Home is where the art is...at least for May

It is that wonderful time of year when Brighton opens up its treasures for the month of May and the largest arts festival outside of Edinburgh kicks off once more. Brighton Festival is simply fantastic. There is art, comedy, theatre, cabaret, music, dance and literature; some is a tad on the pricey side but there is much to be enjoyed for absolutely nothing. Free is my favourite word. Free and festival in the same sentence? Just watch that grin spread over my face.

The fire garden; a free event for Brighton Festival 2011

For those with a love of art and a well developed nosey streak a highlight of the festival is Brighton Open Houses. Generous folks open their doors and let any Joe-schmo off the street into their homes to ogle art in all its forms. You can spy sculpture, paintings, crafts and fabrics; an eclectic range of creative wonders to delight your senses and fuel your inner art critic. Some of it is frankly dodgy but there is an amazing number of talented artists out there who call Brighton home. There are around a hundred of these Open Houses, all for free and many come with nibbles and if you are very lucky a glass of wine.

Big tall hubby and I have the good fortune to have an extremely talented artist for a neighbour (check out his work here. He kindly invited us to the private viewing of his Open House show (at someone else's house) which was packed with great art and there was wine aplenty. Our attendance nearly didn't happen when babysitters were hard to find; when another neighbour most generously stepped into the breach. Fret not, we don't leave the children with any old person who happens to live on our road; our saviour is a trusted friend that the wee ones speak to often. Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours; oh the song is so right. We enjoyed a wonderful Friday night out on the town that didn't cost a bean simply because we share a postcode with some lovely individuals.

It doesn't matter if you know no one; Open Houses are for all to enjoy. Just check out the Open Houses website and shimmy on down for a spot of culture that doesn't cost a bean - unless you're tempted to pick up a bargain and bag yourself a future Warhol.

One for the road

A road trip can be a wonderful thing. Open roads, comfy leather seats, good tunes on the stereo, junk food and lazy banter; cruising along life's highway with no rush or fuss. We've had many a happy time on four wheels; whether it be a road-trip proper or a long-haul motorway visit. That of course was BC. Yes, the days before children. Add two small ones to the mix and the romance of the long distance drive drops sharply. Tiny feet kicking at the back of your chair slightly detracts from the joy of scenery gazing; even when it is the glory of the peak district flying past the window.

Can't travel 500 miles up the country without eating though, most especially with children. Motorway services have never been a favourite but avoiding them is near impossible. Our plan has always been to scoff our own road-rubbish limiting service stops for caffeine fill-ups. With kids in tow the quality of our road-rubbish has gone up; now it even includes some of our five-a-day. Blimey. Fruit? In a car? What happened to the wotsits? But the caffeine fuel remains essential; as does the opportunity to let the kids run free. They don't take well to being strapped down for hours on end, especially toddler girl who announced 'I want to walk' in a very loud voice just hours into our mammoth drive up north. With impeccable timing she chose to drop off mere minutes before our service-stops which left her less that cheerful on the return to the car. By the time we reached Carlisle I was quite prepared to let her out for the much demanded 'walk' - all the way to Edinburgh. Thank god for strawberries. These red lovelies proved to be the saviour of our sanity. Both the wee ones happily munched them while we let the i-pod shuffle us up the motorway.

But there is one service stop that is a shining beacon of joy for harassed parents on the road; in fact it is a stopping-delight for anyone on wheels who happens to be up in the Lake District. Some know it as Tebay, others as West Morland, either name the place is the same. Why all service stops can't be like this I don't know. It is restful, the seats are comfy, it has ambiance (I know), it has a lake - with ducks, and a farm shop that sells snacks which although rather pricey does actually involve food and not cardboard or sawdust. What is more it has a children's play area that puts the sad little corners most services offer to shame. Hand crafted from real solid wood, beautifully decorated and ingeniously designed to allow maximum run about for wee legs in a small area the jewel in this play-zone crown is the CCTV that feeds directly to the tables and chairs in the adjacent parent zone (which also comes with kiddy sized tables and chairs so the wee ones can sit by you and pretend to be grown ups). Mummy and Daddy can upload on the coffee safe in the knowledge that the small ones are playing nicely.

The kid-zone is a treat for tiny sore legs and eyes

Even toddler girl didn't mind being woken up when she saw this place. And ever conscious of the spending - you get a second cup of coffee free if you take your empty cup up. Nice touch. I heart this place big time. Service station of the century I say. If you are going up north then schedule this place in - you will not regret it. On a budget it ticks every box; reasonable priced coffee and pleasant facilities. If you have the cash to splash then there are so many goodies on offer here you will pop with spending pleasure.

