Astral cookies

I have decided to shift the focus of my life to the dream world. Really. It’s much nicer there and, major plus point, it’s warm. Last night I spent the majority of my time splashing around in the Pacific and running down waterfalls. It was heaven. Okay, so there was the small matter of all the dead/sleeping people littering the boats by the cliffs but hey… Then I wake up and there is ice on the inside of the window and even the dog is shivering. But no…this isn’t going to be a post about astral travel and lucid dreaming…not quite yet…

Adrian comes in and stands at the foot of the bed looking revoltingly cheerful.
‘I’m off then…’
He’s going shooting. Not some big fancy shoot, I hasten to add, just a bunch of mates.
‘Looking forward to it?’ I say, just eyes and nose visible over the four duvets, still shaking off the turquoise waters in my mind.
‘I dunno,’ he replies. ‘Seems a bit weird to be looking forward to killing something…’

Huh? Don’t tell me the vegetarianism is catching? He has been eating a lot less meat lately. And going to the gym. Last night he even had a cup of tea instead of another beer. Hmm.

But then, when I drag myself out of bed and creep to the kitchen there’s a slab of Sherman’s bacon defrosting on the top (no, it’s not really carved from Sherman’s haunches – not much meat there, come to think of it – but from one of his ex-pigs). And Hugh F-W’s MEAT (you gotta like the open honesty of that title, huh?) cookbook is open on the page for pork pies. Ah well…

Anyhow, his departure leaves me and James home alone… again. The poor boy is in the wars… again. He’s injured himself…again. Policeman’s foot apparently (plantar fasciitis). ‘He’s the youngest person I’ve ever seen with it,’ said the doctor, with that gleam of eye that medical people can’t quite suppress at something more interesting than piles and flu.

‘Yeah, well he’s got form,’ I replied. ‘He was the youngest person to have Bell’s palsy too.’
‘So he was!’ Dr B’s eyes light up even more. ‘Maybe he’s a medical conundrum.’
James wasn’t remotely impressed. He didn’t want to be a conundrum; he wanted the magic wand of medicine. He wanted to jump up and walk out cured, like the guy in the Bible. Dr B would make a cracking Jesus, come to think of it – he’s got the bone structure and does a good line in pithy comments. But he’s not hot on miracles. Instead he told James exactly what the apostle St Google had already told me – do the exercises, rest, get some orthotics.

It’s tough though. When you’re thirteen and your greatest joy is to run, to play rugby, to play squash, to play football, to do anything really that involves getting out there, being physical, hurling your body around cos, like a puppy, you have way too much energy. Yes, he reads; yes, he plays on the Xbox; yes, he watches TV; yes, he chats on Facebook but still…

So, don’t laugh…we’ve been baking, he and I. Well, he’s been baking; I’ve been nicking the cake mix. Cos, though food in general doesn’t really rock my boat, I’m a sucker for cake mix. And – of course – baking involves ovens and oven involve…heat. Delicious heat.

Marbled chocolate brownies; raspberry muffins; festive nibbles; spicy cocktail biscuits… Sheesh, no wonder people put on weight – these things are made of slabs of butter and crateloads of sugar and not much else! Favourite so far? Peanut cookies. Oh yeah. Seriously, butter AND peanut butter – your arteries probably wince just at the name but boy, are they good.
So good, in fact, that you should try them. I suppose you could argue there’s protein in there, eh? Vegetarian protein at that.


Peanut cookies 

1 cup/225g butter
2tbsp/30ml crunchy peanut butter (if you prefer a smooth cookie, go for smooth peanut butter…doh!)
1 cup/115g icing sugar
½ cup/50g cornflour
2 cups/225g plain flour
Unsalted peanuts (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 180C, 350F or Gas mark 4. Lightly grease two baking sheets.

2. Beat the butter and peanut butter together and add the dry ingredients. Mix like hell…If you have a mixer this will probably be easy. If not (like me), you’re best off kinda giving up with the spoon and just kneading it with your hands… It’s a very dry mix so keep going. Squish every last bit in.

3. Grab a bit of mix and roll it into a ball. This recipe will make around 25 normal sized cookies – if you like giant ones, go bigger. Place the balls on the baking sheet leaving plenty of room for them to spread out and make themselves comfortable.

4. Press the tops of the balls flat using the back of a fork. If you like (I do, James doesn’t) press a few whole peanuts into each cookie.

