No Tinned Tomatoes

Death to dandelions!

Life on lockdown continues. I am trying to keep to a schedule as mental health experts recommend, and this is not difficult, as my working day starts at noon and goes until 8 PM. At 9 AM or thereabouts I go out to wage war against the weeds. At 11 AM or thereabouts B.A. and I go for our government-mandated outdoor exercise. Yesterday we walked past Tesco to see if there was a queue, and as there was, I grumbled against our lot. Not in the Blitz Spirit, I know.

At any rate, we walked up our local hill and strode about our local cemetery and gazed upon the local Georgian church, while B.A. apostrophised the architect of the probably Victorian additions, and went back down the other side of the hill and were not stopped or questioned by police.

Then we went back to work, taking a break to watch Pope Francis's Ubi et Orbi blessing liturgy and wonder who wrote the petitions. Then I went back to work and B.A. went to Tesco with a list I cobbled together while half-listening to Pope Francis' homily. Happily, there was no longer a queue when B.A. arrived, but sadly there were no tins of tomatoes, no antiseptic soap, no antiseptic wipes and no olive oil, save for a garlic-flavoured one, which B.A. bought. But he did find baby spinach and  dark chocolate and various other things on my list.

Later I checked for local veg box deliveries, but sadly nobody local is taking on new customers at this time. However, I did successfully sign up for coffee deliveries from Union, which fills me with joy as I can no longer stand Tesco's Finest. Also not in the Blitz Spirit but, you know, the women in my family actually spent WW2 in relative comfort across the ocean. One worked in a munitions factory, and the other worked in the hat department at Simpson's.  This, of course, reminds me of past dinner parties when guests born in what used to be the British Empire talked cheerfully about what our fathers or grandfathers did in the war and the Poles said nothing, presumably because their family stories are too sad to mention at dinner parties.

"My grandma worked in Simpson's hat department."
"How nice for her. Mine was sent to Siberia."
"Oh, how terribly, um, terrible."
"Indeed."

In times of depression and worry, it is always helpful to remember that we are unlikely to be driven out of the house and forced to walk to Arkhangelsk, unlike poor Eugeniusz Bodo, the Polish film star, only he never made it, poor man.

So I am not minding too much about the tinned tomatoes, especially as I am guaranteed good coffee, and here are some more photos of my garden to keep us focused on the outside world. I have been meeting various worms, who slide up to the surface to see what I am doing with the dandelions, and watching the dynamics between rival cats.

Anti-cat spikes.

A cat named Lightning. 

A black cat invading next door.

The Queue Outside Tesco

Probable fate.

Benedict Ambrose are both still employed, thank heavens, which means we do not sit around reading great books or binge-watching Netflix: we work.

But we clean more than usual, and I make war on the weeds. We go for daily walks, a new ritual, because B.A. no longer walks to work and I no longer go to my gym, which I miss terribly. I miss my bus time, too, which I dedicated to study. I haven't yet found a new study rhythm.

We also check Twitter, and I noted the outrage about the Derbyshire Police spying on people embarked on "not essential travel" in famous beauty spots with drones. I am not outraged for several reasons, most stemming from a lifetime of reading about petrol restrictions during the Second World War. I am also sympathetic to the country folk frightened of townies bringing the Vile Germ and clogging up their local medical centres. Finally, I am envious of people with cars being able to see major tourist sites without any other tourists in them, so a mean little spirit within me says "Ha ha" to them being caught by drones.

What I wouldn't give to see for myself the canals of Venice running clear or Florence reserved solely to the Florentines (and me). But there it is. Technically I could walk to central Edinburgh on a sunny day and admire its sunlit quiet, but I might have difficulty convincing Police Scotland that this is well within the meaning of "exercise." Traffic flows unabated in my neighbourhood, which is apparently full of essential workers.

B.A. and I walk usually along a river, which is nice, although never without other walkers, climb a hill, admire a Georgian church, and go down the hill, sometimes dropping into Tesco. Yesterday, our entrance into Tesco was stopped by an Italian Tesco worker who explained that we had to go around to the other doors and join the queue. Shocked, we didn't ask why, we just went around to the other side to look. And behold--20 or so people, singles and couples, standing at six foot intervals along the front of our enormous Tesco Extra.

