142/365 Bacon Jam: Would you or wouldn't you?

What do you make of this then? 

While I was on the hunt for something entirely different, I spotted this on the shelves of Tesco, Port Glasgow. And I couldn't not get it, just out of curiousity. 

Luckily it tastes better than it looks

 It's one of those things that sounds about as wrong-headed as opposing gay marriage, yet, when you taste it, it makes perfect sense (very unlike opponents to gay marriage). Actually, forget the gay marriage analogy, it doesn't really work. 

Back to the bacon jam. It's bacony (more by texture than taste) and sweet in a jammy kind of way. (Clearly I am a massive loss to the world of food reviews.) Imagine pate with crispy bits mixed with salty chutney and you're getting near the thing. 

Once you get over the initial resistance, the next problem is what to do with it. It's not bad with cheese, but you couldn't put it on ham - that would be tautology. Maybe the best way is on it's own, on toast, the way of, well, jam. 

The Panther of News, normally a man of huge courage (except when there are frogs) refused point blank to even have a sniff. "It's all wrong," he roared.

I like it although every time I open the jar there's a lingering sense of something not altogether proper - like being at work in your swimming cossie (unless you're a life guard) or being a UKIP member. 

141/365 Let the sun shine in...

For three whole days now the sky has been blue and the sun shining. Maybe, just maybe it's coming. 

I'm quite good at being cheery in the rain, but, blimey a bit of sun makes such a difference. 

Flora recipes for a healthier and less picky family #cbias

See, when you said come round for dinner...

Try one of the recipes on the Flora website they said. Er ok. I don't need much excuse to do some cooking.

These recipes include Flora products such as Flora Cuisine or Buttery - all of which are healthier one way or another. 

I hasten to add that that Flora Buttery is a very, very long way from the Aberdeen buttery which is possibly the most calorific (and delicious) thing in the world. 

The Flora products reduce the saturated fats and include healthier oils such as omega, they cut the number of calories or they simply deliver fewer fats in the first place. In every case this is good news.

Not just general good news, mind. Specifically good news for us. 

Firstly, we are having another campaign to get the kids to eat proper healthy food instead of their breadcrumb coated processed diet. The 11 year old, in particular, is showing signs of needing better food
.
And I also had raised blood pressure the last time it was tested. I have to go back for more tests, but, in any event, healthier eating can't hurt. I don't drink too much and I easily get my five a day. For me the danger zone is butter, olive oil etc. I know what I've said before about real food, but it's time for a rethink.

So the flora recipe thing was a bit of a gift.

Looks delicious even if there aren't many Jamaican goats in Renfrewshire

 The panther said he fancied the goat curry, probably just for the entertainment to be had at me hunting goat all over west central Scotland. Instead I decided to substitute with beef. However the recipe expected me to wait overnight for the spice flavour to infuse the meat.

That was too long to wait, so what about tonight's dinner?

Fa-je-tas. OK then, we'll just have spicy chicken wraps.

Fajitas would give the panther and I something tasty while the boys could have something similar if a little milder. And I could fry the chicken in a guilt-free Flora product. The recipe suggested either Flora Cuisine or Buttery. 

Port Glasgow Tesco which sells pretty much anything you could ever want - including bacon jam - didn't have Flora Cuisine. But it did have Buttery on a bogof deal.

It also had boxes and boxes of Dan Brown's latest book. I'd say bogof if you tried to give me a copy.

Browned off by badly written novels

Persuaded by the idea of healthier frying I continued my hunt to Asda for Flora Cuisine, but no luck there either. However they did have Flora oil spray, which is ideal for burgers on the griddle.

So Saturday's dinner was fajitas - spicy or mild - with Buttery fried chicken. A triumph.

Then on Sunday the Panther and I got our goat. Well, beef. The meat had taken on the fragrant spice it had wallowed in overnight. The PoN was so impressed he took the leftovers to work on Monday.

There are more pictures of our Flora culinary adventures and my shopping trip on Google +.

The recipes I used plus loads of other really tempting ones are on the Flora site. I'll be back there too.

Thanks to #cbias for the opportunity. 

Beware the plastic boxes of doom

At first glance they look innocent enough. Plastic storage boxes. Boxes that you put your leftovers in, or your packed lunches. They keep things tidy, economical. They are frugal, useful and organised. 

Like hell. 

Plastic boxes are sent from somewhere dark and fiery to torment, control and, eventually, destroy us. 

You think I'm exaggerating. Well, let's consider the evidence. 

Firstly look at how it all starts. 

The boxes and jars are orderly, they are clean and they are full of stuff like macaroons, jelly beans and lentils. So you buy them because you want, in your heart of hearts, to be the kind of person who has jelly beans long enough to transfer them into a plastic box or has pasta that isn't just spewing out of split bags. 

This is more malevolent than the creeping insistence that the best women should all be slender, polite and in possession of bounciness of hair and bosom. 

