Diary of an addict....

.....my name is Rebecca, and it's been only an hour since my last beetroot. It should have been three hours, but thinking about writing this post led to yet another relapse and I could resist no longer! My problems began on Saturday when I went to the veggie market in Woking. I was shopping in town for middle daughters 9th birthday and was on a VERY strict budget so thought I was safe. After I'd purchased the correct number of electrical gadgets, music and film offerings, this years "must-have" soft toys (druggy-bears my eldest calls them due to the presence of their enormous staring eyes), presents from eldest to middle daughter, presents from youngest to middle daughter, cards to sister from brother (mustn't be pink) from sister to sister (mustn't be gushing or even remotely kind) from mother to daughter, and rolls of brightly coloured paper with which to wrap the lot, I proceeded to the fruit and veg market which, now I am vegan, is pretty much my favourite part of town (it being the place where almost my entire weekly sustenance comes from!) Being vegan has thrown up it's own challenges (poor choice of phraseology!) but the market regularly tempts me with its displays of fruitful loveliness. I have, however, discovered a rather uncontrollable passion for root veg. Those earthy globes, pulled fresh from the soil, round and firm, sometimes with traces of soil still clinging to their hairy roots. Their leaves, fleshy and abundant, dark and fragrant.....how can I resist?
 And so, with my budget set in stone, I approached the baskets. I was there ONLY to buy strawberries, so that they could be taken home and dipped in chocolate, before being set upon a china stand to be ravaged by 8 year olds a mere four hours later. Putting three boxes of berries in my basket I joined the queue, my eyes casting everywhere but the end of the line where I knew temptation awaited. I pretended to be oblivious, I scanned the stall laden with every fruit imagineable. The queue moved. I was three steps closer to root vegetable heaven, but I knew I had to resist. Concentrating, I selected some bananas, easily within budget AND within my grasp. How long would this queue take?! I put four in my basket, taking longer than necessary. The queue moved again, now I was so near I could almost smell their pungent redness. I had to distract myself. Scanning around my eyes landed upon my saviour - celeriac! And at only a pound, easily within budget! Reaching over I brushed past the leaves of the beetroot, it was an exquisite torture, their dark green leaves, blood red veins marbling their fleshy darkness catching at my sleeves, enticing me to buy, but no, the pain was so sweet it was almost heavenly....

 And then, it was my turn. Handing over my basket, "Alright love? Having a good weekend?" The normal banter proved a welcome and perfect distraction. Fumbling in my purse as my goods were bagged up, I was nearly home and dry. The bags handed to me, the money passing between the dealer and the user.......and then "what? No beetroot for you today then?" Said with a smile and a knowing wink......"Oh, I nearly forgot...." as I reached across and selected a full and heavy bunch. The dreadful deed was done, the items bagged, the extra 80 pence handed over, and there was no going back. Striding away, head high and defiant. This was NOT my fault, she MADE me buy them, and therefore I could take them home with not a shred of guilt! Of course, I would just stash them in the fridge, probably forget about them, certainly never cook them. And even if I DID cook them, I wouldn't cook them all, or if I did, I wouldn't EAT them all......

The party came and went with its mishaps (like forgetting the cake was in hiding in the oven, putting the oven on for something else entirely and cooking the cake for a second time once it was decorated AND had the candles on) and upsides (like when they all went home!) and the fridge remained with it's tempting cargo still intact, still in the bag to hide it from my sight. The next day arrived, however, and there was the challenge, once more, I'm hungry, what can I eat. It's difficult to snack when you are vegan, particularly if you don't have a sweet tooth....and so I thought I would cook "one or two" beetroot, just in case I wanted some later you understand. I reached in and took out the bag, the green plastic carrier bag that held my secret desire. But what was this? As I removed it, down fell ANOTHER green plastic carrier bag from the market, containing not, as I thought, parsnips for soup, but yet MORE beetroot!!  And this was a bunch with maybe 7 or 9 smallish globes, all dull in their pre-washed, pre-cooked state, practically imploring me to roast them before they went past their best! They must have been in there from the week before! Well I can't abide waste, at least that's what I told myself, so carefully, and respectfully, I took them from their bag and washed and prepared them for the cooking.

