It's 25 November & still jolly warm here in Roujan, France. Yesterday we finished mosaiicing the table up the garden. It was made by the lovely Teddy from LMV for Ali's 50th birthday in June. Friends who came to the week-long party started a mosaic of a seahorse on the top, but festivities took over and it couldn't be finished. But, finally we've done it and Ali's just off up the garden to grout it in what looks like an impending thunderstorm. Here it is ungrouted.
Outside I hear the hens shrieking their socks off, trying to make us believe they've all just laid double-yolkers. We know it's a ruse to get more chocolate cake, as all but one are off the lay. Our usually fat and handsome girls look like shabby urchins having lost both their feathers and their looks. They're eating like there'll be none tomorrow. It obviously takes an enormous number of calories to make feathers.
Yesterday I had another go at making bread. Not so difficult in theory as I have my trusty breadmaker. However, although I've made dozens of loaves over the past 5 years since I got the machine, none has been very satisfactory. I have come to the conclusion that it's too sweet and too heavy - a verdict Ali cast after the first slice. So yesterday I tried a different recipe out of the book that came with the machine. It said French Bread and I believed it. WRONG! After nearly four hours it came out like this:
Now, I live in France and none of the bread here looks pale, weedy, close textured and heavy - in fact perfect for toast. So where am I going wrong?
My lovely nephew Josh has just turned up. He's keeping his head down as his Dad is just fitting a new kitchen window and has realised it's the wrong size, and Saturday, and the store is closed this afternoon and he's cross, to put it mildly. So Josh & I will form our dream partnership and do lots of small jobs around the house. He & I work brilliantly together. We get loads done and don't fall out - in fact we usually end up laughing our socks off.
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