Shepherds' warning.......

 

Or a new dawn?

The most marvellous early morning sky, don't you think? We had spent the previous weekend in Cornwall, at a rather good hotel in Falmouth, overlooking the sea, followed by a Travelodge night near St.Ives, to catch up with friends who had moved down there in the summer. The wind was totally horizontal and so was I, as we struggled across the harbour towards the meeting point overlooking the bay. That night, reading the papers in our utilitarian room, we listened to the wind as battering ram against our fragile defences, located as we were off the A38 just behind the local petrol station, and wondering silently to ourselves if we would ever manage to leave at all before Christmas and if anyone would think to bring us gifts from the east.

Next morning the wind had dropped and the sun shone. Five days of heavy frosts would follow. I made a Christmas cake and a huge dollop of mincemeat and carried on feeding the Christmas puddings. I'd rather it had been me really, except I don't drink brandy before the sun is up and I don't like Christmas cake, can barely tolerate Christmas pudding and mince pies make you fat. And anyway, by choice I'm not doing 'A Christmas Carol' this year. No Turkey, no Tiny Tim. A Christmas for misanthropes and the socially challenged. And I hate television, especially at Christmas. So naturally, today, I've decorated the tree, (with roots, of course) and made a 'really tasteful' little number from red dog bush twigs, hung with crystal tear drops, four large white baubles and one single shocking pink one, leaning in an artistic bow within a flower-shop aluminium vase. My crystal ball sits beneath, next to a small, matching pink-flowered cyclamen. So minimalist. So very now.

Still, mustn't grumble, mustn't be cynical. I picked up a copy of the 'Victory Cookbook', (nostalgic food and facts from 1940-1954) in a second hand bookshop in Falmouth. Today, in the west, we are all just so-oo over-indulgent and dare-I-say, decadent, not just by comparison, but in real terms. I find it all rather similar to what I read of the last days of the Roman Empire, except that then there was no fear, or conception of, a wounded planet. The earth will survive though; it is strong enough. The human race may not and is not. 'Vengeance is mine' said the Lord... The earth may yet wreak its own vengeance on us all. It's not as if we don't deserve it. We've seen it coming, ignored it mostly and it may be too late.

I am making my own contributions. Shortly after Christmas I shall be the proud owner of a new kitchen, made in wood locally, to be painted a nice Farrow & Ball off white, with a really superduper granite top. The clunkclick range cooker,(black enamel and chrome) is already in place, after my old cooker was condemned. See, I'm a good girl really and doing my bit for global warming and anti-consumerism. And I'm going to off-set my black-smoke emissions when I burn the steak-because-the-fan-oven-is-so-fierce, with the setting up of a little business once I get the hang of the damned oven. I'm intending to start a little cookery school. In a v. small way. To pass on my hard earned skills. There, I've said it.

I have to go now. I must light the woodburner before my lord & master returns from the coal-face; I must put the finishing touches to the shepherd's pie (a light dusting of gold leaf, I think; after all it is Christmas); I must do a bit of facial re-arranging in the dim light of the storm lamp, (I don't care to see too much) and make sure my little pinnie is ironed to perfection. (Did you know they're making an ironic come-back?)

Merry Christmas to you all and a Happy New Year.

Love Lizzie xx

Pass

I think, if I were to write a book, in particular an autobiographical one, I would call it "Reflections on a Life". My life is nothing very special. Somehow I've managed to trundle on and on, passing normal milestones - sometimes quite normally, sometimes not quite so normally, in the way of such things.

I have been passionate, in love, not in love, a butterfly, a committed striver of 'the truth', a person with no confidence and sometimes every confidence. Never a joiner. A loner who craves people. An extrovert who needs silence and a good book. A 'conservative' with a small 'c' who is a rebel, who can smell hypocrisy from one hundred inches, but who has led a life of quiet angst and trying to ignore it all and all of the rest and all of what's left after that.

It's a reflective time of life. I question all, as always. I'd like to think that I've been 'good enough'. Nice thought. Probably misguided.