Some danger comes as the boxes even weasel themselves itself into your affections with cosy, clean-pinny kind of descriptions like 'stackable' or 'nestable'. Last time I looked 'nestable' wasn't even a word. It's just not fair to make up something just because it sounds a bit like a fluffy chic or a bar of chocolate. 

This is, apparently, nestable. Do you see any roosting birds? Nope, me neither. Just some imprisoned strawberries. 

The first letdown is when you get these boxes home, you put them into your kitchen and you wait. And wait. There is no magical order, no tidiness or clean stuff. Just the same old thing only you've got to make room for a bunch of boxes.

You sigh and start to decant things into the boxes where they remain until they go mouldy and you can throw the contents out. The box will now need washed and must, therefore be separated from the lid. They are unlikely to reunite. 

Lids are especially sinister. I suspect they may be off dancing with the odd socks or blocking up a tear in the space time continuum. Either way, it's no bloody good to me, because a lid will never be available for a box that is the correct size and vice versa.

And then even if you do get a lid, it will no longer fit tightly. It's plastic gasket will have become part of some junior Heath Robinson's invention or it will have become slightly distorted by heat. Perhaps the heat from the dishwasher, but most likely from the flame that accompanies a satanic burp. 

You see how these ones are transparent and clean. It's easy to observe the contents. Even the apparently empty one - clearly full of freshly slaughtered invisible trolls. 

But int he real world, that doesnt' happen. After the first wash the boxes are mysteriously stained red - even if no red was even in the house. Or the plastic has turned cloudy. Maybe even in an attempt to defeat the evil power of the box, you wrote a description of the contents in indelible marker. Then there won't be words, just black inky smear. In any case the upshot will be that you have no flipping idea what the solid brown frozen stuff is inside the box. Nor how long it's been there. 

None of this is news to you, is it? You know where the madness lies, yet you are in its clutches - every time the chaos encroaches, what do you do? You buy more boxes. I've seen you at it. Heck I've done it myself. 

We must fight back. It's time we rose up and demanded boxes that work, obedient lids and transparent sides. 

Because if we don't, the future is bleak, very bleak indeed. 

I told you it was bad. 

The images are all from Lakeland to whom I mean no malice, something they should be aware of given the amount of my money in the storage solutions that line their coffers. 

140/365 And down on the farm today...

Awwww blossom

 Unusually Family Bundance were all around on Sunday and couldn't find anything better to do than to spend it in each other's company. 

Having just joined the National Trust For Scotland we had to visit one of their properties to get our money's worth, of course. So we decided to visit the National Museum of Rural Life in East Kilbride. 

Rolling is best 

 While the bigger boys declared that it was much better than they anticipated, they all decided that the best entertainment to be had was rolling down the grassy slope at the entrance. 

Oi, make my tractor go!

While the farm has some obvious easy hits for smaller tractor-loving people, there was lots to spark discussion among bigger ones. While we ambled around (or cantered in some cases) we discussed foot and mouth disease, the land army, dairy farms, and whether or not it would ever be OK to be a POW.

The National Museum of Rural Life is surprisingly entertaining and informative - well worth a visit. 

Rowan the calf was very, very cute

Baby bug

Daddy bug

139/365 Let's not keep tomboling along...

Due entirely to family planning failures on my part, I am going to attend 17 school May Fairs before I'm done. Nine down, eight to go. 

Don't get me wrong I'm a huge supporter of the Parent Council that runs these things, and I know the money they raise makes a big difference to the already excellent things the school and the teachers can do.

I also know the Parent Council volunteers work very hard giving lots of time and energy to the role.

But...

There's always a but, isn't there? 

Amid the really nice - I wouldn't mind winning that, in fact, I'd even pay money for it - tombola prizes are the others. The ones which, when you look more closely, are vaguely familiar. 

I'm talking about gift sets of candles, gift sets of cosmetics from brands you haven't heard of, gift sets of table linen, gift sets of golf tees, and so on. 

(Questions the meaning of 'gift set' doesn't it?)

They have the look of something that has languished in the back of the emergency gifts cupboard since they came home after the last tombola. Many even have tell-tale sticky marks left by the previously taped-on raffle ticket. Or maybe that was just the items that came from this house...

No? You too. 

How many of us have cupboards full of stuff that, almost certainly, will never get used and simply exists so that when our offspring says "mum I need to take something to school for the tombola today" you've got something to hand over?

I confess I do like the cheery little lift I get when Boy Two heads off to school with a bulging bag leaving me with a tidy empty space in my cluttered home, however, that's what makes the resultant mini-gloom of stuffing this year's spoils into the cupboard all the more depressing. 

What is the point? All right. Clearly, the point is we raise money for the school and I don't have a problem with that at all, but perhaps it's time for a re-think on the gift donation front. 

Maybe we can have a charity shop collection point at the next May Fair so we can drop off the stuff that won't be used. After all, whose feelings are you going to hurt? Or perhaps you pay double for another go allowing you to leave the thing you didn't want and try again for the Clarins gift set or the nice-looking Sauvignon. 

