Misty Morning at the end of the year

The Feast of Christ the King is my favourite. The end of the year. This morning I as woken early by Woodruff, a tiny new British Blue boy. We got up and looked across the church yard to the steeple at the end of the garden. It was wreathed in mist. The air still smelled faintly of the wood smoke that had filled it last night. Today is going to be a good day. Woodruff purred.

After a cup of tea, a bacon sandwich, a little listen to Andrew Marr on the telly, my thoughts turned to the day. I will not be going to Mass until this evening. During the day Ma, Da, Gemma and I would be joined by lots more family: brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. Ma had been preparing a leg of lamb, boned by the butcher and stuffed with sausage meat and fresh herbs. There were going to be parsnip chips. Vegetarians were going to feast on mushroom pies with red currant jelly. There will be roast potatoes, broccoli, carrots and watercress. For pudding there is a big mince pie and cream and/ or a lemon butter cream and raspberry sponge. All in all, there will be a feast fit for a king. And, Ma had been very busy.

After all that food, I imagine we will all take a walk across the misty fields and look at the burning red sun as it sinks low into the sky. The Cotswold sheep will be huddling together round their round hay feeder, their soft oily wool damp in the evening air. Finally, having bid farewell to Woodruff and the family, I will drive through the early winter dark to Mass. To me, this is a perfect Sunday. I used to associate Christ the King with trying to organise various youth groups into a performance of 'the sheep and the goats', Matthew 25: 31-46. Now, I am happy to let the dramatic colours of the season guide my thoughts to the end of time, and the huddled wooly sheep show me the nature of community (sheep rarely go anywhere by themselves, even in the mist and the darkness), and the family feast remind me of the heavenly family feast.

A notable figure

A NOTABLE FIGURE

So, I was just doing some family research for my Dad and came across an old newspaper article in a cupboard, sadly not sourced, but dated - 24th June 1938. It is the obituary of my Great Uncle, James Hutton. The title of the article is, “A Notable Figure”. James Hutton was, at one time, a clerk of the Sinn Fein Courts. He is remembered at home because the British Army once came looking for him, and on not finding him, ordered the furniture to be put out and the house torched. Fortunately, the local parish priest had previously served in the first world war and knew the commanding officer. He saved the day.

Anyhow, his obituary….quite amazing for a grocer from Tramore.

James Hutton, whose death in the midst of his life, is chronicled in this issue, was a notable man. I met him when the great adventure of his life was over - he played his part as a member of the IRA, had suffered imprisonment, and, released, had after his marriage, set his mind to building up a livelihood in the New Ireland he had helped, with all his might, to create. But, although the Great Adventure was over, it remained the inspiration of his life always. His mind dwelled much in the past, in the green pastures of the farm whereon he spent his childhood, and among the memories of this forefathers about the great events which helped to shape his life, and that of all Irishmen of today. He spoke often of the land war, recounting tales repeated by the fireside by his own people, tales of landlord tyranny and of the bravery and dauntlessness of the oppressed.

He possessed to an unusual degree a hatred of injustice. Any suspicion of it, wherever he found it - and he was no respecter of persons - brought from him denunciation, sometimes passionate in its intensity. He despised the trappings of tryranny as much as he loathed the thing itself. For this reason he gave no rest to the snob, to the seoinin, to the overbearing: for the bigot he reserved the full tide of his wrath. For this trait he was not popular in some quarters. But he would have despised himself had he earned his popularity at the expense of his convictions.

The fervour of his beliefs, however, in no wise warped his judgment. In discussing with me every crisis which marked the period (eventful politically speaking) since the day he opened his business here he displayed ripe wisdom and perfect national outlook.

In winter months, when Tramore becomes just a spot in the country, and ceases to be a roaring seaside resort of the modern kind, an active mind and restless spirit such as James Hutton possessed attracted people. He was a ready and sincere talker, a debater of no mean power: and he never spoke about anything that failed to interest him or his listener. He read much and was an able and liberal minded critic of what he read. A point of interest is that he firmly held with that school of thought which does not reject imitations of a spirit world all about us. To walk with him in the Celtic twilight, among the Sand Hills near Tramore, where the eerie background is appropriate, was to be tempted to share his other-world ideas.