I reflect upon my treatment of my ex husband, now deceased; my children - all grown up now but still my (no, I can't say 'babies'- eugh!) children; the effect of age as a mellowing treatment,(sometimes). Omygodireflect on the possibilty of plastic surgery - if only and if only I could affordenough to do all necessary - it would essentially take the whole GDP of a small African State. (Anyway, I have a problem with non-essential cutting of healthy flesh.)

Probably no-one is still listening to me now. I would not blame them.

Normal service...

...will be resumed as soon as possible.

Real life seems to have got in the way of my blogging life-blood of late but I shall resurrect myself to amaze and amuse again with yet more alarming tales of the decadent and degenerate lifestyles of those lucky chosen (or sometimes press-ganged) few who litter the deepest of the shires, (surrounded as I am).

Hi to all of you, you are far from forgotten and thanks for not forgetting me. (Your kind words are lovely.)

Love Lizzie x

A little of what you fancy...

 
 

We had a late lunch for six last Sunday. After a few nibbles of spicy peppered mackerel pate on pumpernickel and sliced cucumber, I cooked a warm salad of marinated feta, red onions, garlic, pancetta and sun dried tomatoes mixed with a selection of 'leaves' and finally finished with a light balsamic dressing. The little sesame seed rolls, the ones you see above, were made with unbleached white stoneground flour.

A main course of roast beef and home grown vegetables - potatoes, runner beans and carrots, was followed by individual French style apple tarts, using the apples I had picked ealier that morning. The tarts were quite sharp but were made with sweet almond pastry, glazed with plum jelly and served warm with Chantilly cream. You can see two of them above. Cheese board and coffee was the last offering and all was accompanied by a number of bottles of wine and lots of laughter.

When everyone had left, husband and I went overtheroad to join another gathering at the 'posh B&B'. We were a bit wobbly on Monday morning...

Fruit Jelly

 

This is the promised recipe for fruit jellies for Wakeup and DJ and of course anyone else who may be inspired by it.

Pick your undamaged fruit of choice, place in cooking vessel and just (only just) cover with water. Simmer gently until soft. Cool. Strain for three hours or overnight in a jelly bag. Do not squeeze the fruit or it will be cloudy. You are, after all, aiming for a crystal clear jelly. Add 1 pound of sugar to each pint of liquid and stir while cooking over a low heat to dissolve the sugar. Once dissolved, turn up heat and boil until a set is acquired. To check when this happens, keep testing by placing a teaspoonful of the fruit liquid onto a chilled plate previously placed in your fridge. If it wrinkles when pushed, you have a successful set. Transfer to warmed jars, cover with waxed circles, screw on the lids and label when cool. It can be used, like jam, immediately, and will keep for a long time. Yummy.

More foody stuff to follow. (It is, after all, the Ludlow Food Festival time so one must be ever so supportive!)

P.S. The comment facility is lost in the ether for this post & I can't seem to bring it back but the next one should be O.K.

More beans and things..

 

As promised to Wakeup and Smell the Coffee, here are a few of my hard won tips for preserving all manner of glorious edibles, as well as my recipe for Green Bean Chutney (for Mountainear!). Also, Kacie may be inspired, perhaps, and Crystal too - it's really not difficult! As you can see in the above photograph, since my last post I have processed the bean chutney, (at the back), pickled a jar of shallots, used up the last of the smallest plums in jars of jelly, (in the foreground) and bottled yet more plums.

On the subject of bottling, (and please bear with me, those of you who are more expert than I), I do not follow the received wisdom of cooking and pasteurising the fruit in water baths. Firstly, it is very time consuming and also one's cooking vessels always seem to be either too shallow or too narrow to hold the bottles. Secondly, using this method results in the fruit shrinking within the jars when cooked, resulting in an unnecessary amount of sugar syrup and not enough fruit. I use both the old fashioned Kilner jars and also the readily available French versions of the same, preferably the ones with the metal scew topped lids. Just make sure the jars are intended for bottling and not just for storage.

