Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

School rally goes ahead in Edinburgh

Tuesday's rally in Edinburgh against planned education cuts is going ahead. Yes, it's good that Edinburgh Council has agreed to scale back cuts from 2.5% to 1%. But it's not much of a victory. Allowing for inflation, we're facing cuts of 3% in real terms.

The proposed cut means £10,000 less for the average Edinburgh primary school, according to education experts. And the typical secondary school stands to lose four times that sum.

"The cuts come on top of the 1.5% efficiency saving schools have had to make in their budgets for the last two financial years," says one Edinburgh parents' council. "Schools are starting each year with less money."

More, not less

Money is tight. Schools across Scotland have to implement a new curriculum, the Curriculum for Excellence, by August. They need more, not less funding at a time like this.

The battle is far from over. The rally is going ahead because scaled-back cuts are only a partial victory. "The council may have backed down for this coming financial year but they have given no assurances beyond that," said one parent.

"Lack of strategic planning?"

The number of 0-15 year olds in Edinburgh is set to grow by 11% between now and 2023. Parent councils are concerned about what they cite as: "the council's lack of strategic planning when it comes to delivering education to our children."

Our schools cannot face this extra pressure. Our children deserve better. Let's use Tuesday afternoon to prove that. Bring banners, colourful clothes and musical instruments.

City leaders vow no more schools will be axed - Edinburgh Evening News

Schools take biggest hit - Scotland on Sunday

Posted 07 February 2010 21:07 | Number of comments: 2 | Comments

Edinburgh

Leave our kids alone

Edinburgh Council wants to cut the city's education budget by 9% over the next three years. Our children will suffer if these cuts go ahead. Jobs, facilities, even entire schools are on the line.

Stand up and make your voice heard at a carnival next Tuesday (9 Feb), after school. It runs from 4.15 to 4.45pm outside the City Chambers (pictured) on Edinburgh's High Street, opposite St Giles' Cathedral.

All affected by the cuts are welcome to attend. It'll be a child-friendly event. Please bring your kids along.

Be there

Meet up with groups at local schools after pick-up. Or make your way to the City Chambers on your own. The more of us there, the more attention we'll get.

Organisers are asking people to bring along musical instruments, sports kit, art work and drama costumes. Get your kids in face paints or fancy dress.

Bring banners, have fun

Mine will bring tiaras, wings and wands. Please bring along banners too. The message is "No more cuts".

Make them see sense

Last year's protests were enough to change Edinburgh Council's decision on the cuts. This year the plan is to show we are more worried, and even more engaged. Let's get out on the streets next Tuesday. We can make the council see sense.

We might not be strong enough as individuals. Together, we can do it.

Here's an audio briefing on the issues.

Bruntsfield has more details on the carnival here

Posted 03 February 2010 14:44 | Number of comments: 1 | Comments

Daughters Edinburgh Out and about

"Shoes, coat, wand, tiara"

It's hard work being a fairy princess. Realising this, eldest daughter Beanie has begun a daily checklist of essential items before leaving the house. "Shoes," she says, standing in the hallway. And looks down to check each Start-Rite is on the correct foot. "Coat." A nod of satisfaction to herself as she registers her puffa jacket. She holds out an empty hand and looks at it. "Wand?" She puts a hand to her hair."Tiara?"

Posted 01 February 2010 21:42 | Number of comments: 4 | Comments

Teaching my daughter to cook

Granny arrives out of breath. She has climbed two flights of stairs. In her waterproof coat is a pamphlet of recipes. She hands it to me with a look of significance in her eyes.

It is a 1930's edition of Be-Ro Home Recipes, familiar from my own childhood. This book belonged first to Granny's mother, then to Granny, and now, so it seems, to me. From mother to daughter, over the generations.

Link to the past

Splotches cover the browning print. It feels like a precious link to the past, almost too precious to risk in the kitchen. I am to use it to teach my daughters to make scones, just as my mother used it to teach me.

"Good home baking is something to be proud of," states the author, in blissful ignorance of the decades to come when so many women would disagree with that statement.

