Episode 28: In a jam

Tartas de mariposas,
or butterfly cakes!

As I said in the last blog, we're back to work in the school and I can't say that I'm thrilled about it. There's nothing wrong with the work you understand, but I was enjoying not having to think about work and bills and suchlike and now that reality has kicked me in the la-la's, I don't like it. So, instead of thinking about it, I have been doing other things instead. In the last week I've hardly stopped. Now, you would think that not stopping would be good for my waistline, but sadly my version of not stopping involves making jams/lemon curd, cakes and crumpets. I did break out into a small sweat when I upped and cleaned the place through, but that was only out of necessity because there was flour and sugar everywhere. And you might know that where there is jam-making, there's a saga, which I will now attempt to reproduce for you, so that you can live it as if you were there. 

Mitzi was in flatties until
1956, when she sold her eldest
child to buy some Dr. Scholl's

One of my favourite things when we go to America is grape jelly with my morning toast, so I decided to recreate it right here in Spain. Grapes are expensive here and as you know, we've not got two centimos to scratch our arses with at present, so we went visiting as volunteers to the local hospital in order to snaffle an adequate supply from patient's bedsides; half a dozen here, four there; no-one missed them. I also managed to bag a nice story CD about life as a disabled Jewish transvestite in Spain in the early 20th century (which was terrible for them if my Spanish is correct. Apparently they didn't get peep-toe sandals here until 1955). We also bagged a set of false teeth, a nice clock radio (well, she didn't look as if she was going to need it where she was going) and an invitation to Ramón and Vera's grandson's circumcision in two weeks, which we politely declined.

Grapes gathered, we regrouped in our kitchen and followed the recipe to the letter. Now, it said in the book that jellies (as opposed to jams) don't need as much boiling and that.....and I quote......"less is more". Well you might know that this turned out to not be the case. Having boiled the first lot for "less" time, we were dismayed to find that it was as runny as it had been the day before when we'd put it in the jar. We decided to try and boil it a little more, but one morning later it was still as runny, although made a delicious addition to some rather tasteless white wine we'd bought off a dodgy geezer called Juan Borneveryminute, behind the back of the local churreria. 

It's a washing powder and
apparently gets right to the
bottom of the wash

We boiled it again, although this time, we added some pectin; home made and natural you understand - none of this jam sugar processed muck! Actually we would have used it if we could find it, but this being a Third World country when it comes to supermarkets, they don't sell jam sugar here. I suppose with the recession and a 25% unemployment figure, there are lots more people with time on their hands to make their own pectin, thus leaving the shelves of the local supermarket free to sell other things like 86 different varieties of bloody olive bloody oil and something called Colon!  And do I need to point out that you can't buy custard here? We had to ship it from the UK and yes, I'm aware of how to make it from scratch, but there are some places where one just has to draw a line. 

When he put Doña Encarnación's
teeth in, José's transformation
was astounding

Where was I? Oh yes, the pectin. This time I only reboiled the one jar and the following morning, full of anxiety and trepidation, I noticed that some of the jam had actually started to set a little. Buoyed up by this minute victory, I got more apples (well, we were due another round of volunteering - and we took those teeth back as they didn't suit either of us....they made José look like Red Rum) and made some more pectin. Using the one jar that was half set, I poured pectin in with gay abandon and boiled it as if my life depended on it. The following morning, you'll never guess................yes, a jar of runny grape jelly; not even half set like the time before. Slightly miffed by this, we went to work, once José had wrestled the jar off me to save me from throwing it out of the kitchen window. Dejectedly the jar sat, unloved on the kitchen table all day.

That night when we came home from work, I moved the jar out of the way and let out such a yell that José thought I'd 'entangled' myself whilst waxing my tanga line. It was set! The jelly was set! So, after four lots of boiling, several kilo's of apples and goodness knows how much electricity, I have my own home-made jelly at only €23,50 a jar the way I made it. Yes, it's delicious; I had some on my breakfast this morning, which was a little strange as I have muesli on a Sunday. How on earth can that author say that "less is more" until I realised, it's not her fault but the fault of her husband!!!!!

This is just a shamelessly gratuitous picture of a tanga because it's mentioned in the last paragraph. If you think this is good, tune in next week for my blog about male nudity!!!

Until the next time my lovelies
xxx

Episode 27: Holidayzzzzzz

So, here we are again. Six weeks ago today, the lovely José and I walked out of the school and breathed a rather large sigh of relief that we were about to have 5 weeks holiday. What appears to be three days later, here I am, sitting at my usual desk having done a week's work. And do I feel like I've had a holiday?? Do I bogroll!

