Sonnet Sundays - Frosted Flight

I thought this wintery piece of natural wonder suited the changeable, yet often times frigid, weather we've been experiencing of late. I wrote it roughly 10 years ago, inspired by the gulls which used to land in my school grounds, but now it reminds me more of a sizeable flock which gathers on a neighbouring rooftop every afternoon. 

Frosted Flight

Pure white scavengers

afloat on high,

scream from the sky

so endless, so electrically blue.

Each glints in a haze

of winter sun

like stratospheric light bulbs,

off then on,

in chiaroscuro vortices

like paper planes

or frozen leaves,

like each were spume

blown from the sea,

a frosted crystal on a breeze.

Storybook Saturdays - The Reapers are the Angels by Alden Bell

But the fact is, you and me, we ain’t in control of the fates remitted us. We just got to discharge them the best we can, according to whatever frail laws we got […] We’re just playing the parts written down and put before us.

If you’re looking for cliché in the shape of a lone wanderer’s quest for survival in a zombie-infested apocalypse, then you’ve come to the right place. Alden Bell’s The Reapers are the Angels (2010) is one kick-ass gorefest with all the usual tropes: cruising through ghost towns in stolen cars, slaughtering the undead with guns and huge knives, picking up poor unfortunates, and fighting with other survivors, all the while being haunted by the past. Bell makes a particular point of rendering the undead – ‘meatskins’ and ‘slugs’ as they’re known – in horrific detail: their decaying flesh, exposed bones, the rotten smells and viscera. Yet here is where the hackneyed similarities end because Bell’s story isn’t as superficial as all that.

This is the story of Temple, a teenage girl, born into a world where the dead have come back to life. For her, this is normal, there is no ‘before’ except what she sees in the faded pages of magazines. She lives under the gaze of a ‘slick god’, in search of His miracles, content to let life do what it knows best. As an orphan (this makes the third ‘orphan’ story I’ve reviewed now), she seems to have no concept or need for family, and yet she is haunted by the memory of losing the only ‘family’ she remembers; she finds herself caught between the brutish pleasure of killing the undead and the comfort of community, so rare in this shattered world. This makes her a bizarrely likeable character, both battle-hardened and cynical for someone so young, yet full of personality, philosophy, and respect for those she meets. At times, Bell’s colloquial and fantastic language seems reminiscent of Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, lending Temple a fittingly childish wonder and attitude. She seems so in love with the world, despite its flaws, and so content to marvel at it all alone. Yet when she saves the gentle mute, Maury, a giant with a ‘skillet face, a frame like vegetal growth […] and a mind with no doors or windows’, it comes as a surprise – albeit a small one – and we see her aimless wandering begin to take on a purpose.

But something always comes along to derail such fantasies and, as a girl in what increasingly seems to be a man’s world, Temple quickly finds herself being hunted by Moses, a man whose philosophies make him her ‘eerie inversion’. And, as this is a story with family at its heart, it’s understandable that family (without giving away too much of a spoiler) is Moses’ motivation for wishing Temple dead. His drive to be the one to kill her takes on an ironically protective, even loving, edge as he often fights to save her, once stating ‘Do what you want [to her] but you kill her and I’m gonna rain hell on you’. With their every encounter, it made me think he might finally let her go, and that is somehow one of the scariest parts. It’s not the shambling, infectious menace of the undead that makes me afraid to turn the page, but the constant feeling of pursuit, the fear that comes from entering an empty house or waking from a nightmare to find it is, in fact, reality. That and the vile and creepy nature of several of the men she meets.