What is a puff ball?

Its black and white pages are testimony to a vanished world of more than just sponge castles, eve puddings and puff balls (whatever they might be). Although these forgotten confections feature plentifully among the recipes.

It harks back to a world with values different to our own. One where little girls dreamt of learning to cook for their families, a world of simplicity and decency. Where nobody grew up aspiring to be a pop star fairy.

Jurassic Age

As I open the book, it feels like stepping back in time, to a place without Marks & Spencer ready meals, take-aways and out-of-town supermarkets.

"The woman who can cook well and bake well has every reason and every right to be proud of her cooking," says the author. "In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred she has a happy home, because good cooking means good food and good food means good health." Easy to laugh at, yes, but any nutritionist would confirm the truth in these simple words.

Girls only

Only female cooks feature in Be-Ro Home recipes. And only female offspring. Neither men nor boys cook themselves, but they figure occasionally as consumers of tempting delicacies.

In the section "Teach your daughters to cook" it states: "The mother who allows her little daughters to 'help her' in the kitchen on baking days may find them somewhat of a nuisance at first, but if she will only encourage them by kindly and patient example to learn the rudiments of cooking, they will become a great comfort and help to her when they grow older."

Homes of their own

Also, says the author: "They will learn one of the most important sections of homecraft, in preparation for the great day when they themselves will have homes of their own."

An insert in the title page, no doubt added after the outbreak of war, tells women how to adjust recipes for World War Two rationing. "Although a pre-war publication, these recipes are economical and suitable for present recipes. Good results are obtainable with dried eggs and dried milk."

Effect of rationing

It continues: "As National Flour varies in its capacity to absorb moisture, a little more or a little less liquid than stated may be desirable. Owing to rationing, many ladies prefer to use only half the quantities."

Granny brought me the book to help me with a cooking demonstration at Beanie's school later this week. Leafing through its pages, I felt a sadness at the vanished world of simplicity and decency these recipes represent.

Nostalgia

The world where you saved the last potato for the next day, where you made do, where you showed love by baking food. Sexist? Yes, certainly, at least judged by today's standards. But it cannot be so very wrong to take pride in learning how to feed our families.

Posted 26 January 2010 13:40 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Domestic chaos Etiquette Food Granny Love

No to education budget cuts

Edinburgh Council is voting next month on controversial proposals to cut the city's education budget by 2.5%. Please visit this website to sign an on-line petition registering your opposition to the proposed budget cuts.

Education could suffer

Education in Edinburgh will suffer if these budget cuts go ahead, with teaching jobs on the line. We need as many signatures as possible to show the council that education is a priority. Our children will miss out if we allow these cuts to go ahead. Please sign the petition and give your support to this worthy cause as soon as you can. The vote takes place on February 11th.

No to school budget cuts in Edinburgh

Posted 14 January 2010 11:26 | Number of comments: 4 | Comments

Edinburgh

High street Christmas hardship

Attempted at lunchtime to wheel the tank, our double buggy, containing both girls into local hardware shop. Shop owner came out from behind counter, stood in front of door and barred us entrance. Said it was "ridiculous" to bring a buggy of that size into his shop. "It's only a small shop," he said. Like I had artillery fitted to the tank. Like I was planning to decimate the washing-up bowls, washing lines and moth repellant in our way. Like one mother and two little girls were going to harm his shelves of clothes pegs, faded price tickets marked by hand in red felt tip pen, yellowing displays of kettles and dusty tins of furniture polish.

"What do you want me to do?" I said. "I'm not leaving my children outside on the pavement." He shrugged. "You're not coming in here with that," he said. I gave up hope of buying turkey tin foil in his shop and reversed the buggy. We did not say "Happy Christmas" to each other. Went into nearby shop to vent. "Don't worry about him," said shop keeper. "He's notorious for that kind of behaviour."

