Does anyone know what Fadge is?
I’ve just looked it up in the dictionary and it says ‘to be in accordant with’. But that’s not what I’m talking about.
Fadge is something my mother used to cook for us during the war.
It’s common name is – potato cake. It’s a way of using up left over boiled potatoes.
You mash them and then add enough flour to turn it into a kind of dough. Then you take a ball of potato into your hand and flatten into a half inch thick pancake (for want of a better word) about four inches across. You then fry it on both sides in lard (not healthy I know) until they’re golden brown.
We (my brothers and I) used to eat them with a fried egg.
When I got married I used to make them for my own children and they were always very much enjoyed.
Have you ever cooked them? And if so what did you call them?
Below is an extract from my latest book, Unwelcome Stranger, which was quite emotional to write. My hero, Frazer, was walking the beach one night when he found a woman lying close to the incoming tide. At first he thought she was dead, but on closer inspection discovered she was breathing – just about. He takes her to hospital and still feeling concerned visits her the next day.
“Good, you’re awake.” Frazer smiled at the woman as he approached her bed. “I’m very pleased to see it.”
Wide eyes looked at him suspiciously. “What’s it got to do with you whether I’m alive or dead? Who are you?” Her words were clipped and far from welcoming.
“I’m the man who saved you. I – ”
“You! You’re the one?” she cut in swiftly, her brows dragging together in an almost straight line. “Get out of here! I don’t want to speak to you. I didn’t want to be saved. You had no right. Go!”
He took a step back, her onslaught surprising him. “You truly think you had the right to kill yourself?” he asked, finding it difficult to keep his voice calm under the circumstances.
“Of course. What I do with it is my business. It’s my life, my body, and is no concern of yours.”
“You didn’t stop to think of anyone else? How it would affect them?” He simply could not comprehend her reasoning.
“There is no one else,” she spat. “There’s just me. And if I want to end it then why shouldn’t I? Why does some busybody have to stick his nose in?” She clapped her hand to her brow. “God, my head’s hurting. Just go will you. And don’t even think about coming back.”
But Frazer had no intention of leaving. He found it hard to believe there was not one single person who cared about her. For the moment, though, he was forced to accept she was speaking the truth. And his innate sense of right determined he should at least try to provide some sort of support.
“I’ll remain silent if that’s what you want, but I do think – ”
“I don’t want to hear what you’re thinking. I don’t want you here. Don’t you understand? Do I have to spell it out?” Her eyes, a very intense shade of green, flashed an anger he could not ignore.
“OK, I’ll leave, but rest assured I’ll be back. No one should lie in a hospital bed without visitors. If what you say is the truth then you need someone.”
“I don’t need you!” She deliberately closed her eyes and waited for him to walk away.
On the drive home he could not get her out of his mind. She was one very stubborn woman who truly needed help. And he wanted to give it her. Why, when it had nothing to do with him, he did not know. Maybe because he had found her and felt more than a little concern. She was far too young to be thinking about taking her own life. Something terrible must have happened to make her do it.
He knew he need only say the word to his psychologist friend and Martin would speak with her. But would she talk to him? It was doubtful in her present frame of mind. But perhaps when she was feeling better, when whatever drugs she had taken were no longer in her body, she would think differently.
Writing obviously takes up a lot of my time – in fact I’d call it my day job. But one of my hobbies is painting. If I didn’t write I’d probably take it up full time but there are simply not enough hours in the day to do both so I content myself with a local two hour weekly painting class.
Do I have a favourite subject? It’s balanced equally between landscapes and flowers, though I have just finished a painting of a bird – a bee-eater. It’s the first time I’ve painted a living creature and happily I’m pleased with it.
These classes take me away from my desk and the venue is within walking distance so I’m getting exercise at the same time. I do have a treadmill but there’s nothing like walking in the fresh air and I’m always on the lookout for subjects to photograph and paint.
I have tried painting from real life. We once went out as a group into some local woods, and I attempted it on holiday a couple of times, but I’m not happy being observed. I would happily watch someone else but I don’t like anyone watching me. Why is that, do you think? Is it because I might be criticised? Or because I’m a very private person?
My father did a lot of watercolour paintings after my mother died. I think they were to fill his time but I never actually saw him doing it. It was not until after he died that I found them. It pleases me to think I might have inherited some of his skill.
I tend to think art and writing are very similar. They’re both creative, both need a lot of thought. I do have a new book out so next time I’ll be posting an extract. The title? Unwelcome Stranger.
Until then… Happy Reading
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I have on my bookshelf a “Midget” English dictionary which was published in 1964 and is still in perfect condition. It has a black leather cover and in gold lettering on the front it says:
If your spellings weak,
The meaning dim
Make no mistake
But Look Within
Isn’t it a treasure?
One of my Facebook friends who lives in the US says she has one too with a brown cover, so I was wondering how many others have them?
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