This morning, as other family members hunkered over their Weetabix, I turned a large bowl of brandy soaked fruit into a Christmas cake and put it warily into the oven. The only other time I have tried this recipe, as dictated by the diva of domesticity herself, I found myself stuffing the sprawled contents of a supposedly cooked and cooled cake back into the tin and introducing the concept of a twice baked fruit-cake to the family. That year it resembled a ready-made alpine scene and Father Christmas slid rather gracefully into a ravine that no amount of icing would fill!
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Birth Chutney
This is not its technical title; the one listed in The River Cottage Year is for 'Glutney', a word which instantly appeals and the recipe doesn't disappoint - bung in all the excess garden fruit and veg is the basic premise.
At eleven o'clock last night I ladled quantities of this year's brew into recycled and scrubbed jars ready to wait out the winter months in a store cupboard before consuming. The oversized marrows, endless small tomatoes, carpets of apples and the odd pumpkin have been beckoning for some time, but it was the birth of a nephew that prompted me to get out the chopping board and pan. A little over three years ago his older brother was born on the day that I happened to make a batch of chilli jam - the two were unwittingly linked - and a jar of the vintage chilli was recently discovered lurking with intent on the back of a shelf, (no comments about housekeeping, thanks!). When the newborn's eldest sibling, a sister, was born nearly six years ago her maternal grandparents and I descended within 24 hours bearing gifts of food of all temptation. A long way from home and on a fleeting visit, my first impulse had been to raid the deli counter of the local supermarket and, along with a bottle of the fizzy stuff, deliver it to the proud parents in celebration.
This is not a need I felt immediately after the birth of my own offspring - physical exhaustion is a pretty good preventive - and it has not been a pre-planned or even forethought option with assorted nieces and nephews over the years, rather a natural reaction and the connection only made this morning as I wrote labels over the breakfast cereal. Birth, a time to celebrate, to give thanks, and in this house it seems to be done with food!
At eleven o'clock last night I ladled quantities of this year's brew into recycled and scrubbed jars ready to wait out the winter months in a store cupboard before consuming. The oversized marrows, endless small tomatoes, carpets of apples and the odd pumpkin have been beckoning for some time, but it was the birth of a nephew that prompted me to get out the chopping board and pan. A little over three years ago his older brother was born on the day that I happened to make a batch of chilli jam - the two were unwittingly linked - and a jar of the vintage chilli was recently discovered lurking with intent on the back of a shelf, (no comments about housekeeping, thanks!). When the newborn's eldest sibling, a sister, was born nearly six years ago her maternal grandparents and I descended within 24 hours bearing gifts of food of all temptation. A long way from home and on a fleeting visit, my first impulse had been to raid the deli counter of the local supermarket and, along with a bottle of the fizzy stuff, deliver it to the proud parents in celebration.
This is not a need I felt immediately after the birth of my own offspring - physical exhaustion is a pretty good preventive - and it has not been a pre-planned or even forethought option with assorted nieces and nephews over the years, rather a natural reaction and the connection only made this morning as I wrote labels over the breakfast cereal. Birth, a time to celebrate, to give thanks, and in this house it seems to be done with food!
Monday, 21 October 2013
Techno-fit
Is it only me, or has the art of exercising been transported too far into the twenty-first century?
The gym which I half-heartedly attend has recently availed itself of an entirely new set of equipment; most of which looks as though it is designed to test the very latest robots.
Being bewildered whilst engaging with pedals and levers is probably not a good idea so I accepted the offer of help from a 'trainer'. She was a) far younger than me, b) clearly far fitter but c) so caked in make-up that I wondered if it was possible for her to exhibit signs of perspiration! With all the enthusiasm of youth and that training courses had provided her with, she exhibited great patience when demonstrating the purpose, possibilities and potential benefits of each machine. Quite how I am going to remember not to stride too far on one in case it transfers into 'run' mode from 'step', I have no idea; probably only by falling off the darned thing as pedals lunge forwards.
The capabilities of each machine to improve my stamina, fitness, mobility, or whatever it is I think I'm going to the gym for, is nothing when compared to the entertainment that I can be treated to whilst I am there. Gone, dear reader, are the days of stuffing a walkman in a pocket and jogging slowly round the block.
The gym which I half-heartedly attend has recently availed itself of an entirely new set of equipment; most of which looks as though it is designed to test the very latest robots.