Now, I realise that for many people today this is nothing new, and in Communist times Eastern and Central Europeans spent hours a day queuing for food, but the queue outside Tesco shocked the living daylights out of me. If someone asked me, "Mrs McLean, what does freedom and prosperity mean to you?" I would say, "It means popping into Tesco to buy the nice French butter and popping out again in ten minutes or less." Suffice it to say, that the queue outside Tesco impressed upon me that we really are in a National Emergency.

Meanwhile, I was merely on a break from work, so instead of queuing we went to the newsagent's up our street and bought a tub of spreadable Lurpak. On the way there, we saw one of B.A.'s  young former colleagues with her husband and we shouted conversation at each other from ten or so feet away. She is a yoga instructor and still has to pay rent on her studio in our nearest community centre. She is giving lessons online, but she's not sure she will break even. Fortunately the government is helping out the self-employed, but unfortunately she is not sure if she qualifies, having been partly employed and partly self-employed in the past three years.

It was hard for me to get back to work--which was reporting Tucker Carlson's thoughts about the American media's editorial spin on chloroquine--because I was so distressed by the Tesco queue. I am starting to become agoraphobic, and I really do not want to stand outside a mere six feet from strangers in the hopes that kitchen staples will still be in the shop when I get in. However, I realise that this is not in keeping with the Old Blitz Spirit, so I might as well do the thing properly by tying on a headscarf and digging out a basket.

Speaking of the Old Blitz Spirit, have you heard of the British Pet Massacre? I hadn't until I went looking for photos of British women queuing during the Second World War and came across this.

Day's Gardening Note: Rain. Finished paving stones. Dug up dandelions in first section of lawn. Researched how to keep cats out of veg beds (net, pointy things, pepper spray).

Blueberry Bakewell for Lady Day

Blueberry Bakewell

Yesterday was the Feast of the Annunciation, and my waking gloom was turned to joy as I realised that Lady Day was a good enough excuse to have a cup of coffee. It was also my work retreat day, so after our walk to Co-op, Benedict Ambrose and I watched the FSSP Mass in Warrington online. Then B.A. went back to work, and I wrote to my spiritual director. (I would normally go to see him but--lockdown.) After some reading, I went outside to hoe up the weeds between the concrete paving stones around the lawn. This was rather pleasant, as it was about 54 Fahrenheit outside.

Next I began to make a loaf of bread, and while that was proving, I made a blueberry Bakewell. I had meant to make a raspberry one, but there were no raspberries in Co-op. Channelling the old Blitz Spirit, I decided to experiment with what there was. As the blueberries were from hard-hit Spain, I washed them thoroughly, even with a dab of dish soap as I had seen advised online. This led to protests from B.A., who found counter-arguments online, so there will be no more washing fruit and veg with dish soap.

Work in progress.

As we watch the infection rate for the UK climb and climb, we are unsure what is our best course of action. Should we go for walks, or should we run up and down our stairs for exercise? When is it safest to go to the supermarket? Should we delay going to the supermarket for as long as possible? Should we really wait a day before opening packages? How do we disinfect our wall-to-wall carpet?

The eponymous apple tree.

I would love to wipe all our groceries with disinfecting wipes, but there are no disinfecting wipes to had, so we just do more hand washing after handling groceries and while cooking. The inability to see the Vile Germ and thus to know if we are eliminating it from our home or not is driving me a bit mad. This morning I woke at 6, and when I fell asleep I dreamed that I had travelled to China, where my media outlet was having its AGM.

Well, to cheer us up, here are photographs from our garden. As you can see, there isn't much to admire yet. That's rosemary and thyme in the barrel, and the little bush at the top end of the hoe-like thing is lavender.

The compost bin and beech leaves. 

Day's Gardening note: Dug up weeds from between concrete paving stones.

First Day Under Lockdown

"This Church is closed."