But for all the novel’s darkness, decay and depravity, there is lightness too. Some of Temple’s encounters, like Dirk, the Griersons, and a small group of hunters, are with genuine people who have nothing but honest intentions. They have dreams just like her of seeing all the world has to offer, though for some these dreams can only stay in their heads. Even the rare act of sex, completely implicit, focuses on the enjoyment of feeling a living thing inside of her and she seems to revel in her own femininity. There is also a profound sense of biblical grandeur to the story, as water washes away sins and heralds ‘Noah’s flood’, and everything is fated to happen for a reason, but underpinning it all is the inherent belief in good and evil, and Temple’s conviction that she belongs to the latter camp. She has killed so many people, living and dead, that she believes her hands are ‘hands of death’, which could make her one of the angel-reapers of the title – and indeed, by the story’s close, I’d like to think that’s true.

This is quite simply a voyage into the human psyche, exploring our deepest desires, impulses, and beliefs when faced with a world gone wrong, when survival is the name of the game and it’s as much every man/woman for themselves as it is the need for strength through community. Family is at its heart, whether that’s honouring it, making it, protecting it, or losing it, and this sits alongside its deeply religious aspect, of existing under the hand of God, of acknowledging the beauty and rights of his every creation, and of living through Hell to get to Heaven.

Feathered Fridays - Gadwall

Rhododendrites, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Anas stepera

Before I started teaching myself about birds, I don’t think I was aware of just how many types of duck (or wildfowl) there were beyond the common Mallard or the typical farmyard white duck – which I later learnt to also be a variant of the Mallard. But now I’ve encountered names like Pochard, Wigeon, Pintail and Garganey. The duck I am focusing on this fortnight, however, goes by the name of the Gadwall and appears, at first, to be a rather unassuming choice.

It isn’t much smaller than the Mallard (roughly 46-55cm/18-22in) and is a largely brown and dove-grey bird, with a black rear end and a straight black bill; the females are differentiated by being, like most other ducks, a mottled shade of brown with orange sides to the bill. Both sexes have a white patch on the base of their wing, visible when in flight, but if you take a closer look at the male’s feathers, you will see the grey is beautifully marbled and speckled with a pattern like that of the shadows cast in a shallow stream.

Their call is also quite fascinating too, composed of a muted series of quacks and nasal squeaks which put me in mind of Mr Busy, the beaver from Walt Disney’s ‘Lady and the Tramp’, with his whistling lisp.

These ducks are commonly seen in Autumn and Winter in migratory flocks from Western Russia and central Europe, settling on reservoirs and flooded pits to dabble and ‘up-end’ for seeds, insects, roots, and shoots. They have often been observed following flocks of Coot, waiting for them to dive and uproot vegetation which they will take.

During their breeding season, they can lay between 8 and 12 eggs in a down-lined hollow near the water, even laying again with a different partner if this clutch fails. But despite this seemingly large brood, they have been classified as ‘vulnerable’ with only 1,200 nesting pairs being recorded annually and 25,000 birds wintering in the UK from October to March. It would a shame to think this beautifully simple duck might not make it back to our lakes and reses in years to come, but you still have time to spot one for yourself.

Facts taken from: the RSPB, Wildlife Trusts, the British Waterfowl Association, and the RSPB’s ‘Birds of Britain and Europe’ Guidebook by Rob Hume.

https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/gadwall/

https://www.wildlifetrusts.org/wildlife-explorer/birds/waterfowl/gadwall

https://www.waterfowl.org.uk/wildfowl/true-ducks/gadwall/

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0241302242/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o08_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

Photography Thursdays - Merry-go-Round

 

Merry-go-Round (London's South Bank) - 23rd February 2015

I had intended for most, if not all, of my photos uploaded every Thursday to be new shots, but I have come to realise that isn't always possible. So I thought I'd throw in one of my old favourites, taken on a February evening 6 years ago on London's South Bank. The central positioning, the silhouetted people, the gradient of the sky and its complement of blue behind the glowing yellow lights all come together to make this a cosy and balanced piece, and I may never take another quite like it.

[Belated] Wellness Wednesdays - Meditation

Welcome to [a belated] Wednesday’s Wellness Clinic. I can promise you I am not a doctor, a psychotherapist or a preacher, just someone with a lot going on inside her head looking for a way to calm the storm and impart that wisdom to you.