The gorgeous Tebay Services; makes the rest look amateur

As for the rest of the services; blah and double blah. Drink up and get out quick the car is way preferable. And so hot tips for in-car munchies on a budget include: the ubiquitous sandwich (cut into dinky squares), cheese chunks, strawberries (oh yes), bananas, little sausages and mini donuts (way less mess that biscuits). This finger food is easy to make, quick to scoff and very handy for passing to backseat passengers too wee to be trusted with their own nibbles. All that food combined with the coffee stops and a good soundtrack, why it was almost like a car trip BC. Keep that motor running...

The hunt for Victoriana

About three days ago I had a fantastic flash of inspiration for what I'd blog about come the weekend. Then in typical baby-mama style the idea got up and walked away before I could pin it down. Pesky thing. Sometimes I think it is amazing that I get anything done at all. I have so many balls juggling up in the air that I could go run away to join the circus. Now there is a plan, although they would probably want me to juggle chainsaws and as I value my hands, not to mention head and arms it is a plan best put to one side.

So rather than the thing I was going to talk about I'm going to whitter on about junk instead. Not just any junk but victoriana stylee-junk. See the thing with wee ones in the house is that nothing is sacred. In the three years we've had them we've lost glasses, plates, wedding presents, photo frames and teeny tiny fragments of our sanity. Sadly the sanity cannot be replaced by scouring flea markets, car boots and charity shops but the other stuff can. And it is with this mission in mind that the great victoriana hunt began. Given that we have limited funds and an in-house wrecking crew we're not after vintage wonders to make collectors green with envy. All we want is a mix'n'match hotch potch of dishes, cutlery and bits'n'bobs that fit with our victoriana theme. So if it has that funky faded gold trim on the edge, flowers or swirls and it looks like it came from 1900 then it is in the bag.

The plates that tempt us when small hands have played grab & smash

What is it with charity shops these days? Car boots and flea markets more often than not have the odd plate or dish way cheaper than charity shops and they have to buy the stuff they sell. Go figure. I know giving to charity is A Good Thing but some of them have obviously seen one too many episodes of Antiques Roadshow and a little knowledge is clearly a dangerous thing when it comes to pricing the goodies donated. This isn't Cash in the Attic folks, this is an almost ugly old plate worth tuppence so why mark it up for £3.99? I can buy a new one in Habitat for that. Pff! My favourite port of call at the moment is a guy at the open market who sells a big old mess of brick-a-brack for 50p a pop. He's always worth a rummage. Good word that, rummage, suits the action perfectly. For some reason no matter where I look there is an abundance of tiny plates and a total lack of big dinner plates. And post New Year no one has champagne flutes, maybe everyone broke theirs like we broke ours on NYE. So the hunt goes on.

This miss-match approach to dishes and associated breakables is highly recommended. If you have tiny tots you won't care if - or rather when - they smash the lot to smithereens and lose your cutlery down the drain in the garden. It is liberating this freedom from care and makes all our lives a whole heap less stressy. Not that we encourage destruction. Not one bit of it. But let's face it, it happens and better that it happens with a shrug rather than a total breakdown. And as a Brucie bonus it is fun. Dinner parties look fab with nothing matching at the table; I like to call it eclectic-chic. We might buy junk but it's funky junk with a style all its own and the re-cycle/re-use philosophy polishes our environmental halos to a Brasso shine.

Not that I don't have moments of longing. My champagne tastes came to the fore when I spotted a gorgeous plate that turned out to be part of a dinner set that turned out to be Clarence Cliff. A snip at £950. Hmm. Maybe leave that one for someone else to enjoy. So the hunt for Victoriana is still on, and given our breakage rate is likely to be ongoing. I like this. It keeps me busy and is one ball I don't mind juggling.

the gorgeous and desirable Clarice Cliff

Annual review

Some celestial prankster is playing with the fast forward button as yet another year has skipped past with not the blink of an overtired eye. 'Tis the week of the day of my birth once more, another digit to the tally, another wrinkle on the forehead. But this time around I'm feeling older and wiser in a good way - huzzah! The challenge of life on a lemonade purse has turned into just that, not a problem, or a pain (okay sometimes a pain when I see something delectable in a shop window) but a good heartening challenge to met with a frank stare direct to the eyeball. I'm enjoying all this creative practicality; well who knew? My inner lush cowers in submission as I type.

But it isn't just me getting older (well duh!) toddler boy has morphed with a kick and a yell into my wee boy; proper cheeky mouthed rough and tumble boyhood is in full swing. As for baby girl, ah my last little fledgling has bum shuffled up the developmental ladder to official toddler status. So this year when it comes to birthday eve I might just get my indulgent bath as both wee boy and toddler girl are sleeping through (cranky pants illness induced insomnia aside) without a murmur. Such is progress.

Life is a but a dream...

