when 3 + 1 = an awfully big adventure

It's ridiculously satisfying when things just add up. When the loose change in your pocket happens to add up to your bus fare. When the flour in the jar happens to be precisely the weight that you need. When your movie ends exactly as they switch off your in-flight entertainment (even though there's still 40 minutes 'til landing time - gah).

Whenever I make one of these (below), there always seems to be 90-100g of sock yarn left over. Exactly the amount required for a little tiny baby sweater.

amazing Veera Valimaki shawls, two Different Lines and one Stripe Study

I finished the lurid purple and pink shawl last winter and it's sat in my knitting bag ever since, the right recipient never seemed to appear. But on hearing about the birth of a beautiful baby called Rose, daughter to my husband's oldest childhood friend, suddenly everything added up. A little blast of hot colour for both Rose and her fabulous new Mum, to shake up the all-too-familiar avalanche of pastel pink. A perfect puerperium solution for that 100g of leftover Wollmeise.

need to choose some buttons...

My latest Veera shawl (oops no finished picture) was grey and turquoise, and was gifted last month, so while its matching sweater (below) won't become part of a set, the weight of leftover yarn added up to exactly 100g and so another tiny puerperium it will be. And here's the big news: this one (gender dependent) may very well end up staying at home...

Yup, I've donned the dreaded elasticated waistbands and I'm going to have to change my strapline up at the top there in my header (suggestions on a postcard please).

Maybe this helps explain a few things.

• making a great big bloody mountain out of a molehill re moving in March
  debilitating fatigue + organising an international move between six and 12 weeks = complete loss of perspective.
• blogposts filled with doubt and nostalgia
  excessive hormones + uprooting of family from beautiful paradise island = severe navel gazing... mercifully something I won't be able to physically achieve for much longer.
• spending the past month being completely wiped out with vile lurgys
  a whole new raft of unfamiliar British Spring viruses + not being allowed to take decongestants or decent headache pills = chronic self-pity.
• more than usual inability to tolerate chaos
  container arrival + building work + frequently absent husband + inability to lift anything = a house that looks like it's been ransacked. Sadly the schedule on the building work is already slipping well past its delivery date, so things can only get worse before they get better. I need to learn how to breathe deeply.

I'll try not to grumble too much about it over the next few months. But I warn you that I'll fail. You should know that I'm no glowing picture of abundant blooming womanhood. For me, pregnancy, with its essential indigestion, hip pain and stretchmarks, is something that I'm prepared to bungle through if that's what it takes to get to the rewarding bit. A means to an end, rather like the builders and our kitchen renovation. A kitchen in which I look forward to one day enjoying cold beers, goats' cheese, warm pate, and half-boiled eggs with soy sauce. Not that I'm grudging every mouthful you take...

for the love of friends

Particularly friends who swoop in to relieve me of my responsibilities while I snivel into my third box of tissues. Apparently The Boss will be returned, fed, in time for bed. I could just weep with gratitude.

I was so concerned about my daughter picking up every pre-school cold and snivel when we moved back to the UK. It didn't cross my mind that I might become the walking viral reservoir for over a month (and barely walking at that).

I intend to spend the next four hours knitting the puerperium from last week, sneezing, reading last week's newspapers, eating toast, blowing my nose, and sending self-pitying text messages to Mr Breadwinner somewhere in continental Europe. I might even do some online shopping on his credit card.

I do not intend to do any of the laundry, washing up, ironing, hoovering or emptying of the cat tray.

Normal Yarn Along service to resume next week (I hope).

culinary (con)fusion? rhubarb pork noodles

I don’t know of many people who’ve been to Singapore and don’t like it. The ones who scoff at its well-reported intolerance for everything that interferes with its harmonie communitaire – like chewing gum, litter or Western pluralist democracy – have never been there. Despite what my Guardian-reading brain dictates, my heart commands me otherwise: I love this place.

John Malathronas, Singapore Swing

Six weeks out, and we’re really starting to miss Singapore. The cool order of our little apartment, the convenience of our gorgeous swimming pool, the pure unbridled deliciousness of the food.

And so this weekend we decided to bring a little bit of sunny Singapore to dreich old Scotland, in the form of a rather nice bit of pork belly. My inlaws were staying. They happen to be hopeless with chopsticks and have a pathological fear of fat – even the slightest hint of rind turns them into picky toddlers – so this was going to be a test for them. But the rest of us fully intended to enjoy every mouthful.

Ever on the lookout for recipes to use up my triffid-like rhubarb patch, I decided to brave this peculiar Jamie Oliver recipe: hot and sour rhubarb and crispy pork with noodles. A friend had found it on the internet and almost dared me to give it a go. Out came the chopsticks, the noodle bowls, the Chinese spoons and the cleaver: pork belly is something that I want to do properly.

I wanted to write just a short blog post about this recipe because, if your rhubarb patch is getting out of control like mine, you must give this a go as an alternative to the ubiquitous rhubarb crumble. Not only does it contain the most obscure ingredient ever in the form of “interesting cresses” (sorry Jamie, I could only find cress cresses, but I’ll keep searching) but the rhubarb marinade cooks down into a spicy, tart, savoury, utterly fabulous sauce, almost like a mild rhubarb sambal - you could cook and jar this for so many different things (I have rhubarb ketchup with lovely sausages in mind).

The twice-cooked pork belly is obviously fabulous (except if you’re my MIL who refused to eat any – ho hum). An hour and a half roasting in the marinade followed by a quick, smoky wok fry rendered it both crispy and melting soft (as I set off the smoke alarm my husband rubbed his hands together shouting “wok hei!” in delight). And who knew that rhubarb and fresh coriander is a match made in culinary heaven? J-to-the-O-Dawg, we salute you. Especially after your lovely interview in the Observer Food Monthly at the weekend.