Ok, I know I said I’d be keeping up my wellness tips even during my weeks off but last Wednesday, Mother Nature came calling and left me feeling in need of some rest (ladies, we all know how that feels) and even last night, I was feeling pretty sleepy. Plus, I also thought that the topic I was going to cover needed more than a week for me to get to grips with. So here we are, a fortnight after my last entry, here to talk to you – in my own amateur style – about meditation. To be honest, I definitely could’ve given myself longer to explore the intricacies of this art (a whole month perhaps) and maybe, later in the year, I will revisit it, but even in this short time, I feel I have learnt something about how my mind and body respond to different forms of meditation.

As early as November last year, I was already starting to practise meditation, using the dedicated pages in the back of my ‘i am here now’ book to log some of my sessions. These were simple seated exercises whereby I focused on my breath, a central element to the practice, and imagined each one as a wave breaking on a shingle beach: in as the wave draws back, sucking at the stones, and then out as the wave gently crashes down again. I tried to visualise the beach too though my brain refused to get the perspective right. While I didn’t get very far with these, it was a start and certainly an easy one for a beginner to try.

I then moved on to guided auditory meditations which included a 15-minute session with British writer and speaker, Alan Watts, and a second longer one provided by The Mindfulness Project with Tara Brach (both linked below). Watts’ session is particularly unique in that he asks you to treat sounds and thoughts, and even your breath, as mere ‘happenings’, things which happen to and around you which shouldn’t need to be analysed or judged. The gentle bell sounds in the background really helped to calm me. Brach, meanwhile, takes you on a 25-minute voyage of your body and mind, and helps you to open yourself up. The lack of sound apart from her voice made this one a little difficult to stay focused on, but during my first session I somehow became aware of the simultaneous vastness and confinement of my room, which was freeing yet bizarre. I also found a couple of other videos and channels on YouTube (linked below) which focused on things like:

- sleep – something I have, fortunately, rarely had problems with, though this certainly helped slow my body down by focusing on deep breaths

- overthinking – something I, conversely, do all the time. This one, while long, was very reassuring and backed by the gentle sound of metal wind chimes

- manifesting desires – I wasn’t too sure I needed this one, but the female guide made me feel stronger and just happy to be there

And as I listened to these videos, I started to pick up some of the shared techniques which I included in my unguided meditation sessions. Straightening the spine, for example, to allow for deeper breathing; letting thoughts come and go, neither forcing them from your mind nor becoming distracted by them; and focusing on particular parts of your body, like the contact points with your chair, their temperature, or if any part is feeling particularly tense.

But whether I did it guided or unguided, I came to realise that meditation needs to be something you enter without expectations, because if you start with the idea that 10-15 minutes later you’ll be feeling on top of the world and you finish the same as you started, you’ll get dejected and give up. What you need to do is simply ease yourself into it, take yourself through the body checks, the breathing, the calm acceptance of thoughts, even indulging in background noises like bird song and the gentle hubbub of the world if possible, and see where it takes you. Treat your session like an aimless car journey: you have no idea where you’re going, but so long as you stay in control, it will be an enjoyable ride.

You may find you need some form of external stimuli to help ground you, like I used gentle music or the background noise of birds (or even rain I imagine would be quite soothing). As well as auditory stimuli, I incorporated tactile objects like polished crystals and this ‘Hand Meditation’ page from ‘i am here now’ which gave me something physical to focus on, or smells like scented candles and fragrant body roll-ons which helped calm me. These work well because I have my eyes shut, meaning my other senses are slightly heightened, but if you prefer to keep your eyes open, finding an object to focus on like a candle flame, a tree, or a detailed picture should keep your mind from wandering (though remember this is natural and shouldn’t be discouraged).

