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A Dead Good Blog

written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label Chocolate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chocolate. Show all posts

Wednesday, 12 February 2025

I Love You

17:25:00 Posted by Steve Rowland , , , , , , , , 2 comments
I was a bit flummoxed by this week’s topic of I Love You but as luck would have it I was in Kendal yesterday and popped into The Famous 1657 Chocolate House as usual and found this bar so I’m going to start it now and I’m sure it will bring me luck in the writing.
I’m not going to write about chocolate, although it’s tempting, but about dating agencies. When I was younger there were loads of different ways of meeting a prospective partner be it through pubs, night clubs, social clubs, work etc. Now I’m retired most of those options are unavailable or not attractive to me and anyway, in general, people now don’t seem to go out as much.

So to get an idea of what those agencies are suggesting I’ve had a trawl through some of the sites looking for suggestions. I’m happy to pass them on. Beginning with this advice:

Many of us are under the illusion that falling in love solves all our problems. Not only is this not true, but a relationship can also bring us a whole new set of problems to navigate. So before you rush into finding love, figure out what you truly want and need. When you can name it, you’ll be able to spot in more clearly when you see it. That’s a good start. Except for the bit about ‘a whole new set of problems’ and ‘what you truly want and need’.

So, I’m going to presume that someone knows the wants and needs (I don’t). What next? The common thread is that you need to take care of yourself first. Devote the time you have on your own to taking really good care of yourself. Make self-care a priority, and try and do at least one thing each day to make yourself feel looked after and loved. This could be good.

They say that there are loads of things you can do. Cook yourself nutritious meals (well I like broccoli), move your body (eh?). Try meditating (on what?), socialize (don’t like it and don’t even mention a dinner party), find a new hobby (fair enough), have a makeover (you what!?)

Pause to say that the chocolate bar is now half way through.


So the agencies suggest that the loads of things will be beneficial for your health on all levels and will promote a more positive outlook on life (no chance, I’m a glass half empty person). Plus, that will tend to attract people who match our own energy (is this a good thing?). So if your vibe is an inspiring, infectious, full of life one, you’re likely to attract people with similar vibrations (exactly the sort of person I would avoid like the plague).

Ok, let’s now presume that you have met someone through an agency, they give tips for that first date:

Do ask questions
Don’t be late
Do put your phone away (Oh, please put your phone away)
Don’t break the bank (bit difficult if it’s a walk in the park)
Do have pristine (?) manners
Don’t pretend
Do present yourself well (I have some wonderful cardigans)
Don’t say I Love You.

And maybe, just maybe, there will a time and place where you will be able to say those three little words.

The chocolate bar has one bit left and I’m going to have that when I sign out.


This poem was written a few years ago.

On Line Dating

The difficult bit
is the smile,
so thank god for digital cameras.
Two hours and four mirrors
for a self timed natural look
of caring warm sincerity.

After that
the words are a breeze
and so they should be
imagery and rhythm
that space between lines
the bit that’s waiting
to be what you want it to be
which by now is obviously me.

And I’m looking for a woman
who isn’t fun loving
young for her age
who doesn’t like
walking in the rain
on a beach
under a full moon
while boring me senseless
with a wicked sense of humour
before driving herself
back to Camden
to dry those stupid shoes
before a late booking
at that so new Cambodian bistro.

And if you think
I’ve got the nerve
to actually put that down
then please email
all letters answered
photo essential
or if guaranteed even slight likeness
to Meg Ryan (circa Sleepless in Seattle)
please ignore above
and contact direct
on 822...

First published in Pennine Platform, Nov 2009.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Tuesday, 18 June 2024

Witches - The Witchiest Witch

21:45:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 3 comments

 



‘The Lancashire Witches’

One voice for ten dragged this way once
by superstition, ignorance.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Witch: female, cunning, manless, old,
daughter of such, of evil faith;
in the murk of Pendle Hill, a crone.

Here, heavy storm-clouds, ill-will brewed,
over fields, fells, farms, blighted woods.
On the wind’s breath, curse of crow and rook.

From poverty, no poetry
but weird spells, half-prayer, half-threat;
sharp pins in the little dolls of death.

At daylight’s gate, the things we fear
darken and form. That tree, that rock,
a slattern’s shape with the devil’s dog.

Something upholds us in its palm-
landscape, history, place and time-
and, above, the same old witness moon

below which Demdike, Chattox, shrieked,
like hags, unloved, an underclass,
badly fed, unwell. Their eyes were red.

But that was then – when difference
made ghouls of neighbours; child beggars,
feral, filthy, threatened in their cowls.

Grim skies, the grey remorse of rain;
sunset’s crimson shame; four seasons,
centuries, turning, in Lancashire,

away from Castle, Jury, Judge,
huge crowd, rough rope, short drop, no grave;
only future tourists who might grieve.

                                                 Carol Ann Duffy

On a pleasant, summer afternoon in 2012, we went to Barrowford, Lancashire, to visit the Pendle Heritage Centre and find out more about the Lancashire Witches. It was the 400th anniversary of their trials that year. Having previously visited Lancaster Castle and the area where some of the witches were executed by hanging, we were starting our explorations at their end and going backwards into their beginnings. I found their story fascinating, disturbing and very sad. Witches? Really? Blind, struggling, penniless old ladies being picked on for how they lived and what they looked like upset me so much and it was too late to stick up for them. I saw them as two families who didn’t get on and tried to out-wit each other. They knew plants, good and bad. They knew the properties of each and how to use them for nourishment, medicine and poison. I don’t believe they murdered anyone. I believe that they were so terrified, that they made false confessions and were consequently found guilty at their trials and executed. That’s my opinion, based on what I felt was real and dismissing what I considered to be fantasy – familiars, in the sense, or rather nonsense of a person taking on the form of an animal or non-human creature.

