Prague!

The boyfriend and I, every year, in the run up to Christmas, go away for a city break. Last year it was Budapest. This year it was Prague.

Now, I seem to be one of a tiny minority who, until a few weeks ago, had never been to Prague. Because it seems that EVERYONE has been there. Every time I mentioned that I was off there, at least 6 people would bombard me with things and places to do/see/visit.

By the time I arrived I felt that I had already seen bits of the city, and had heard so many tales of debauchery and drunkenness that I was starting to feel a little unsure. But an hour off the plane and I can securely say that I LOVE PRAGUE.

It is just the most wonderful place. Berlin was lovely, but big, and it took a while to find our feet, Budapest is grand but full of old ladies in their furs drinking coffee and eating cake. But Prague...

It's full of bars and beer and students and life. And has a smattering of culture, so you don't feel too guilty about all the beer drinking.

The first thing to mention was Christmas. It was everywhere - markets, trees, nativity, mulled wine - you name it, they had it. At least twice. The Boyfriend made it his mission to take as many pictures of Christmas trees as possible.

I thought we probably needed only one photo to demonstrate....

And one of the many nativity scenes!

We walked up one of the towers at one end of the Charles Fourth bridge (def worth doing - look at the view!)

and the other side....

We also went to the castle (quite good. Though nothing to get overexcited about - except for the grand bridge and marching soldiers).

And obviously I wanted to stand near one, and try to make him laugh, and pretend to be one, etc.

We also went inside the Cathedral (totally worth doing - really impressive and just inside the castle).

And inside, the boyfriend (in a way scarily reminiscent of my father) got a little carried away with the camera.

Another activity that I would really recommend is getting a boat along the river. Now, Prgaue is no Venice, or even a Berlin - the river is not big, and because of the weirs, the boat can't really go very far, but it is a lovely thing to do (just ask one of the guys on the bridge dressed as a sailor and voila - one boat trip with a private guide, mulled wine and gingerbread).

Another fun trip is to get the little funicular railway up the hill to the mini-Eiffel tower (it is a copy but on a much smaller scale). Again, there are lovely views.




Other fun things we did - went on a giant swing

The boyfriend tried to convince me to go to caberet (acutally, it's a strip club)

And, due to extreme climes (-4 in daytime, -9 at night - freezing) we drank lots of beer

and more beer











until it was time to go home. Go to Prague. It's great.

Countdown to Christmas: Christmas evening

Usually Christmas evening is a bit of an anti-climax. After the big lunch, and all the present opening, and chocolate eating, all that ever happens in the Howe household is that someone puts on a film, and we all lie about like beached whales, gradually drifting off.


But this year, I went over to the boyfriend's, and their Christmas evening has a very different feel.


I arrived at about half past 5 and everything was in full swing. There was not an empty glass in the house, and everyone was full of cheer and merriment (probably heightened by the obligatory shot of firewater given on arrival - they are a family of Poles afterall). The Wii was out, and despite my usual disdain for the contraption (if you want to go bowling, why not actually go bowling?) I thoroughly enjoyed playing on it, as did everyone else, and I now will not hear a bad word against this wonderful console.


We started with bowling (in my excitement at getting a strike I jumped up and hit a light fitting) and then we moved onto a variety of balance games (I was surprisingly good, as was Grandma Doreen, despite her dodgy hip). Uncle Richard was hopeless (at one point the only action his Mii would do was jump up and down on the spot. Richard, needless to say was stood completely still. Everytime he tried this particular game, exactly the same would happen - we never got to the bottom of why).


Aunt Judy loved the Wii. Although on many of the balance games she was frequently heard to shout "Oh it knows I've had my bunions done! It knows! It knows!". Whether it did know, I can't be sure, but it is an ingenious machine, and so I wouldn't be surprised. She convinced Uncle Richard that they were buying one in the Boxing Day sales. Richard was less keen.


Aunt Visia managed some enviable poses during the balance games, and the Boyfriend's dad was disqualified for getting so carried away that he actually jumped on the board (big no no).


Uncle Keith kept up some very amusing commentary (you're walking a tightrope, not dancing in a disco, you're supposed to be on a ski-jump, not on the toilet, and so on) and Tasha's boyfriend decided that real skiing is easier than the Ski Slalom.


Predictably the Boyfriend came out top for everything (3 strikes in a row, top of the leader board, first to cross the tightrope, etc). But it kept the rest of us amused for the best part of 3 hours, removed any awkardness or shyness that comes from spending Christmas with family that isn't yours, and made you feel much better about the grotesque amount of turkey, chocolate, cake, mince pies and wine consumed throughout the day.