Where you conduct your sessions is also important because you need to be comfortable. I have tried meditating at my dining table after breakfast, sitting cross legged on my bed, and even in the shower, all with varying degrees of success. The table helped me to keep a straight back but wasn’t the cosiest spot I could’ve picked unlike my bed which allowed for that sense of vastness I mentioned earlier (provided I sat in the right place). The shower was a unique one, offering the sensation and sound of water and the clarity of mind which I often experience while showering, but I think I will need to try this one again to know how effective it is. This is why making notes after your sessions is so useful as it helps to remind you of what worked, what didn’t and how you felt, allowing you to adjust your next session accordingly.

Of course, the bottom line is meditation isn’t for everyone (nor should it be taken as a once-only cure-all for what ails you), but there are so many ways to do it that, if you try for long enough, even just for a few minutes each day, you’re bound to find something which works for you.

Links:

Tara Brach [scroll to bottom of page] – http://www.iamherenow.com/

Alan Watts – https://youtu.be/jPpUNAFHgxM

'Great Meditation' channel (including Manifesting Desires) – https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCN4vyryy6O4GlIXcXTIuZQQ

https://youtu.be/HfVXwA6L154

Overthinking (Michael Sealey) – https://youtu.be/1vx8iUvfyCY

Sleep (Goodful) – https://youtu.be/aEqlQvczMJQ

Tasty Tuesdays - Paprika Pork (BBC GoodFood)

Hello and welcome back to my kitchen! Today I was meant to be bringing you a classic comfort dish for this dreary season from the wonderful Jamie Oliver – I own two of his cookbooks and they are fast becoming my culinary bibles – BUT, I fell foul of my own cack-handed cookery and ended up dropping most of it on the floor (and down my jeans, and on the rug). Sooooo instead I present to you – without one of my tasteful presentation shots (you will have to make do with the photo from the book) – Good Food Magazine’s Paprika Pork, from Orlando Murrin’s book ‘101 Simple Suppers – Tried and Tested Recipes’.

Now, when anyone asks me what my favourite meat is, it’s usually easy because, apart from chicken and fish (and occasionally lamb), I could happily go vegetarian. Following various failures to properly cook beef joints, coupled with today’s fiasco with what was supposed to be a delightful sausage cassoulet, I have realised that I rarely enjoy beef or pork products. And yet, this recipe remains a quick and tasty staple dish in my repertoire.

You start by gently softening 3 sliced red onions in a pan with some oil, a process which is well worth the time it takes because these onions will be beautifully rich by the end, before adding the diced pork. One of the main differences, which I should one day rectify, is that I use individual pork chops instead of the stated pork fillet – usually about 8-10 regular sized chops trimmed of fat for 4 people (trust me, you’ll need that many). Once these begin to brown, you add the two key ingredients: paprika and stock. As the recipe doesn’t state sweet or smoked paprika, you can use whichever you have, but I prefer sweet paprika because it enhances the natural sweetness of the onions. The stock, meanwhile, can be either chicken or vegetable, but I usually add a rich beef stock pot (Knorr or Oxo) as well to really boost the intensity of flavour which builds in the next step. All you need to do is cover it and let it sit just below boiling to soften the meat, infuse it with flavour, and allow the sauce to thicken.

If, during this step, the mixture gets too dry and sticks to the pan, just add a few splashes of water (or red wine, if you have it – I have yet to try this myself). Then all that’s left is to add the crème fraiche, garnish with fresh chopped parsley (flat leaf or curly, it’s up to you) and serve with rice and the green vegetable(s) of your choice (I usually pick broccoli but green beans, wilted spinach, or a kale salad would work just as well). And hopefully yours stays in the pan until it’s ready to be eaten!

PAPRIKA PORK (serves 4)

•      2 tbsp olive oil
•      3 onions, thinly sliced
•      600g/1lb 5oz pork fillet
•      2 tbsp paprika
•      300ml/ ½ pint chicken or vegetable stock
•      100ml crème fraiche (about half a carton)
•      Freshly chopped parsley, to serve
•      Rice and a green vegetable, to serve

1.       Heat two tablespoons of oil in a pan, add the onions and fry for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until softened and lightly coloured.

