Who says you shouldn't play with your food?

Remember when you were a kid and your Mum would tell you to sit up straight, elbows off the table and "don't play with your food" ('specially when scary Auntie Elsie was over for Sunday lunch)?

Well, I'm afraid I must be a big disappointment to her, cos now that I'm a Mum there is nothing I like more than having fun with food, and getting everyone involved in real 'hands-on' style.

Fun food days have been a big help in preventing our 13-year-old from becoming a fast food addict. Friends of his have loved our 'Hamburgers for Heroes' when we make our own burgers from good fresh ingredients, grill them and then lay them out with all the extras (buns, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, peppers, relish, etc.) and let the kids to build the burgers of their own choice.

Then we have 'Build A Pizza' evenings where we provide the pizza bases (or rounds of Arabic bread if we're feeling lazy) and a selection of toppings for them to create their own Italian wonder - anything from the simplest Napolitan to the most complex (or disgusting!) combo that the male teenage mind can come up with.



Today, it was 'Taco Time', or Mexican Day. And that meant meant whipping up a pan of Chilli Con Carne for the carnivores (plus a veggy version for weirdo Mum), then providing soft tortillas and various accompaniments like lettuce, tomatoes,


chopped peppers and onions,



fresh guacamole,

grated cheese and yoghurt to wrap up and stuff our faces with.


As you can see, it always go down well...

Ghoulies and ghosties...

When I was at primary school, we had a wonderful teacher called Mrs. Griffiths (sadly, no longer with us) who – among many other things – taught us the “Hallowe’en Prayer”…

From ghoulies and ghosties,

And long-legged beasties,

And things that go “bump!” in the night.

Good Lord, deliver us.

The rhyme is of Scots origin, but it is forever imprinted on my mind in the musical lilt of the Welsh Valleys that was so apparent in Mrs. Griffiths’ melifluous voice.

I’ve been thinking about the Hallowe’ens of my youth over the past few days as I spot references to dressing up, trick-or-treat, and news reports that the police in the UK will be adopting a “no tolerance” policy towards people making a nuisance of themselves.

At the risk of sounding like an old fart (again), when I was a lass (you have to imagine this in a Northern accent, in the style of the Monty Python '4 Yorkshiremen' sketch), we never had no trick-or-treat. We just had bobbing for apples – if we were lucky.

The whole imported American concept of Hallowe’en has really only taken hold in the UK since I left, so I find it really strange to think of gangs of 12-year-olds roaming the streets dressed as witches, ghosts, vampires… and fairy princesses (aren’t they s’posed to be scarey?) to menace householders unless they dosh out enough goodies to give the kids a sugar rush that will have them bouncing off the walls until the Christmas onslaught.

Back in MY day, it was a far more enigmatic and creepy night. OK, we didn't exactly lock ourselves in the broom cupboard for the night (well, just that once) but I certainly remember hiding my head under the blankets after a Hallowe'en bedtime story.

Hallowe’en is a shortened form of All Hallows’ Eve (Hallows=Saints) as it's the night before All Saints’ Day on November 1. This was supposed to be one of the few times of the year when spirits can make contact with the physical world and when magic is at its most potent. It was the night when all the ghoulies, ghosties, witches and goblins et al would come out to play for one last blast before the goody-goodies from the Saints’ camp took over.

Not surprisingly, it's yet another example of Christianity absorbing a much earlier Pagan festival in order to win followers in the early years of the Church. Hallowe’en origins lie in an ancient Gaelic festival called Samhain, which celebrated the end of the harvest season. It was the time when the ancient pagans used to take stock of supplies and slaughter livestock for their winter stores. The ancient Gaels also believed that it was night when the worlds of the living and the dead overlapped, allowing the deceased to come back and cause havoc by spreading sickness and damaging crops. Costumes and masks were therefore worn in a bid to placate the spirits by mimicking them.

One year, I decided to conduct a Hallowe’en experiment. Tradition has it that if a young virgin peels an apple (symbol of fertility) anticlockwise, keeping the peel in one unbroken coil, in the front of a mirror at midnight on the night of October 31, her husband-to-be will appear to her.