Countdown to Christmas: a present for me!

I have become a recent Ugg convert (see previous blog) and for the last two months the paw-like boots have been permanently attached to my feet. They are warm, and a boot is the ultimate winter footwear.

I was Christmas shopping the other day, and it was not going to plan. So I popped into a couple of shops for myself and suddenly I saw the Mecca for all shoe lovers - the perfect boot. Black suede, slouchy knee-high, and with an obscene spiky heel.

And suddenly my love for Uggs has dissipated. And they have been usurped for these beautiful, graceful, un-pawlike boots.

I have rediscovered my love for heels, and now, two days later, have forgotten any attraction I ever felt for Uggs.

Plus it is also really is nice to engage in conversations face to face, rather than face to chest.

Countdown to Christmas: Snow!

After the surprise snow in February, I had resigned myself to the fact that we had probably fulfilled our snow quota for this year.

And even though I do not enjoy the snow to play in (I don't like the cold, and really don't like getting soggy) I do love a bit of the white stuff, especially during the festive period.

So last thursday, off I went to bed, fully expecting that when I got up for the 4am shift I would be surrounded by a sea of white. And imagine my disappointment when the next morning there was not a flake to be seen.

And I got into work, and was joined in my upset by the presenter, who overtook my excitement by about 200% (he loves snow because he loves Christmas, and snow is festive - he has been giving out candy canes around the office since August. And no, I do not exaggerate). In fact he was so upset that after the show he wanted to drive into Kent (where there were severe weather warnings) purely to see the fluffy white drifts.

So after a disgruntled weekend (still no snow) and a disappointing Monday (still none) I was walking to the tube yesterday evening and suddenly the rain had more substance, and was floating rather than falling, and I was in the midst of a snowfall. And it settled and I had to trudge through it to the tube, and then off the other end and trudge through it to my front door. And, sorry to be cheesy, it was really magical.

And by then I had had my festive fill of snow, and was starting to feel a bit cold, and soggy, but it was ok, because when I woke up this morning all that was left was wet pavements and some small piles of slush.

Soup

In recent years soup was always one of those foods I banished from my immediate culinary sphere. It's not that I don't like it, I just always viewed it as a non-meal. As the boyfriend puts it- it's really more a drink.



And yet, after 20-odd years of being soup free (except when you're ill, and obviously Heinz tomato soup is the only possible remedy) I have suddenly embraced my inner pensioner and become soup's biggest fan.




It started in the canteen at work. Doris (wonderful if brisk no-nonsense dinner lady at work. A legend) makes lovely soup. Nothing too fancy - tomato, pea and ham, chicken, the usual, but they come in little pots with the (vital) component of a lid. To prevent spillages. So they are allowed in the studio. And at £1.20 it is a real bargain.



And then my soupping went to a new level. It was one lunchtime, and I was tired (had started work at 4am) and as I was walking home to the tube, I passed a Pret. And their soup of the day was mushroom risotto. And it was also seriously low-calorie (another significant plus for soup). And I went in, and had a cup and OH MY GOD was it delicious.



And then I discovered their other soups, and soon I was branching out to other eateries (EAT being the main one - they do a WONDERFUL tom yum prawn soup with noodles. It is GOOOOOOD) and at home I've been having covent garden soups, and chunky soups and broths, and all sorts, and suddenly I am a fully fledged member of the soup brigade. No longer do I view it as the meal of the toothless, the babies and the pensioners.




No, in this current climate (i.e. freezing) soup is officially the only way forward.

Deda

I recently had to record an interview with Roy Hudd. He's a comedian, who has been around for about 50 years, and is a tubby, white haired jovial old man, who would not look out of place in Dickensian London.

And the moment he started talking he sounded incredibly familiar. It took a few minutes, but I suddenly realised who he reminded me of.

My Deda.

Now the weird thing is that my Deda (grandad) is called such because he is a great big Serb. And speaks as such. Roy Hudd is a born and bred cockney, from Croydon, so the uncanny similarities in their ways of speech really took me by surprise.








My Deda has had the most extraordinary life. He grew up in Belgrade. English was his fourth language (he can speak approximately 8, but also has an imperssive aptitude to pick up others) as he grew up speaking French, Serbo-Croat and German (after Belgrade was invaded by the Nazis).

During the second World War his father was imprisoned and tortured to death by the Nazis, his step-father was hounded by them, and Deda was signed up to Tito's guerilla army, and because of his privileged social position, assigned a place on the front line (which basically equated to imminent death).