Posted 21 December 2009 19:13 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Edinburgh

Christmas update

Expect to queue for up to an hour on Christmas Eve when picking the turkey up, the butchers warned. "You need a stooge for that job," said another, older woman in the shop, giving me a knowing look. Then she added: "I'm sending my husband." Nice strategy, sure, but what do you do if you are married, as I am, to a vegetarian? He has chosen nut roast for Christmas lunch. Forcing him to wait an hour in the cold to pick up meat for the rest of us does not seem right.

Posted 18 December 2009 13:53 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Domestic chaos Food

Delia's Christmas army

It is a rite of passage that almost every woman will experience at some point in her life. Not quite as life-changing as first boyfriend, first job, first baby. But cooking your first Christmas dinner for extended family must surely still count as one of life's turning points, something that leaves you changed in all kinds of ways, just as you're not the same person after a broken heart, or a month travelling in India or or a stint working with the homeless. Christmas dinners can change a woman.

It has finally come round to my turn to cross this milestone. Thinking preparation might be key to handling this transition, in an attempt to make things easy for myself, I persuaded Granny to give me a copy of Delia's Happy Christmas as an early Christmas present. What a mistake. An aspirational book setting out standards of culinary perfection that only a professional cook and full-time masochist could achieve, it has put the fear of Christmases past, present and future into me. I am as Scrooge, terrified before the ghost of Jacob Marley at mistakes too late to rectify. Why did I not start on my puddings in October? Where can I find juniper berries at this late hour? What is 'sauce flour'? What is the difference between 'silver or gold standard' muffin cases and the ordinary ones? Do other people know about this stuff, or am I alone in my ignorance?

Before reading this book, I thought turkey curry was just a joke from the pages of Bridget Jones, that nobody could actually make such a thing. But no, wrong again. Delia actually features something called an English Colonial Curry with Turkey. She suggests (well, more like orders) that you serve it on December 29, as part of her Gant Plan-style, project management approach to celebrating the birth of Christ. She has detailed and difficult menu plans for eight days. The D-Day landings could not have been planned with more military precision than Delia directs into Christmas menus.

"Christmas lasts for eight days," warns Delia. "Be prepared!" For those tempted to buy mince pies and Christmas pudding on-line from supermarkets, there is the inevitable reminder that home cooking not only tastes so much better, it's cheaper. Delia has costed out comparisons between shop-bought and home-made Christmas staples that show how much money you'll save making stuff yourself. Interestingly, though, she does not factor in the £25 cost of her book, which would buy you the short-cut to quite a few shop-made mince pies. Or even a temporary respite from the onslaught in the form of a take-away.

Reading the book I felt not just worried for my own pathetic attempts at Christmas - but also for Delia herself. Delia's Happy Christmas makes it sound as if Delia is released from the kitchen just once during her two-week festive ordeal - for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve - before being reshackled to the Aga. What a drilling of pickling, freezing, cutting, peeling, grinding, marinating, chopping and basting takes place in these pages! I felt exhausted just reading about the relentless grind. No wonder that in her recommended lists for Christmas shopping she suggests, under the heading "General Non-Food Shopping" that you buy 'Hangover Remedy'. You may need something to cushion the pain should you forget to buy any of the cornichons, sweetened chestnut puree, shredded suet and fine capers Delia also recommends as essential Christmas fare. In fairness, this is a beautiful book, with lovely illustrations and lots of ideas for making nice meals for family and friends. There are lots of good ideas for a vegetarian Christmas, which I plan to adopt. Also, I must confess that, like millions of others, I rely heavily on some of Delia's other cooking books, which have never let me down on timing, ingredients etc. But oh, for the days when a satsuma was the height of Christmas sophistication.

Posted 10 December 2009 13:57 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

Domestic chaos Etiquette Food Fun Missing sanity

Champagne by candle light

Every birthday should have an element of surprise about it; this year mine involved a power failure and drinking champagne by candle light. The lights went out as we were having pre-dinner drinks, leaving us reliant on good old-fashioned candle light. Thank goodness for the current middle-class obsession with candles - finally useful as well as pretty.