Being bewildered whilst engaging with pedals and levers is probably not a good idea so I accepted the offer of help from a 'trainer'. She was a) far younger than me, b) clearly far fitter but c) so caked in make-up that I wondered if it was possible for her to exhibit signs of perspiration! With all the enthusiasm of youth and that training courses had provided her with, she exhibited great patience when demonstrating the purpose, possibilities and potential benefits of each machine. Quite how I am going to remember not to stride too far on one in case it transfers into 'run' mode from 'step', I have no idea; probably only by falling off the darned thing as pedals lunge forwards.
The capabilities of each machine to improve my stamina, fitness, mobility, or whatever it is I think I'm going to the gym for, is nothing when compared to the entertainment that I can be treated to whilst I am there. Gone, dear reader, are the days of stuffing a walkman in a pocket and jogging slowly round the block.
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
Receipts and Route planners
In honour of a forthcoming family wedding a couple of weeks ago, I gave my car it's annual clearout. Armed with plastic bags for rubbish I began in the boot and worked my way forward. It soon became clear that I must have forgotten to conduct the 2012 visitation.
Squirrelled away in pockets, car doors and under seats I found: clumps of mud from football and cricket pitches alike, five plastic bottles, some with water, some without; a bag's worth of used tissues, biros in black, red, blue; pencils, some with lead in them; three books - one of them kept by me at the front of the car in case of getting stuck in a jam or waiting for a late coach back from a match, I hate having nothing to read - two rancid sticks of lipsalve; about £4.20 in loose change; sweet and chocolate wrappers; three socks - none matching - one t-shirt; a dozen or so used parking meter tickets; one £2 win scratchcard which I know for a fact has been there since we've had the car; a ski-lift pass, (haven't been for three years); plastic bags in case the dogs get taken unawares on walks; dog biscuits; a glasses-cord, (same ski trip); one pair of secateurs; one mascara, no longer useable; one hundred and one receipts and route planners that plotted my life over recent years.
The latter were the only things that caused me to stop for they told a tale. For some years I have driven the length and breadth of the country with our eldest for sports training and local, regional and national competitions. Each piece of paper (I refuse to get a tom-tom, I do not need someone to tell me that I've just missed a turn and I should take the next right when they don't even have eyes on the road), reminded me of competitions in obscure welsh towns, hard-to-find midlands industrial estates or better known northern cities; of hockey matches in fancifully named west country locations and of hours upon hours spent supporting and encouraging, cheering and cheering up, becoming an amateur expert on the niceties of the javelin throw, high-jump run-up or baton passing in the 4 x 100 metres (could tell the GB team a thing or two); of matches in horizontal rain that turned to sleet, or shouting anxiously as a hockey ball flew too close to the offspring's face. Years of 'phone calls home talking my other children through the niceties of preparing a meal, of knowing the best place to buy fuel when lost in the Brecon Beacons, of pulling into service stations for the obligatory energy giving chocolate and of wondering how much longer the car would hold up.
I stuffed my maps to stadiums and sports clubs into the bag with a sigh - but at least the car might last until the new year!
Squirrelled away in pockets, car doors and under seats I found: clumps of mud from football and cricket pitches alike, five plastic bottles, some with water, some without; a bag's worth of used tissues, biros in black, red, blue; pencils, some with lead in them; three books - one of them kept by me at the front of the car in case of getting stuck in a jam or waiting for a late coach back from a match, I hate having nothing to read - two rancid sticks of lipsalve; about £4.20 in loose change; sweet and chocolate wrappers; three socks - none matching - one t-shirt; a dozen or so used parking meter tickets; one £2 win scratchcard which I know for a fact has been there since we've had the car; a ski-lift pass, (haven't been for three years); plastic bags in case the dogs get taken unawares on walks; dog biscuits; a glasses-cord, (same ski trip); one pair of secateurs; one mascara, no longer useable; one hundred and one receipts and route planners that plotted my life over recent years.
The latter were the only things that caused me to stop for they told a tale. For some years I have driven the length and breadth of the country with our eldest for sports training and local, regional and national competitions. Each piece of paper (I refuse to get a tom-tom, I do not need someone to tell me that I've just missed a turn and I should take the next right when they don't even have eyes on the road), reminded me of competitions in obscure welsh towns, hard-to-find midlands industrial estates or better known northern cities; of hockey matches in fancifully named west country locations and of hours upon hours spent supporting and encouraging, cheering and cheering up, becoming an amateur expert on the niceties of the javelin throw, high-jump run-up or baton passing in the 4 x 100 metres (could tell the GB team a thing or two); of matches in horizontal rain that turned to sleet, or shouting anxiously as a hockey ball flew too close to the offspring's face. Years of 'phone calls home talking my other children through the niceties of preparing a meal, of knowing the best place to buy fuel when lost in the Brecon Beacons, of pulling into service stations for the obligatory energy giving chocolate and of wondering how much longer the car would hold up.