He met my Grandmother (who we always called Maka - weirdly neither Maka, nor Deda acutally translates as Grandma and Grandad, but as aunty and old man) when she came out to Belgrade to work, escaping from her incredibly British and sheltered childhood growing up in a small town in Wiltshire. And when it became too dangerous he escaped Belgrade, coming with her to England on a 6month visa and a death threat if he failed to return. He didn't return until the man responsible for the visa had died.

In Belgrade he had been a member of the higher classes, trained as a lawyer, and was well respected. In England he was merely a foreigner. He got a job sweeping the floor in a meat factory. (Incidentally 10 years later he was MD of the company that took over this very same factory)

And yet despite having lived here for half a century, and more than half his life, he is still in so many ways a real Serb. My Deda still cannot pronounce "th" and instead replaces it with "t" (he lives in Bath, but still calls it "Baat"), has selective hearing and will often, if bored, or tired, or because he has not been listening decide that he can't understand English, and much to the irritation of everyone, will only answer in Serbo-Croat. He has an obsession with meat, and a meal is not complete without a healthy portion of lamb, beef, pork (when we lived with my grandparents I had a vegetarian friend round for dinner - on explaining the concept to my Deda he first displayed shock, then disbelief, and then announced that he would make chicken).

A few years ago Deda took Lucy and I to Belgrade to meet family and friends. After surviving the stress of travelling with an 80 year old Serb we were met from the airport by one of many cousins (Milos). He had borrowed a car to pick us up. He took us to his two bedroom apartment where he lived with his wife and 3 children, and despite the limited space, they were willing for the whole family to sleep in the living room so that Lucy, Deda and I could have beds (we were acutally staying, much to their disappointment, with another relative in her summer house).

And slowly it dawned on me. My Deda, who in England is foreigner, has almost a celebrity status in Belgrade. Everywhere we went people would come over to greet us, restuarants would give us free food, drink, aperitifs, friends would throw parties even if we just came for lunch. In Belgrade, my Deda is revered.




And I suddenly realised that I only ever see him as my Deda, who speaks with an almost comical accent, whose ability to drink neat spirits is unrivalled, even at the age of 80, whose strange dietary habits (a favourite dessert is spaghetti with sugar) are grudgingly acknowledged, but that past all of these eccentricities he is actually an incredible figure. He has achieved so much. And being in Belgrade, with people that genuinely respected and admired my Deda I have statred to see him with new eyes.

Countdown to Christmas: Shopping

My father hates shopping. And not just in the way that all men hate shopping - it actually makes him ill. Throughout our childhood, my sister and I used to dread the Saturday morning Sainsbury shop. By the time we had left the fruit and veg aisle, my father would be hyperventilating, and turning an interesting shade of red.

And then would get snappy, and then stressed, and then despairing. And when we finally got home, and realised that we had yet again forgotten to buy any toilet roll, he would go to bed for the rest of the day with a terrible migraine.

So on Saturday, the last one before Christmas, when my father (who is currently recovering from a very nasty chest infection) suggested that we might go Christmas shopping, my sister and I debated running for the hills. Especially when he added that so far he had bought nothing.

So at 8 am (and yes, we had told him that the shops don't open until at least 9) Lucy, my father, and I got the tube to the mecca of all Christmas shoppers - Oxford Circus. After breakfast at Cafe Nero (my father's favourite) and promises of coffee at Carluccios when he got tired (his ultimate, special treat favourite) we were off.

We hit the usual places - topshop, H&M, Accessorize, John Lewis, HMV, Selfridges, etc. And the closer to Marble Arch we got, the busier it was getting.

By 12, when we stopped for the promised Carluccios sit-down (my father had the thickest, most sickly looking hot chocolate, as did my sister) we did a count. And my father removed the tattered, crumpled, scrawled list of people and presents, and Lucy and I cross-referenced them with the bags, and HURRAH!!! In 3 hours, yes just 3, my father (with the extreme help of Lucy and I) had managed to get presents for 13 people. Relatively stress-free. He did however still need:

1. Anything for me

2. Something little for Luce

3. Anything for Jennie (aforementioned wife/step-mother)

4. Lots for Grandma

So there was still a way to go. So off we went - down Marylebone high street, and into Daunts. And straight back out again. Too busy. And so into the White Company. And straight back out again. And then my dear father turned to Luce and I and said "I'm going home", and that was that.

End of Mr Howe's Christmas shopping 2009.

I stayed in town until 6pm, picking up this and that, and finishing the majority of my father's slack. But I love to shop, and I love Christmas and so put them together, and I am at my peak.

The Gym

Throughout my school career I made dodging PE into an art form. I have terrible hand/eye co-ordination and so all team sports were generally a no, disliked running due to the distinctly unattractive red-face I developed after approximately 4minutes, and swimming....well, what teenage girl enjoys stripping down in front of all her peers to a swimming costume at the best of times.