One of the blessings of the past few days is that it has been sunny. I got up late for me, washed the dishes, made the Vile Tea of Lenten Penance, and after reading all the news, went out to rake beech leaves and tidy up another raised garden bed. What useful or pretty thing grows in an east-facing, very shady, Central Belt Scottish bed? Today I will have to read up on that.

Then B.A. and I went out for our state-approved one walk of the day. It was a long one, taking us to the old kirkyard where some key members of  The Historical House's Family lie awaiting Final Judgement. We prayed for their Protestant souls before continuing on to our geographical-parish church. There we found the door locked against us, just as an elderly man popped out of the rectory to ask if he could help us.

B.A. spoke very pleasantly to him, which was a very good thing, as nothing puts my back up here quite like someone British or Canadian saying "Can I help you?" To me "Can I help you?" is a signal that the speaker belongs there and you do not and your presence is a nuisance into the bargain. However, I was already feeling cross about 1. the Vile Germ 2. mixed messages from the government about church closures 3. the locked door, so perhaps I misjudged him and the man really did want to help us.

Anyway, once the man went back indoors, B.A. and I plunked ourselves on our knees in the grass before the Lourdes grotto instead of the Blessed Sacrament, risking passing Protestants think  we worship Mary, and said the Prayer in Times of Pestilence. Then we walked home, and I started work.

I hope with all my heart that Scotland's priests are asking God to stop the Vile Germ, and not limiting themselves to what the Scottish Bishops said in their statement about praying for people. B.A. wrote to our Archdiocese about the conflicting government instructions about prayer, and they said that the churches would remain "closed to the public." Ever sensitive to words' shades of meaning, I was infuriated by the use of the word "public" to denote THE FAITHFUL, as if the churches are the sole property of the bishops, minor clergy and their lay employees and special volunteers.

At the same time, I am just going to have to trust all the Catholic bishops of the world who have stopped public Masses and even the ones who have shut the churches to prayer on the off-chance that vulnerable if pious people will be tempted into them and pick up the Vile Germ from the back of a pew. Presumably those among them who believe in God have thought and prayed long and hard about this and consulted actual epidemiologists. One of the worst parts about being a Catholic adult in the 21st century is having so little faith in the bishops as a class. It would be much more agreeable to be like the little child I used to be and gaze on them in shy wonder.

By the way, my views on the coercive powers of state have undergone a tweaking, thanks to the media coverage of crowds of people at beaches, pubs, and public parks during a pandemic. The panic-buying and thievery has made an impression, too. Clearly in order to live safely without a state, you need a highly moral and intelligent people. How much better to have fear of God than merely of plod. But there we are.

In cheerful news, B.A. is thriving from working at home. Apparently there are fewer distractions. And I have ordered seeds and compost from eBay, having discovered that Amazon is unlikely to deliver anything earlier than late April. Also, today is the Feast of the Annunciation, so I am drinking the Coffee of Joy instead of the Vile Tea of Lenten Penance.

To cheer up further, I will think about the festivities around the christening of my Polish god-daughter. The sheer joy of sinking into a slipper tub after a long journey by plane and train! The beauty of my córka chrzestna's handmade baptismal finery! The delightful champagne reception, the seat of honour at the top table (a lifetime first), the flaming wild boar!  And if I need to add to the happy thoughts, I will contemplate my cc's parents' splendid wedding, which also featured many wonderful people and things.

Update: Tinned tomatoes in the nearest Co-op! YAY!

Gardening note: Weeded.

Quarantine!

Benedict Ambrose and I listened to the Prime Minister's speech when he gave it at 8:30 PM (GMT). What a good thing we visited the Blessed Sacrament in our geographical-parish church when we could, for the doors will almost certainly be locked tomorrow. Meanwhile, I suppressed an urge to rush across the river to panic-shop at Tesco. Oh me, oh my. I wish I had bought my seeds last month.

This morning B.A. dropped a can on the smaller teapot, and when I saw the state of the kitchen I fled to the garden where I weeded both the herb garden and the ----

Sorry, can we grasp the fact that in Great Britain today, you cannot meet outdoors in groups larger than two, except with members of your own household? Yes, I realise that this is for a very good reason, and I will strive never to buy anything "Made in China" until the Communist Party is no more. But at the same time, I am simply amazed.