The stories of the Pendle Witches are well documented, but here are a few snippets from a booklet we picked up on our visit,

“Early 1600s – Two rival peasant families live on the slopes of Pendle Hill. They are led by two old women called Demdike, a.k.a. Elizabeth Southerns and Old Chattox, a.k.a. Anne Whittle. The men of their families are dead, leaving them in poverty to beg and find work where they can. Many local people live in fear of them, believing them to have special powers.”

According to the booklet, things really kick off and reach a peak in the spring of 1612,

“March 18th, 1612 – Alizon Device, grand-daughter of Demdike, is begging on the road to Colne. A pedlar refuses her some pins and she curses him. Suddenly a black dog appears and she orders it to lame the pedlar who collapses, paralysed on the left side.

March 30th, 1612 – Alizon Device is hauled before the Justice Roger Nowell and confesses to witchcraft. Forced to give an account of her family’s activities she tells how Demdike had been asked to heal a sick cow which then died. She also told Nowell that Demdike had cursed Richard Baldwin after which his daughter fell sick and died a year later. Describing her family’s feud with the Chattox family she reports how Chattox turned the ale sour at an inn at Higham and bewitched the landlord’s son to death using a clay image.

April 3rd, 1612 – Nowell sends Demdike, Alizon Device, Chattox and her daughter Ann Redfearn to Lancaster Castle to await trial for witchcraft. Demdike dies in prison before the trial.

August 17th 1612 – The trial opens at Lancaster Castle. The accused are not provided with a defence lawyer. Nowell produces nine year old Jennet Device as a witness and she gives evidence against her own family. Her mother, Elizabeth, is dragged from the court screaming at her daughter and cursing Nowell. Alizon Device faints when confronted with the pedlar she is said to have lamed and when she is revived, confesses her guilt. Chattox weeps as she hears the evidence against her and asks God for forgiveness. She pleads for mercy to be shown to her daughter, Ann. The judge finds them all guilty.

August 20th 1612 – Chattox, Ann Redfearn, Elizabeth, James and Alizon Device, Alice Nutter, Katherine Hewitt, Jane Bulcock and her son John are hanged in Lancaster in front of huge crowds.

Were they malevolent people possessed by supernatural powers, or the innocent victims of a time obsessed with the pursuit and punishment of witchcraft?”

There is much more to learn about the Lancashire witches, that was just an outline of events.

I’ve convinced my grandchildren that I have special powers and I’m not even a witch! Well, I am sometimes, usually at Hallowe’en when I transform into The Witchiest Witch and give chocolate to all the children who come to my door. These are children who know me and recognise me from school or the neighbourhood. They are often disguised beyond my best efforts to recognise them as monsters, vampires, ghosts and miniature witches.

My own poem,

The Love Potion

She visited after midnight
And I listened to what she said.
Her voice was quiet and distant
For she was seven decades dead.
Her threadbare clothes were shades of black,
Her knitted shawl, faded to grey.
Old eyes, soft in her wizened face
Still had a kind and gentle way.

I adored my great-great grandma,
Her ghostly presence brought no fear.
She always knew what I needed
And I loved to sense her so near.
She said, “I believe I can help.
I know of a very old spell.
Come sit a-while beside me
And write it all down as I tell.

“Get some milk thistle and nettle,
Buttercup, daisy and clover.
Leave it to rest in rose water
Until the petals turn over.
Slowly stir in bramble honey,
A splash of dandelion wine
And sprinkle the seeds of the poppy
While you sing ‘Oh Let Him Be Mine’.”

“You want him so much,” she whispered.
“This potion will bring him along.
He will love you as you love him
And together you will belong.
Follow instructions exactly.
Choose every item with great care
And take your time, do not hurry.
Be of glad mind as you prepare.”

Her cold, hard fingers touched my face
And I felt the warmth of her love.
The vision drifted out of sight
Carried floating somewhere above.
She’d died long before I was born,
Yet she was always there for me.
I am blessed to share the blood-line
Of a free spirit such as she.

Pamela M Winning 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 16 April 2024

Weird - In My Crazy Dreams

20:59:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 comments


‘Venus is the only planet that spins clockwise.’ Is that weird? As long as it doesn’t knock me over, I don’t care. I don’t take much notice of planets, apart from what the National Curriculum sets out to teach children, but I don’t think Venus is alone there. It might be Uranus that also spins clockwise, something to do with toppling over on its axis. No? Well, that will be just me on my statin induced weird dreams, then.

I blame the statins, like I do for everything else, but it could be the chocolate. Just try Cadbury’s ‘Darkmilk’, though maybe not too much before bed. I’m not having nightmares, thank goodness. My dreams are vivid and just weird, sending me into odd situations, like trying to figure something out at work in a dental surgery. I retired nearly three years ago, and I didn’t work in surgery, I was on reception. I dream about my family, including those who have passed away. Years ago, when I was having chemo, I regularly dreamt of going into a room full of people. It was welcoming and cosy. I was greeted with affection. This was where I belonged. The people were my family, my passed away family. There was my mother, young and pretty as I remembered her before she was ill, and my grandparents with aunts who were special to me, taking me into their fold. The dream was always much the same and with the same missing person. My dad wasn’t there. It upset me to think that if I died, my dad wasn’t waiting for me. It was disturbing, to say the least, as if there wasn’t already enough going on. It was just a very weird, recurring dream brought on by the chemicals that helped to save my life. As I recovered, I stopped dreaming so much and stopped worrying.