After many years of sick notes, period pain (often lasting up to 6 consecutive weeks) bad knees, ankles, hips and elbows I reached sixth form. And in sixth form you could miss PE, and in return do an afternoon of community service. Subsequently I obviously became extremely involved with my local community.

Throughout school, my friends and I would regularly mock those that took sport seriously. Some of this was probably down to envy, but a large part (at least for me) was the sheer disbelief that any of the sporting activities on offer could actually be enjoyable.

But recently this all changed. Having acquired in the last year my first grown-up job, and it being a job that works on shifts, I have discovered an inordinate amount of spare time in the day. Initially I spent this time shopping. But after a fortnight my bank balance was in such a sorry state that I needed to re-evaluate my time management.

And so I joined the gym. It is very near my house and very nice and big and clean and modern. Each piece of equipment has a TV and there are radio stations and music channels to listen to. And it is empty in the day, bar a few hardcore muscle men, that seem more interested in their biceps than in me.

At first I felt extremely self-conscious. But the other day I caught myself automatically walking to the gym, changing and getting on the treadmill (yes - I run now). It wasn't until 29minutes later, when I got off that I realised that the gym, after many years of avoidance, has become part of my routine. And more than that... I have actually come to....enjoy it.

Just a little bit.

Countdown to Christmas: Christmas Dinner

Every year since the very start of university we have cooked a Christmas dinner. And every year it is fraught with trials and tribulations; the carrots are not in batons but circles, there is not enough gravy, there is too much gravy, there are brussel sprouts, we forgot yorkshires, the oven is too small, the turkey has not defrosted in time, etc. But every year it all pulls together, and everyone arrives, and sits down, and shuts up, and we have a wonderful dinner til we are full with food, drink and laughter.


And this year was no different. After the necessary disaster (no Christmas dinner is complete without one) of the turkey going off, and needing to get a new one, the Wiganer arrived safely (she was my sous chef), we went shopping, made mince pies (see previous blog) and got ready for the epic feat of cooking Christmas dinner for 12.


The first hurdle was the turkey. It was a beast of a bird, weighing in at 7.4kg. And this year we decided to steam it. So we lifted it into the disposable roasting dish (M&S £1.99 and worth every penny) and I filled it with my homemade stuffing (again, totally worth doing as it was delicious) and surrounded it with onions, garlic, celery, wine and stock. And covered it with butter and bacon.




Turkey was then popped into the oven, where he stayed for 3 hours straight. We didn't need to baste him once, and he was juicy and yum, and not dry one little bit.







While turkey was cooking we peeled (thank God I got the peeler; many of the carrots peeled by knife looked as though they had barely survived a massacre) and chopped (discovering in the process how tough parsnips really are- we bent one knife just trying to hack one in half) and prepared everything else until all we had to do was roast/boil/bake/heat up everything.





Next we did the tree. With an owl on the top (we have no star or angel). Wearing tinsel bandannas/belts. And singing along to Christmas songs, courtesy of the Wiganer (although, along with the classics - Mariah, Wham, etc, we were also treated to Elvis "I ain't nothing but a reindeer" and some very Catholic hymns) until the house looked festive to the extreme.




Lastly we did the table. Now, the Christmas table is important. Everything, from the decor, to the seating plan, to the amount of elbow space allotted per seat needs to be considered. I'd bought a second table - a gateleg (yes, a technical table term - it has flaps and folds out) one from ebay - £7, to add to otherwise inadequate table (which seats 6 at a very tight sqeeze). They were both then covered with tablecloths (easy cleaning) and each place was set with a napkin, and cracker (although not everyone had a knife - we were one short, but the helpful boyfriend managed to supply an extra). And I sprinkled some fairy sequins/confetti over everything (and yes they were fairies, not weird bugs, thank you guests that greeted the table with "Oh! Where did you find mosquito shaped confetti"). And finally arranged the varied assortment of chairs (I drew the short straw and was left with IKEA's cheapest "stool" - otherwise known as an upsidedown bucket.



By the time all of this was done, the turkey was brown (pour on melted butter and roast minus the tinfoil for 20mins), and it was time to move on to the rest of the vast feast. We did the veg, and the potatoes, and the stuffing (3kinds) and sausages and yorkshires, and gravy. And by the time everyone had arrived (the latest arrivals being the ones that lived the closest) and everyone was seated, we served up like mega-glam dinner ladies (bowls of things on the tables would simply not fit).






And then we were all sat down, and it was ready to eat,




drink,




and be merry...