Anyway, I weeded the herb garden and the raised bed by the shed, and I hope the seed packet companies are still delivering, although as almost everyone has to work from home, who knows?

Naturally this is not as jaw-dropping as not being able to set foot in church, which surely is unprecedented in 1, 600 years of British history. I mean, even during the distressing period when being Catholic was illegal, churches were still open for prayer. That said, the trade in seeds must be even older than that, although not the mail-order version, naturally.

B.A. has made me a gin-and-tonic to cope with martial law the nation's new, sobering challenge which every one of us will meet to protect the NHS and save lives. It has a slice of grapefruit in it because when we bought the gin there were neither lemons nor limes in the shop.

The Prime Minister called the Covid-19 coronavirus "the biggest threat this country has faced in decades," and I must say I was glad it was Blond Boris telling us all about our new inconveniences (and the likelihood of many dying anyway) and not that ghastly Jeremy Corbin. Even as the PM delivered all this bad news, he sounded reassuringly embarrassed and non-communist.

Nothing to add except that for our two-person Laetare Sunday supper we had a pink feast: duck breast, mashed potatoes dyed with beetroot juice, beetroot, red wine, and strawberry mousse for pudding, followed by zeppole. It feels like wartime, but that was definitely not wartime food.

Laetare Sunday at Home

Future generations of Catholics are just not going to believe their eyes when they read that Masses were suspended over much of the western world, including Great Britain, Ireland and the United States, in 2020. I find it hard to believe myself, and yet there we were setting up the sitting-room and then getting dressed to attend Mass from 218 miles away.

We would have had roses in time for the 11 o'clock Mass, but Tesco was still closed when I ventured out at 7:30 and would not open until 10. The thought of crowding into Tesco with a desperate hoard at 10 did not appeal to me, so I have yet to go out and purchase Laetare Sunday supper.

Well, how was it? In our case, we were able to concentrate and pray and as I was reading my missal it was not terribly unlike being at Mass in person until there was no Communion of the Faithful, at which point I cried. As we have no sackcloth and ashes in the house, tears will have to do.

However, it is Laetare Sunday, so let us be happy now and eat delicious things, like another batch of zeppole in honour of St. Joseph. I was not happy with my St. Joseph's Day batch, for I didn't use the oven thermometer and the zeppole didn't rise. However, today I did, and here we are:

B.A. and I ate two zeppole each with coffee at our homebound version of the After-Mass Coffee and Tea of Peace. B.A. called members of the Schola, too, for verisimilitude and to ask after their mothers. He had already called his own mother, who has been sent home from her job for having a cough. Although she no longer has the cough, they won't let her back for two weeks

It is Mothering Sunday in the United Kingdom, which is our Mother's Day, and a much older holiday than the American one it is, too. Traditionally one goes home to one's home parish with a cake for one's mother--although when I say "traditionally," I mean in the late Middle Ages or wherever it was when people started going to the towns for non-agrarian work and fun.

This can be a sad day for childless-not-by-choice women, but the traditional Epistle says that we in particular are supposed to rejoice. While I read it today, I thought about how much easier it probably is to wait out a pandemic when you don't have tiny children to keep occupied/amused/clean/healthy/fed. So mad props to the physical mothers of the world in particular as well as greetings to my fellow spiritual ones. I'm thinking of my godchildren, too, especially the baby girls.

I am not sure whether or not we are advised to leave our properties at all. Fortunately we have a   private garden (Yay, apple tree! Yay, roses!), but we've been going for long walks for exercise. Yesterday we were tempted into the local shopping district by our need of a spice rack (more anon) and then by curiosity about the famous local Italian ice-cream shop.  (Ice-cream in Scotland came from Italian immigrants. It is a long and noble story.)  We thought the Local Treasure would be closed, but behold! Although the dining area is closed, the ice-cream counter was open. So we took our lives into our hands by standing near some local lasses and ordering two waffle cones (hazelnut and vanilla).

