, little expectation. we'd lost the low cost high-rises of the package holiday brochures and found the coast where you could still hear the sea and not just other people. it's even thrum against those pebbly shores, white stones kissed by the sun. the pines still seemed to embrace the ocean; they tumbled down those rugged slopes into the water's open arms. the hot air was full of mystery, each landmark held a story, there was an inherently raw romance to the way the gnarled olive trees leaned and whispered in the breeze, how the cicadas chattered late into the night. like the hills, the crumbling stone walls, the old fort, the groves, the cicadas told stories, and after a week, we were ready to write our own. we arrived in howling wind and rain, black midnight at London Stanstead, shivering in our summer shorts and imagining the moon rising clear and silver over the sea, as the little island slept under the watchful eye of the Albanian hills and Turkish mountains.

Practical stuff

Places: Corfu Donkey Rescue: ok I know this seems weird but we can't go somewhere and not meet furry animals. Therefore, this place. It's worth the taxi trip out not only to help the cause (donkeys, till recently, have been treated very badly in Greece) but also because the location is gorgeous and the drive very scenic. I contacted the owner who gave me the number of a local taxi firm who knows the rescue center and it's not such a bad thing to have another taxi number on hand. The sanctuary is free to visit, we gave a small donation, cuddled the donkeys, brushed them and met some cute pups.totally worth it.

Corfu town: the main city is also definitely worth a day, at least. There are lots of small shops in the Jewish quarter, pretty decent shopping everywhere, lots of cafes, the old fort and some really nice looking museums too.

There is apparently lots of hiking on the island, we saw lots of trails but had no map and no desire to get lost. If you're more organized than us, there's hiking on the volcano which is probably amazing, judging by what we saw without climbing much at all.

I'd also recommend visiting the little towns Kassiopi (cue Indiana Jones moment in an abandoned Byzantine fort) and Kalami which is home to one of Gerald Durrell's houses (the White House). AND rent a boat! In Nissaki we rented one through Nissaki rent-a-boat, you can rent one for the day and stop in deserted coves and pretty places like that. Also, the boats are very easy to handle even for incompetent people like me, and the sea is very calm.

Transport Haha. Big warning here: rent a car from the airport through an international firm like Hertz or Avis or something. We planned on renting a motorbike, which is common, but were given a dud whose engine was broken and had no fuel. We tried to arrange a car instead but they decided you have to be 23 (yeah, what about 21 at least?) to drive a car and we lost the money we'd paid for the motorbike, real clever. So we really struggled: everything in Corfu is quite strung out. Taxis are available but unreliable at best - the central taxi company Alfa seems to organize most taxis. Also if you are renting a motorbike be aware that the roads are very, very hilly, so maybe best avoided if you've never done it before.

We ended up taking the bus around and though it's routes are not endless, where they did go, they really worked. We were very sceptical but they ran on time, had English speaking conductors and all had AC. Their website is not very clear but bus stops have schedules which are accurate and they operate between islands too! Island hopping by bus just might become a thing.

Before you go, I'd recommend you read at least one of the Corfu trilogy by Gerald Durrell who put the island on the map. His descriptions of the wildlife, the scenery and the people are insanely vivid and whether you visit or don't, you'll be taken there.

"as the ship drew across the sea and Corfu shrank simmering into a pearly heat haze on the horizon black depression settled on us, which lasted all the way back to England" - Gerald Durrell, My Family and other Animals. Corfu has that effect on you.

Hope you enjoyed the final part of the guide! If you have any questions or anything feel free to ask any time. Hugs xo

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summer corfu: part 1

The apartment was perched up a steep hill, as if the climb into the village had not been high enough. The balcony was a typically Aegean affair, stone the colour of turmeric, with black iron grills. Plastic table and chairs, dark wood shutters, cream stone tiles. From those plastic chairs was the view of the curving bay, a crescent that was kissed by stony beaches backed by forests of pine. The trees clung to the rocky slopes, and everywhere the forests tumbled into the ocean in masses of emerald needles. The air was constantly alive with the sound of birdsong, the tingling smell of the pine, the mountains of Albania cloaked in a blue haze on the horizon.

This was Durell country. Not the Corfu of high rise package holidays, not the Corfu with throngs of tourists, but the Corfu where we found an apartment to rent in an olive grove. Like the pines, the olives hugged the rugged slopes, gnarled branches bleached by a 40 Celsius sun. In the cooler patches orange and lemon trees grew rife, like moss in a Northern European garden, so much fruit that the branches sagged under their weight. Roadside shops sold seedlings and vibrant Bougainvillea, the flowers that adorned so many of the white village houses.

We were great fans of the books by Gerald Durrell and following his footsteps, Layla and I rented a boat from the small taverna by the village beach. "Here are the papers" the boatman said, handing us a pile, "in case the coast guard stops you. Oh, and also, don't go too much to the right there, that's Albania and they don't like it". He gestured vaguely to an area on the map. It was a small speedboat, easy enough to master. The sky was bright blue, that colour that you only find in the tropics, not the muted pastels of Europe. Our boat sent white foam flying with the breeze, other boaters gave us a passing wave, we got sunburnt. All the while those Albanian mountains and their haze lay on the horizon, like the "sleeping giant" Durrell had so vividly described in his books. We passed cove after cove of deserted golden beach, the water beyond brochure blue, the hulls of yachts whiter than the movies, the sun sharper, the spray a cool blast. Our hair was tangled from salt water, shoulders beyond repair.

The evening faded into a chorus of cicadas. I don't know why, but it wasn't what I was expecting. I'd been out in the bush on safari but this place had the feeling of being more alive than anywhere I'd been; like the hills and groves held stories. That from among the crumbling stone walls you could imagine a shepherd leading his flock of sheep; that out of the olives could emerge a herdsman, that the deserted hillsides were not quite deserted. It was the kind of place where you could sit, at a plastic table and chair, listening to the grasses and branches hum with life, since there was not much else to listen to. By the time it was dark, the hills were enveloped in a silence more deafening than the cicadas themselves and the moon was a bulb, suspended over the still mirror of sea.

Practical stuff My sister and I spent about a week in Corfu in July and it really was the best week ever. We were choosing between a couple of Greek islands but we really couldn't have chosen better, it's a beautiful place and the photos don't do it justice. I've never seen bluer, clearer water or more epic coastline (and I've seen a few)

We decided to go self catering which was a great decision, I would totally recommend the place we stayed in Nissaki in the quiet north of the island. It's called the emerald coast and it's a good choice because there are pockets of all inclusive high rises etc but not here! The Amalia apartments were pretty simple but beautiful among the lemon trees, close to the town and beach but in general pretty quiet. The kitchens are well equipped but they're also close to the buzzy cafes and tavernas by the beach; there are 3 supermarkets in walkable distance. vegetables that are super fresh + actual sheeps feta cheese is dinner done. Greek yogurt + strawberries and oh my goodness the peaches and that's breakfast done. For lunch, take a picnic or find a little taverna. I could just sit on those balconies forever. There is AC too, which is great in the summer.

I will talk a bit more about things to do and transport etc in part 2, I think I've talked too much already. I hope that you enjoy these travel posts (but don't worry there is Apple pie and cookies coming this way shortly). If you've ever been to Corfu or are planning on going, please let me know! For more photos you can check out my instagram, and you can subscribe so you see part 2! Also shout out to the sister (Layla) for being such a nice looking person in my photos. Hugs xx