2.       Cut the pork into bite-sized pieces, then add to the pan and stir over a fairly high heat to seal and brown all over. Stir in the paprika, cook briefly, then add the stock and bring to the boil.

3.       Cover and cook for 30-35 minutes, until the pork is tender. Stir in the crème fraiche and simmer for a further 2 minutes. Sprinkle parsley over the pork, before serving with rice and a green vegetable.

Musical Mondays - The Black Parade (2006) by My Chemical Romance

Is there a right way to review an album as immortal as this? Are there any words judicious enough to sum up its glory? Would it be sacrilege to even attempt it? In short, do I dare say what’s on my mind with the dirt almost 15 years old on the grave of My Chemical Romance’s pivotal 2006 album, The Black Parade? Answer: I bloody well I hope so!

First off, you will have to grant me permission to gush, as it were, because I have quite literally fallen in love with this album all over again – and not just for the reasons that 13 year old me did either! Yes, Gerard Way still sounds as distinctive and soul-achingly lovely as I remember, yet I feel now that the attraction within the music comes more from his American accent, the Southern brogue that flavours his words, than just the desperation of his lyrics that tore at my heartstrings. Yet even that comes second only to just how epic I realised the guitars were in most of these songs, as I will gradually relate.

Right from the start, you have ‘The End’ (what is it with me picking albums that start at ‘the end’?), a song which suitably introduces the album with gothic flair: heart monitor, piano, dramatic guitars and what sounds like the beginning of a barbershop quartet chiming in in the background. Actually, that last element might just be what adds to the dated feel of the album, those little hints at the story behind it being several decades in the past. ‘Mama’ shows this off best with its theatricality, Tim Burton-esque macabre, and perfect use of acoustics alongside the soaring electrics which tell the sorry tale of young World War 1 soldiers. There’s even a hint of the hysteria invoked in songs like Avenged Sevenfold’s ‘A Little Piece of Heaven’ that makes this such a provoking track. And then, of course, there’s the screaming.

Yes, I seem to [still] be a fan of artists who love to scream. But Gerard seems to be able to vary his enough to make it an appreciated feature, especially when it merges into the wall of noise stirred up in ‘Sleep’. An unassuming song, in my opinion, about the nightmares of PTSD, which seems to feel as much like a lullaby as if you were violently rocking the cradle, yet its soaring melody and the occasional quiet refrains (before it descends into the aforementioned wall of noise) has something of a soothing quality. And this is paralleled by the equally melodic agony of ‘This is How I Disappear’ with its semi-distorted vocals, harsh guitar riffs, and yes, more screaming. ‘Dead!’ deserves a brief mention here for its theatrical fanfare and wonderfully sculpted guitar solos but tracks like ‘House of Wolves’ and ‘Teenagers’ seem to stand out far better for their speed and attitude than this. The former is driving and sinister, Gerard’s vocals caustic yet honeyed, while the latter is a classically loved stomper, reminiscent of Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge’s
‘I’m Not Okay (I Promise)’ from two years prior, full of swagger and rebellion. 

However, there is one particularly dark alley you may find yourself wandering into by the fourth song on this album, and that is ‘The Sharpest Lives’, preluded by a sinister single guitar note, Gerard’s low pitched vocals and an eerie whispered echo which bounces between your ears. This launches progressively into that familiar surge of guitars which I cannot get enough of and seems to swirl around inside your brain like a flask of chemicals. As such, the avid listener should also be in need of some respite and safety which thankfully comes in the form of the gentle ‘I Don’t Love You’, a tearstained track that’s slower on the tempo without forsaking volume, and beautifully laced with organ and synth notes and Gerard’s gorgeous Southern tone. Again, this is paralleled with ‘Disenchanted’, another almost-lullaby like ‘Sleep’ that feels somewhat nostalgic for its despair and rich guitar licks, and calming for its acoustic guitar intro/outro. I dare to include ‘Cancer’ in this bracket of ‘gentle’ songs, even though it’s so poignantly sad, especially for someone whose life has been touched by cancer, that I can’t always listen to it. But there’s something simultaneously comforting and affecting in its stately build up, from piano to drums, violin to guitars, pierced by Gerard’s bittersweet lyrics. A build up which the final two songs manage so beautifully, that they’re as iconic as it comes.

