Paris via Wakefield

French people are fancy. They speak a fancy language and they eat fancy cake. The Macaron is the height of French fanciness because they get to do both fancy things at the same time. I’m from Yorkshire. I wasn’t very fancy. I am now.

Yorkshire girl’s Macarons (adapted from Pierre HermĂ©)

600g Tant pour Tant
(equal mix of confectioners sugar & finely ground almond flour)
300g caster sugar
8 egg whites
Gel food colour

Blatantly ignore nut job Pierre and don’t age your egg whites for 5 days. Just chuck them straight from the fridge in the mixer with all the caster sugar (forget the stage by stage thing) and make a stiff peak French meringue.

Add colour & flavouring to meringue and mix. Be good at really hard maths if you want more than one colour.

Macaronage (stir precisely 50 times: count them, fool) the shit out of the Tant pour Tant and the meringue.

Pipe endless rows of perfect circles onto baking paper and leave to rest for at least one hour or until skin forms on top.

Bake at 150 degrees for exactly 14 minutes turning tray, and burning hand, at exactly seven minutes.

Leave to cool on tray for a few minutes, then reduce life expectancy by 5 years trying to get them all off in one piece.

Leave overnight then fill next day with ganache (google it).

Et voilĂ . You are now French. And fancy.



I am mummy, hear me roar.

This is a kind of laissez faire household. There are only two rules, brush your teeth twice a day and when mummy wants the iPad give it to her, but this morning my child has crossed a line. She seems to think that sharpening her entire massive collection of pencils directly onto the floor whilst eating crisps without a plate is appropriate behaviour for a Sunday morning. It isn’t. Learning to use a vacuum cleaner at 7, even if it’s way too heavy for your little spindly bony body, however is.

Don’t get all up in my face about the ant powder.

Ants are an absolute pain in the arse.

They march around the place shouting at each other in their tiny little ant voices with their silly little ant hats on, they have five eyes but they still can’t actually drive properly, they can’t eat solid food (so technically they are all juicers) and when they get cross (or a bit hungry) they just eat each other.

Now, as if all this wasn’t reason enough to hate them, I’ve just discovered the vicious little fuckers still practice slavery. In 2013.



New Zamir science coming your way. I am now convinced that Spotify can be used to diagnose mental health issues.

I have always had a sneaky suspicion that I was a bit obsessive compulsive but it’s fair to say that I am now being confronted by the full horror of my affliction via my Spotify playlists.

Just like the time I spent a whole day organising my book shelves by colour, I’m now fully obsessed with organising every song I’ve ever heard into random categories such as ‘rain’, ‘vices’ or ‘items of clothing’ (ok, that last one is made up).

I actually think I’m being really clever but I have a nagging doubt that this is a slippery slope into repetitive hand washing and mentalist light switching, as I try to fit every single song in the world into its rightful list.

In fact, I’m now leaving this page to go off and start the ‘items of clothing’ playlist because, people, that is actually a very very good idea.


Zero cocking excuses

There is absolutely no acceptable reason for not blogging now. Being ‘out’ used to be a good one, ‘sorry I didn’t blog today, went down the shops’, but that doesn’t wash anymore. I can post from my pc, iPad or iPhone, the three of them pretty much covering any location I could pretend to be while I’m actually just watching a bit of tele.

WordPress now cockily informs me that with a bit of plugin fuckery I can also blog from Facebook, spotify, Instagram and twitter, so now even literally doing something else isn’t a sick note for a missed day on the blog. There’s only one valid reason for not blogging these days and that is you have nothing to say.

Here’s a photo of a cappuccino and a cornetto.


Note to self

I want to go back and shout COMMAS very loudly in 35 year old Yael’s face.

Hey, that’s quite fun actually. Let’s run with this…




…and breathe.

Zamir returns.


Right you lucky people, I’m resurrecting this. 
Things are a lot different round these parts, but my love of the list endures. Here’s one about how life changes in 6 years.
  • I don’t weigh 100 kilos, my hair is not blonde and I’ve mostly got over the need to start every sentence with ‘In England we…’
  • See that fat faced adorable baby type thing I carried round everywhere? I seem to have misplaced it…hang on…
  • Instead of making home made baby food, I now smoke and play loud music. That, my friends is what I call progress.
So, If I promise not to leave it another 6 years, would you believe me?

Sod’s law =16 Comments when you don’t post

Apologies for my absence. No excuses, just a combination of pure idleness, very little time and a total lack of imagination.
Anyway to save my time and yours here’s a list of things I’ve done since I last got my lazy arse on the computer.

Got a new nephew (hello Ethan)
Went to Thailand (it sucks)
Met my niece Tia, the sweetest child on the planet (Buck your ideas up B Girl)
Re-decorated the living room (it rocks)
Made numerous cakes (all chocolate)
Watched 396 hours of English television
Met my new best mate (hello Chloe)
Become a Buddhist (albeit a swearing, meat eating, spider killing Buddhist)


Sky high…

You wont believe this but the SKY guy turned up – drunk!
I kid ye not, the man reeked of booze, slurred his words and couldn’t walk in a straight line. I mean purlease you couldn’t make this shit up.

Anyway I now have SKY and OH MY GOD, there are about 20 channels with English programmes. For the last 24 hours I have been stuck to the sofa. My child has not eaten, the house stinks and I think Stef may have left me…but hell ‘Home Front in the Garden’ is on in a minute so who cares?

the post formally known as ‘wow even in Italy SKY have great customer service’

Having finally given in and ordered SKY (hey Eastenders twice a week) I braced myself for the inevitable ‘Italian’ 6 week delay for the engineer to call.
Imagine my surprise when 24 hours after signing up he called to say he’d be round on Monday at 9:20 to fit my new dish. Imagine my even greater surprise when he actually turned up on Monday at 9:20 with a dish and a box.
So now I’m sitting typing this whilst watching Sky, right?


When he arrived on MONDAY at 9:20 he didn’t have the right ‘bit’ to fit the dish to the balcony. Please consider that every house in Italy (almost) has a flaming balcony and guess where their satellite dishes are? Yes, correct, on the balcony.
‘Not to worry, I’ll just pop and get one’ he said ‘I’ll be back after lunch’
He didn’t specify which lunch he meant and apparently it wasn’t Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday lunch.

Now of course if one was in London, one would just pick up the phone, dial the SKY help desk and scream ‘WHERE’S MY FUCKING ENGINEER WITH THE FUCKING BALCONY BIT?’ and before you knew it he’d be there, tail (or bit) between his legs.
But this isn’t London this is ITALY. Here nobody answers the phone on help desks, they’re at lunch, or out smoking a fag, or busy necking in their car. And here nobody gets wound up when their non-specific workman fails to show, if they did they’d all be dead of high blood pressure by 30, despite the olive oil.

So in the style of the natives I have just been shrugging my shoulders and saying that’s cool, no SKY no problem, where’s the problem?
Until today.
Oh yes he called today.
‘hey there it’s me SKY guy’ he said ‘I’ve managed to get that bit and I’ll be round at 5, see you real soon, bet you’re looking forward to watching some great TV, well wont be long now’

I know you know what’s coming.
You know he didn’t show don’t you?
In fact you knew he wasn’t going to show even before he rang didn’t you?
I on the other hand let that BLEEPING BLEEP BLEEP BLEEPER trick me once again. Mannaggia!


It’s Saturday and he’s just called to say he’s coming at 14:30. At this point the odds of him actually turning up are about even. Stef says if he doesn’t come he’ll hunt the bleeder down and mount him to the balcony. With or without a bracket.

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