I can remember many a winter night spent in the entertainment of listening to him. One time, with a vividness absolutely fascinating, he described to me various episidodes in his native county. Some of the things he told me which were incidents in which he played a part: others were true stories of a distinct traditional value. His stories of eccentric landlords and Ascendancy folk supplied a valuable picture of the Ireland of yesterday out of which the Ireland of today was grown. Incidentally these stories would furnish plots for novelists and dramatists possessing the divine afflatus without any theme around which to weave it. He told me he had kept a diary or scrap book and I think that, if it were extant, it is sure to be worthwhile. I failed to get as much as a sight of it: for the keeper of this diary was so modest that he feared his lack of literary skill would render what he had recorded unworthy of reproduction.

Another topic was the national games. The GAA Year Book was as interesting to him as the latest cinema play to the average young man or woman today. He held sound views about farming, and was fond of exposing false views. He told amusing anecdotes - as well as anecdotes of a grim realism - about life on the land. He was one who regretted keenly the decay of countrylife…

I feel, as I write, like one who has talked far into the night with a warm-hearted friend. And, in the silence, as I look up, I become aware that the fire has gone out.

ALAN DOWNEY

24th June 1938

My song

I haven't composed any songs lately, but it was raining when I woke up. And, I marked a few exams in which the holy words of my students 'tear and fail to rhyme'. My head is full of songs I can't believe. This is the tune that has been in my head this birthday. It appears though, all these years, I have been making up a word. I was truly surprised to read: 'To England where my heart lies'. I always understood those words as: 'to inlend where my heart lies'. I must have heard this song as a small child. I thought 'inlend' meant to 'discern'. I always thought that word existed. It took me to today to discover it doesn't.  

This song is is beautiful, and it echoes my present and my childhood - it is a favourite of my parents! Read the lyrics. Listen to the song. They are beautiful.

I hear the drizzle of the rain

Like a memory it falls

Soft and warm continuing

Tapping on my roof and walls.

And from the shelter of my mind

Through the window of my eyes

I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets

To England where my heart lies.

My mind's distracted and diffused

My thoughts are many miles away

They lie with you when you're asleep

And kiss you when you start your day.

And a song I was writing is left undone

I don't know why I spend my time

Writing songs I can't believe

With words that tear and strain to rhyme.

And so you see I have come to doubt

All that I once held as true

I stand alone without beliefs

The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain

Weave their weary paths and die

I know that I am like the rain

There but for the grace of you go I.

The thin veil of Samhain - summer's end

This is one of my favourite times of year. I love the smell of fire in the night air, coal and wood on a crisp cool wind. Retreating to the complete darkness of the Oxfordshire Cotswolds is a particular treat - walking silently in a darkness so dark you cannot see your own hand of front of your eyes. The summer has ended, a new season has begun.

There are so many traditional foods associated with this time of year, I do not know where to begin. Last year I helped to make Pumpkin Korroke for a special Japanese birthday party, and there were Soul Cakes too. It is tempting to do something similar. However, I have been thinking along different lines of late.

For me, this haunting season, which is so brief and could so easily be missed - Halloween, All Souls and All Saints - is, more than anything else, a time of preparation. The thin veil of Samhain - the recollection of the connection between the living and the dead - reminds me that life is short - sometimes cruelly so, every moment we have here is one to be celebrated and enjoyed. Samhain reminds me that our life here is a preparation for our life there (wherever there is), and the veil between the two worlds is thin. There is a beautiful church in Widford, near here. St. Oswald's is isolated, it sits lonely in a field, surrounded by a low dry stone wall and curious cattle. As you approach it, you begin to notice that the shape of the land is strange. The odd shaped mounds of grass on which the cattle graze form a pattern. St. Oswald's was once in the centre of a busy village, but it was abandoned in the Middle Ages as a result of the Black Plague. Now, the Church is all there is, built in the 12th Century and still standing strong. On the walls inside are some badly damaged frescos from the 14th Century. The best preserved is the cautionary tale of the Spectres and Kings: 'As you are, so were we: and as we are, so you will be'. Part of me would like to walk to this church in torchlight on the night of Halloween, the longest and darkest night of the year, just to sit for a few moments in the stillness and feel the past.