In a macabre way, it later felt right to be wandering the Georgian streets of Edinburgh without electric street lights. A chance to re-live the authentic 1820s experience. At least, that was until we tried to cross the Queensferry Road, one of the city's main arteries, without the help of traffic lights or pedestrian crossings. Cars were swerving around in the darkness, none of the drivers sure what was happening. Some people had their torches out, which they shone in our faces, Gestapo-style. All I had in my bag was money and lipstick. I became horribly aware how easy it would be to get mugged in the darkness.

Contractors are still ploughing up central Edinburgh to make way for a controversial tram system; the city has been in chaos for months as the scheme drags on, it's possible the power failure is connected to that work. Still, perhaps Monday evening means I finally have cause to be grateful to the tram project; it was magic sipping champagne in the semi-darkness. Macabre. But magic.

Posted 11 November 2009 10:30 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Activities Fun Husband

How the mouse ran up the clock

If the government ever introduces Sats tests for the under-twos - surely only a matter of time - this could be the toy to have at your disposal. Hickory Dickory Clock (sent to us for review by makers Bright Minds, who specialise in toys that are educational and fun) works just like they say in the nursery rhyme. Mice run up and down, powered by infant hands. Youngest daughter Button (15 months) and I have spent hours - yes, literally hours, a tomato sauce even burnt dry one time - sat on the hall floor with this toy. Button enjoys posting the half dozen mice - all different colours - down the chimney. The mice are small, the perfect size for toddlers to grip. Some rattle, other crinkle. Then she opens a door with velcro fastening to retrieve the mice from inside the clock - and stuffs them down the chimney all over again. The transparent clock face means Button can see the mice as they scuttle down. The clock hands move, clicking as they go. So obvious potential there for an older child learning to tell the time. One reason I like this toy is because it should have a longer life span than many I've bought. It comes with a handle, on which there are black and white abacus-style counters that Button examines. On the back is a mirror, now smeary from licking. The nursery rhyme associations give the toy an old-fashioned quality, I sing the verses to Button as we play; it's sturdy and well-made (though in China, like most toys these days). At £29.99, Hickory Dickory Clock is not exactly cheap, but we have already had a lot of pleasure from it and I'm expecting more. Unlike a lot of the stuff littering our flat, (yes, I mean you, Sparkle World Magazine) the toy looks sensible even when not in use. The carriage clock design means it can sit on a table, without looking like something I haven't yet got round to tidying away. If you are looking for a gift for a pre-schooler who's at the loading/unloading stage, this might not be at all a bad idea.

Posted 06 November 2009 13:32 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Button Daughters Fun Mother Play Reviews Toys

Apple a day

JCAYSCTBLCAV3P577CAH0SA2YCAJEPWMRCA3XWXC5CA0MZ23LCAU7X04OCAMLUSSTCA26OADJCAC9CGEACAOCJ4N1CAUNYYJICAOWM68CCACF27KDCAKRK8A2CAO3K2X7CAUARIJICALKG4D4CA3Q807Z_Small.jpg Friday was one of those glorious autumn days when much-discussed hopes of an Indian summer finally materialised, so it seemed only right to indulge in a spot of apple picking in Granny's back garden. After all, the sun was shining and ripe apples were - quite literally - dropping about our feet in what felt like a series of Keatsian moments. It would have been a shame to let all that lovely fruit - and ambience - go to waste.

I began by picking fruit with my hands from the lower branches, being careful, of course, not to get mud on my new sheepskin boots while stretching across flower beds. Then I moved on to a clothes pole, which proved just the thing for knocking fruit down from higher branches. Granny sensibly removed Button to a place of safety as apples tumbled down around us. Not so much clothes pole as mediaeval jousting spear.

In no time at all, we filled up two large plastic bags with the cookers, easy to forget how much bigger they are than eating apples. Granny brought out more bags; we filled those too.

That evening, back home, we feasted on baked apples, stuffed with raisins, honey and cinnamon. Topped off with a tin of custard. I love eating in tune with the seasons, I am the most die-hard townie, but that makes me feel more in harmony with nature.