‘Welcome to the Black Parade’ – need I say more? Andrew Lloyd Webber even remarked on how one note, just that single G chord, can be so recognisable. The album’s title track couldn’t be more beloved, and with good reason. It is an anthem, it is a song of hope, and it never sticks to the same beat for long, full of marching drums, stratospheric guitars, and that emboldening chant to ‘carry on!’ Yet somehow those boys from New Jersey manage to smash this album’s constituent parts into something equal if not greater. Where ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’ takes theatricality and tenderness, ‘Famous Last Words’ is an amalgam of the aggression, speed, and menace of ‘House of Wolves’ and ‘The Sharpest Lives’. For my first taste of this band, I couldn’t have been offered a better song, a track shot through with heavy guitars riffs, lashings of rolling drums, softer refrains pregnant with energy, and even an echo of the Black Parade’s chant, this time that ‘I am not afraid to keep on living’. As the second longest song on the album, I almost wish it were longer!

Oh and I almost forgot the ‘hidden’ track ‘Blood’, a cheeky little loudspeaker-style theatrical ditty with what I learnt to be the drummer Bob Bryar’s bizarre ghostly wailing in the background. Certainly worth the minute and half’s wait in silence for a giggle, but also worth the nerves I swallowed to ask my Dad to buy the album for me when I was a teenager. And what a beauty it is!

FULL ALBUM: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_kf2mr4s7G3ErS-ruCXgDFFwY8HyHQijfA

Sonnet Sundays - Roses

So I was expecting my next entry to be Wednesday's Wellness Clinic, but oh no, my body had other plans (blame Mother Nature and all her gifts to womankind). Instead, here we are at Sonnet Sunday and I must admit, the same parts of my anatomy seem to have decided the tone of the poem I chose tonight too. 

I originally wrote this piece in June 2018 after going to a poetry reading during the final month of my stay in Plymouth. I'd met some strange characters in the Plymouth poetry scene but none as bizarre and affecting as one Spencer Shute. This poem was written for him (as an inaccurate description).

Roses

He reposes as he proses,

his words smell of roses,

yet the twang of his tone

is hard on the nose,

like the unfortunate rose

now starting to decompose.

He closes his eyes.

He sighs.

He reclines barefoot

now the toes begin to curl.

Content he owns the space

his tongue now unfurls.

He gesticulates

with every word he masticates

of dreams in which he fornicates,

and poses

for the scribbler who composes

and transposes

his image under the noses

of the speechless crowd.

On the page spawns a spider,

an inked-up outsider,

eyes closed but mouth wider

in dreams that he rides her.

He reaches and retches

fetches up on the ground

with a hideous sound

going around and around

into the silence.

 

Eyes unclose.

Time to recompose.

As he rose

they’re still silent.

A pressing down of the pants,

no chance

to redeem himself.

A little dance -

just a glance of the eyes,

but no surprise –

still silent.

The scribbler too is spent

his dribbling pen laid askance,

entranced by the event

that failed in its intent.

The problem here

what no one knows is

the poet as he proses

writes those decomposing roses

in a state which simultaneously deposes

the brain,

allows the heart and prick to reign,

leaving a stain on page and pants,

giving a new name to romance.

He closes his eyes.

He sighs.

Toes curl

Tongue unfurls.

Repeat. 