I stuffed my maps to stadiums and sports clubs into the bag with a sigh - but at least the car might last until the new year!
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Stones Slaughter - Saturday
As many who were unable to get hold of a ticket for Glastonbury did, I watched the Rolling Stones semi-live on television on Saturday evening. Filter lenses and light of the night did their best to mask the signs of decades of living it up; and whilst Jagger can still jiggle like a teen, others seemed ready-embalmed and held in situ by virtue of aching limbs. They were great, they always are, can still hold a crowd; and how many of the current 'yoof' bands will be able to say that in sixty years time?
But they held my attention for too long. Any thoughts of shutting up my happy hens for the night faded as the Stones sauntered on and the wine level in my glass dropped.
We've lost two hens recently; one through ill health, the other drowned having tried breast-stroke in the tub of water left out for livestock. Of the remaining six, we favoured Ginger, a feisty bantam belonging to our eldest whose namesake was the star of the Wallace and Gromit studio's The Chicken Run. Like the Chicken Run's Ginger, ours was hell-bent on escape at first, her diminuitive size enabling her to slip through fences whilst others watched enviously, (you try pointing out to chickens that they have plenty of space, trees to provide shade, long grass to forage in, dust baths, nesting boxes, food and water in plentiful supply - if there's a way out, they'll take it!) Over the years she showed her true colours as the original Tiger Mother; a fierce guardian of chicks who soon grew bigger than she - only Ginger was capable of seeing off the Sisters of Doom, Smokey and Feathers, who sought to eat any chicks that hatched in their kingdom, other mothers were bullied out of the way, sacrificing their little ones in the process - it's a dog-eat-dog world in the hen coop.
Eldest Son was dispatched to feed the fowl on Sunday morning and returned quietly to tell his mother that there would be no egg collecting that day. Foxy Loxy had visited in the night and in some sort of peverse form of justice, carried off Smokey and Feathers - evidence of their struggle found in piles of white and grey feathers in the field. Another hen had wounds to her neck and our three beloved bantams had all died of fright, Ginger in the nesting box of which she was so fond. We miss the clucking every time we walk into the garden, and Ginger's flight up to the food bin to get her bantam-sized share before the others.
Were the Stones good on Saturday? Yes - but were they worth my flock of fowl - I think not.
We shall be interviewing replacement applicants for the coop in coming weeks; only hens with Ginger's attributes need apply!
But they held my attention for too long. Any thoughts of shutting up my happy hens for the night faded as the Stones sauntered on and the wine level in my glass dropped.
We've lost two hens recently; one through ill health, the other drowned having tried breast-stroke in the tub of water left out for livestock. Of the remaining six, we favoured Ginger, a feisty bantam belonging to our eldest whose namesake was the star of the Wallace and Gromit studio's The Chicken Run. Like the Chicken Run's Ginger, ours was hell-bent on escape at first, her diminuitive size enabling her to slip through fences whilst others watched enviously, (you try pointing out to chickens that they have plenty of space, trees to provide shade, long grass to forage in, dust baths, nesting boxes, food and water in plentiful supply - if there's a way out, they'll take it!) Over the years she showed her true colours as the original Tiger Mother; a fierce guardian of chicks who soon grew bigger than she - only Ginger was capable of seeing off the Sisters of Doom, Smokey and Feathers, who sought to eat any chicks that hatched in their kingdom, other mothers were bullied out of the way, sacrificing their little ones in the process - it's a dog-eat-dog world in the hen coop.
Eldest Son was dispatched to feed the fowl on Sunday morning and returned quietly to tell his mother that there would be no egg collecting that day. Foxy Loxy had visited in the night and in some sort of peverse form of justice, carried off Smokey and Feathers - evidence of their struggle found in piles of white and grey feathers in the field. Another hen had wounds to her neck and our three beloved bantams had all died of fright, Ginger in the nesting box of which she was so fond. We miss the clucking every time we walk into the garden, and Ginger's flight up to the food bin to get her bantam-sized share before the others.
