Ginger cake

Oh, how I love a bit of ginger cake. When I was teaching, a certain mum would deliver an end of term ginger cake to our staff room. I knew her well; I had taught three of her children. It was a special cake full of lively ginger overtones. She constantly reminded me that I should teach her fourth, slightly unexpected child but I’m afraid the dreaded MS beast beat me to it. 2019 started with my very own ginger epiphany. I found a basic recipe and in true Deeb fashion, I decided to enhance it. It’s all about personal taste. Ingredients:

60g butter

125g golden syrup

100g plain flour

25g self-raising flour

1teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

1 heaped teaspoon ground ginger

0.5 teaspoon mixed spice

100g caster sugar

Pinch of salt

125ml milk

1 egg, beaten

Okay, that’s a basic mix. Just follow these easy instructions:

1. Grease and line a 20cm square cake tin or a 2lb loaf tin. Pre-heat oven to 170c/gas mark 3. I’ve got a fan oven to I set mine to 160c.
2. Put butter and golden syrup in a small saucepan and melt over a low heat, stirring occasionally, then remove from heat. Allow it to cool a bit so you don’t scramble the batter.
3. Sift both flours, the soda and the spices into a mixing bowl. Add the sugar and salt , give it a good stir, then add the egg and milk mixing until smooth. Gradually add the melted butter/syrup mix, stirring until well combined.
4. Pour the batter into the prepared tin and bake for 50-55mins (fan oven I would say 40-45mins) until risen and firm to the touch.

There are ways of enhancing this: Buy a jar of stem ginger, take 5 lumps out and chop finely. Throw this sticky mess into the mix along with some of the gingery syrup. Or you could buy some crystalised ginger and chop some of that up and sling it in. Do both for extra rocket fuel.

Be patient with the cooking time. Firm to the touch is good. You cook also throw in gently cooked eating apple cooked and/or poached rhubarb all diced into lovely little explosions of complimentary flavours.  

Thank you for reading

List

I feel like a list. I don’t look like one but I used to walk with one. There are two sides to mine:

Ins.

Fat cushions

Ginger cake

Walkers Sensations sweet chilli crisps

Morrisons cafe

Tesco home delivery

Malt whisky (I blame Dad)

Memories of Mum and mate’s mums (Auntie Cath)

Spotify

Music

Old friends

Wallasey as a tourist destination

Liverpool city centre

Virgin assisted travel

My man cave

Seymour and Monica (my precious pussy)

Southborough old pupils on FB

Premier Inn Greasby

Marmite

Panasonic bread machines

Frost-free freezers

Malt whisky (have I already said that?)

Goodison Park

My history in football grounds

Mark 4 Cortinas

Rose

Eva

Travels abroad

Turkish Airways

Riser recliners

Wheelchairs

Warmth

Ordinary people

Friends in Crowborough

Foreigners

The piano sitting in the corner of the living room

Breakfast dinner tea

Brothers in bars

Elasticated waists

John Smiths extra smooth ( I know it’s wrong but it tastes so good)

The coast 

Snowdonia

I haven’t really started but I have a lot to be grateful for.

Outs.

Zips (the devil’s own tool)

Liars (you know who you are)

Crowborough pavements 

Adverts

Jazz

Reality TV

Dropping things

MS

Sepsis

Parking on pavements

Does he take sugar?

Sussex winters (I’m way above sea level) 

Crowded corners

Re-chargers

My door intercom

Scammers (may you die in agony)

Waitrose tomatoes

Stairs

High shelves

Self-serving politicians

Xenophobia

Bitter and twisted for no reason

Look at the list.

The ins win.

Thank you for reading.

Water

Water, what is it good for?

I don’t need to spell it out. I don’t need to make a simple easy to follow list of all its saintly qualities or how it can cause total carnage in its various forms.

If I gave you a list would you need constant reminders of the first items on the list? For example, at number 25 I may say; keeps gardens looking beautiful.

