That awful expression

I'm told what I'm going through is called 'Empty Nesting'. But I'm not a bird. I do not nest, I have no feathers of my own (only expensively acquired ones on some of my garments), have no wings (that I admit to) and I've not got a long beak (nose is a different matter).

Still, my last baby bird has gone.

OK, that sounds too dramatic. She’s eighteen and has not left home for good, nor has she travelled to Timbuktu, nor gone to war in Afghanistan, nor is travelling around the world on a shoestring. No, she’s working with a family I've met in Finland. She has her Grandmother fairly close, her Godmother in the same city, and several of my good old (sorry, girls, don't mean in age) friends who she can contact any time of day or night. So it’s not that I’m desperately worried about her. Apart from the normal of course.

I never thought of myself as one of those mothers who’d mourn the departure of their children. When they were smaller, I used fantasise about coming to an empty house, and if on a rare occasion it happened I’d turn the radio and TV off and sit quietly enjoying the silence. I was keen for them to grow up, to be lovely adults (which they are) and to lead lovely, happy lives.
So I guess I just miss them. It’s an emotion hard to explain. I’m not a control freak. If you saw my house you’d know how true that is. When everyone’s home, I let the kids do what they like, even if it means that I curse under my breath when I’m faced with a messy kitchen first thing in the morning. So it’s not as if I want to have them under my wing all the time. No, I just really like their company, and the company of their friends.Yet it’s not even that simple. If they were just friends, I wouldn't suddenly have a lump in my throat driving alone in the car, or feel desolate when finding the house empty and eerily quiet at the end of a day. Or feel close to tears at the supermarket when realising how much less food just two people eat. Wondering if it’s even worth cooking anything?

I know I need to move on and move on I'm indeed doing. Goodness knows there aren't enough hours in a day to do what I have ambitions for, in addition to those everyday annoyances like sorting and paying bills, and (God forbid) paid (with actual money) work, let alone mourn the departure of perfectly well adjusted, clever, ambitious, healthy grown up children. Or are there?

A productive day?

This is the sum total of my achievements today.

It is true, I am officially on holiday. It is true the family are home and daughter is still recovering from operation. It is true that I spent most of the day pottering in the garden and also made chicken stock. It is true that I spent a lot of time writing part 10 of the epic, How I came to be in England, as well as staring at the last sentence of my 50 thousand word manuscript, The Lost Daughter but not adding a single word to it.


As this momentous jar of pickled cucumbers from the garden is such an achievement, I thought I'd share the recipe with you:


Raw pickling cucumbers about 1 kg
1 tbls coriander seeds
1 large yellow onion, sliced
2 tbls yellow mustard seeds
2 tbls raw sliced horse radish
10-20 dill flowers
10 small vine leaves (currant leaves are also good)


For the pickling liquid:
300 ml water
300 ml white vinegar
400 ml sugar
100 ml salt


Bring the liquid ingredients to a boil & cool. Scrub and wash the cucumbers, slice to about 10mm thickness and place in a jar alternating with spices, vine leaves, onion slices and dill flowers. Pour over the liquid. It's ready in about a week and lasts up to five months in dark larder or similar (I keep mine in a spare fridge for jams etc.)

Needless to say, if you lack any one ingredient, such as dill flowers, just use dill on its own, or substitute with any other herb. I've made this with tarragon before, and it works just as well.