Surely we can do something a bit less annoying than using it as an occasion to simply circulate unwanted items around the village from one dusty cupboard to another.

This is not, by the way, a very convoluted way of volunteering for the Parent Council (I'm much to contrary for that), but I am available for consultation. After all, over 17 years I would be very much cheered if there was some form of evolution. 

PS The photo is of the raffle (distinct from the tombola) which I manned for a while on Saturday. Here I report excellent evolution. Instead of buying tickets for every prize and running the risk of wining  a signed football shirt (I have enough soiled sporting attire without pretending the acquisition of more is a good thing) you opt only to enter the raffle for the good stuff - hair cuts, meals out, booze, cleaning firm vouchers. This is marvellous progress.

138/365 Jamie Oliver's Italian - Mint

Leafing troubles behind - diving into a mojito

Once upon a time it was a summer evening in Glasgow. The people strolled 'neath the fresh green foliage of the dear green trees.

There was laughter, painted toens in sandals and the sound of people relaxing in the warm, dappled, dropping evening sun. 

A day later it would rain and the people would hurry by hunched up and saying: "Ah well that was summer for this year."

But such an evening happened yesterday and, by happy coincidence, it was the day the baby-sitter was in charge, the friends organised and the table at Jamie Oliver's Italian restaurant on Glasgow's George Square booked. 

Inside it was busy - buzzing even, but never jostly or too noisy to talk. 

There wasn't even too much Jamie in evidence, hardly any large photos of his mugging grin. Mercifully. There wasn't even too much 'Jamie-ness' on the menu. By this I mean not his choice of food, but the way his uses language. Have you notice how on telly and even in some of his books he suggests adding a 'lug' of some liquid or other to a dish? Presumably he means 'glug' or, at a push, slug. But not lug. No. 

Anyhow, our meal was lovely, perfect and fresh. The company was good and the walk to the station afterwards was warm and dry. 

Of course, today it's piddling down and I have cooked supper for children who clearly would rather be at McDonald's and the Panther who claims I've got a "blind spot about seasoning". Then I loaded the dishwasher and cleared up the kitchen.

But that's what makes nights like last night so good, isn't it? 

137/365 proud mother #46

Boy One came home from school with, among others, this picture. It's good, isn't it? 

Who knew he was so good at art? Certainly not his family. Still he's doing art next year so watch this space... 

136/365 a bench mark for summer

Two whole days the sun has shone, brightness all around. 

The light has streamed in and started to turn my head. I've found myself thinking about linen trousers, sun tan lotion and barbecues. 

I was so far into a fantasy about sitting outside, shades on, reading the papers and sipping a cup of Earl Grey that before I knew it I'd bought a bench. 

I realise that as fantasies go this was hardly setting the heather, or anything else, alight. Much more Grey Shades for the Over Fifties than anything steamier. 

Anyhow, the bench arrived - the way of most things these days - unfit for purpose without some degree of effort or irritation. Then I remembered the Panther of News gave me a power drill with a screwdriver attachment (no not a euphemism) for Christmas. The drill made short work of the bench. 

Unfortunately at this point Boy Three got hold of the drill. It's just like a gun, you see. It took some lengthy effort to disarm him.

Minutes later I assumed the pose, mug in hand. It didn't last long, however, as it was so cold the shivering was putting me at risk of spilling the tea. I retreated indoors. 

It's probably just as well because the soundtrack to the fantasy - a lawn being mowed in the middle distance - wasn't going to happen either. 

Boy One, enthusiastically tackling the gardening element of his day's chore had inadvertently severed the Flymo power cable. 

I am learning that the biggest challenge of getting others to help is serenity in the face of them doing so. 

135/365 A nose for something different

Whisky is a man's drink - and it shouldn't be polluted. It should be neat - and so strong it makes you gasp and shudder. That's a proper nip of Scotch. 

Or at least that's how things used to be in the country that claims whisky as its national drink. 

Bollocks. That's as old hat as the idea that women shouldn't be enterprising and pioneering. 

At last night's meeting of Scottish Women in Business, Cutty Sark's master blender Kirsteen Campbell did an excellent job of entertaining, giving an insight into her world and kicking the old hats further into the mixed metaphor of the long grass. 

She is responsible for the consistency of the Cutty Sark brand, as well as for creating new products. Put simply she tests - by smelling - the quality of the blended whisky's ingredients and  monitors its process from cask to bottle. 

She's as far from the broken veined and tweedy cliche of the industry as you could get. And that's an excellent thing. 

As the brand tags itself "the spirit of adventure", that's perhaps the best distillation of the evening too.

Kirsteen's has blended her undoubted adventurous spirit with the science and diligence necessary to rise in her industry. And she's not the only woman to do so. 

And that's really what it's about - a woman in a man's world must surely by now be a red herring.   Instead, having passion and courage to look for adventure - but not losing sight of the need to sniff out what's quality and what's, quite frankly, wrong for the job. Dammit, having spirit, that's the thing.  

And if you're asking - mine's a whisky with soda, a dash of lemon and lots of ice.