Imagine waking up in a spotlessly clean and tidy bedroom, bathed in sunlight filtering through tilted blinds. Outside, the neighbour who never speaks to anyone, smiles and calls out a cheerful ‘good morning’. On the main road, a few cars go by, carefully observing the twenty mile per hour speed limit and the pavement slabs are even with no trip hazards.

This would be too weird for words – or I had died and gone to Heaven.

Meet the Weird-Bird

Birds are flyin’south for winter.
Here’s the Weird-Bird headin’ north,
Wings a-flappin’, beak a-chatterin’,
Cold head bobbin’ back ‘n’ forth.
He says, “It’s not that I like ice
Or freezin’winds and snowy ground.
It’s just sometimes it’s kind of nice
To be the only bird in town.

                           Shel Silverstein (1930 – 1999)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 25 April 2023

Recipe Poetry - If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake

23:39:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 comments

For the past week, I’ve had Blue Mink’s ‘Melting Pot’ going round in my head. It was a good song back in the day, carrying a message in a poetic recipe form. Unfortunately, the lyrics, seemingly harmless in 1969, are inappropriate for our enlightened PC modern times. I decided not to include them here, but they are easy enough to find on Google.

Instead, I share with you my wonderful birthday cake recipe, made the same way for years and years of family members birthdays, even my own. My sister has made me a cake a couple of times. She’s got a birthday this week, one of those with a ‘0’ on the end and she looks so much younger.

Hands washed, pinny on, oven on 180c, and off we go.

Ingredients:  3 eggs, or 2 eggs and a splash of milk; whipping cream, strawberries and chocolate flake to decorate; 6ozs of self-raising flour, 6ozs of caster sugar, 6ozs of margarine.

Give yourself at least an hour,
Gently sift the finest flour.
Caster sugar is the best
Weighed properly, not just guessed..
Use three fresh eggs, nice free-range
Or two with milk for a change.
Margarine, the best is Stork,
Mashed and softened with a fork.
Beat all in the Kenwood, fast,
‘Til a smooth and shiny cast.
Transfer the mix to cake tins
And bake for twenty-five mins.
Whilst they cool, whip up some cream
And prepare the décor theme.
Strawberry halves, chocolate flake,
For this special birthday cake.

Trust me, it is delicious!

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 1 November 2022

Monsters - Hallowe'en

18:20:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 7 comments

 


They arrived in small groups or just pairs. We heard the giggles and the shuffling before the knock on the door sent us hurrying into the hall. We were ready. I was, as always once a year, the witchiest witch and this time I had the pale faced Wednesday Addams helping for a little while until it was time for her to join the others outside.  Our first visitors, Harry Potter with his friend, Hermione, had escaped Hogwarts to come scavenging and helped themselves from my cauldron of appealing sweets and chocolate.  Scary monsters and super-creeps (sing) turned up in day-glo and luminescent colours, all looking wonderful – some people have amazing artistic skills and come into their own at Hallowe’en. I always do my best to get into the swing of it. Years ago I worked at our local infant school and all the children and some parents knew me. I didn’t recognise them as ghosts, vampires and spooks, but they knew me well and laughed at my witch alter-ego. Now they bring their own children to knock on my door. I’m obviously older than I thought. Not all of our visitors looked like monsters. A group of very well dressed young men, aged around nine or ten hoped I was having a pleasant evening as they took items from the cauldron. Their grown-ups waited at the end of the drive. The boys were amused at me being dressed up.

“I’m a witch, you should be scared!”

“Nothing scares us, we’re Peaky Blinders.”

Well, that was me told. Fighting to keep my face straight, I returned to my witch duties indoors. They surely weren’t old enough to watch Peaky Blinders? They certainly looked the part, though, and no, they didn’t scare me. I would have turned them into frogs, or something.  The grandchildren came back with their tubs nearly overflowing. I tried to cadge a few bits, but no-one was sharing – poor Nanna. Before they went home I had my usual moan about lollipops being dangerous things - I bin them out of sweets multipacks - and I made my usual speech about brushing teeth properly to keep their mouths healthy and Peggy, the tooth fairy happy. Hallowe’en is done for another year. By eight o’clock my cauldron was empty so the pumpkin fairy lights were switched off and removed from the front window, real pumpkins rescued from the rain and I swapped my witch clothes for comfy pyjamas.

The scariest monsters are the demons that live within us. Actual people who caused trouble, problems or any form of upset that we can’t shake off. The monster isn’t there all the time, perhaps, but lurking in the background ready to pounce when spirits are low, we feel tired, or it’s the middle of the night when our worries are magnified. They might bite now and again, but don’t let them win.