My method merely involves washing the jars, warming them in a preheated oven at the lowest setting, while cooking the prepared fruit (peeling/quartering/stoning as appropriate) in a large vessel, using about one pint of water (not to cover - you'll end up with too much syrup) and around 8oz sugar per 2lb of fruit. (This is a rough guide only; taste when the sugar is dissolved and adjust accordingly.) Poach gently at a simmer until fruit is just soft. Cool for a few minutes before transferring into the warmed preserving jars and seal with lid as required. Make sure that you don't use more syrup than fruit, which should come to the top of the jar so that you don't have a 'syrup only section' at the bottom of it. (Any superfluous syrup can be reduced by one third and bottled as pouring syrup for ice creams and puddings. Yum!) And that's it! Stand back and admire! (You can hear the metal lids 'pop' when a vacuum has been created as the fruit cools and a seal has been obtained. The fruit will then keep easily for a year or more.)

I would also say that when pickling onions or shallots (I prefer the latter as they are stronger), I don't bother with soaking them in brine for 24 hours prior to bottling in pickling vinegar. It's meant, I think, to keep them crisp but nothing will prevent them going soft if they are left on the shelf for too long.

So now to my green bean recipe. This works for either runner or French beans. Feel free to be creative however; add or subtract spices as you will, use whatever sugar is to hand, add such as apricots or prunes, all will be delicious so don't be afraid to vary my suggestions. This is, though, a good and reliable starting point if you are a novice in this area. It is a fairly 'robust' chutney so malt vinegar is used, but if you dislike malt, do substitute wine or cider vinegar.

GREEN BEAN CHUTNEY

(All measurements are in Imperial, as at my local butcher's, where a notice informs that "English is spoken here.")

2 lb of each of the following:
beans, onions, cooking apples, sultanas or raisins, roughly chopped or processed
1 1/2 lb sugar
3 or 4 tbs black treacle
1 1/2 pints pickling vinegar
whole head of garlic, peeled & chopped
4-6 green chillies, chopped
1 tsp each of turmeric, cumin, paprika, cinnamon, mixed spice
1 tbsp salt + freshly ground pepper

Warm jars in low oven. Plastic tops are preferable as they will not rust from proximity to the vinegar.

In a large pan, stir ingredients until thoroughly mixed. Over a medium heat, stir until the sugar has dissolved. Continue to cook with the lid off on a low heat, stirring from time to time to ensure that the mixture does not stick. Simmer for about one & a half hours, or until you can 'mark' a line across with your spoon. The mixture should be 'dropping consistency' rather than so stiff you can stand the spoon up in it. Transfer into warmed jars, screw on the lids, cool and label. Leave to mature for 2 months in a cool, dark place, (though three months is better). Eat with cold meats, cheese, curries or whatever else might take your fancy!

N.B. To prepare runner beans, or string beans as they are sometimes called, I use one of those little French bean slicers that top & tail, with a blade, and when you push the bean through the aperture, it neatly removes the outer 'string' at the same time as slicing the bean vertically. You can then use scissors or a sharp knife to cut the bean 'spaghetti' into small pieces ready to cook.

[If anyone would like my recipe for fruit jelly do please tell me and I will write an addendum.]

August '07

 

It is less the birthdays that alert me to the passage of time, rather more the labels on my preserves around this time of year. So far I have made apple chutney, plum chutney, plum jam, and bottled plums. As you can see, there are a few runner beans now to process into green bean chutney, using home grown onions, garlic and chillies (lots), as well as brown sugar, vinegar, black treacle, turmeric, cinnamon, cumin, mixed spice, salt and pepper and a few windfall apples. Then there will be apples and pears to bottle and later, green tomato chutney to consider. I usually make sloe gin too, if I can find enough sloes in the hedgerows. Then of course, damsons (my absolute favourite), as long as I can beg from friend or neighbour: damson jelly or cheese is a must. Oh, and, I almost forgot, the black grapes must be dealt with. I could attempt wine but repeated failures with any type of home-made wine leaves me quite unmotivated so it will have to be grape jelly, a perfect purply- black concoction so good with cheese or lamb.