As the evenings and mornings have become dark two songs have been whirling around my head. The first is, perhaps, not that strange for the time of year: Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, lead thou me on. The night is dark and I am far from home, lead thou me on (Newman). The other, has arrived in my consciousness a few months early: A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks, a new and glorious morn! Fall on your knees, hear the angel voices. Oh night divine! Oh night when Christ was born! (Cappeau). It is the combination of these two tunes flying around my brain that has brought me to the decision to write a recipe for Halloween that will not be ready until Christmas. Summer is over and a time of preparation is upon us. Winter is coming, but hope springs eternal.

In the fields and in the kitchen preparation begins with harvesting, and is closely followed by storing and preserving. I find that by far the best way to do this is to make delicious drinks. Today, Sloe Gin. Ruby red and sweet fruit is a potent reminder of sun drenched country lanes when you open it in front of a winter fireplace! There is something beautifully appropriate about spending the night when the veil between the living and dead is thinnest preparing a drink to toast the coming of the new dawn at Christmas. It speaks to the gothic romantic in me.


1 pint Gin (doesn't need to be the expensive stuff)
2 - 3lbs Sloes
about 1lb Granulated Sugar


You should pick the sloes after the first frost has softened them, but in the temperate weather of this year - I wish you luck! In the valley leading down to St. Oswald's there is a wealth of sloe berries, so I am going to get mine from there. Wash your berries carefully and prick them all over with a sterilised needle. Almost half fill screw top bottles with the fruit. Add enough sugar to just cover them, and then fill the bottle with Gin. Leave in  a dry, dark place for six weeks (at least), shaking the bottle and turning upside down carefully once or twice a week to dissolve the sugar. At the end of this time the juices should have run freely and the Gin turned into a warm ruby-red colour. Strain into a jug, then pour into smaller bottles to seal ready for Christmas. Do not discard the fruit! It will be liquor soaked, can be frozen for use later or used straight away. Simmer it in a pot until it is very soft and use it as a base for ice cream, make a cake with it, turn it into a rich red sauce to accompany meats, cheeses or pies!

The return of a tricky customer, and welcome wind and rain.

Newman in 1889, a vulnerable venerable. 

Is it just me that is always going to associate Blessed John Henry Newman with the changing of the seasons? I remember sitting outdoors at 4am on a September morning, dressed in waterproofs, holding a warm cup of hot tea and waiting, waiting, waiting for Benedict XVI to proclaim John Henry Newman 'Blessed'. I was with my Ma, who taught Newman on the Leaving Certificate Syllabus in Dublin for 20 years, and spent another 20 teaching in his school, Cardinal Newman, in Luton. If you say Newman to my Ma, she will start reciting she knows his work so well. Despite the family memories it was the rain that caught my attention, the driving rain. It stopped the moment the Mass began.

Of course, it was raining the night Fr. Dominic, the Passionist who received Newman into the Church, came calling at Littlemore. Fr. Dominic arrived soaked and dried himself in front of the fire.

And, it was raining last year, when on the first feast of Blessed John Henry Newman, the 9th October, I wandered down to the Oxford Oratory to walk to Littlemore for the first time. It didn't rain for the walk though, for which I am grateful.

This year, I am likely to be outdoors and in the rain once again. I am going camping with some students from school who are completing their Duke of Edinburgh Award. We will have a fire, no doubt. And, I will be called upon to lead night prayer around the camp. There are many choices I could have made about a food for Newman's Feast Day, and many I would have made under different circumstances. But, as it is, I am reminded of something I wrote last year when first choosing for a tricky customer:

Whatever is chosen, I think, it has to be something you would look forward to if, having walked for miles in the cold, dark rain, you entered a room with a blazing fire, an armchair and an ambition to talk far into the night with a warm hearted friend. 

I commend to you, fresh bread toasted over a fire, and lashings of butter and Vintage Oxford Marmalade. Bring out the sweet tea, we celebrate an English saint (to be). That, in the park with many teenagers, is what my Feast will be, and no doubt we will reflect on it in our morning prayer of Sunday.


Limes, of course, were being imported into Edgebaston for the first time just as Newman was setting up his Birmingham Oratory on the site of an old gin factory. I shan't recommend Gin for today, no not even Gordon's. I can't imagine John  Henry would approve. However, do you remember Roses Lime Marmalade? That could be the way to go.


If you have the time, you could make the bread, and cover it with marmalade fresh from the oven *faints in happiness at the thought*. Here is Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's recipe to help with that. It is ace, and has never been known to fail..