Let’s stay upbeat with  Roger McGough and Dr JCC,


First Day at School

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don't let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don't take sweets from?
Perhaps they're to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

Roger McGough


I Married a Monster from Outer Space

The milky way she walks around
All feet firmly off the ground
Two worlds collide, two worlds collide
Here comes the future bride
Gimme a lift to the lunar base
I wanna marry a monster from outer space

I fell in love with an alien being
Whose skin was jelly – whose teeth were green
She had the big bug eyes and the death-ray glare
Feet like water wings – purple hair
I was over the moon – I asked her back to my place
Then I married the monster – from outer space

The days were numbered – the nights were spent
In a rent free furnished oxygen tent
When a cyborg chef served up moon beams
Done super rapid on a laser beam
I needed nutrition to keep up the pace
When I married the monster from outer space

We walked out – tentacle in hand
You could sense that the earthlings would not understand
They’d go.. nudge nudge …when we got off the bus
Saying it’s extra-terrestial – not like us
And it’s bad enough with another race
But fuck me… a monster …from outer space

In a cybernetic fit of rage
She pissed off to another age
She lives in 1999
With her new boyfriend – a blob of slime
Each time I see her translucent face
I remember the monster from outer space

Dr John Cooper Clarke


Thanks for reading, Pam x

Wednesday, 1 September 2021

Melting Points

16:02:00 Posted by Steve Rowland , , , , , , , , , 4 comments
I’m trying to imagine the scene in the Advertising Agency. The copywriter is trying to get an angle with which to market this new confectionary. The client is coming out with interesting but not that useful descriptions of the product. ‘It’s small’. ‘It’s portable’. ‘It’s cheap’. ‘It’s sort of chocolate’. ‘It’s sort of hard as well’. ‘They melt in your mouth, not your hands’.

That light bulb moment. It did actually sort of happen like that. But how did they arrive at that moment?

Forrest Mars was the son of the founder of the Mars Company. He wanted to innovate on his own rather than stay in his father's company. Forrest Mars Sr. moved to England, where in 1932 he began manufacturing the Mars bar for troops in the United Kingdom. It was during the Spanish Civil War that Mars purportedly encountered soldiers eating small chocolate beads encased in a hard sugar shell as part of their rations i.e. Smarties.

Apart from the fact that chocolate smeared hands could be dangerous if handling a rifle there was, in an age when sales of chocolate typically dropped off during summer months due to the lack of air conditioning, the fact that they were not melting. Forrest was thrilled by the prospect of developing a product that would be able to resist melting in high temperatures. He returned to the United States and, shortly thereafter, approached Bruce Murrie, the son of Hershey executive William Murrie, to join him in his new business venture.

Anticipating a shortage of chocolate and sugar as World War II raged on in Europe, Mars sought a partnership that would ensure a steady supply of resources to produce his new candy. In return, Murrie was given a 20 percent stake in the M&M product, which was named to represent ‘Mars’ and ‘Murrie.’


In case you were wondering, and these are the latest figures I found, an average batch of M&Ms is 30 percent browns, 20 percent each of yellows and reds, and 10 percent each of greens, oranges, and blues. I think I should now purchase a packet to check them out.

It starts to get a bit confusing after that in terms of what adverts were used for what product. Treets were a brand of confectionery sold by Mars Limited in France, Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands. They appeared in the UK in the 1960s; these were later marketed as Peanut Treets (sold in a yellow packet), together with Toffee Treets (sold in a blue packet) and Chocolate Treets (sold in a brown packet).

All three shared the same glazed coating, but the filling of the button-shaped Chocolate Treet consisted solely of the milk chocolate which surrounded the peanut or toffee pellet in the other versions. All three were marketed with the slogan ‘Melt in your mouth, not in your hand’.

The brand was discontinued by Mars in 1988. Chocolate Treets had already been replaced with Minstrels. Peanut Treets were discontinued in favour of the multi-coloured Peanut M&M's.

I’m going a bit off piste here but I found it fascinating that astronauts apparently love them because things taste different in outer space. As foods taste blander, the astronauts prefer stronger flavours that include spices and sugar. M&M’s are also compact and self-contained so there’s no chance of biting one in half and creating stray crumbs. And if one or two do go floating away, because they’re brightly coloured, they’re easier to find.

The poem to accompany this article has nothing to do with chocolate and everything to do with the chance to mention my new pamphlet ‘Notes on the Causes of The Third World War’ which is available from Indigo Dreams Publishing.


This poem can be found on page 9:

A Present from the Past

There is a Professor of Glaciology
at this University
who starts her first lecture
to a fresh intake of students thus:

Lock the door and don’t move.
I mean it.
This stuff melts, even here,
I’d hate to see your grants cancelled.

And then she slowly,
some may say dramatically,
removes insulation
from a long slim column of ice
drilled from a glacier
that once covered
where these words are being written.

She’s told me,
many times,
that the most common question
in the Refectory later
is why those cores
were ignored.

Thanks for reading, Terry


Editor's Note: Terry's excellent pamphlet is available to order here: Terry Quinn Pamphlet

Tuesday, 22 June 2021

Dreams - Nothing More Than Wishes?

23:34:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 comments

A view from Elm Lodge

“Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream you wish to come true.”  Harry Nilsson, The Puppy Song.

If my recent dreams are anything to go by, I must have some very strange hidden wishes. Perhaps it is the effect of the lockdown and the pandemic or it might be that I’m eating too much chocolate during the evening – we’re still allowed a little pleasure – but I’m having some very vivid, weird dreams that can stay with me all day. Up to now I haven’t had nightmares or bad dreams, though I wake up during the early hours and feel immediately relieved that whatever was happening was only a dream.