And sitting there, with everyone chatting and eating and drinking and laughing, I really felt a true sense of happiness, derived from the achievement of cooking a roast for 12, of everyone being there, of no major fire-related incidents (granted, there was one, but it was negligible) and of seeing everyone, old friends, new friends, boyfriends and best friends.

Countdown to Christmas: Mince Pies

Every year the Wiganer and I have made mince pies.

It all started four years ago one April (yes April) when we spotted a tub of mincemeat in the reduced section of Tesco.

Now, before we go on I must add that the Wiganer loves mince pies. And not just in the way that we all do; she LOVES them. To the point that her Grandma stockpiles them at Christmas and rations them out to her for the rest of the year.

So after seeing this tub of mincemeat she insisted on buying it (as mince pies ready made in the shop were long gone).

So we bought it and decided to make pastry (with no recipe, but it was ok) and do the pies ourselves.

After several truly inedible batches (if you overcook mincemeat it takes on a consistency similar to chewing gum) we finally hit on the perfect balance of butter, flour, water and mincemeat.

And from that point in April onwards, we have made it a tradition to make our own mince pies every Christmas.

Countdown to Christmas: Advent Calendars

Lucy and I have never, ever, in our entire history of Christmas been allowed a chocolate advent calendar.

It was a rule implemented by our strict mother, and after her death carried on by our respectful (and yet chocoholic) father.

We have even been given them in the past, only to have our father THROW THEM IN THE BIN!! (although we so have our suspicions that he may have removed the tray of chocolate first).

And yet as the time has gone on, Lucy and I have come to love our non-confectionary calendars - our father is very creative and we always have really lovely ones covered with beautiful pictures and glitter. And getting them is always a definite indictaion of the impending festive season.

Plus, the boyfriend, after displaying genuine shock at the absence of any chocolate calendar ever, every year without fail makes sure that I have my own little Cadbury's one as well.

Caramel Shortbread

Lucy and I have always been a fan of baking. And so when we get together it's one of the things we do.

Recently I have become very keen on making caramel shortbread. It is the boyfriend's all time favourite thing, and if you do manage to make it people seem very impressed.

However, my various attempts have not proved particularly successful, so much that recently the boyfriend, on trying another batch, suggested that we just buy it.

The shortbread and the caramel seem to be the two areas of downfall (the chocolate I can cope with).
The shortbread seems to cakey, or stodgy, or rises (that was possibly down to the human error of adding self-raising flour rather than plain).

And the caramel.... Well, i've already destroyed two saucepans (literally NOTHING removes burnt sugar) and the caramel is constantly full of little black flecks (burnt bits) and is lumpy (again, I've attributed this to the burnt bits) and not a good colour (aside from the burnt bits).

So Lucy and I decided to brave it a final time.

Now the reciepe really is extremely simple. There are few ingredients, and very little to actually do to them.

Firstly we actually weighed the flour, sugar and butter for the shortbread.

We mixed it all together and then pressed it into one of the crazy rubber bendy baking tins Lucy had (they are actually really good - non-stick and easy to remove the finished article) and baked until hard and golden brown.



We then melted the condensed milk, more sugar, and more butter for the caramel into a non-stick saucepan, that actually survived the ordeal, and is still looking shiny and new.




And stirred.


And stirred some more. We had to keep stirring until it was no longer all liquidy, but thick.





And then the shortbread was done so we took it out and spread the lovely thick, caramel coloured caramel on top.




And popped it into the freezer while we went and watched Love Actually (a definite part in the countdown to Christmas). When it was all set and hard, we melted the chocolate and spread it all over


Back in the freezer until set, and then cut into sizeable chunks.

And this time it actually, looked, tasted, smelt and had the texture of real millionaire's shortbread. Although the final test is giving a sample to the boyfriend. And sadly it was so good that none of it made it out of St Andrews.

America

I recently mentioned to my sister that a friend of mine had spent a summer in the Gaza strip doing charity work. Moments before she got on the plane she had to sign a disclaimer detailing that should she contract a disease, lose anything (camera, passport, limb, organ or indeed life) that she was not covered and that the company she was going with could accept no responsibility and provide no compensation.

Needless to say, she could not get any travel insurance for the trip either. She signed the form, went to Gaza, did good things and came home unscathed.

I told my sister this. And I understand why it was necessary to sign such a thing, but I also registered my disbelief at the existence of such a form, and also my awe that my friend had managed to sign the damn thing; had I been confronted with a similar form my overactive imagination would have created far too many dreadful scenarios for me to even contemplate signing away my life.

To which me sister replied, “Don’t be so silly Jessica. In America I had to sign one of those to go on a bouncy castle”

For me, that really seems to sum up the American mindset.