500g plain flour
2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 tsp fine sea salt
Approx 400ml buttermilk or live yoghurt (you can buy this from Waitrose, or make it)
A little milk, if necessary

Sift the flour and bicarbonate of soda into a large mixing bowl and stir in the salt. Make a well in the centre and pour in the buttermilk, stirring as you go. If necessary, add a tablespoon or two of milk to bring the mixture together; it should form a soft dough, just this side of sticky.


Tip it out on to a lightly floured work surface and knead lightly for about a minute, just long enough to pull it together into a loose ball but no longer - you need to get it into the oven while the bicarb is still doing its stuff. You're not looking for the kind of smooth, elastic dough you'd get with a yeast-based bread.


Put the round of dough on a lightly floured baking sheet and dust generously with flour. Mark a deep cross in it with a sharp, serrated knife, cutting about two-thirds of the way through the loaf. Put it in an oven preheated to 200°C/Gas Mark 6 and bake for 40-45 minutes, until the loaf sounds hollow when tapped underneath.



Cool on a wire rack if you like a crunchy crust, or wrap in a clean tea towel if you prefer a soft crust.  For today, you can choose, eat it warm straight from the oven, smothered in salty butter and Frank Coopers Oxford Vintage Marmalade or Roses Lime Marmalade,  or,  it makes great toast if you leave it overnight.

On Sleeping

I have the gift of sleep. I have always had it. 

Recently, I have been asked, by several different people, about my sleeping patterns. This has given me cause for thought. 

When working I go to sleep quite early, between 9 and 10pm. I normally do not drink caffeine after lunchtime, and often drink camomile, or hot milk and honey, or hot chocolate before I go to sleep. I am so rock and roll.

'It's going to be SO cosy in bed!' That is what my Ma always told us as kids. I believe it too. Once I am tucked up under my blankets very little in the world can disturb me.

I dedicate time to winding down after a day. I have a shower, get dressed in my PJ's and drink my tea. I have a brilliant book I am looking forward to on the bedside table - this week it is Julian of Norwich. I read a few chapters before I begin to feel myself getting sleepy. 

Compline, I always say that in bed. For me, it is a way of reviewing the day with God: this happened; that happened; I said something stupid; I needed You; You were there for me. Then there is those last words: The Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end. I always translate that in my head, selfishly perhaps: God grant me rest. I have always prayed for sleep.

After that, if it is more that 5 minutes before I hit the world of nod I am surprised.

I sleep deeply. Sometimes too deeply. I have slept through fire drills and through teenagers having a dorm party (probably best). I have slept through a French holiday house being hit by lightening (or I would have done, had not my Ma woken me up to tell me about it), and through two day coach journeys to Poland and the South of Spain.  Noise, it seems, does not worry me that much.

I can sleep anywhere, most especially in cars (almost instantly), trains (despite paranoia about missing my stop), planes (I'll be snoozing before take off, and will see you after landing) and meetings (including Church services); indoors or outdoors, in a bed or on the floor. I am a lover of comfort, but it is not a requirement for relative unconsciousness. Neither is darkness: there have been no blinds on the skylights in this flat since I moved in. It drives other people mad! I barely notice.

Stress, such as we had with OFSTED last week, only makes me want to sleep more.

Apparently, Scientists believe the position in which a person goes to sleep provides an important clue about the kind of person they are. They have spoken about 6 different positions in which people naturally fall to sleep. Thinking about it, I can safely say that I adopt two of these positions with any regularity, the foetus and the starfish.

The Foetus: Those who curl up in the foetus position are described as tough on the outside but sensitive at heart. They may be shy when they first meet somebody, but soon relax. More than twice as many women as men tend to adopt this position.

Log: Lying on your side with both arms down by your side. These sleepers are easy going, social people who like being part of the in-crowd, and who are trusting of strangers. However, they may be gullible.

The yearner: People who sleep on their side with both arms out in front are said to have an open nature, but can be suspicious, cynical. They are slow to make up their minds, but once they have taken a decision, they are unlikely ever to change it.

Soldier: Lying on your back with both arms pinned to your sides. People who sleep in this position are generally quiet and reserved. They don't like a fuss, but set themselves and others high standards.

Freefall: Lying on your front with your hands around the pillow, and your head turned to one side. Often gregarious and brash people, but can be nervy and thin-skinned underneath, and don't like criticism, or extreme situations.

