I was just going through my drafts and found this one from last December. I think I must have meant to post it for her birthday, and then, well, I don't really know. This is her, around 2 weeks old, and bald as an eagle. Stark contrast to the noggin Nora is sporting. Also, this pictures looks so QUIET.
What Scotland may lack in savoury choices, it makes up for in its puddings/desserts. The most popular menu board selection is definitely Sticky Toffee Pudding. It's everywhere. You can buy it pre-made and it's delicious, or you can try your hand at this super simple recipe.
Faithfully adapted from Nigella Lawson:
Sticky Toffee Pudding
for the cake
Claudia was the designated taste tester and chose cream as her topping. I went with creme fraiche because it's delicious and cuts through the sweetness. I seriously don't know why creme fraiche is so hard to find in Canada. It's in the corner shop and costs about 60 pence a pot here.
Anyway, I put it in a mug instead of a bowl because I love my mugs and the warmth of the pudding just calls out for a cuddle. Claudia, obviously, approved.
Lots of coos.
Exercising your Scottish "right to roam" can result in some menacing glances of the bovine variety.
Breastfeeding is my job. The hours are long, my colleague is a mute, and the work really is back breaking. For the past three months, my office has been my bedroom, my bed is my desk. When the older girls come to visit they bring all their shit with them. So then my bedroom is my office is my nightmare. I can't walk for toys underfoot, well meaning scribbles strewn all about, and crackers under the covers. I needed to get out of that place.
I let the higher-ups (Aaron) know that change was about to run wild. The whole establishment was to be altered. The living room needed to start seeing some life in it. The kitchen was crowded and the dining room was desolate, except for three broken suitcases and one lingering moving box.
Two days on, and it's a whole different work environment. Okay, enough with the long winded metaphor...
I like the house again. The living room sofa is under the window, and like cats we have all gathered to bask in the stream of sunlight. The baby can be found in her play-cot, hopefully sleeping soundly. There may even be a magazine being read. Big gasp.
The kitchen is EMPTY. No more side stepping around the table to get to the fridge/stove/sink. I've brought a stereo in there, and the whole room is a dance floor. A ballet school, according to Eloise.
And the dining room? Everyone, welcome back The Metaphor; it's a corner office, with a view.
You still here?
I wouldn't blame you if you weren't.
I'd blame BT, aka British Telecom. And Clola. It's a hamlet. Our internet access is a lazy, hippy, slacker, hitch-hiker. Like, it will get here eventually, but it's going to take its sweet ass time. It's probably stoned, too.
Anyway, posting blog posts is an excruciatingly slow process. So I haven't been. I've been pre-occupied. With this face:
You understand, right?