But I ended our search for a spice rack when I heard too much coughing in the five-and-dime. What were we thinking? I demanded of my panicking self. So we returned home, and eventually I taught two not notably enthusiastic homeschoolers a writing lesson over Skype. The poor critters learned late that they were having any lesson at all, and there was a great carry-on as they belatedly wrote essays about Julius Caesar without recourse to any but online books. I would pity them, had they not had three weeks to write these papers. Meanwhile I must get over my technophobia to figure out how best to use screens to teach children writing. Can one present Powerpoint over Skype? I must talk to my computer-genius brother.

The sudden desire for a spice rack was awakened in our bosoms when I washed, disinfected and rearranged the pantry cupboards. When we lived in the Historical House the spices all lived in a tidy (or  tidier) alphabetical row on a shelf running the length of the wall. But until yesterday the spices in St. Benedict over the Apple Tree were jumbled up on the pantry shelves. They are now living alphabetically in a polystyrene insert that protected the printer in its cardboard box, and the cupboards look much nicer.

Yes, this is what we have come to: attending Mass online, teaching online, rearranging the kitchen shelves and then blogging about it. However, life is about to get exciting again, for I am going to risk death by the Dread Germ by going back to Tesco.

Update: Zeppole are supposed to be topped by cherries preserved in syrup, but we don't have any, so ours have been topped by very Scottish raspberries instead. Well, topping things with raspberries is very Scottish. I think those particular raspberries came from Spain.

The Joy and Hope of Eggs

Today is going to be a good day: at 7:30 this morning there were eggs for sale in Tesco. Normally I buy six medium free range eggs at a time, but there were only large free range eggs in boxes of 12, so I did not dither. I firmly seized two boxes. There were also some cleaning products on the shelf, so now we are fully armed against the Vile Germ.

I keep meaning to not go to Tesco, where crowds gather, but then, like a grocery junkie, keep going back. Yesterday, though, it was B.A. who went  after our daily walk (more anon). He came back with mackerel, tender-stem broccoli, pre-packaged pannacottas, bread, chocolate digestive biscuits, and a Canon 5150 printer. Yes, we finally have a new printer. It was on sale, and it's not like B.A. can print things at work anymore, being at home.  

Every day I call up my parents on Skype to enliven our solitudes and to make sure they aren't out picking up the Vile Germ in Canadian Tire or wherever. Apparently my father was at the BANK the other day. The BANK.  Courage or recklessness? I will have to consult Aquinas. They seem cheerful and resilient, and Dad consumes the news more than ever. I keep asking my mother about the garden, and it keeps being Toronto in March, so of course she's not in the garden.

I think garden thoughts a lot. I now have two new gardening books: Fruit and Vegetables for Scotland and Veg in One Bed. As soon as I can get my hands on some lumber and a drill or B.A.'s extremely handy colleague who fixed our oven, washing-machine, and front door, I am going to build  a raised bed. Our houseplants are thriving, so this is not a foolhardy endeavour. Besides, this feels like wartime, and in wartime you plant a victory garden. Well, the British plant victory gardens. I have an American friend who just wants to buy a gun.

We have no need of a gun. The weapon of choice in the neighbourhood is a knife, and we have plenty of knives in the kitchen. We also have a screwdriver we keep by the front door although I am not entirely sure why. I think it's for repairs. Incidentally, I am so, so glad we were firmly rooted in cold reality when we had suddenly to buy a flat and did not attempt to get a bigger mortgage for a grander abode.

I'm prone to anxiety, so occasionally I read the latest calming books about Maximum Happiness and other such desirable emotions, and one of them recommends writing lists of 20 things you're grateful for. Then you write 20 good things about yourself, and then you write 20 good things about your "partner" as the person you share a bed with is called in the UK. You're supposed to read these lists everyday, which I don't do, but I appreciate the wisdom of the advice, especially in Times of Trial, like the one we are now all in. This morning I rushed off to Tesco feeling doomed to infection, but then there were eggs in the big egg-cage, and I was so grateful they transformed my day.

Well, now I shall online shop for garden supplies before heaving myself out of my chair to scrub my own kitchen and bathroom, the humanity.