Starfish: Lying on your back with both arms up around the pillow. These sleepers make good friends because they are always ready to listen to others, and offer help when needed. They generally don't like to be the centre of attention.

I can relate to these two ideas. They make sense to me. I think that many things are taught to us through sleep.

I am interested to note though, that a gift of sleep is not complimented by a gift of waking up! My working day alarm sounds at 5am. There are 4 different alarm sounds in my room, including the radio. I regularly change both their tone, and their position in the room. I put them far enough away from me that I have to get out of bed to silence them. I turn lights on, and employ a variety of snooze buttons. But still, still it takes an Act of Will to get started in the morning, a determination fuelled by sugared tea and a sense of unfulfilled duty. If anyone has a solution to this getting out of bed problem, I am all ears. One of the most challenging aspects of my sleep pattern is people waking me up unexpectedly. I feel like I have been hauled from the depths: I do not know where I am, I get confused. It is frightening, I do not like it.  I long one day to waken, full of the joys of spring!

Guardian Angels

'Good morning, Miss. Happy Guardian Angels!! Can we get you breakfast?' I was taken aback.  I had wandered grumpily into the staff room at 7am, following too few hours sleep, clutching a report to be delivered to the OFSTED Inspectors tout de suite. But, here in the hallowed staff room, were two smiling sixth formers, with their hair in bunches, wearing angel wings, offering to fix me breakfast. The  tables were laden with danish pastries, variety cereal boxes, juices and fresh coffee.

So began Guardian Angels 2011.

The usual staff briefing was punctuated with laughs and joyful anticipation. I knew, since the Section 5 OFSTED team do not observe the teaching of Religious Education, they were likely to use the morning's Tutorial to observe the RE teaching staff. I was right. There was an inspector outside my door as I arrived to greet my form. To my delight, 7B responded to my 'Good Morning Year 7' with a gleeful, 'Good Morning, Miss. Happy Guardian Angels!' Nothing, not even a rather dour note taker would dampen their mood. We began with a prayer - it was the creed of 7B, created just last week when we re-enacted the Council of Nicea. My form had taken great care to try and express 7 things that they all, each and everyone, would agree that they believed. Then, I got on to the arrangements for this special day, and finally began the Tutorial lesson. Thirty five minutes flew by, and the most stressful part of the day was over.

After normal lessons 1 and 2, I was sent out to duty. Whilst I was out there, a group of sixth formers came to find me. They gave me some cake, a special silver pen with 'Guardian Angels' written on it, and a card to explain that as a teacher, I was called to be a physical embodiment of their Guardian Angels everyday (guiding them on the right path and showing them how to find their moral strength), and thanking me for doing so. Having only been in the school 4 weeks, I felt quite undeserving of such gifts, but traditions are traditions! :-)  Today was the day Year 13 were going to be Guardian Angels to the rest of the school community. They were taking over. They tied my hair in bunches and put flowers in it.

The bell went. It was time for me to get changed into my netball kit. The sixth form girls would play the female staff, whilst the sixth form boys challenged male teachers to a football game. The rest of the school (wearing angel wings) and the OFSTED team looked on. They were tight matches. I may have been accused of playing Rugby, not Netball. Over four games, the female staff won on goals, 5 - 4. The male staff fought a tough match, but the final result was Sixth Form 3, Staff 2. 

After all that hard work, the school had worked up an appetite, and once again, Year 13 were on hand with a feast. Everything you could imagine was served up in the staffroom, and breaking one of the long standing rules of education, OFSTED came and joined the party.

After lunch the staff were quarantined to the staff room, whilst Year 13 gathered the rest of the school in the hall. We were then invited down, as honoured guests, to watch them perform a play. The plot was a traditional 'Who Dunnit?'. Staff were being kidnapped, and the Head Teacher and two Deputies were traveling from department to department to find the guilty party. The music teacher was accused of the crime: 'How else do you get them to choir?', but proven innocent. Care and attention was paid to every member of staff, ensuring that they all felt duly critiqued! I haven't laughed so hard in years. In the end, we found out, it was those staff who had retired last year who were doing the kidnapping - they just couldn't bear to be separated from the community and felt bereft. Having reassured them that we would 'always be together, always be together' (sing it!), the play closed on a high. The end of a lovely, lovely day.

Happy Guardian Angels!

