Morning has broken (also evening & night)

In the past 18 hours we've had rain, sun, rain, sun, rain (with thunder & lightning) and sun. Then of course it went dark, so we've had rain, stars (with bats), rain (with thunder & lightning), stars (with bats) and now dawn. I like the bats: they, and the swifts, swallows and martins who hang around our house, could show the Red Arrows what close-formation manoeuvres really look like.

I shouldn't really be seeing the dawn; any who know me are well aware that Peter Is Not A Morning Person. But despite the change in the weather I've been sweaty and sticky all night and finally (about 3 AM) decided that if Diane wanted a steam-bath she could send out for one. I think it's that damned cleg-bite. I've been plastering it with Fenistil (a usually near-magical Swiss sting and bite reductant) but the hand still aches and itches, and now my forearm has gone hot and tight; on Wednesday it was a limb, now it feels like a baseball bat. I feel pretty rotten - well, wouldn't you when one of your arms isn't working properly? If another course of Piriton antihistamines don't start sorting things out, a trip to Dr Bothwell is in order. I thought the serious allergy problem only applied to wasps, but apparently not. If I could get every cleg in Ireland in one place, I'd torch the lot. They're horseflies, for pity's sake. I am Not A Horse. So lay off!

What I said before still applies: can I have the good bits of July back, please?

Enough grousing. The Health Loaves came out splendidly, and while I'm yet not willing to go Mum's whole hog and put marmalade on cheese, toasted cheese is really nice. Slice of toast, splash of Worcestershire (Lea $ Perrins, of course!) dot or three of Tabasco and then under the grill until melted, brown and bubbly. Yum. (A crispy rasher of smoked bacon somewhere in the equation shouldn't be scorned either.)

Here's an odd thing: lacking wholemeal flour, D gave me Spelt flour (an antique form of wheat) from our local health store. It worked just fine for Mum's bread, but also, on the back of the packet, is a recipe for Roman Army Bread. Now, I have a book about Roman military cookery by German expert Dr Marcus Junkelmann; I think comparisons are in order, and after that a bit of experimental baking - though if kneading is involved, the virtual cookhouse centurion will have to wait until my hand and arm feel better.

After that, though, all bets are off. Ave Caesar, bakeri te salutant!

(What is the Latin for "those about to bake"?)

(And by the way, if anyone is thinking about trying a voice-to-text program, go for Dragon Naturally Speaking. No, we aren't on their payroll. It just does what it says on the packet - and without it, this blog would have taken a lot longer.)

Are you Feeling your Oats?

I asked Diane to translate bits of the bread recipe from Norn Iron English to Murkin English for cjmr, then out of interest went looking (as you do) to see what the Web had to say about oats, oatflakes and so forth. Well, seek and ye shall find - frequently more than ye were expecting...

The Scotsman ran this story last year; fortunately it was in August, not on April 1st, or I would have been very doubtful about this. Turns out it's not a joke, quite real, and apparently doing very nicely thank-you: here's an update.

Rather an improvement on the late Willy Rushton's opinion: "porridge - the world's almost only grey food..."

The anthistamines aren't getting a response, so D insists I go to the doctor tomorrow. This is a real nuisance; there's enough needing done before we head up to Mecon without spending a couple of hours in the waiting-room. Oh well, the appointment's been made so I'd better keep it for the sake of peace! :-)