Many years have passed since I worked in a primary school yet one night my sleep journey took me back there, where I was expected to take a Year 6 class and I was trying to explain to someone that there must be a mistake as I hadn’t been told and I wasn’t prepared. The person I was talking to was laughing and telling me I’d be fine. I was arguing that I’d come to work with infants in groups of six, not juniors in Year 6. I woke up before I was forced to face a class of enthusiastic eleven year olds. Phew.

I know that the trigger for that dream was a conversation I’d had with a friend and colleague from those happy days. Often there isn’t a reason.

In another dream I was on a swing, suspended from a great height, aware that one wrong move and I could fall. The swing was taking me too far backwards, so that my body was horizontal and my only safety was how tight I could keep hold of the chains attached to my seat. Something went wrong, of course, and I was falling with that horrible sinking feeling. Luckily, I woke up before I hit the ground, the sea, or whatever was below me.

Going to sleep, I think of happy things and my favourite places. I imagine myself travelling in a motorhome – I haven’t got one, but I don’t let that tiny detail spoil my fun – doing the North Coast 500 would be wonderful. Somehow, as I fall asleep, the gremlins get in and take over my dreams.

My poem, 

The View from the Lodge

Between the trees, the distant hills
Fade from green to grey.
I drink it in and take my fill
Of all I survey.

Beyond the gate the horses graze
In the lush pasture,
I’m happy to recline and laze,
At one with nature.

Paradise, where my soul belongs.
My dreams bring me here,
Surrounded by gentle birdsong
Any time of year.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, sweet dreams, Pam x

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

What Dreams May Come - For Branwell, With Love

20:24:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , , , , , 1 comment

I can’t remember much of last night’s dream. Vivid though it was, it faded into nothing by the time I was ready for the day and I blamed it on the amount of chocolate I’d eaten just before bedtime. Dreams are nothing more than wishes, it is said. Hopes and dreams of both the attainable and the unreachable, we can only wait and see. I would love to retire to my chosen place in Scotland, eventually.  If that dream doesn’t come true, I’ll have to cope with a compromise and increase my regular visits instead.

Patrick Branwell Bronte couldn’t cope when his hopes and dreams came crashing down to shatter his heart and soul. My interests and studies of the Bronte family have brought me to believe that Branwell, as he was known, was every bit as talented as his sisters but never approved of his own efforts.  I wish he hadn’t obliterated himself from the family portrait he painted.  His lack of self-approval led to unsuccessful career appointments and eventual self-destruction, after the love of his life, Lydia Robinson nee Gisborne let him down. She was the wife of his last employer, the Rev. Edmund Robinson, a sick man close to the end of his life, who sent Branwell packing when he discovered what was going on. Such ‘goings on’ is shrouded in the uncertainty of whether there was an affair, or if it was Branwell’s fanciful infatuation. When Rev. Robinson passed away, Branwell expected to be reunited with Lydia, but it was not to be. According to Rev. Robinson’s Will, she would be cut off without a penny if Branwell was back in her life, so she distanced herself, married someone else, yet regularly sent money to Branwell. He was a broken man, haunted by unrequited love and seeking solace in alcohol and opium.  He was further disturbed by Lydia calling out to him in his dreams. He died aged 31, of tuberculosis aggravated by alcoholism and laudanum addiction.  For me, Sally Wainwright captured his character, and his sisters, perfectly in her drama To Walk Invisible.

 


I wrote this poem about him a few years ago.

 
Patrick Branwell Bronte
 

Poet and artist, your fallen talents go to waste

And are trapped within the torment of your mind.

Forbidden love, so heavenly to taste

Now haunts and disturbs; no beauty left to find.

The call of temptation and no wish to be chaste,

But to be drunk on the perfume of bodies entwined.

Oh Branwell! Your vision clouded by opium and gin

And the burdening weight of adulterous sin…

                                                    PMW

 

Branwell wrote this sonnet for Lydia –

 
Lydia Gisborne
 

On Ouse’s grassy banks - last Whitsuntide,

I sat, with fears and pleasures, in my soul

Commingled, as ‘it roamed without control’,

O’er present hours and through a future wide

Where love, methought, should keep my heart beside

Her, whose own prison home I looked upon:

But, as I looked, descended summer’s sun,

And did not its descent my hopes deride?

The sky though blue was soon to change to grey-

I, on that day, next year must own no smile -

And as those waves, to Humber far away,

Were gliding – so, though that hour might beguile

My Hopes they too, to woe’s far deeper sea,

Rolled past the shores of Joy’s now dim and distant isle.

 

Also by Patrick Branwell Bronte, The Doubter’s Hymn

 

Life is a passing sleep

Its deeds a troubled dream

And death the dread awakening

To daylight’s dawning beam.

 

We sleep without a thought

Of what is past and o’er

Without a glimpse of consciousness

Of aught that lies before

 

We dream and on our sight

A thousand visions rise

Some dark as Hell some heavenly bright

But all are fantasies

 

We wake and oh how fast

These mortal visions fly!

Forgot amid the wonders vast

Of immortality!

 

And oh! When we arise

With ‘wildered gaze to see

The aspect of those morning skies

Where will that waking be?

 

How will that Future seem?

What is Eternity?

Is Death the sleep? – Is Heaven the Dream?

Life the Reality?
 