The Angels are Coming

'The Angels are Coming' - That is what it says on sheets of paper all around my school at the moment. This is a new one on me. I am used to celebrating the Feast of St. Michael, St. Gabriel, St. Raphael and All Angels on the 29th September, and Guardian Angels on the 2nd October heartily, but relatively quietly. 

Not so this year. 

My school used to be cared for by religious sisters. The entrance is dedicated to The Guardian Angels. Over years of their care a tradition developed whereby each year students chose the Friday nearest the  feasts of St Michael, St Gabriel, St. Raphael and All Angels and Guardian Angels to recognise the love, care and hard work of their teachers, the sisters, and those who kept the school together body and soul (the cooks, the cleaners, the ICT technicians, the office staff). Secondary students being as they are, this recognition came in a unique form. Thus, this week, for the Feasts of St Michael, St Gabriel and St Raphael and All Angels and Guardian Angels, girls will wear their hair in bunches, and steal a tie from a boy; everyone will wear Angel wings; Mass will be celebrated; students will bring teachers a gift; staff will play students at both netball and football; there will be free time and, in the afternoon, a play, led by Year 13. The play is a skit on school life - often a gentle humorous critique of teachers by those pupils who know them best. I've only been there a few weeks, so I am hoping to get off lightly!

I have not seen this anticipated tradition in action yet, but already I like it. What better way to celebrate All Angels than to acknowledge those angels we see everyday? The people that stand by our side to protect, help and guide us? If you forget to acknowledge the visible help you receive in daily life, how can you ever begin to recognise the work of those who are invisible, and hard to see? Begin at the beginning. The Angels are Coming. The Angels are already here.

I do have a recipe in mind for this feast. Something I have missed of late. I will publish it later. In the meantime, I am off to think of ingenious ways to recognise, over the course of the next week, the angels in my life. If you are hungry, check out the cake I made last year. I do hope the weather prediction I made last year does not hold for this. There have been acorns down for three weeks here in Oxford - it bodes for a long, cold and frozen winter. Dare I say it now, I think I do. There will be a white Christmas, and I will make a snow angel in the garden.

NEWS FLASH: It was announced today the OFSTED would be paying school a visit this coming Thursday and Friday. Yes, that is in time to join our community in celebration of Guardian Angels. Please pray for us all. I am not sure how the inspectors will take to watching the staff play football and netball with the students, or what they will think of Year 13 managing the school for the day. We are going to need every Guardian Angel in the building to be working their very hardest: Archangels, Cherubims, Seraphims, Powers and Dominations - register order, please. Thank you.

Fast Friday Friendly Hug

Little Juniper on my cosy Norwegian blanket

I have a Norwegian Blanket on my bed. This deserves the capital letters I give it. Norwegians know what they are doing when it comes to blankets. My blanket has polar bears on it. It is made of Norwegian Sheep Wool. I think Norwegian Sheep are special because I have never been so toasty cosy warm as when I am in my blanket. It hugs.

I mention all of this, in part, because I have been meaning to write a post about the Bishops of England and Wales bringing back Friday Abstinence. I have been meaning to think of something profound about penitence, penance and fasting for days. No luck though. It seems I am not talented at that sort of thing. My general praise of my best blanket kind of illustrates this point. I am creature who values comfort.

As it happens, there has been no hot water in my house. We are trying to get this fixed as soon as possible. This is penance enough for me. I have been braving freezing cold showers for the best part of a week. The worst part is washing your hair. I can just about cope with getting wet enough to get the shampoo and conditioner in, but rinsing it out is an act of determination. I get out of the shower shivering cold, put on pyjamas, wooly socks, a jumper and a fleece, then wrap myself in my blanket and set about making hot milk for cocoa. I nurse my hot chocolate gratefully on the sofa, and thank my lucky stars for the warmth it gives. I always, always appreciate being cosy and warm again.

This Friday (16th September) the Bishops of England and Wales have officially asked all Catholics, from now on, to abstain from meat every Friday. It is hardly a big ask. This is the re-introduction of a public tradition marking the memorial of Jesus' crucifixion. Christians have always marked the day of Christ's death by prayer, fasting and almsgiving. It is a good tradition. I was not really aware that it had fallen out of fashion. It is certainly a practice that helps people like me, comfort seekers, to appreciate the good things we take for granted in life. The act of consciously choosing something different to eat has a remarkable effect. I am not someone who eats meat everyday, or even nearly everyday. I was vegetarian for 20 years, or thereabouts. However, thinking about what to eat on a Friday Fast Day brings a certain element of simplicity to my choices; it highlights the difference between need and want.