The next day I gouged, cut, cored, peeled, quartered, sugared and boiled about twenty more apples. Husband Va-vay even made a special trip to the shops to buy more plastic tubs for freezing the apple puree.

Oh, the satisfaction of a job well done. The pleasure of packing away rows of small boxes, each with their freezer-proof label stating date and contents. A proud moment, if I might be allowed to say so.

Granny rang on Sunday evening to enquire about the apples.

"How did you get on?" she asked.

"Pretty well," I said. "I've done a big batch of them."

Then she popped round on Monday morning and looked round the kitchen.

"I thought you said you'd done a big batch of apples," she said.

"I did," I told her, trying not to sound hurt. "I made a tonne of puree and we've been baking them too."

"What are all these, then?" she said, pointing to half a dozen repurposed plant pots, scattered around the kitchen, each one of them packed with apples.

"Those are the rest of them."

"Ah," said Granny. "Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. They used to keep cookers until Christmas."

Posted 19 October 2009 21:47 | Number of comments: 7 | Comments

Button Daughters Edinburgh Food Fun Granny Health Home Out and about

Biodegradable potties?

ecofriendlybiodegradablepottybecopotty1320pekm281x240ekm_Small.jpg A press release lands in my inbox, announcing the launch of what claims to be "the world's first biodegradable potty". Now, I am all in favour of doing my bit for the environment, but fear I may have to draw the line at the Becopotty. A glance at the potty's webpage reveals: "This potty is not only kind on your baby but also the environment."

Like toilet training a small child isn't hard enough at the best of times, do we need potty makers weighing in with this kind of shameless commercial guilt-tripping? Well, according to Becopotty's makers, yes, we do. They suggest the world is in dire danger from reckless parents buying and discarding potties. Apparently, an annual 17 million potties around the world are sent to a potty graveyard in the sky, in the form of landfill sites. Presumably hurried on their way by parents from every corner of the globe, united in pleasure at an end to toilet training their offspring. At last, an end to the constant refrain (albeit in Spanish, Arabic, Russian or Mandarin) to little Miguel, Issa, Ivan or Ying of "Now, are you sure you don't need a wee? Why don't you just try?"

Those of you who worried by the thought of all those poor plastic potties lying on landfills, stubbornly refusing to biodegrade and polluting the environment, might be interested to know how the Becopotty breaks down naturally. It is because the potty is made of an unusual, though natural substance. What unusual substance? It is made of, wait for it, rice husks. Yes, rice husks. Reading that made me imagine a potty made of rice cakes, stuck together like Lego bricks, (though not, obviously, made of anything as evil as plastic). But apparently the Becopotty is a great deal more water-resistant than a rice cake would be. Which can only be good news.

Posted 13 October 2009 18:19 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Childcare Fun Home Kit

Have your cake

I was stood at the kitchen table, wearing one of Beanie's aprons, when the treacle tin exploded. I had warmed the treacle in the oven's bottom shelf, as instructed, so it would mix more easily into the flour, sugar, fat, spices and fruit. Unfortunately, after putting the treacle inside the oven, I forgot all about it and left it too long. By the time we needed treacle, the tin was so hot I had to use gloves to remove it from the oven. I carried it over to the table and put it down. It was then I made my big mistake; using a fork I prised the lid open. Hot, black gloop spurted out like lava from a volcano, bubbling up uncontrollably over the oven gloves, the table and the cake mixture. The explosion left a layer of caramelised tarmac over the recipe, preserving it like a relic from the Cretaceous Period. A sticky, sweet-smelling relic.

Despite this set-back, making the Christmas cake (well, two of them, actually, as we made an extra one for Granny) was a delight; the flat was filled all weekend with that evocative smell of baking fruit, nutmeg and cinnamon. The cakes are now packed away tightly in tins, wrapped in layers of grease-proof paper to marinate for three months. The plan is to feed them with brandy at intervals before December 25, dripping alcohol in via holes made by knitting needles. Cake-making: an honourable exception to the evil of premature Christmas preparations, worth braving exploding treacle tins for any day.