On the shelves, August '07 varieties may sometimes find themselves nudging next to '06 or even perhaps the odd '05 vintage. Where did my life disappear to in the black hole of all these Augusts past, encased as it seems to be in jars of preserves each with a label that, as the summers march on, mockingly encapsulates my own particular vintage? Another shift of time, creeping slyly up on me, just out of sight on a slight intake of breath, tapping gently on the shoulder of my perception. August '07? Bottled and labelled, already on the shelf.

And anyway, why can't someone do the same for me, preserve me intact for another few more good and productive years?

On yer bike....

It puts a slightly different slant on the concept of 'mobility and movement' for the elderly don't you think? If you strapped an ipod onto it you could market it as 'Music and Movement for the Young at Heart'.

An Italian Tale

 

Seth and Martha sat contentedly knocking back their large G.& T's and admiring their new, ultra trendy swimming pool. They had, just six months ago, downsized from a large house in Romford with an imposing white porticoed entrance and half a dozen reproduction Georgian wrought iron welcome lights on the driveway. Now, with the swimming pool taking up much of the garden on their new patch in Leigh-on-Sea, they sat with their backs to the recently completed conservatory with underfloor heating, and relaxed on the terrace of slate grey Indian stone.

"Well Sef, I shall get off of me bottom and get into me cossie. I've got to get fit and lose some weight before we go away. I'm not getting on that plane wivout dropping at least a stone, I tell you. I mean it Sef, I really do."

"Well, good on you girl. Go for it. I'm right be'ind you there, Marfa. I might join you for a dip in a bit", as he helped himself to another large G&T from the poolside fridge.

Martha emerged from the house in her new, structured pink and black swimming costume. Plunging into the pool, she proceeded to splash noisily and energetically, if a little clumsily, up and down the pool.

"Oh, Sef," she spluttered hoisting herself up onto the deck and grabbing a large pink and turquoise towel, 'I'm ever so unfit. I shall 'ave to do this ever such a lot if I'm ever going to get to Venice an' into me new clothes. I could do wiv a bit of help."

"Well, I dunno, Marfa. P'raps you could ask that young chap down the road. You know, whatsisname, Arfur innit? That one that works in the gym?"

"Well, I s'ppose I could, Sef. Could you arks 'im for me?"

So it was that, with the help of young Arthur, Martha swam at least twice daily, even when the weather was inclined to be inclement. After about ten days, Seth began to notice a change in her. Oh yes, she was beginning to shed a few pounds and it showed in all the right places. There was something else, though. He noticed that he was having to repeat a lot of his words to her. 'Sorry, what did you say Sef?' became a sort of mantra and he was beginning to get a little concerned.

"Marfa, are you sure you're not overdoing it a bit? You're not as young as you was, you know."

"Oh, Sef, I'll be alright. I feel a lot better wiv all this swimming. And look," as she twirled around to show off her burgeoning curves, "Can't you just see me in me new Versace in Venice?"

" Yeah, all right love. Just take it a bit easy though, alright?"

So she persevered, with young Arthur there to keep her to the straight and narrow. Every day, morning, noon and night, she splashed her way up and down that pool. But Seth became more and more concerned.

"Marfa, sweetie, 'ave you noticed anyfink different about yourself since you started all this swimming caper?"

"What did you say darlin?" ....."Oh, well, I'm getting finner, aren't I Sef?"

"Well, ye-es, you are darlin. But 'ave you noticed that I keep on 'avin to repeat everyfink to you all the time?" - "I said 'REPEAT EVERYFINK!"

Martha looked crestfallen. "I'm only 'avin a go Sef. I just want ter look nice when we get to Venice. It is our silver weddin' anniversary, after all."

"I fink it's all this swimmin', that's what it is. The water's gettin' in your 'ead, that's what. It's affectin' your 'earin', so it is."

"Oh Sef! It's alright really. I'll be O.K. when we get there. I will really."

Seth sighed. "But Marfa, you don't really want to be do you?"