Thanks for reading and may your dreams come true, Pam x 

Sunday, 8 January 2017

I Am the Queen of Excess

17:23:00 Posted by Jill Reidy Red Snapper Photography , , , , , , No comments
Where would you like me to start?  With the wardrobes full of clothes in every size, every colour, every style? With all the food I've eaten over the festive period?  Or with the piles of diet books and magazines I've accumulated over the years?

Although I aim for it, I'm not very good at the 'happy medium.'  In fact, I am the Queen of Excess.  Don’t ever offer me the box of chocolates with a casual, “ Would you like one?” 
I will smile at you and turn away virtuously, whilst a loud angry voice inside my head is yelling, “ONE?? ONE?? ONE’s no good to me! Go away, and leave me with them all.  Come back in the morning for the empty box!” I’m afraid it’s all or nothing.  And judging by the tightness of my jeans since Christmas it’s been an ‘All’ kind of season.

I don’t often do dinner parties these days, I’m too lazy, but when I did I would buy and cook enough food to feed at least twice the number of guests (even the greedy ones).  Now I’ll have informal suppers, but I’m not happy unless I’ve got back up food filling the fridge and freezer – and at least half a dozen bowls of snacks before we even start to eat a proper meal.   I've watched friends stagger down my front path at midnight, clutching their stomachs.  At least two have had accidents requiring A&E, although I suspect the liquid refreshment might have been to blame, and not the abundance of food.

For about the past thirty years I’ve cooked Christmas dinner (with a few reprieves).  This year we were having dinner cooked for us, which meant no festive entertaining other than a small gathering on Christmas Eve.   I heaved a great sigh of relief.  No frantic food shopping for me in the run up to Christmas, I thought smugly.  An unprecedented calm settled around me. I looked on sympathetically as people raced past me in town, clutching huge Iceland bags, their faces reflecting worry and exhaustion. I felt sorry for these poor saps, filling their fridges and cupboards (and ultimately their bellies) with all sorts of over indulgences.



That feeling of calm lasted until I found myself in Sainsburys at 8.30am a few days later, desperately hurling food into my trolley.  I knew then I was a lost cause.  Extra large packs of peanuts, huge jars of pickled onions, giant boxes of Quality Street, enough milk, cream and cheese to open a dairy, and for some reason, a family size packet of frozen chicken gougons and sate strips – what was that all about?  I didn’t come up for air.  Like a mad woman I barged my way past sweet old couples cooing over chocolate Snowmen for the great grandchildren, frazzled looking mothers trying to remove Christmas baubles and selection boxes from their over excited kids, and a single man carrying a basket containing a mini Christmas pudding for one, a single chicken breast and a small Toblerone.  I envied him but I did have to wonder at the sort of person who buys a SMALL Toblerone. 

You see, that’s not my style.  If you’re buying one, go straight for large; if you’re buying two then you might as well have half a dozen.  If it’s a BOGOF that’s even better.  I’ve only recently realized that my obsession with buying things in even numbers is just that – an obsession.  I don’t know when it started but I do know I feel very uneasy if I just buy one and not a pair.  I have been known to leave my shopping on the conveyor belt and hurtle back down the aisles to collect another jar of beetroot to accompany its partner by the till.

Pondering on this blog earlier today, I began planning meals for the coming week, opening cupboards and peering in the fridges and freezers (note the plural – more excess, I am ashamed to say: two fridges, three freezers).  It dawned on me that we could probably survive, in the event of a nuclear explosion, for at least a few months without shopping, feeding ourselves on meals that would continue to be healthy and nourishing but no doubt become more and more bizarre as time went on.

Now, please excuse me while I count how many pairs of black jeans I possess.  Don't wait up for me, I could be some time. 



A Greedy Person's Haiku 
by Jill Reidy

Just one chocolate
Eat it slowly, savour taste
Sorry, no way, mate!

Thanks for reading      Jill 


Tuesday, 3 January 2017

Excess - Another Walnut and One More Chocolate

12:32:00 Posted by Pam Winning , , , , , , No comments
I’m doing it again and I really must stop, but the contents of that tub of Heroes beckons me continuously.  I’ve unwrapped a mouthful sized Twirl and I’m determined to let it melt on my tongue. I’ll just have two, no, three more then put the lid back on. I’ve already had a massive dinner conjured up from New Year’s Day leftovers.  Ah, nuts. The nut-crackers go off like pistol shots and I can’t resist the handful of walnuts coming my way.


There’s something about food, besides Christmas Dinner and New Year’s Day Dinner at this time of the year, or is it just me doing it to excess? We have bread, our usual wholemeal loaf and some finger rolls. As a stand by there’s plenty of cream crackers and other cheese biscuits. I’ve made sure there are enough ingredients to make six loaves in the breadmaker.  The door on our super-sized fridge groans under the weight of all the extra milk but I have some powdered stuff, just in case. And there’s a good supply of instant Horlicks and instant Hot Chocolate.

Sprouts, carrots, parsnips, red cabbage, potatoes. Oh, the potatoes. Crispy roasties, croquettes, mash. So much choice, so much food and I can’t wait for the pudding with enough rum sauce to render me unconscious for an hour or two. There is ice cream instead, if preferred.  Is gluttony still a sin?

The thing is, we used to be a family of four, sometimes five, often more.  Now we are two. I can’t cook for two. What if there isn’t enough? What if we get unexpected guests? Actually, there were four of us for dinner on Christmas Day then three and a baby on New Year’s Day, with lots of food to get through. Our grown up children were eating with their own families and I like to be quiet at home. Everyone is happy. I should reduce the food quantity, but nothing gets wasted.