And me and big tall hubby (grammar my dear, grammar) have a night on the town to look forward to; nothing too fancy mind! Tickets are already in the bag for a gig (sadly not guest list, ah those days are truly behind me) and with babysitters lined up (friends are such wonderful beings) for an early start we'll even manage dinner beforehand. Blimey O Riley I must be getting older as the prospect of dinner is just as exciting as a gig - the horror! This crazy past year we've come head to head with the unbelievable havoc that two small children can wreak on life as we know it; yet one fantastic fact as emerged; we love each other's company and relish the opportunities to indulge in it even after sleepless nights, todler tantrums and almost two decades of togetherness. That is no bad thing, no sirree bob.

So bring on the birthday; the celebrations; the extra year on the tally and the enticing promise of another year managing this lemonade purse.

Ta very much garden of Eden

If the Good Book is to be believed dear old Eve was tempted by the delights of the humble apple way back before temptation was even a word. And who can blame her? Well we can all blame her apparently but let us brush that aside. Round, luscious, juicy with a rosy red glow (no we're not still talking about Eve) who could resist the delights of that little fruit?

I for one would have snapped up the serpents offer and taken a big old bite. Which is why the annual Apple Festival at Middle Farm in Sussex is a true delight. Apple-fest to us regulars (get me, regular, I've been the last two years) is a big bucket of appley-fun. And the copious quantities of cider on offer only adds to the joy. Cider, now there is wonder. Apparently the true drink of England predating even our beloved beer. While it may conjure images of aggro-teens escaping the boundaries of the local park after one too many special K, or the street crazies lounging on benches with 5 gallon jugs of the supermarket own brand gut rot, cider is in fact a noble taste sensation that has graced the tables of kings (I think- hic).

Welcome to the home of the good sup cider

So I'm happy with the bars and bands on offer. Oh yes live music graces not one but two stages with hay bales galore for a true country-knees up vibe. What is a dance without straw in your hair I ask you? Hubby has the short straw (no pun intended) of designated driver but compensates with hog roasts and pork sausages so he's happy. Actually so am I, the hog roast is a proper whole pig spit roasted on site and worth the 20 minute queue. Granny joins me in the festivities with a sip or two of the 'grown's up apple juice' and the wee ones have the best deal of all with a funfair, farm animals, fluffy bunnies and a play park to enjoy, washed down with lashing of freshly pressed apple juice. Lest we forget there is also ice cream, cake and toffee apples on offer to ensure they have enough sugar energy to make the most of all the entertainment on offer.

The market stalls proffer rosy balls of apple delight, all locally grown age old varieties your supermarkets rarely provide at a mere £1.99 a kilo which isn't a bad deal at all. Then you have the cheese, pork pies, sausages, chutneys and jams. All local produce and all delicious to the last. If it has apple in it you'll find it here. Cream of the crop for sure.

Temptation in a box

My mission as this blog states is to satisfy hearts, minds and tummies on a budget. With under 12's going in for free it cost a mere £20 for us to get in, plus a little extra for the fun stuff inside (not to mention the bar bill) but it is worth every penny. This mini festival hits every spot for all the family and is the perfect practice run for a great big summer festival which is the aim next year. Of course we'll be hitting the apples again too.

The best laid plans...

I'm not a mouse or a man but my best laid plans most certainly went astray this week. The whole creating yumminess on a budget thing has been going remarkable well even if I do toot my own horn in saying it, so I guess it was time for a cock-up.

For days I'd been gathering in the ingredients for a stuffed cabbage, mentioned before in this blog, the stuffed cabbage is a delight and wonder that belies its grim institutional sounding name. Every trip into town was a recce for another component, all ingredients were located at rock bottom prices starting with the savoy cabbage and ending with some pine nuts (ooh they are pricey little nuggets at the moment - has there been some harvest failure I don't know about?)

Hubby was excited, I was salivating, toddler boy was fascinated and baby girl couldn't care less. All was well in the kitchen as the ingredients took shape into the dish. Now a stuffed cabbage does taste amazing but it is a major faff to make. The French do like their food a tad tricksy on the prep front. So tomatoes had been skinned and cored, pine nuts toasted, bacon diced, onion chopped, breadcrumbs whizzed and cabbage leaves blanched and assembled.Not to mention the crushed garlic, minced pork, blended herbs and beaten eggs. Finally I layered up the leaves with the stuffing and tied it all up into a big muslin wrapped cabbage again. This went to rest in the mixing bowl while I prepped the sauce it cooks in.