Then I would assume the reader would be drifting into slumber. We wouldn’t want to tax his or her little pea-brain, would we?

I could write, “have a cuppa and prepare for part two.” Then before 26, I would remind them of the key parts of the list.

Why do so many regular “informative” television programmes do this? The whole format is watered down to a montage of short articles set out in two parts where we are given constant reminders of previous parts.

Countryfile:

What a worthy cause it champions. We can see almost first-hand in glorious high definition colour, how our heroic lads and lasses of the great British countryside are providing an inflexion of holy fresh-aired goodness into our stilted centrally-heated existence. We can marvel as they roam freely in wind and rain without sourness of face. Let us be amazed by the gall of wearing filthy wellingtons with uncoiffured hair, showing flecks of grey in the natural light.

So why, in an article about the re-introduction of otters, split into three sections, do we get most of parts two and three taken up by reminders of part one? Who is the intended audience?

It’s not just Countryfile.

Homes under the hammer:

Now we all like to see a sad little plot turned into something modern shiny and clinically perfect. A once decrepit old kitchen, now a portrait of straight-lined chromium plated perfection.

It warms the soul. But “later in the show” as the glib obsequious Martin Roberts exclaims, we have to endure total repetition just in case we’ve become confused by the three separate properties featured.

That’s three in one hour. Oh how complex it is to discern three properties. Twenty minutes for each one.

I always think that Homes UTH hides a dark sinister truth. This is money being made out of misfortune. From the tell-tale signs of a house released by the unfortunate death of its owner with carefully placed handrails and shower chairs to the scheming landlords appearing all bright and jolly, doing their best to hide the pound signs rolling in their eyes.

Rented properties are usually for those without the means to pay a deposit. Their prices are vastly inflated so that some will never ever be able to save. We even have hard-nosed developers from darn sarf coming up north to take advantage of the cheaper prices. But this is the world we live in. Like it or lump it.

Inside the factory:

Felch me a bucket

And here is the bald pate of the bellowing Greg Wallace, constantly reminding us of what is a very basic process. But it’s the announcement of the numbers. “Thirteen million beans in two hours,” he may announce in the manner of cannon fire whilst his throbbing head goes radioactive. 

Yes, the numbers are big. It’s mass production. This rocking of the numbers lark is everywhere. At least in the London Crossrail programmes they aren’t screamed out by an over-excited squeaky voiced anorak shaking his egg mayonnaise sandwiches in animated exhilaration.

Wallace is also guilty of the numbers attack in Eat Well for Less. He lords it around in a faux saintly manner saving some poor unfortunates, engulfed in habitual overspending from going to the dogs.

Let them buy their brands.

 

I bet they never stick to their new regimen. Why doesn’t he go back and inspect their fridges twelve months later? But that would undermine all that good work of the dashing Sir Greg in his shining armour. No need for a helmet or visor of course.

Have you ever noticed the cyclical nature of the BBC’s people of the moment? (Other channels for constant exposure are also available.) They get total coverage before disappearing off the face of the earth.

Is it any wonder Adrian Chiles sank into the drink/depression vortex?

Currently, we have Matt Walker working every available hour. He’s fairly inoffensive but can he keep going?

Virgin Trains: This is a subtle one. A recorded voice announces the arrival. “We will be shortly arriving at Stafford.” Fine. Then we change to the most upbeat and sincere of male voices reminding us to take everything with us. Do we lose attention after one sentence? It doesn’t work. Virgin has a varied collection of my walking sticks.

As for the voice in the toilets; let’s wash it down the bowl.

Thank you for reading.

A sneaky trip to the wasteland.

 

No, the north is not a wasteland. I just associate the days of my homeland with getting wasted. This was no exception. It was the last few days of freedom before being locked into 12 weeks of daily radiotherapy. Or so I thought.

When I saw the consultant on Monday he thought I’d already started. Now I need more scans. If I were a rodent, I’d be squeaking vociferously.

