Today is day 3 of the residence in our house of the perpetual chicken.

She started her life with us…well, not so much life  really as the final post mortem phase of her corporeal existence…She started her sojourn with us as the Sunday roast, served with roasties and 3 types of veg. She was a well stacked bird. Her ample breasts would (proportionally speaking) put Jordan to shame and she cost a mere £5 from Sainsbury’s, so a good deal cheaper too, though somewhat classier. (more…)

What could be healthier than growing your own, organic (assuming you don’t use pesticides) fruit, I hear you ask. It has to be better than paying for fruit from the supermarket, right? Well, let me tell you.

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It seems that the modern peasantry should take a leaf out of our Medieval counterparts’ cookbooks in the interests of healthy eating

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-11161525

Should you need a pointer towards some gode cookery receipts, this is a fascinating resource…

http://www.godecookery.com/godeboke/godeboke.htm

Of course, the really healthy peasant diet is less based on elaborately stuffed capons and more on grain-based gruel or potage, but the recipies are intriguing nonetheless. Enjoy!

As usual the last few months have been busy with events and school holidays and I haven’t had much time to blog. So, here  is tour around my summer in yays and boos: (more…)

I returned from Herstmonceux Medieval Festival yesterday afternoon. After a rather quicker journey (including a pub lunch) than on the outward leg, which took 6 hours thanks to one of the tyres on the trailer disintegrating en route. (more…)

I went to the library on Tuesday, primarily for the children, but I always enjoy a good browse and while I was there I popped upstairs to the non-fiction section to look at the crafty books. This is probably a bit sad and middle-aged, but I was really excited to find both this and this. (more…)

So, we’re half way through the first week of the holidays already. Friday was the last day of school and I went first to collect DD, who hurried past me, head bowed. I caught up with her at the school gate and after a failed attempt at conversation, discovered that she was crying. The big, fat tears plopping onto her shoes gave her away. Between the sniffs and wails, it emerged that she missed her teacher already. We went back to say goodbye again, but she was utterly distraught.

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I have had *the* best day. I went up to the big smoke (London) on the train. We will gloss over the trauma of visiting my Mum (90 this year) in the morning and her not knowing who I am, then getting upset at forgetting her daughter and doing the weeping and breast-beating thing. This is nothing new and I am not distressed by it any longer. She usually remembers my children and when I have them with me, she knows who I am so it is usually OK. Sometimes she even remembers me when I am on my own, but sometimes she doesn’t.

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