Kenwood spatula

It has come to my notice that, over the years, I have had an antipathy towards the humble kitchen tool which first became an object of (general) desire with the Kenwood mixer: the Kenwood kitchen spatula.

This stems, I'm sure, from my childhood, when the spatula and its attendant mixer first came into my life.

My Mum used to make excellent cakes. Rarely anything fancy; just simple fruit or cherry cakes and a Victoria sponge flavoured with chocolate or coffee. These were hand-mixed in a traditional stoneware bowl using a wooden spoon and this same tool was employed with a butter knife to scrape the mix into a baking tin. As a child I would then have the pleasure of scraping the bowl as close to cleanliness as I could using a teaspoon while the cooking process raised expectations of the finished item.

I clearly recall the arrival of the first Kenwood mixer in the house because it disturbed my cosy routine. Firstly, the mixing process was now consigned entirely to the kitchen; secondly, this mixing process was now accompanied by an excruciating noise that precluded conversation and usually caused me to visit distant parts of the house in the search for some peace - in addition the mixer in operation smelled of electrical appliance, an odour I was willing to countenance in the garage with my train set, but felt unsuited to a place of food preparation; thirdly, the pairing of bowl and spatula resulted in there not being sufficient residue to make the scraping of the bowl worthwhile.

What I was perhaps less aware of at the time was that although the frequency of cakes may have risen somewhat with the arrival of mechanical assistance, the flavour and texture took something of a dive. Now I can only compare the before and after with a deal of dubious introspection, but I'm sure that it is the case.

All of these detrimental changes in my life I have attached to this humble kitchen tool. I despise it.

Cloud framed

Wintered twigs open,
Light to littered woodland floor.
Basket woven sky.

Awareness of carpet

I sit awhile, most days, at my computer desk. Predominantly I sit here with bare feet, keyboard on my knee. Why today am I suddenly aware of the feel of the carpet? It's been the same carpet for 23 years.

Half past summer?

The rain, earlier just an optical aberration under a sky the colour of dusty sheets, graduated to falling mist and now, hisses on the conservatory roof, washes the leaves of the tired apple trees.

Birds have skulked to cover. Before 7am I was greeted by a fresh robin, dipping and chirping from the garden furniture on the lawn grazed by nervous, slow pigeons. Blue and great-tits searched crevices for insects and arachnids; blackbirds and jackdaws holed the unripe apples, spoiling them for all but the alcoholic wasps.

Dawn is still 5am by planetary motion, 6 by the clock, but summer is dissolving. This year's infants are entering adolescence. The cruel irradiating sun is filtered and the persistent blocking-high has welcomed Atlantic fronts at last.

There was some drought

Happy faces raised,
to accept the rain's blessing.
We run for cover.

Phase two

Buzzing; orange with purposeful banding, it flew low under the drooping apple boughs, disturbing wasps in their search for apple juice weeping from the browned flesh of fruit that the trees have let go. I wore jeans (for the first time in a month), made bearable by the slight diminishment of the morning temperature, for protection.

Hover-mower, hornet, or both. Your choice.

Breathe (reprise)

Not disconnected from media entirely, but away from television and radio for 2 months; I'm home again.

This song.

Isle of Wight, Monday

Gatekeeper

Snow again

Words rare enough in this neck of the Forest to be noteworthy.

Breakfast of the soul

Billy Graham's son was patronised briefly on Radio 4 this morning; advancing his belief that the hand of God could be seen in American presidential voting patterns (or more sinisterly, in the results?) and also signally failing to understand any insult he was offering his Rohingya Muslim "friends" by his oblivious evangelising.

The event reminded me of an occasion in my youth when I went, with a couple of house-mates, to see his father at a football stadium in London. On our walk from the station we were interrupted by a desperate outside broadcast crew who were finding the sort of difficulty in interrupting the flow of attendees that would be  familiar to a time traveller attempting to prevent the siren's call from enticing a stream of Eloi from their doom. I paused for long enough to explain to them that I was thinking of starting a religion of my own and wanted some pointers, that one of my friends was already a believer and was there for affirmation whilst the second claimed to be keen on a bit of chanting. I don't think they broadcast my interview. My recollection of the event itself was of a feeling of incomprehension swiftly followed by boredom.

I ate my breakfast to further reports considering the stature and style pointers of The Son of God, followed by Bishops banging on about child poverty and interfering in politics in a way that is bizarrely state-sanctioned. IMHO a failure to understand that government should be providing the majority with the means to be independent and to avoid fostering the sort of helpless position of a congregation petitioning an omnipotent body that they may not understand.

I silenced the radio before it enraged me further and before "A Point of View" which is the usually secular interruption to Sunday's religious output that inverts the position played by "Thought for the Day" throughout the week.

In the kitchen, some of the molecules that I had excited earlier were trying to escape via the glass, fogging the view down a cold and damp garden. The unemployed detergent bubbles were crackling mournfully in the sink and, with the rest of the house still quiet, I snook a brief return to warm bed covers.

Winter heath afoot

I abandoned the search for explanation when I found two small pools, adjacent. One pool was clear, dark and with faint ripples striking reflections off the bright sky above. It's neighbour, equal in every other way I could discern, held fans of crepe paper ice in the sort of not-quite-repeating pattern that ruins much 1970's Artex.

More cold gathered in the pockets, especially those with a North facing slope. In these lowest depressions, frost held onto the grasses and the puddles were either hard or harboured chipped ice-caps, where broken by browsing animals.

My early companion, half moon, dimmed to the fiercer yellow of its parent light  and the field above blushed blue; fading to thin mist at the horizons.

Hi-viz foot strikers were out, considering each next stride to maximise exercise effectiveness. Dog walkers checked their charges to save me from their unwelcome salivas. The ponies wore their hearth-rug coats.

The wind was keen to cut, though before half way I removed my gloves and rolled my coat zip to regulate my temperature. Seven miles without a stand to stare; just the rolling landscape and the brief encounters for company. Good walking.