Tasty Tuesdays - Persian Herb and Chickpea Stew with Rice (Tieghan Gerard, Halfbaked Harvest)

Ok, I know. I said I’d be taking a break, but I tried out a particularly tasty recipe on the weekend which I just had to share: a Persian Herb and Chickpea Stew with Rice from Tieghan Gerard’s website Half baked Harvest. Understandably, I made a few adjustments to suit my tastes/ingredient availability, but please remember this is not my recipe – the original can be found here.

The first few steps are easy, just make sure not to let the onion or chickpeas burn during those first 5 minutes. Once you’ve added the seasonings, however, you will be greeted with the most amazing aroma, especially from the lemon zest.

Before starting on the third step, I added 2 ingredients of my own. To make this a little more like the stew recipes I make at home, I used 50g/1.75oz of pearl barley, soaked overnight and then boiled gently for an hour. Also, to add a little more protein, I included the meat from one decent sized chicken breast and a bone-in chicken breast with wing, seasoned with dried parsley, sweet paprika and salt/pepper, and slow cooked in a little red wine for 40 minutes at 150°C/300°F then roughly chopped.

Once the broth, lemon juice and salt have been added, I chose to leave the mixture to simmer for roughly 5 minutes to let the chicken soak up some flavour before adding the spinach and herbs, to which I made a second set of adjustments. I chose to make roughly half the amount but included 1 cup of fresh kale. And while I unfortunately forgot to buy the fresh herbs, I made do with 1/3 the amount in dried herbs (but I won’t forget them next time!)

All that’s left then is to let it carry on simmering for another 15 minutes while you cook the rice and, as Tieghan recommends, heat up a few fluffy naan breads to go on the side. And don’t forget the yoghurt on top!

It also tastes great warmed up the day after for lunch.

PERSIAN HERB AND CHICKPEA STEW WITH RICE (serves 6)

·         1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

·         1 yellow onion, chopped

·         2 cans (14 ounce) chickpeas, drained

·         kosher salt and pepper

·         3 cloves garlic, minced or grated

·         1 teaspoon ground turmeric

·         1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

·         2 teaspoons lemon zest

·         3-4 cups low sodium vegetable broth

·         2 tablespoons lemon juice

·         2 cups baby spinach

·         1/2 cup fresh cilantro (coriander), roughly chopped

·         1/2 cup fresh parsley, roughly chopped

·         1/4 cup fresh dill, roughly chopped

·         1 tablespoon chopped chives

·         2 cups cooked basmati rice

·         plain Greek yogurt, for serving

·         fresh mint, for serving

1. Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. When the oil shimmers, add the onion and cook 5 minutes until soft. Add the chickpeas and season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally until the chickpeas begin to crisp, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, turmeric, crushed red pepper, and lemon zest, cook until the garlic is fragrant, about 1 minute.

2. Carefully remove 1 cup of chickpeas and reserve for topping, only if desired.

3. To the chickpeas, add 3 cups broth, the lemon juice, and season with salt. Bring the mix to a boil over high heat, then reduce the heat to low. Stir in the spinach, cilantro, parsley, dill, and chives, and simmer 10-15 minutes, until the spinach is wilted and the stew is very fragrant. Taste, adjusting salt and pepper as needed. If you would like a thinner consistency, add the remaining 1 cup broth.

4. To serve, divide the rice among bowls and ladle the stew overtop. Top with yogurt, the reserved chickpeas, and fresh mint.

Sonnet Sundays - The Northmore Busker

Welcome back! This will be my last entry until Wellness Wednesday now so please enjoy.

I wasn't too sure which poem I was going to pick for tonight's edit - I have such a huge back catalog of old and new, terrible and terrific pieces (at least to me they are) - but when I found this one, it brought back such a beautiful memory of meeting this colourful busker named Philip Northmore in Plymouth High Street nearly 4 years ago. I sat and listened to him singing while I wrote the first draft of this poem which I gave to him. I saw him all over the town after that and we became friends. I think it's a reminder to me that life may be tough, but no matter what you're going through, there is always a ray of light somewhere.