Mum must have wondered why I so enthusiastically offered to peel a couple of pounds of Bramleys for apple crumble during the day (well, I had to practice, didn’t I?) but come midnight, I managed to peel my apple in one intact snake of peel. And sure enough, a male figure appeared from the shadows behind me - but it was no tall, dark stranger from my future, just dear old Dad coming to tell me that it was well past my bed-time and to go to sleep!

Growing up in England in the '70s & '80s, we were still relatively unsophisticated compared to today's children and Hallowe’en held a thrill of fright and anticipation (a bit like watching Dr Who from behind the sofa), but none of the pallaver we see these days.

It was a simple pleasure that came with the season – along with the scent of bonfires in the air as devoted gardeners burned off their garden waste, the joy of wading through fallen leaves in the park in search of conkers, and coming back to the house after a walk with your cheeks burning from the chill. And just around the corner was the promise of lighting up the skies for Bonfire Night.

Maybe I’m just getting nostalgic in my old age?

Oh well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

So "Happy Halloween, y'all!"

Athens Portraits: The Spirit of "Ochi"

The air has cooled, the first rains have rinsed summer’s dust from the city streets, and leaves are starting to change colour… but it’s another thing that really signals the start of autumn for many Athenians.

When every balcony sports the blue and white national flag it can mean one of two things – either Greece has made it to the Final of a major athletic event, or one of the country’s two National Days is around the corner.

This Thursday, just like every autumn, Greeks celebrate a famous refusal. It is one of the few countries to have a National Holiday celebrating a famous "Ochi!" (“No!”) - the blunt refusal was Prime Minister Metaxa’s reply on 28 October 1940 when Mussolini asked him to hand the country over.

Seventy years later, the spirit of that “Ochi!” is marked by a military parade in the city centre - and with less hardware (but more flesh) on display in every neighbourhood.

At local parades, pride of place goes to the dwindling band of Resistance veterans who march proudly, with medals on their chests and tears in their eyes, to the strains of the National Anthem. They’re the ones who knew what that famous act of defiance was all about, and they lived through its consequences.

It’s less certain that its significance is clear to the bands of schoolchildren that follow.

Preening High School girls in tight minis and blouses showing plenty of heaving teen cleavage, and their slouching male classmates with their hands in pockets and feet in brand-name trainers, have been taught the history of the day, but few seem to understand the sacrifice it involved.

And yet, there is no escaping the patriotic flavor of the day. Even the few Greeks that don’t turn out to see their local parade will have a flag hanging from their balcony. TV schedules are dominated by live coverage of the parades and endless patriotic movies celebrating their national belligerence.

“Ochi Day” reminds Greeks how they united to survive as a nation a life-time ago – and perhaps that’s a spirit they need now more than ever.

Pretty... damned good, actually

A Tweet buddy brought this to my attention today and I just had to share it. Click on this post title to watch slam poet Katie Makkai's "Pretty".

Ladies, next time you look in the mirror and start beating yourself about not being pretty enough, remember these words....

(For the record, the Twit buddy in question was the pretty fabulous, pretty creative, pretty wonderful Lucy Pepper, who like me found herself uprooted from England and transplanted in sunnier climes. Unlike me, she ended up in Portugal. But wherever she may be, she's always brilliant - check her out www.lucypepper.com )

Casting call dilemma

It was a grey and rainy morning as I boarded the train for work. But no matter, I was armed with my brolly and had my iPod set to “Random” to keep me occupied for the hour it would take to get to the office.

As I sat on the train staring out of the window at a rain-washed city that looked like it had been rinsed in acid grey, my eardrums were treated to quite a variety of sounds: Aretha Franklin, Douglas Adams, The Clash, Bach, Beatles, Placebo, vintage Peter Sellers and Tony Hancock, Stones, Handel, Stephen Fry, Jimi Hendrix, Rachmaninov, Mika, Mendelssohn, Moby, Frank Sinatra, Nirvana (hey, variety IS the spice of life)….