 Now every addict has their favourite method of cooking, I like to trim the roots, carefully slice the leaves from the globe, rinse then wrap individually in foil before roasting in the oven for an hour or so. And so this is what I did now, attending as much care to each as if it were a gift-wrapped gift for the gods.... And of course if I was HAVING to cook more than one or two, I reasoned I might as well cook them all, after all, just because they are cooked, didn't mean I would have to eat them all. In fact, I would make sure I wasn't hungry and then I wouldn't eat ANY! How in control would THAT make me?! So, whilst they were cooking I busied myself, kettle on for coffee and, to stop me being hungry and succumbing to temptation, I made a bowl of soup. Sweated down some onion, added the ends of some other, lesser veg.....but then, at the last minute, chopped up some beetroot leaves and threw them in! Instantly the liquid turned pink....I could feel the heat beginning to rise in the kitchen! The coffee was drunk, the soup supped, the oven timer rang. They were done. With an air of nonchalance I removed the tray from the oven. Without a second glance, I unwrapped each circlet of sensory sensation, setting them aside to cool. Deliberately I left the kitchen, distractions proving harder and harder to find. But then I thought, just one won't hurt, then I'll have had one and I won;t need another one! And so, to my shame, even though they burnt my fingers, the first one was peeled and eaten, right there in the kitchen. Anyone could have walked in. One of the most aggravating and yet wonderful things about beetroot is the anticipation, you never know if you are going to get a sweet one, or one that is just "ok", it's the not knowing that makes the consumation all the more complete. The first one was "ok" but not "the one". I knew one of them would be the one, and so, with inhibitions cast to the wind, I had another. And, I'm ashamed to say, another. Until I could eat no more. I stood back, my reddened fingers proclaiming my shame as loudly as a drunk singing on his way home the bloody mess staining the kitchen worktop, berating me for my lack of will power.

Am I laughing at  addiction? Am I belittling the struggle that millions deal with every single day of their lives? No, I'm not. Because last Thursday a very dear lady, one of the gentlest souls you would ever wish to meet, someone I'm very privileged to say I knew, lost her battle with her addiction to alcohol. No one forced her to drink, no one forced her to starve herself either, she punished herself daily for I know not what. And even though she, in her own mind, probably believed that she deserved every ill that befell her as a result of her inability to cope with this violent and cruel world, she achieved the one result I know she would never EVER have wished to achieve, she left her two beautiful children without their mother. No older than my middle child, they face a future without the most important woman in the world. I never heard her say a bad word about anyone, never, and I've thought about that a lot. She was designed for another world, this one was too unkind for her, as sometimes it is too unkind for all of us. And so I dedicate my latest load of old bollocks to Helen. A nicer lady you will never meet. The world is truly a poorer place without you my dear, know that you were loved, are still loved by those most important people in your life, know that energy cannot be destroyed, only transferred and so your children WILL see you again, in the shape of a cloud in the blue sky, in the scent of a flower, in the touch of a rain drop on their upturned faces. Wherever Mother Nature sees fit to transfer the unique spark that was you, then your children will surely know you again. Rest well my friend, finally at peace, the answers are all yours now for the knowing.

Making jam....