The main difference with this trip was my new body state. I’m still having trouble getting from chair to chair to bed to chair up the foothills of Timbuktu.

I’m not sure if a town in the South Sahara has anything more than dunes but try getting up dunes in a state of shifting sand.

The packing was stressful. It was new. Gone were the precautionary items which took up all the case space. In were the new tools of a far more convenient method of waste disposal. But there were things which didn’t change. First class train travel was quiet and calm. I had my usual 2 miniatures of Famous Grouse and a cup of black coffee. The cheese and mushroom toastie was tasty.

In Liverpool, the driver of the first 437 bus didn’t let me on, claiming there were two prams there. This was not in accordance with the bus signage. So he’s been stitched up via email.

I met my good friends.

We chatted and laughed about times old and new. I was grateful for the freedom to do this without frequent calls of nature. I must say that the ginger cake was a triumph in Cortsway.

Is ginger the cake the new croissant?

Wetherspoons was its usual hubbub of life’s forgotten people. I find it comforting. It’s a place to drift in and out of. Despite the phone app and the facility of ordering from the table, it does seem lost in time. It’s noisy but quiet, light but dark, empty but full.

Some taxis, whilst displaying the disabled symbol told me they couldn’t take me. Too heavy. No powered wheelchairs. So here’s me in a town of big (big big big big) people: I weigh 80k and the chair is 25k. You do the maths! (Did I just say that? I hate that phrase. It’s creeping into all forms of media. What a supercilious patronising little drop of verbal poison it is.)

jobsworth

It needed two buses to return to Greasby. This involved a wait at Birkenhead bus station on a Thursday night. During the daytime, it’s a soulless space of plain concrete, hard bright plastic and glass.

At night it becomes engulfed in a cloak of dark desperation. Other people are silent. They move slowly. With static blank faces the stare unblinking at the timetables. The air is awash with the faint bleep of phone buttons. And they are virtual buttons in a world suspended between reality and insanity.

My bus arrived. The silent driver, resembling Bluto, lay down the ramp and stood sentinel-like in front of it. “Show us your pass,” grunted the real-life stalker of Olive Oil. That’s all he said. It was a “You rang?” moment. If he didn’t look like Bluto, I’d have alluded to Lurch.

The night air of Greasby was cold and penetrating. Now I usually have to fight with the narrow doors of the hotel so I took the easier route via its pub.

Rude not to. “Large Talisker please.”

I drifted in and out of slumber. A good thing was not buying whisky for the hotel room.

It’s not a new me; I have to be wary of my new status. Grovelling on the gaudy stripes of a Premier Inn carpet is not cool. The following Monday, while the patient transport crew were waiting for me, I flapped about misplacing my phone. One of them dialled the number. My face remained unchanged as I retrieved from my coat pocket. It was the same brand of not cool.

On Friday it was lunch in the pub. Poor Jeanie was too poorly to make it. Christmas, even with the nicest of families can be hard going. Can we blame Randy Alexander? Sorry Brandy Alexander? Overdosing on ginger cake? The constant whirlwind of the season?

I’d had a very quiet few days so I was prepared for the party extension. That’s what it can be like. On the 2nd of January, there is the palpable release of grateful air. All the wild fun was over. The scent of normality sweeps into the living room giving those dazzling baubles on a sensational tree a friendly little reminder that 12th-night approacheth.

Then I turn up with a box of crackers.

Fair play to all my friends. But we are not getting any younger. Thursday morning’s text from Peter spoke of careful placement of the ball on the tee. On such occasions, bending down needs to be tempered by spatial awareness and the fact that one needs to resume an upright position for the purposes of projecting said ball into the wilderness of the fairway.

So after a rather exquisite steak sandwich, I had a snooze before Hedda turned up with wine and nibbles.

Before I made a habit of more frequent northerly visits, I was slightly nervous of meeting old friends.

Would we still get on? Or would we sit there in the empty space of extended separation?

Nah! I’m bloody lucky. What great friends I have.

Thank you for reading.