Set Adrift on a Memory's Mess

Growing up, I remember a lady who used to look after me named Miss Lou. All I can tell you about her is she had the smoothest chocolate skin that enveloped a slight, and seemingly, frail frame. She was soft spoken, but instantly respected. There was something about her gentleness that let you know that when she told you something, it was for your own good.

I was thinking about her today and remembered that she would make the most glorious deserts for us, and BAM! I was hit with a hankering for Peach Cobbler. I wrangled the toddler into the newly fixed, but continually dirty car, and set off for Tescos. Lo and Behold, punnets of fresh peaches reduced to 45p.

I got on home and set about gathering together all the things I needed. (No easy feat, considering that in my already untidy home, I am having the kitchen renovated. We are extending into what used to be the garage - question is, am I getting more space to tidy away my mountains of nonsense, or am I just gaining space to make mess - time will tell). On every surface in the kitchen I can see screws, tools and dust from tiles and/or mix-yourself adhesive. I was not going to be deterred, I had newly received American measuring cups and the internet to guide me. I searched through drawers and boxes until I had all my equipment and then went to the master bedroom to gather the flour, sugar and vanilla extract (yeah, I know! but when we cleared out the old cupboards, I needed somewhere to put the groceries).

Anyhoo - to cut a long and sticky story short, I achieved something that resembled Miss Lou's Peach Cobbler's distant cousin. I needed more cobbler and little less sugar in my peaches, it wasn't pretty looking either, but man, I baked homemade desert. I have to ask myself, will my regular shop bought bread and butter pudding feel I'm cheating on it, if finally, I've achieved desert by my own fair hand????

Why 'Please Excuse The Mess'?

Just like any other mother out there, I constantly feel like I'm in a mess. There's popcorn on the floor, school bags on the sofa, toys underfoot and last week's mail sitting unopened on the telephone table. All this with the exception of last week's mail has occurred in the two hours since school finished.

My blog is called 'Please Excuse The Mess' because I say it, so very, very frequently.

'The Mess', I suppose, is also a metaphor for so many other things. The strained childhood I somehow survived, the state of my finances, the state of my career, my hair, and the inside of my car. It's like this where ever I go, and here I am.