Were the Stones good on Saturday? Yes - but were they worth my flock of fowl - I think not.
We shall be interviewing replacement applicants for the coop in coming weeks; only hens with Ginger's attributes need apply!
Thursday, 20 June 2013
Pondering at the petrol station
In common with a former work colleague, I share a dislike of petrol stations. It's not that they don't provide a vital service; simply that I'd rather be somewhere other than idlling in a queue waiting for the car in front to inch forwards, before it gets to my turn to stand in the arctic wind tunnel that is an obligatory design feature of all forecourts, and fill up.
A local supermarket usually has cheaper fuel than elsewhere, something that hasn't escaped the notice of a large proportion of the local electorate. To buy fuel there means to feel smug that you've saved a few quid, at the expense of your temper which may have been frayed by the inordinately long time it has taken to get to the pump.
People watching has become my sanity-restoring saviour. Protected by the glass windows of their vehicles, drivers and passengers alike imagine themselves invisible and that open windows allow no noise to drift from the cars. Texts are sent and received, loud 'phone calls detailing either the entire itinerary for the recipient's day, the importance of a delivery being made on time, or telling so and so to go and 'fxxx' themselves are commonplace. Noses are picked,
A local supermarket usually has cheaper fuel than elsewhere, something that hasn't escaped the notice of a large proportion of the local electorate. To buy fuel there means to feel smug that you've saved a few quid, at the expense of your temper which may have been frayed by the inordinately long time it has taken to get to the pump.
People watching has become my sanity-restoring saviour. Protected by the glass windows of their vehicles, drivers and passengers alike imagine themselves invisible and that open windows allow no noise to drift from the cars. Texts are sent and received, loud 'phone calls detailing either the entire itinerary for the recipient's day, the importance of a delivery being made on time, or telling so and so to go and 'fxxx' themselves are commonplace. Noses are picked,
Friday, 14 June 2013
Trafalgar Square - 4th Plinth
Groundworks are underway in the Celestial Swamp that reflect both the passage of time spent here, and preparations for the years to come. And I am not referring to the building of a jetty nor a mooring point for a dinghy - with a recent spell of dry-ish weather and no longer fearing hitting water if we dig, the builders and their team are here to construct some heady additions to the moorland dwelling.
Former earthworks have been levelled, much to the joy of the chickens who clearly think that the stretch of flattened earth is designed solely for them as a worm farm; and what was once a grassy area overhung with pretty willow branches has become another parking space to cater for the increasing number of teens keen to show off their new found mobility by rocking up in their cars and undertaking multiple-point turns in the driveway. Now we have enough space for the latest seventeen year old to practice his reversing skills without my flinching too much at the proximity of the house, tree or me!
Our 'one big push and it'll fall down' stable has been demolished, another will replace it - a small step on the slippery slope towards a four-legged lawn-mower!
But the piece de resistance, (can't work out how to do accents on the blog), of these works is the oil tank. Out with the old metal tank rusting away quietly and in with an edifice that has a support block looking remarkably like a sacrificial altar to the god of concrete. Atop this sits an enormous green oil tank, a design of moulded green plastic worthy of a slot on Trafalgar Square's Fourth Plinth. Large enough to house a family of six; it is ugly enough to provoke discussion and practical enough to last the anticipated tenure in the centre of London. I'm going to suggest it to Boris!
Former earthworks have been levelled, much to the joy of the chickens who clearly think that the stretch of flattened earth is designed solely for them as a worm farm; and what was once a grassy area overhung with pretty willow branches has become another parking space to cater for the increasing number of teens keen to show off their new found mobility by rocking up in their cars and undertaking multiple-point turns in the driveway. Now we have enough space for the latest seventeen year old to practice his reversing skills without my flinching too much at the proximity of the house, tree or me!
Our 'one big push and it'll fall down' stable has been demolished, another will replace it - a small step on the slippery slope towards a four-legged lawn-mower!
But the piece de resistance, (can't work out how to do accents on the blog), of these works is the oil tank. Out with the old metal tank rusting away quietly and in with an edifice that has a support block looking remarkably like a sacrificial altar to the god of concrete. Atop this sits an enormous green oil tank, a design of moulded green plastic worthy of a slot on Trafalgar Square's Fourth Plinth. Large enough to house a family of six; it is ugly enough to provoke discussion and practical enough to last the anticipated tenure in the centre of London. I'm going to suggest it to Boris!
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