As we trundled past some of the more run-down areas, a beautifully simple but melancholy piano solo started playing in my ears. As I watched the world going by, I almost felt like I was in a scene from a movie (OK, probably a bit of a European, art-house type of movie in which nothing exciting actually happens – but a movie nonetheless). And naturally, that got the old grey matter rumbling as I considered who - if anyone - could play me in the movie of MY life.

Now, in the time-honoured tradition of getting much better-looking thespians to play real-life people, I would love to see me played by Uma Thurman (that loud THUNK! you just heard was the sound of those who know me - and what I look like - falling off their chairs en masse before giggling hysterically on the floor).

OK, Uma’s out of the question.

If I’m honest, probably the closest to reality would be someone like Whoopie Goldberg (apart from the small problem that she’s black and I’m - well – not). I’d also love to identify with the likes of Daryl Hannah (too slim and with too much of a glint in her eye), Diane Keaton (too petite, too sassy and generally just too New York ), Bette Midler (too Jewish and WAY too much talent in the vocal chords)… So, who?

I've come up with some of the supporting cast. Bruce Willis (before 'Die Hard', the surgical removal of his sense of humour and baldness) or Micky Rourke (prior to monstrous plastic surgery) could have once be good candidates for the Ovver Arf.

Barbara Hershey IS the screen alter-ego of my weird but wonderful soul sister in Brighton who is always there for me to “vent” to.

And Dame Judi Dench could do my mum a treat (though she’s have to grow her hair a bit).

But 'til I find the perfect leading lady, who is good looking enough to give my ego a boost without being so drop-dead gorgeous that all credibility is lost, the great epic that is my life will not be "Coming to a screen near you" any time soon…

Any suggestions will be gratefully received.

The Gallery - Better Red Than...

This week, Tara over at http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com has given us a colourful prompt for The Gallery. It's "The Colour Red", which after thinking a little, I realised reflects some of my favourite things...

Like the mind-blowing colours of the skies for an October sunrise, after a night of rain.

The blatant scarlet of a poppy growing through the wires of a suburban fence.

The ruby-fleshed seeds of a promegranate, fresh from the tree.

That Drop Dead Red lipstick you save for 'special occasions'

Autumn berries

Food bubbling away on the hob

and some of the red stuff that go into it.

The gorgeous burgundy of a crab apple tree (?)

Mind-blowing bugs that look like they're decked out to play Roy of the Rovers

Yes, you guessed it - I love red!

Grey day blues

Damp doesn’t suit Athens. It’s all the concrete that’s the problem, I think.

At least when it rains in London, the green gets even greener (and there’s probably more square metres of green space per capita in London than any other city in Europe), and there’s nothing to beat the smell of Regent’s Park after a shower. The thing is, London was built on the premise of its dampness. Just like Stockholm, which is built on a collection of islands in the Baltic Sea, it’s at peace with the liquid element, its natural habitat.

Athens’ natural habitat, however, is not damp. Its element comes from the Attica Sky all right, but not in the form of raindrops, rather in the form of heat from Apollo, the sun god.

So, when it rains in Athens, it is just not right. Everything looks soggy and grey and uninspired. It's almost as if the city is sulking.

Today - following a spectacular thunderstorm overnight that dumped the equivalent of the Aegean Sea on the city - the Attica Sky has been heavy with brooding, dark grey rain clouds.

Athens doesn't handle wet weather well – and nor do its residents. Just one good drenching and the number of cars on the road quadruples, dusty pavements become as slick as skating rinks, traffic grinds to a halt, public services change pace from slow to stop and debris-filled drains overflow with gay abandon. Athenians feel cheated when it rains.

It was against that sad, grey background that I was making my way to the office, when I suddenly spotted something that changed everything in an instant. Standing in the Metro station was a middle-aged man chatting on his phone – like thousands of other commuters that pass through every day. But in his hand he held a simple bunch of bright yellow roses.

It was the kind of sight that makes you wish your eyelid was a camera shutter, that you could capture that single fleeting image for all eternity.

That simple splash of yellow amid the rain-washed grey of Athens was the kind of image that reminds you that even the most overcast of days holds the potential for colour. It was a sight that… ...on the other hand, somebody better stop me before I start to sound like a bad greetings card.

Meanwhile, the rain goes on, and on, and on...