The Northmore Busker

My heart beats in time to the busker

and his ukulele song,

his hair a Rastafarian Rapunzel,

his skin smiling at the sun through an open shirt.

The kids wouldn’t understand

his troubles beneath a rough Bohemian grin,

they can only laugh at his balloon pants;

he is mere music and they are

untouchable.

Yet to the soles of his busted-up boots

he is the most alive,

unlike any soul I ever saw:

 a solar-powered sunflower

dancing in the midday heat.

His voice caresses the air,

And opens our selfish eyes

to a joy that money cannot buy.

I thought children lived the purest lives;

I thought even love came cheap,

but now I know the true professor of happiness

gives his joy for free.

 

Storybook Saturdays - The Museum of Mary Child by Cassandra Golds

I’d often wondered if modern fairy tales sound like their stereotypical predecessors, with wicked stepmothers, dashing princes and beautiful dresses, and now that I’ve [re]read Cassandra Golds’ The Museum of Mary Child (2009), I can say that’s a definite maybe, albeit with a few twists.

Where one expects to find a wicked stepmother, there is a wicked godmother (quite contrary to the Fairy Godmother found in Cinderella) whose isolated existence and ban on all things creative, fun and, above all, loving, are all our young heroine, Heloise, knows. Like Rapunzel, she can only observe the rest of the world enjoying things which are forbidden to her like games, fancy clothes and, especially, dolls. These, according to her Godmother, are a ‘Waste of Time’; even her questions are labelled as such and dismissed with a command to ‘lower your voice’. Her entire world revolves around one room (except when taken out for walks) and as she grows, she is filled with a sense of unease and desire to know more.

And then there’s the museum which, along with the clothes she and her godmother knit and sew for the village orphans, helps pay for the roof over her head: it seems to affect those that visit. Heloise’s fear surrounding the museum – ‘that something from the museum would escape, find its way into the cottage, drag itself up the stairs, and come for her’ – lends a Tim Burton-esque tone to the otherwise classic fairy tale beginning. In fact, every small detail omitted from or altered in Heloise’s life, from a defaced copy of the Bible to the lack of mirrors in the house, makes for a slightly unsettling read. There is even ‘something eerie’ about Heloise herself, as the narrator remarks.

So when she finds a doll, one she must keep secret from her godmother, one who teaches her what love is, the whole inevitable truth begins to unravel before her and she must run away, allowing a new chapter in her life to start.

It is a chapter filled with talking birds, music, imagination and, finally, love. She learns she can sing, she can wear pretty dresses, and she knows what a kiss feels like. But it is also a chapter of fear and deceit as, isolated with her godmother for so long, and now so frightened of being found out, she must hide her doll and play the game of pretend, all the while being drawn into ‘the heart of things’. When news arrives that her godmother is dying, she must make the decision to return or to stay. Thus every little event and dream seems to happen by fate/magic, drawing our heroine on through the story.  

There is definitely something of last week’s reviewed book, Jane Eyre, to this cute little tale, as both tell the story of a young girl, raised by a guardian who doesn’t love her, who eventually finds herself among friends, only to have to be tragically torn away. There is even a man/boy who becomes almost the centre of our heroine’s universe, the disorientating and foreboding world of dreams, that ever present feeling of dread, uncertainty, and eeriness that comes in the dead of night and, if that wasn’t enough comparisons, there’s also a burning building. How’s that for eerily similar?

I love every scene involving the ‘Society of the Caged Birds of the City’, the way their wingbeats and flight are described, and how benevolent they are. I love the individual personalities of the girls Heloise meets in the ‘Choir of Female Orphans, Waifs and Strays’, from the exuberant Melancholy, to the resonant Esther, and the hen-like Old Mother.  And I love the way that love, so often at the heart of every fairy tale, finds itself unwittingly front and centre in this story too.

I picked this book up from a charity shop for a mere 50p but it’s now worth so much more in my heart.