The contents of the freezer will keep us going until February. The tubs of chocolates we have received as gifts will last us until Easter. I’ll slow the consumption down, really I will.

I’m left with the personal job of shedding a couple of ounces of excess weight, so as I return to work later this week, it will be fruit for snacks, a brisk walk across town on my lunch break and a home-made sandwich using only one slice of bread. I think I promised myself to do this last year, too. Let’s see how long it lasts – or if it gets started.

A Haiku
Dates and tangerines
Apple and cinnamon treats
Flavours of Christmas.

Happy New Year! Thanks for reading, Pam x

Saturday, 7 May 2016

Death By Chocolate

11:11:00 Posted by Steve Rowland , , , , , , 4 comments
I think a little levity is in order today, after weeks of solid Shakespeare (good though he is) and worry over the fate of a less substantial Blackpool FC (bad as they are). Casting cares aside, let's indulge ourselves somewhat with the theme of chocolate.

Adele has posted a very informative blog about the origins of chocolate, which those generous South Americans brought to the party (along with alfalfa, guacamole, mescal, the potato, tobacco and tomatoes, as it happens); so I'm going to concentrate not on its history but on its medicinal effects.


Carl Linnaeus, the father of modern taxonomy, when he named the cacao plant as part of his great classification of the botanical world, gave it the title theobroma, or 'food of the gods' in Latin, on account of its properties. Its active ingredients include theobromine, caffeine and a range of polyphenols. Eating moderate quantities of chocolate - dark and unsweetened for preference - can, it is claimed, produce the following benefits: a sense of well-being as it causes the release of 'happiness' neuro-transmitters in the brain (dopamine, endorphins, serotonin); lowered blood pressure and lowering of LDL cholesterol (the bad kind) because it contains anti-oxidants; it is also a pre-biotic and an anti-inflammatory, can help maintain a healthy skin and reduce the impact of sunburn. What's not to like about it? in moderation, of course. The problem is that confectioners pile too much milk and sugar into the mix.

Theobromine, although a perfectly palatable stimulant for your average human being, is actually a toxin to some animals (cats, dogs and small rodents for instance) because they are unable to metabolise the chemical. Depending on the quantity consumed relative to the size of the animal, theobromine poisoning can cause intestinal distress, internal bleeding, epileptic seizure, heart attack and even death. Just a few ounces of dark or baking chocolate (which is higher in theobromine than milk chocolate) could be enough to severely distress or kill a medium-sized dog. Dogs like the taste of chocolate and are liable, given the opportunity, to eat quantities much larger than a typical human serving. If, for instance, a dog were somehow to get its teeth into a whole dark chocolate cake...



I hope this piece of doggerel verse amuses:

Ken Dodd's Dad's Dog's Shuffled Of His Mortal Collar
He was a Liverpoodle, the brute -
A hairy beast of ill repute,

The canine bane of Knotty Ash
Who plagued his manor like a rash,

For something twisted in his humour
Made him nasty as a tumour.

He seeped foul dribble from his fangs,
His breath possessed an odorous tang.

Twin eyes blazed rays of senseless terror,
To face his wrath would be an error.

He lorded it in Doddy's house
And dined on babies doused in scouse.

He made free toilet of the streets
As no-one dared bag his excreta.

The vet said he was like a good book,
Unputdownable! worst luck.

For many a year this reign of fear
Deprived poor lives of any cheer,

Until a baker versed in toxicology
Spotted a way to end his infamy.

Greed made that Liverpoodle tick.
One massive gateau did the trick.

He scoffed the lot and licked the crumbs
Then felt his entrails going numb.

He barked and whined, he snarled his worst
then writhed until his black heart burst.

So finally Ken Dodd's dad's dog's dead.
Theobromine knocked him on the head,

Metaphorically speaking if you get my take -
The brute was felled with chocolate cake.


Thanks for reading. Have a good week and look after yourselves, Steve ;-)

Thursday, 5 May 2016

Chocolate - a millenium in the making.

07:46:00 Posted by Adele , , , , , , , , , , , , , No comments

The Mayans of Central America are believed to be the first to discover cocoa as early as 900 AD. They learned that the beans inside the cocoa pods could be harvested and made into a liquid that would become a treasured Mayan treat. Mayan chocolate differed from modern chocolate. It was a liquid made from crushed cocoa beans, chilli peppers and water. Central America had no sugar.  The liquid was poured from one cup to another until it made a foam. The word ‘chocolate’ is said to come from the Mayan word ‘xocolatl’ (show-cot-il) meaning  ‘bitter water.’ 
The Mayans called it the “food of the gods.” Cocoa was so revered that images of cocoa pods were painted on the walls of stone temples and Mayan artefacts have been found showing images of kings and Mayan gods drinking chocolate. Cocoa was often consumed during religious ceremonies and marriage celebrations. All Mayans could enjoy chocolate regardless of their social status.  
 
