Farmer’s Market

In hindsight deciding to give up meat ‘n’ fish for Lent, when largely agnostic (I really like Christmas carols), and when I was about to go home* for a long weekend, was a less than inspired decision. Making like a McCartney is all very well when you are omnivorous, and your Mother doesn’t make lasagne like an Italian nonna, but as I am less than grown up when it comes to vegetables (tomatoes and I will never see pip to pip), and that lasagne is truly a wonder of the developed world, foregoing mince and the bacon bit of bacon and egg rolls felt less like empathy, and more like foolhardiness.

We even took a trip to Stroud Farmer’s Market, a hop, skip and a jump down the road from my Mum’s house, just so I could remind myself what extra-Organic, responsibly- farmed, locally-sourced sausages smelt like (so good, if you wondered). Since it started – at first on one Saturday a month, then two, before becoming a permanent weekend fixture – the market has regenerated the town centre, bringing fresh vigour to local shops and furnishing stalwart cafes like Woodruffs with a a slew of new customers. Given the sheer volume of local artisan produce (I forgot to write down who was selling it, but the person with the blue brie stand: we’re likely starcross’d) at prices that would make your average Borough customer weep, the mystery remains why the market isn’t expanded further: the food in particular is so good. 

We ended up forgoing the fresh cinnamon bear claw doughnuts (I did not come up with that mouthful of a name), which if we’re going to make insensitive but timely Oscar-winner related jokes, felt like the culinary version of Sophie’s Choice, and those sausages (in keeping with the metaphor these turned out to be Angelina’s right leg: everyone was raving about them) and went with a garlicky falafel wrap (me) and pork burgers juicy to the point of obscenity (them). Both truly scrumptious, to segue onto other films entirely.

*Home. As in no internet home. As in blissful evenings watching not much really on the box and actually getting ready and dressed in the mornings instead of losing oneself down the rabbit hole of fashion blogs. As in, of a Sunday evening, ‘Holy Shit, I have no new material’ but deciding that pizza and those beers we got (from the market) we’re likely more important. Sorry about the late post folks. But if it helps: I do have a tonne of pretty pictures to share.

{Photos 1-4 taken at the Farmer’s Market; photo 5 taken at Woodruffs}


It’s Beginning To Look…

I will leave you to fill in the blanks to this posts title, but suffice to say, I’m feeling very festive all of a sudden.

This is a little to do with seasonal music, a little to do with Starbucks Red Cups and a little to do with the prospect of our work Christmas party tonight. Mostly though, it’s a lot to do with a very homely couple of days in the countryside last weekend, complete with piles of food, frosty country air, mulled wine, twilight shopping for gifts and excessive stollen consumption while my Mother and I made neat work of acquiring, sawing and erecting a Christmas tree. Though it’s certainly smaller than previous years (no brothers or boyfriends were around to manhandle larger conifers) it’s cute and perfectly formed and before I hopped on the train back to London, we even managed to get the lights untangled and going: a modern Christmas miracle.

{Christmas nails in Collection 2000’s ‘Buried Treasure’ & Rimmel’s Sparkled Top Coat}


{Christmas lights in my hometown, Stroud}

{The tree in full, complete with shedding needles, and wonky branches}

{There’s always one: the heads on the snowmen in the top two windows even swivel}