I am a sucker for good comfort food, particularly on chilly autumn nights. Take last Friday, for example.  I came home exhausted. I had promised faithfully to make dinner for my flatmate. My flatmate is a saint, who cooks for me so often I am embarrassed. She is also not a Catholic. I explained to her ages ago about not eating meat on a Friday. I am still trying to persuade her that vegetarian food is fun and exciting, and that a tradition of fasting every now and then can bring great joy. She remains accepting but unconvinced about the culinary wisdom of such a practice. So, I come home and need to magic up something quick, comforting, warming and Fast Friday Friendly: a culinary hug that will impress my flatmate. She does not like fish or seafood. For this type of mission, let's face it, you can't beat a good pie.

I reckon the new rules in the UK about Friday Fasting are a gift. They provide an opportunity for us to think more simply about the food we eat. And, being the comfort seeker I am, I do not believe that leaving meat off the menu means I have to miss out on the culinary equivalent of a hug in a Norwegian Blanket.

Potato, Leek and Smoked Cheese Pies

Just Roll Puff Pastry (yes, you can make your own, but you are not going to on a Friday, are you? No. So, shut it.)

400g Potatoes peeled and cubed
large knob of butter for frying
1 onion, finely sliced
2 leeks, finely sliced
1 garlic clove, crushed
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon wholegrain mustard
200g smoked cheddar (I used Applewood), coarsely grated

Boil the potatoes in a large pan of salted water until soft, and then drain.

Melt the butter in a frying pan, add the onion, garlic and leeks and fry until softened. Season well and drain on kitchen paper.

Combine all the fried vegetables with the potatoes, cheese, mustard and salt and pepper to taste. I use lots of wholegrain mustard, more than I recommend in this recipe. If you are a wholegrain mustard fan, go wild! Leave to cool.

Roll the pastry out to desired thickness, and cut into rounds using a saucepan lid.

Into the centre of each pastry round, place a spoonful of filling mixture. Brush the edges of the round with milk, fold over and seal using a fork. The end product should look kind of like a Cornish Pasty.

Place each pie on a well oiled baking tray, and bake in a pre heated oven at 180C for approximately 15 - 20 minutes.

Serve with salad, walnuts, pickles, beetroot, watercress, etc.

Or with beans and chips (you know you want to).

She brought all things new

This morning I got a text message to tell me that Juniper, the cat, was missing in Shipton under Wychwood. She had not come in for the night. I was worried, but thought little of it, assuming I would find her later in the day, when I went out to visit. I did find her. I found her within moments of arriving at the house, but, sadly she was dead. She had been hit by a car. 

Juniper was only just over a year old. She was born in August, in Herefordshire. Last year, having lost my accommodation with the university, left my DPhil and broken up with a 'significant other', I moved back with my parents. I was a bit of wreck, to be honest. But, six days after I arrived, I booked an appointment to go and see Juniper. In the October, she arrived, a tiny bundle of fun. She did what many people had tried and failed to do in recent times: she made me laugh. Not a polite, shallow, I am pretending to be happy laugh. A proper laugh. I was really grateful for that. It was with Juniper chewing my pen, that I began to put my life back together again. She purred support through a thousand applications, and created distractions when the inevitable rejections came. After 12 hour shifts sewing buttons on posh coats for the minimum wage, or filing the private correspondence of peculiar millionaires for the same, Juniper helped me wind down and relax. When I did get set up with good teaching jobs, Juniper congratulated me in her own special way. She licked my nose. At the start of the summer holidays this year, I went to cat-sit. Juniper brought in mouse after mouse. She was a good hunter. She loved chasing cotton reels at a very high speed around the front room. She used to catch them, and then hide them behind the curtain - a secret store. Later, usually when the house was quiet, she would find them again, and raise an almighty racket chasing them across the floor again.

Juniper brought all things new. Once she arrived, a house became a home. Everyone loved her.  Today, five of my nieces and nephews were in our house at Shipton. Their parents were trying to think of different ways to explain the news. What do you say?

I am sad that Juniper is dead. I will always remember her as the cat that helped me get my life back. I hope she finds some decent cotton reels in cat heaven.