 
Cocoa quickly became a force in the Aztec economy. The demand for the cocoa bean brought about a huge network of trade routes throughout the region. When the Aztecs conquered the Mayans they enforced taxes. These taxes were called “tributes” and they were paid in cocoa, so the Aztecs, who couldn’t grow their own cocoa, could have a supply. Cocoa beans were kept in locked boxes in businesses and some enterprising Aztecs actually made counterfeit cocoa beans.
By 1400 AD, the Mayan power was decreasing. The Aztecs ruled over the highlands of central Mexico, far from the rainforests of the Mayans. Since the Aztecs could not grow their own cocoa, they had to trade to get the beans. The Aztecs also had their own word for chocolate: chocolatl (cho co LA til). Cocoa beans were very valuable. The Aztecs used them as money and were very protective of their beans. They paid for food, clothes, taxes, gifts, and offerings to their gods using cocoa beans. Having a pocket full of beans was like having a wallet full of cash. As far as the Aztecs were concerned, money really did grow on trees. 
According to legend, Quetzacoatl (ket za koh AH tul), the Aztec God of Vegetation, came to earth with a cocoa tree and taught the mortals how to cultivate cocoa and make a drink out of its beans. This made the other gods furious so they threw him out of paradise for sharing the sacred drink with humans. When he left, he vowed he would return: his promise would have tremendous consequences for the Aztecs.  


 
King Montezuma, the Aztec king, drank 50 cups of cocoa a day and an extra one when he was going to meet a lady friend. Aztec women were forbidden to drink it because of its stimulating effects. Unlike the Mayans, drinking cocoa was a luxury that few Aztecs could afford. Aztecs believed that wisdom and power came from eating the fruit of the cocoa tree. The drink was so precious that it was served in golden goblets that were thrown away after just one use.
In 1502, Christopher Columbus landed in the Americas. When he returned to Spain, he brought some cocoa beans back to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, but they were not especially interested in the strange new bean.  Hernan Cortes arrived in the Aztec homeland in 1519, the same year Quetzacoatl promised to return. Cortes happened to land at the exact spot from which the Aztec god departed. In his feather coated armour and gold jewellery, he reminded Aztecs of their returning god. No wonder Montezuma offered him a cup of cocoa and an entire cocoa plantation! It made Cortes’ conquest of the Aztec empire all the easier. 
It was not until Cortes returned to Spain in 1528 that the King and Queen took notice. Unlike Columbus, Cortes brought not only the beans but the recipe and the equipment necessary to make the chocolate beverage. For several decades, cocoa was mostly a Spanish secret, but its popularity quickly spread to the other countries of Europe. Some say the first chocolate makers were monks hidden away in monasteries who mistakenly shared their “secret” with their French counterparts.
Once cocoa started catching on, Spanish cooks experimented with the recipe and added sugar to sweeten it. In 1615 cocoa found its way into the court of the King Louis the Thirteenth of France at a royal wedding. His son, Louis the Fourteenth, was not a great cocoa fancier but played a major role in popularizing the drink. In 1659, he granted David Chaillou a ‘royal authorization’ to open the first chocolatier in Paris. Chocolate soon made its appearance in Great Britain. In 1657, the first English chocolate houses opened, much like today’s coffee houses. The drink was still considered a luxury and the shops were only open to men as a place to gamble and discuss politics.
Up until the mid-1700s, chocolate was made much the same way the ancient Mayans made it. Then during the industrial revolution, a series of technological innovations changed many things including the way chocolate was made. First, a Frenchman named Doret invented a hydraulic machine to grind cocoa beans into paste. Soon after, another Frenchman named Dubuisson created a steam driven chocolate mill. It was now possible to grind huge amounts of cocoa and mass-produce chocolate inexpensively and quickly so it was available to people all over Europe. Chocolate was no longer reserved for the elite.
In 1829, Coenraad Van Houten, a Dutch chemist, invented the cocoa press. It squeezed the cocoa butter out of the bean leaving the powder we now call cocoa. He also added alkaline salts to powdered chocolate helping it to mix better with water, giving a darker colour and milder flavour. This process is called “dutching” after the nationality of the inventor.  
Van Houten’s invention made it possible to separate the dry part of the cocoa bean (cocoa powder) and the wet part of the bean (cocoa butter). This separation allows chocolatiers to add different amounts of cocoa butter and cocoa powder together to make different flavours such as white chocolate, milk chocolate and cocoa powder. In 1830, Swiss Chocolatier Charles-Amedee Kohler mixed chocolate with nuts for the first time. A revolutionary advance occurred in 1847, when the Fry Company of Bristol created the world’s first eating chocolate. One year later, the very first chocolate bar appeared. After a 1000-year history as a beverage, this was the first time chocolate could be eaten.
In1875, Swiss born Daniel Peter (son-in-law of Henri Nestlé) added condensed milk to chocolate creating the first ‘milk chocolate.’ The food of the gods had come a long way from the spicy, bitter brew the Mayans knew. I recently discovered a new addition to the Thorntons Continental selection that has ticked all my personal boxes. Strong dark and rich. I really looked forward to buying a bag containing just this one, only to be told that I have to wait until June.  After over a thousand years to perfect it - I suppose it will be worth one more month. 

 
 
Shot in the dark
 
Once a Mayan gold mystery
extracted from cocoa beans
became an Aztec currency
stimulating dreams.

Treasure of the conquistadors,
beloved by the Spanish royalty,
a millenium was tempered
smoothly through your history.

Now deeply dark and sweetened
by chocolatier’s skilful hand,
a luxury taken for granted
in this, our plentiful land.

I salivate anticipation
of exquisite confectionery,
a tiny Thornton’s ‘espresso’ shot:
my taste of ecstasy.
 
Be sure to savour your luxuries.  Thank you for reading.  Adele