Posted 05 October 2009 10:34 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Activities Food Fun Granny Home Likes/Dislikes

Tepee or not Tepee

It wasn't until we were sat on the lawn underneath one of the rowan trees at Kiltyrie Farmhouse, by the shores of Loch Tay, that I had a chance to think about the twists and turns that led us there. We were meant to be staying up the road in a wooden tepee ('hut', in the words of one of my more candid friends). We dithered: some evenings we were all set for tepee adventure, others, not so much. About three days before the scheduled weekend, I rang to see if we could still cancel. No, we were too late for an automatic refund, if they managed to re-sell the hut/tepee we could have our money back. I asked them to do their utmost to find a taker, then rang back on Friday afternoon, rain beating at the windows; no-one else was interested in the 'Ben Nevis'.

The next day, less than half a mile from home, by now bathed in sunshine, these guys were playing on the radio. "Just phone and check they still have the tepee for us, would you? Just to be absolutely sure," I said. Va-vay rang, asked and went quiet. "Okay. Yes, yes, no, absolutely you did the right thing."

"They've sold it? The tepee?"

"I'm afraid so," said Va-vay.

"They hadn't sold it when I rang yesterday afternoon."

"Well, they have now."

"What shall we do?"

"Let me phone tourist information in Killin."

At Kiltyrie Farmhouse, the owner, Jane, served us tea and home-made lemon cake on the lawn. Walking books lined the sitting room. There was a noticeable - and, lest you are unfamiliar with my taste, welcome - absence of chintz. Beanie enjoyed making the acquaintance of the chickens who lived in their Eglu ('Look, Mummy, they've got a wee house'). The next day we breakfasted off their eggs. We played tag around the apple trees, which were dropping their fruit, admired Jane's vegetable garden, where she grows leeks, parsnips and potatos, scrambled up the hill behind the house, climbed until we could see the loch spread out far below us. Rowan berries glinted red in the autumn sunshine.

It was then I remembered a piece of Scots folklore; ancient Highlanders revered rowans for their mystical powers; druids made their staffs from rowan wood; witches used the branches for dowsing and charms. Many Scots, even today, still wish on rowan wood and use it as a talisman for protection. And I knew what it was that drew us here.

Posted 23 September 2009 19:14 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Activities Dilemmas Fun Holidays

Manna

None of us were expecting to find one of Beanie's snacks growing on the slopes of Ben Lawers. You can miss a lot, not knowing where to look. We discovered that when we spent this weekend in Perthshire, (staying at the wonderful Kiltyrie Farmhouse), and tackled one of Scotland's highest mountains.

Fourteen shimmering miles of loch lay far below us in the valley. The sun had broken through low cloud cover, rain was holding off and we could hear rushing water in the brook that gave Ben Lawers its name; (in Gaelic, Beinn Labhair means Hill of the Loud Stream). We loaded Button (aged one) into a carrier on her father's back, strapped on our walking boots and set off up the path towards the summit of the 1,200-metre massif.

Only a mile into the walk I could feel my pelvis begin to ache. Struggling for breath, I stopped walking, sat down with a thud on the path verge, pulled out my water bottle and began to gulp at it.

"Do you know what these are?" said my husband, pointing to a shrub by the path. The shrub in question had small, boat-shaped leaves, and a speckled look. It was growing so close to the ground, it was almost indistinguishable from the heather, saxifrage, and other plants growing nearby. In many years of hillwalking, I'd never even noticed this plant before. Had we stopped further up the mountain, we would have missed it altogether.

I think I would climb a mountain any day, dodgy pelvis or not, for the pleasure of watching Beanie's joy at picking fruit on a hillside, seeing blueberry juice stain her face purple, knowing she will understand that good things do not always come pre-packaged from supermarkets. Sometimes, in fact, they're right there next to us, waiting for us to notice them, even if we need someone else to point them out.