Shallots sauteed in butter while I diced potato. I was just peeling the carrots when disaster struck. Toddler boy got over curious and upended the mixing bowl, shattering it all over its contents. Unless we wanted minced insides there was no way we could eat the cabbage. Disappointed is too mild a word. Never have I wanted to eat something so much as that cabbage, nope, not even that hidden choccy bar during PMT. Toddler boy picked up on the enormity of his actions as he inserted a very heavy "sooooo" before his "sorry".

But in the spirit of the blitz (very topical me) I sliced the peeled carrots and whipped out the hummus for a little pre-dinner nibble. After a few more were added to its number the diced spuds turned into a buttery mash. The poor sauteed shallots were rescued by turning them into a white wine gravy (which nearly ended badly when the stock cube refused to co-operate and formed huge lumps throughout the sauce - thank heavens for a whisk Mrs Beeton indeed). A packet of herby sausages pulled from the freezer provided the pork fix and dinner was saved.

It wasn't stuffed cabbage though was it? Grrr...

What we should have been eating...

Nifty thrifty

One doesn't want ones little ones to look like scallywags does one? Not at all. Nope. Brighton is a city where funky is taken on as a religion and to lack style, well, it is a sin. So what can one do if one lacks the budget to get 'the look'? One can fiddle and fake it, that's what. Or tell the fashionistas to go shove their style where needles fear to thread. But being a polite young woman (yes young thank you very much) I would never be so rude. So fiddle and fake it wins the day.

Out browsing in the North Laines I stumbled across a new shop selling sweet, sweet dresses. Hand made in the funkiest of funky fabrics. Ah my baby girl would look just darling in one of these beauties. Shame about the price tag then. For a mere £27 daughter dearest could sport a dress to make the toddlers drool with envy, or at the very least the yummy mummies nod with approval. And who doesn't want to see that? Yes that £27 would bring smiles and joy to my wee one for all of 3 months at the rate she's growing. Or I could go to H&M kids and get 3 for that price. But they wouldn't have the kudos would they?

Ah that dress sparked an itch I had to scratch. So a plan was devised. There is a marvellous lady who sells the most amazing fabrics in Brighton (Michelle Le Maitre. 20, Church St,) and at £12 a meter they make it easy to create fresh and funky clothes at a fraction of the cost of buying them ready made. One meter was plenty to create a dress exactly like the one in the shop - 2 dresses if I cut carefully and lined with a plain fabric. What is not to love about that? 

So I got out the brown paper and a similar dress to make my pattern. Snipped and pinned and sewed and tweaked. And voila - a dress. Unique. Funky and most cost effective. Itch scratched. Baby girl got 'the look' and I got a pat on the back. Yay!

A toast to the new dress mummy dearest...

Baby catwalk

Up close and funky

 

Gone but not forgotten

Goodness me time does have the wings of a 747 in a hurry. It has been 9 long months since I last updated this site, long enough to have another baby (no-no I haven't). The two are plenty enough for me and as my absence from this shows rather time consuming.

So how's the battle to keep the troops happy on a budget? Well it is ongoing and rather like a British summer, occassionally glorious but patchy in places. I read an article in the Guardian about a woman who, for a change, as an experiment, on a whimsy, decided to try and entertain her wee boy for a WHOLE week spending not more than ten English pounds. Her conclusion? It is rather exhausting and more than a tad tricksy. Welcome to my life lady. You take that week, multiply it by 52 and then get back to me. Oh and add another small child into that equation while you're at it. Exhausted now?

So before I sound all bitter let's get back to business. The blogging business. I hereby do pledge to keep this blog up on a weekly basis. One post a week is my promise. What I can't promise is that there will be no typos or slight rambles although I'll do my damndest to avoid them but that old 'tired beyond reason' excuse will be the culprit if they do crop up. Forgive me.

Righteo-ho. So long, farewell and keep scrimping till next week. Over and out.

Window shopping - Pah!

A day in the North Laines with hubby, toddler boy and baby. After shoes for toddler boy, yet another pair. Blimey they get through them. Happy to shop for the kids, getting them cute stuff is a pleasure. But oh how I'd like to shop for me.

Temptation, temptation everywhere. The clothes, the bags, the books, the music, the nick-nacks and jewellery, all so delightfully desirable and painfully out of bounds.

There was a time when window shopping was all fine and dandy, 'tis the cheapest way to shop afterall and comes with no post purchase regrets. However when all you can do it gaze at the goods it gets a tad wearisome. It was the big purple bag that did it. So huge, so purple (or blue, or brown), so cute with the oversized clasp and alice-in-wonderland size-blip appeal, so expensive, so out of reach. Ah the torture of it. Okay, there are worse things to be tortured by, I'm not a political nincompoop but some days a bag is all a girl needs. And I've been so good.

Still, I'll probably not want it this time next year. If I'm to be extravagant then better to use the indulgence up on something with a little more wear in it. Best keep eyeing up the windows then...