Totally bonkers recipe, totally seasonal major ingredient from the end of the garden, totally fabulous dinner.

Rounded off with cones of mango frozen yoghurt from JO’s 30 minute meals book (if you have the book and haven’t made this yet, you’re not going to believe how good it is), we all felt a little essence of sunny Singapore in our patch of grey British sky.

a right royal (random) knees up

So it’s the Queen’s birthday tomorrow. Her actual birthday, as opposed to her public birthday in June. I’m not a rampant royalist, I’ve never really given the whole thing much thought... my inner little girl thinks that Kate’s awfy pretty and isn’t it a shame she didn’t bag the princess gig, but other than that they’re just elegant people in photos.

But I do like that the monarch is still allowed to do some arbitrary stuff, like having two birthdays. I mean what’s the point in being Queen if you can’t say “I’m tired of the rain on my April birthday, and I do likes me a good picnic, so I’m going to have one in June too – MAKE IT SO toadies!”

If I were Queen I’d enjoy the random powers. Apparently she can actually appoint whoever she likes to be the Prime Minister! I could have some fun with that one. I would definitely proclaim a national cake, and that cake would obviously be a Victoria sponge. Because Victoria sponge has inherently perfect style.

Let me explain…

I had this maths teacher at secondary school, and he was all about solving your quadratic or geometric problems with style. It was no use simply to arrive at the correct answer with lots of squiggly calculations along the way. With him you got the real praise for getting to that answer in a way that made your classmates gasp at the clarity of your solution. Spotting the slick common denominator at the earliest stage, rendering the most complicated of equations effortless, that was the key. I loved maths, and will never in all my days forget him, striving for style amongst the cosine curves.

A proper Victoria sponge has precisely that style.

Choose your eggs according to your sandwich tins (3 eggs for 18cm, 4 for 20cm tins works for me). Before you begin, weigh the eggs in their shells, and then use exactly that same weight of soft butter, caster sugar and self-raising flour. Isn’t it genius? Blend together, adding a splash of vanilla if you like, divide into tins and bake for 25 minutes.

Every time I make a Victoria sponge I relish the pure stylish clarity of the recipe. (For an inspired and seasonal filling, look at this gorgeous variation published today by GoddessonaBudget… now I think that's a Vicky sponge fit for any Queen.)

But I digress, this week I was baking for someone else’s birthday: not royal but no less dignified is Dom from Belleau Kitchen and his 2nd blog birthday. For the occasion he asked his random recipe followers to make him something celebratory and randomly selected from a baking book. Now a baking book I have! Just look at these bad boys…

hurrah! the first things rescued from the unpacking chaos : )

Using a random number generator I selected page 12, which was Apple Cider Pudding Cake printed out from the Joyful Baker last autumn. (Curiously, it seems to have been the last post she wrote since then, I hope it’s not something I said…)

It’s a very American recipe, and I’m afraid we parochial small islanders do tend to struggle with those. Inches? Fahrenheit? Cups? I had to find an actual ruler and an online conversion chart, and rescue my measuring cups from my daughter’s toy kitchen. And I just don't understand two cups of Granny Smith apples, why not just tell me how many apples? I wasn’t feeling any pure stylish clarity by the time I eventually got started, but that’s likely my fault not hers.

It’s a squishy, treacley, appley pudding with a delicious crunchy crumble topping. I served it with a dollop of natural yoghurt, which it definitely needed because it’s quite sweet. If I were to make it again, I’d significantly streamline the ingredients. Less salt, less sugar, and definitely smaller quantities of spices (mine had a distinct aftertaste of both salt and pepper which I'm sure wasn't intended). I’d probably use self-raising flour rather than all the baking powder and soda. And comparing my photos with the Joyful Baker's, my sugar was clearly a grade darker than hers, which probably wasn't ideal.

The crumble topping is inspired, definitely the best bit. But ultimately, if I knew you were coming for tea Dom, I think you’d right royally agree with my conclusion: stick with slick Vic. (or Vik?!)

Happy Birthday Belleau Kitchen, and Gawd bless ya Ma'am.

all cakes taste better with tea and a doily

in search of...

...perfection.

I'm not asking for much, just a tiny bit of perfect. Sadly my life is not. It's in pathetic and woeful c.h.a.o.s. My brain stops working in chaos, anxiety and neuroses start accumulating, resulting in complete apathy and underachievement.

I want to make something for a special little baby in London who is due to arrive any minute, and I was inspired by the sheer flawless purity of this post by a blogger known as Pilli Pilli. From the way she writes, she clearly doesn't even consider herself a very accomplished knitter. Bah, some people are almost too clever.

Motivated, I got some navy blue DK out of my wool box (n.b. I've started to rail against the "s" word... you know the one... it seems a bit furtive and harsh. Just me?) and started the puerperium pattern that I've read so much about. I figure that navy blue can go either way gender-wise with the correct choice of buttons. Bugger it, there's something I'm quite hopeless at, choosing buttons.

Nevermind, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, for now I have to try and make a pretty picture for Yarn Along. But hang on... all my surfaces have sticky marks, dust bunnies, cracked paint (not in a shabby chic kinda way) or heaps and heaps of stuff from the container delivery, still piled up with no idea what to do with any of it.

Deep breath. Note to self: remember the New Years resolution, "hope in honest error" and all that.

So enough grumbling: the puerperium does indeed look like it'll turn out nice, if not quite as evenly perfect as Pilli Pilli's lovely pieces. Everyone's got to have something to aim for. And The Blue Afternoon continues to be one of the most brilliant stories I've read in ages, I hope it has a good ending.

In the meantime, I'm going to sow peas with The Boss. A little bit of perfect after all.