Some people in my life go back to Life Before the Internet, in fact if I was to actually count I’d say most do since it’s approximately half my life time ago since it came in common usage and naturally, although by no means exclusively, I gravitate toward people of my own age. Having mulled that thought I had one of those little revelatory moments where I understood that no one born after my son was born (1993) will know what that feels like. I was sad, for a moment, then realised that each generation has its own experiences that the next will not have. I am sure you are now rolling your eyes and miming ‘duh’ in the manner of one who has always understood this. I too, of course, have always understood this, but it was the clarity of that thought that made me stop worrying about it, stop clinging on to my past in the hope that I can share it with the next generation and therefore take them back to it, because it was better then, wasn’t it? Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was. Maybe the best is yet to come. Or maybe it simply doesn’t matter. Everything new that comes along technology wise just needs to be used better. It can’t be stopped and arguably shouldn’t be if it could (after all, I would not have married my husband without facebook and that would be a large scale tragedy), it just needs to be harnessed to save the planet rather than destroy it. There are people out there, much, much younger than me, who can do that. They may not even be born yet, but they will come. The converse is also true but we must believe, just like Ted Lasso, that we have it in us to save the world.
This weekend, the one just gone (when does the weekend become last weekend? Wednesday?), I was staying in a hotel in Dorking, in Surrey. The hotel was grotty and overlooked a mini Tesco, but despite that, and the stale odours in the stairwell (like someone’s very sad memories and some cabbage had fermented then rotted completely only to be exhumed and exhaled gently with every step), the sheets and towels were clean and the bed adequate.
Surrey is an interesting, lush and astonishingly beautiful county. I have many memories from my time living there and I can almost, I think, associate a smell with it - bracken, oak trees and sandy soil. And maybe I can also smell the money because my goodness gracious me there is a lot of it sloshing about there. Beautiful houses built in the arts and crafts era from delicious red brick, with huge, steep sloping roofs covered in tiny red tiles that match the brick, leaded window panes and oak doors with enormous iron studs in them. They are fronted by large lawns, many with turning circles that may or may not have a fountain in the middle (vieux money v. nouveau money). The cars are monstrous, something an American president might feel safe in, so they need turning circles.
On Saturday morning me and the old man had breakfast in a restaurant six minutes walk from where we were staying. I think we may have been able to order a breakfast ‘bag’ in the hotel but I’d really rather have licked the pavement.
The Olde Wordle Wheat Water Mill Inn is attractive in its own way, enough anyway to lure you in and then bombard you with every current interior decorating trend available. We were shown to a terrace that had a glorious view of Box Hill, the sun was shining and the chairs were deep. The chap who showed us the table commiserated sincerely when I banged my head on a low slung lampshade and said he had tried to get ‘them’ to raise the shades.
Breakfast was deeply unremarkable, confirming my assumption as we walked in that it was an ‘all fur coat and no knickers’ set up (we had been warned). However, the service was above and beyond from Elaine (she brought me a cushion for my back as the chairs were so deep I had almost disappeared), our waitress (I use the feminine term because she is old school and would have not enjoyed being referred to as a waiter or server) who was from Tipperary. It was all I could do not to slip in my awful faux Irish brogue (I didn’t) that I can just about get away with my very dear Irish friend, Maire, who’s sixtieth birthday party was in fact the reason we there at all (at all). Anyway - Elaine could not have been sweeter or more considerate, so if you ever find yourself in Dorking and needing a mediocre breakfast look for the pink palace with the mock Tudor frontage and ask for Elaine.
Big birthdays tend to be by the decade, except for 18 or 21. At either of those ages looking ahead to three decade marker, where that tradition starts, is like trying to see Ireland from Fishguard; then one day you’re in Rosslare and so the decade count down begins. That said I have only really, properly celebrated one big birthday, my fiftieth. My thirtieth was a damp squib, fortieth was spent in Paris with my then partner and my sixtieth came and went in the time of covid. So it’s always lovely to celebrate other’s markers and Maire’s was a corker, or the craic was ninety (apparently that’s the acme of a night out). We more than rolled back the 35 years we’ve known each other this weekend, and now she has now joined me in the 60s, where apart from the chin hairs and arthritis life is pretty good.
One of the many things I love about being my age is watching all the people I love grow. Not grow old, but grow, into themselves and even sometimes in spite of themselves. Relaxing into who they were always meant to be. I’m talking about myself too of course. I am happier in my own skin now than I have ever been and that is not withstanding the fact that my actual skin is beginning to sag and get crepey, mottled even, here and there. My knees are shocking, my hands hurt, my hair is quite frankly perplexing and I do miss the colour atop my head, I can’t lie.
I could go on about aging, pros, cons, prolapses etc; and on about birthdays and parties and reunions and meeting new people and dancing on a grass slope in slidey sandals, the luck of the Irish (the weather!), wonderful and hilarious live music delivered by family and friends alike, the fairy lights, the bunting, the glory of trees, the food, the brilliant hosts; but I won’t, that’s enough now.
Focaccia (Fock-at-cha - excellent for when you want to swear but can’t)
I had arrived at the party venue the day before so I could help with some cooking, my contribution being a chickpea and butternut squash curry, a familiar thing in my repertoire so easy to reproduce in quantity. I also made focaccia, which is again a favourite of mine. This time I decided to decorate it - that was a lot of fun!
I may have posted this before but anyway, here is the recipe but you make the decoration any old way you want.
500g strong white flour
1 heaped tsp yeast
1 tsp sea salt
450-500ml warm water
3 tbsp olive oil
More olive oil for drizzling etc
Mix all the ingredients in a large bowl, either with your hands or with a wooden spoon - mix it well, beating it if using a spoon, until you have a smooth sloppy dough.
Cover the bowl with a piece of oiled baking parchment paper and then a clean tea towel.
Leave the dough to rise for about an hour at room temp. If you are making the dough the day before you need it you can put it in the fridge once it has gone through the first rise.
Once risen bash the dough back down, whether after an hour or the next day and pour the mix into a very well oiled high sided baking dish (use baking parchment if you like). Squidge the mix into the corners of the dish with your clean fingers to make sure it’s roughly even.
Allow it to rise once more until it’s doubled in size again.
At this point oil your hands well with olive oil and poke holes in the dough, as though playing a piano key board, to make a dimpled surface. You will see bubbles start to come up in the dough. The sis where you can add decorations if you like, or simply sprinkle with some flakey sea salt and some rosemary if you have it.
Put into a pre heated oven - 200c (180c fan) gas 6 - and bake for around 25-30 minutes.
When it’s a golden brown take it out and drizzle with a little more olive oil if you like.
Variations -
You can add almost anything to a focaccia - e.g halved cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, olives, peppers, garlic, cheese.
When cooked you can also turn it into a deep pan style pizza, adding a tomato sauce (jarred pasta sauce works well) and mozzarella or cheese of your choice.
I’d rather have licked the pavement !!! That made me laugh out loud
I enjoyed this post. Thank you.
It sounded like a very fun party.
Yum