Much more wholesome
than a picture of a
Methodist gangbang

When the day finally came where I no longer had to get up at stupid-o'clock to go to work and pretend I know something about the English Language, what happened............? We both woke up at 6am and lay there as startled as a virgin in a Methodist gangbang, both feeling like we'd already been done over. I sent a carrier pigeon over to his side of the bed with a message: Are you awake? He was and was counting every episode of "Friends" in his head in an attempt to get himself back to sleep. I should have done that: "One.......Twozzzzzzzzzzz" Needless to say, he watches those particular DVD's when I'm not around.

Well, the holiday started in earnest, but once Ernest left and went home, we were able to relax!! (Ha! The oldies are the best, so I'm told.) Anyway, the moment we started our holiday, we never damn well stopped working. All the jobs in the flat that were put off were done, plus I did José's favourite thing......<looking around the lounge and talking in an inquisitive tone> "José my love.....don't you think that these units would look better over here?" He LOVES it when I do that. You see, my family and I suffer from some sort of furniture removal syndrome although I feel that it's worth pointing out right now that I'm nowhere near as bad as my sister. Sometimes she would get up at 4am when she couldn't sleep and move all the furniture round in the lounge as the family slept. I'm not sure if it was a need within her or to confuse hell out of them when they came downstairs in the morning half asleep and wondered if they'd woken up in someone else's house. I do have to keep reminding José of this, to show him just how bad it could be.

Smarter than the
average pyjamas!

Anyway, we had built a load of bookcases for the library of CD's/DVD's and books we have, only for me to decide that they would look better in a slightly different format; once we'd loaded them all up of course! Funny thing is that in this case, he agreed with me, but everytime he left the lounge, I heard a strange banging coming from the kitchen. I'm certain that's a head-shaped dent in the worktop by the cooker hob.

Our first week's holiday was a blur of birthday parties (my mother-in-law), house tidying and working. I wanted to do all the work for the new term at the beginning of the holiday in order to get it out of the way, a job I came to be grateful for in our last week. It was hard work and I thought we were never going to finish it, although being able to do it all in my Yogi Bear onesie made it all the more enjoyable.

Other flavours of mouldy soup are available

Week 2 saw us entertaining French people for 6 days. Not all French people, just two of them you understand. Trust me, two is enough! Then in the middle of week 3, we came to the UK. On the way to the airport on that Wednesday morning, I suddenly realised that I'd made soup on Monday evening (in the middle of a hot summer? Don't ask! I just had a craving) and having had a large bowlful on the Monday evening, intended to finish it on the Tuesday. With this in mind, I put the pan of soup in the oven ready to take out and warm up. As we blissfully drove to the airport, looking forward to being back in Blighty, I realised I'd not finished it on the Tuesday and there it would sit for 2 whole weeks. There's nothing like a little soup drama to upset the equilibrium.

I was looking for a picture of a rotting
corpse, but this one of the Spanish 
Duchess of Alba seemed close enough

Did we relax once home? Did we? No, we bloody well didn't. Two days in London, two days in Hastings, four days in Lincoln, three days in North Yorkshire, two more days in Lincoln, one night in Stansted and then home. We were knackered, not to mention disorientated!! Sure, we had a great time seeing friends and family, but it wasn't long enough and we did too much in too short a time. By the time we got home on the Wednesday of our last week's holiday, I didn't feel like I'd had 5 minutes to myself since we stopped working. Of course, the moment I walked in, I just had to check the soup situation. I had visions of the mould having taken over the oven and the build up of fumes having blown the door off, where José imagined that the smell would have alerted the neighbours to a couple of rotting corpses in the flat and we would find our front door broken down and police tape all over the place. Instead, we found nothing of the sort. I won't describe the soup to you as I can't think about it even now without gagging, but needless to say, I flushed it away as quickly as I possibly could and disinfected both the pan and the oven within minutes. Had José stood still long enough, he would have been hosed down with disinfectant too. Mind you, that wouldn't have been a bad thing. When we go to airports, he has this thing about covering himself with every conceivable fragrance known to man. It works quite well on Ryanair as it serves as a sort of pungent exclusion zone for our three seat row. When he got home, he was still ponging pretty strongly of stuff that it started to take the paint off the kitchen wall. A dousing of Dettol wouldn't have hurt.

On the last day of the holiday, we decided to go to the local town council and register ourselves as living in the area. Only the Spanish can do things this way............when we walked in, there were three ladies at the front desk and all three had people with them. One finished and she beckoned us over. José told her what we were there for and so she told us to stand in the queue for the lady on her right. Whilst waiting, another three people came in and she put two on her right side queue and one on her left. That's it! That was her job! It beggars belief. Councils up and down the country are losing money mano over puño (hand over fist!) and they employ someone to put people in the right queue. To be fair, I think she had other roles; she was also employed to tut loudly at people who were very common and offer withering looks at those who were wearing clashing colours. She earned her money that morning, I can tell you!

Dedicated to my mum, who looked after us so well whilst we were in the UK.
Thanks for the new pants which fit like a glove! (insert your own joke here) xxx