5. Bake for around 15 minutes (depends on your oven) until lightly browned. Then the usual stuff about letting them cool a tad (or they will crumble apart) before putting on a wire rack. Then just see if you can stop yourself from scarfing the whole lot in one sitting.

Yeah, they don't look any great shakes but...

In other news...my new book Walker (available for Kindle only - it's an eco-adventure so couldn't really justify the trees!) got a plug in the Telegraph today. Feel free to make my Christmas merry by downloading a copy to your Kindle. Click here for the US and here for the UK.

My anti-guru has been off on a brave quest for the Light recently so he could probably do with a boost to the coffers too...download his books right here and now. 

And for those who roll their eyes at all this shamanic and spiritual stuff, you can still order Adrian's book Great British Pubs and still get it in time for that astral pub crawl at Christmas... 

Benighted blog

Have you ever had the feeling that life really isn’t playing the game? Here I sit, looking out the window and what do I see? A large rusty radiator propped against the wall; a magnolia blighted by frost after a mere two days of glory; a camellia ditto and a large plump rat jauntily munching on the bird nuts. My feet are freezing cold, my fingers can barely type and the electric fan heater is giving off a strong smell of cat pee. As if that weren’t bad enough, I did the most stupid thing ever this morning. Glutton for punishment, I got on the scales. For months I’ve been comforted by the fact that I had absolutely no idea how much I weighed, as the only scales we have measure in kilos and I have never been arsed to get my head around metric. Then things started getting tight, very tight. The jeans that had always been a bit baggy around the thigh suddenly started hugging in far too intimate a manner. My bra – for Pete’s sake – started pinching and if I’m oozing out of an H cup, what hope is there? So, feeling extremely brave, I borrowed a pair of real scales, in stones and pounds and lumbered on. I mean, how much weight can one put on in a mere four months? Oh. My. God. How did that happen? I knew I was getting porky but I had no idea I had put on a stone since I last looked. I am nearly as large as I was when I was pregnant – only now the rampaging wrinkles will stop anyone making of asking ‘When’s it due’.

Nothing else for it. Went to the kitchen and baked up a batch of triple choc chip cookies and ate about six in one sitting. Although the prospect of summer seems unlikely, if it ever does come I shall be the sad woman in the vast kaftan. Or, better still, a burqa. I think I have just given up. I can’t even be bothered to paint my nails. My toenails are so long they’re starting to snag on my socks (Tights? Stockings? Don’t be daft – wearing skirts takes FAR too much effort). There isn’t a sharp razorblade in the house (maybe Adrian has taken to hiding them out of concern for my mood) so I have a thick shagpile of hair in all the places women are supposed to keep smooth and nude. In fact, if I ever do get around to doing something about it, I reckon I’ll have to go to a dog groomer and get myself stripped.

If my body is no longer a temple, my house is a tip. When the dust gets to a full inch thick, there really is nothing much you can do, other than stick your finger in and prod gloomy pictures of hollow-eyed people in it. I am deeply embarrassed to say my house is, let’s not mince words, a pit of filth. Yes, I KNOW we have builders in and missing floorboards and dangling electrics and free-standing plumbing (including half the radiators in the garden providing a gym for the rats – who, I notice bitterly, are in much better shape than I am). But really there is no excuse. I have become a slattern and a slob.

So slatternly, in fact, that I haven’t ever got around to doing my 7 weird facts. So, better late than never, here they are. Who knows, this burst of activity might spur me into doing something else. Like bake up a rhubarb polenta cake maybe.

7 things you might not know about me.

1. I used to make jewellery – beaded bracelets and wild earrings.
2. I was once arrested in Richmond Park on three counts of reckless riding (but got off!).
3. I have taken courses in past life regression and SHEN therapy, but have never practiced.
4. I’ve done the Ouija Board and scared myself witless when somebody WAS there!
5. I have always wanted a pet mongoose.
6. My favourite scents are amber, neroli and jasmine.
7. I have never been a bridesmaid (and, to be honest, never thought I’d be a bride).

I’m a lousy tagger and tagee so shall leave this to float in the ether….think everyone has done it anyhow…. Now, after this little burst of activity, think I’ll go and stare out the window a bit. Or think up a cunning plan to avoid the mother who’s coming to pick up James actually seeing how bad the house is. Perhaps we’ll sit, nonchalantly on the steps, pretending to be cloud-spotting or, hell, anything really that doesn’t require too much effort.