Laptop has now been left in the care of a dodgy looking shop on London Road. No doubt it is the process of being stripped down for parts and that will be the last of it. Well see.

So in the meantime I am able to steal a quick few minutes on this thing and I am struggling to find anything to write about. There are those in the background no doubt shouting well leave it alone and go watch some television or something. Well I will in a minute but before I do that I can share with you this evening’s supper.

There was some debate last night as to what we should have for tea. There was aubergine and chickpeas left from the night before and a large bowl of rice cooked with lentils and spices none of which attracted the children. There was a general complaint from them that they’d been eating too much chicken and did not want it again. Which is fair enough but when the don’t eat anything else is a little frustrating. The debate concluded with our having chicken again.

It was only a small one and for some of its roasting it shared the oven with the sticky ginger cake. I stuffed it with three preserved lemons from a jar I had bought in The International Store a few weeks ago. It was smeared with olive oil, salt, pepper and ground cinnamon. To keep the kids happy it was served with roast potatoes.

There was enough left for me to finish it off this evening cold. I had it with some of the rice and a few pickled green chillies. The preserved lemons adding a gentle warming background flavour. I will do that again.

Following the return from Sweden all the adults wanted was a quiet house for the day and no disturbance. That was fine for the teenager who wanted to spend her day doing art and watching Friends. I am watching her now, eyes intent on her paper and scissors whilst Chandler and Ross flit across the screen in front of her and every so often there will be a burst of laughter and she is back into her world. Will they be marking her knowing the subliminal influence that must run through it all.

For the younger daughter we had some baking to do. There had been a recipe that caught  my eye in the weekend paper from the previous week for a Sticky Ginger Cake. So when she said she wanted to make some cakes I got it out and said lets do this. She asked what ginger tasted like and did she like it? I played down the answer and anyway it had lots of syrup in it.

I am not a great cake maker but as we started to measure out the ingredients I was surprised that the cake needed only 25 gr of flour. We could have been heading for a disaster but I was able to get myself 2 minutes on this thing and established that it should have read 225 gr. After that it was a breeze apart from the arguing over who should be responsible for spooning the treacle and syrup out of the tins without making mess and who should lick the bowl.

One of the privileges of being an adult should be being able to clean out the bowl with your fingers without a parent to tell you off. And then you go make the mistake of having your own children and the little buggers want to lick out the bowl as well, So you end up in an unseemly fight round the kitchen as to who gets the last lick.

Having got that over with (daughter won) half the cake went in one go. Warm slices of dark cake on small white plates. The rest is now swaddled in grease-proof paper and foil slowly developing its flavour. It will be good tomorrow.

Next week we will have a go at Sticky Toffee Pudding.

‘Did you hear about the man who wanted cheese and onion potatoes. He was English like you and spoke with a smart voice.’

We were stood at the bar watching the weather. A mist was coming in down the bay. It had obscured the hills on the other side. It would be followed by rain.

‘He was in the pub in Kilcrohane, Fitzpatrick’s Pub, you know the one, Eileen’s pub. He was there with his family and you know how Eileen always has a bag of potatoes for sale in the corner. Four Euro a bag and no better potato. Pink Fir mostly but you have to watch them as they cook. They only take a minute to turn in the water and if you leave them to long they are gone into mush. But get them right with a good lump of butter they are fine.’

‘This man he’d be here for his two weeks in the summer and he thought he would have a bag to take back to his house. So he’s paying for his pints and the coke and he asks the girl on the bar in his smart voice “And can I have a bag of potatoes?”.

‘Naomi it was and she looks at him strange,” What flavour will that be. We have salt and vinegar and cheese and onion.” The man there is quiet for a minute and I was there watching him work at is mouth. How do you answer a question like on a brown bag of potatoes. He worked his mouth and looked at the bags in the corner, “They come in flavours?” ‘

The man with a black beard laughs, ‘But the joke of it was she though he’s asked for a bag of Tayto’s.’ He pointed to the cardboard box filled with the red and blue packets of crisps, laughing still.

‘The man there he got his potatoes and Naomi now she listens closer if she’s asked for a bag of potatoes.’

The cat survived the fire but I have probably smoked out most of the neighbours. The garden is stripped back on the moment. Everything is cut away to the quick, the dead leaves are gone and all there is left to clear up are a few twigs where the snowman was last week. But look closer and there are buds on the apple trees and the blue bells and daffodils are starting to show. There are shoots of montbretia and sedum in the beds and now that we are out of January you could persuade yourself that Spring might be here soon.

Despite the wet of the last month the fire caught well and the great pile of leaves, ivy and buddleia cuttings was soon diminished. It is still smoking now 2 hours later and I smell of burnt leaves.

Food is going to be in two stages this evening. A chicken noodle soup for the girls in the early part of the evening.

Then on the rturn from Sweden a partridge for me and chickpeas in tomato sauce, rice with lentils and burnt onion and aubergine for the rest.