....There are reasons why I am standing in the kitchen making plum and ginger jam, wearing only a bright blue bra and knickers a pair of brown, high heeled boots, and, personally, I blame the council. Because I started out making plum and ginger jam fully clothed, obviously, because, as anyone who has ever made jam knows, when it gets to that volcanic bubbling bit, you don't want ANY part of you exposed to stray jam spits, never mind those squishy, pale bits that are normally under cover. The plums had been boiled and cooled, stones removed, then re-boiled and then, the crucial factor, the sugar added. And it was at this point that the whole thing, really, went to rat shit. Because I went to throw the empty sugar packet away in the recycling bin in the kitchen, because I am a good and conscientious recycler, plus I can't afford the fine those thieving bastards in Surrey Heath council will levy if they ever found a stray cat food tin in the "grey" bin. Not that my bin men would dob me in, oh no, middle daughter keeps them supplied with chocolate brownies which absolves me of the responsibility of wheeling a maggot infested bin out to the kerbside on a Wednesday morning (the pleasures of fortnightly summer collections!) And not that my recycling makes the slightest iota of difference to the planet, not when China negates anything I and every single one of my recycling citizen friends in the UK will ever do for the next thousand years by belching out vast clouds of toxicity without so much as a "do you mind if I smoke?".  So anyway, albeit that I am a  good and conscientious recycler I am also a bit of a slattern when it comes to bin emptying and numerous other household chores that ought, really, to be undertaken on a daily basis. In fact it would be fair to say that bin emptying only normally occurs when, even having stood a small child on top of it, you simply cannot cram any more in to the bin. Of course that makes emptying the thing practically impossible as by that stage the bin is, to all intents and purposes, vac-packed and there is no way of prising out its rancid contents without resorting to kitchen utensils, a plastic apron and a thick pair of marigolds (because the stuff at the bottom will be sodden and foul smelling and it will be THOSE that assault you on the way out, full of retribution and smug wetness just to reinforce the knowledge of your tardiness) ANYWAY, so this morning prior to any kind of preserving commencing, there was' of course, the feeding rituals that comprise the best part of any morning in my household. This includes (in no particular order) cat, dog, rabbits, chickens. fish and three small vultures I call my children. As this is all packed in to the space of 2 1/2 hours that also includes making packed lunches, ironing uniform, normal toiletry ablutions, sudden costume making / project completion (delete as appropriate according to time of year) then, if it's not a working day the tidying gets left until AFTER the school run. So the 1.2kg empty tin of dog food was slung in the general direction of the recycling bin, where it lay, precariously balanced, at an impossible angle on top of the bin. I have, however, perfected the fine art of "slinging and slamming" that is to say hurling something distasteful in to the cupboard, and slamming the door shut before it comes to rest, thereby preventing it from falling to the floor and necessitating the emptying of the bin, which as already discussed, is an undertaking all of it's own.

So cut to after the school run, washing up done, table cleared, animal food run to Rokers for supplies done and unloaded and now a quick bit of preserving. So I'm approaching the volcanic bubbling stage when I decide to "clear up as  I go along" (which never really works, but does shove things to one side in order to facillitate more mess making) Cue the transport of the empty jam bag to the bin cupboard. At this point we should change to slow motion. I approach the bin cupboard, my overloaded, busy mother, butterfly brain has already overtaken bin chores and is already on other matters such as shopping in the Sally Anne shop on the way to mothers at 11.30 (although I am ostensibly going to the Sally Anne shop to drop off unwanted items. Well, I don't want them, and small boy doesn't know they're gone, he really should have kept his bedroom in better order then I wouldn't have two and a half bin bags of "charity" items - you see? As well as recycling we like to do a bit for those less fortunate!) So back to the slow motion bin approach....as I came within a few inches of the door out went my hand, the handle was gripped, the door pulled slowly open, at which point, and at exactly the same moment in time that "too late" became fact, I remembered the empty 1.2kg tin of dog food, precariously balanced and, if I may refresh your memory, at an impossible angle just inside the door. So to go back to real time, I opened the door, the tin dropped, vertically to the floor landing perfectly upright with a telling bang. Now I didn't pay much attention in physics lessons, but as I am so fond of telling my children, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. And just as the tin dropped to the floor, it's contents shot up at a velocity approaching the speed of sound (I know this because they hit me before the scream came out of my mouth) Now you might be saying, but it was empty? Yes. It was. However, because it is Sainsburys cheapest of cheap dog foods, it is not so much chunks in gravy as gravy with the odd chunk (but the hound seems to approve and so does my purse) and so, when left at an impossible angle for slightly in excess of an hour or two, the remains of the gravy collect in the bottom of the tin. And it was THESE that shot in an upwardly direction. It wasn't so much "impact" as "soak". And as I stood there, dripping in room temperature (to enhance the smell) slightly rancid dog food gravy I realised that no amount of dabbing with a tea towel was EVER going to fix it. So off came the jeans and the t-shirt. But of course the jam was still volcanically bubbling!! There was no time to make a dash upstairs for alternative garments. And so, the jam making was completed looking like the Pilsbury dough boy modelling Victorias Secrets (albeit slightly chewing gum grey versions)

But of course none of that would have happened if the bloody council just let me have ONE bin and collected it every week as I wouldn't have a total of FOUR bins in my kitchen for differing items so they can mould and fester for a fortnight but we can all feel better about ourselves.
Anyway, to conclude, the plum and ginger jam is delicious and will be available in the rest room at work from tomorrow for the very reasonable sum of £1.00 a jar :)