Meat-eating meanderings

"Four strong men arrived in the farmyard. One, the main man, the pig killer, carried the tools of his trade, a large, sharp knife and a cleaver. The pig, restless and pacing and banging against the confines of his sty, could feel the tension in the air, aware in some sense, that these were to be his final hours.

It took much heaving and wrestling to hoist the pig onto the barrow, with two men pinning him down while the others held on to his hind legs. The wild screaming, the purest sound of terror I have ever heard, could be heard all over the village. In the out-house, with the men still grappling with the terrified pig, the main man, forcing back the pig's head and leaning over with knife raised, deftly slit its throat. I had been sent upstairs, but was half looking from behind a curtain, peeking and looking away, drawn and yet repelled by what I saw and heard, then, creeping down to hide behind the cart in the yard, I could see blood everywhere, spraying out like fountains over the men as the pig still fought and struggled to gain supremacy over his killers, screaming and screaming still. Eventually the pig slowed down, gurgling and wheezing in his long song of death, on and on it went, the men now red in the face and bloodied all over, quite exhausted themselves and wishing an end to it all."

We had been discussing our local butcher's obstinacy and tenacity in continuing to run his slaughter-house adjoining his shop in the village, despite certain governmental and EU demands that had put such small scale operations in jeopardy. We locals can, thanks to his obstinacy, (a sort of 'I shan't let the buggers stop me' attitude), continue to eat locally reared meat, slaughtered next door to where it is butchered thus fulfilling, by default, the Slow Food's dictum, (to paraphrase), to eat wherever possible, 'locally sourced, bought and caught' food. (He, the butcher, at one point made initial moves to attempt to become a registered slaughterer of organic livestock. After the Soil Association official had reviewed his premises, commenting that this should be altered or that be installed, [all requiring something of a financial outlay], he was heard to say to the official, in his particular high pitched tone of voice, 'Well, I think you can just f**k off now then, thank you', and there was never again an attempt at gaining organic status.)

Husband had been working around the parameters of this abattoir and was describing in some detail an encounter with the driver (and his goods) of a very large truck as it left the premises full to the brim with dyed bright orange entrails and the like. We ourselves had just eaten lamb.

"Who", husband asked rhetorically around the table, "would ever volunteer to do such jobs in such a place? Whoever they are, I am very grateful to them for relieving me of such a task."

He used to be a livestock farmer in another life. He could deal with smelly foot rot in sheep, chaff on the eyeballs of cattle, abscesses all over the place (I don't really want to know the details myself) requiring a sharp knife and some dexterity, together with other quite unmentionable delights, but he would never volunteer to be involved with the killing of his animals or anyone else's.

When he was a young boy on the family farm, around three home reared pigs would be killed each year. Around our dinner table, he recounted his experiences. His mother would try to shield him as far as possible from the killings: "Probably a good idea to stay inside dear." But young boys cannot stay away from such things, even those that they most fear and anyhow, the piercing screams of the stuck and slowly dieing pig would be impossible to escape.

"In the farm out-house copious amounts of boiling water were produced from the wood fired boiler once the pig had finally died. This was to scald it prior to scraping it to remove the hair. The pig was then strung up by the back feet before being disembowelled and bled and was then left with his stomach propped open by a stick pointed at both ends. The beast was left for around two or three days for the flesh to 'set', after which the pig killer returned to butcher the carcass. (The day job for our pig killer was as a 'ganger' on British Rail.)

The pig would be sliced in half along the backbone with a cleaver and one half would be lowered onto the pig bench to be cut up, the head having first been severed ('screwed off') and put aside. Chops, ham joints and so on would emerge, repeated similarly for the other half.

Finally the pig's head would be placed upon the pig bench and cut in half, at which point father would usually appear with a small dish into which he would scoop out the brains on either side of the cavity. These were considered by him to be something of a delicacy, to be boiled next day and eaten on toast. The eyes would then be extracted from their sockets by the pig killer who would be seen to flick them up towards the ceiling of the out-house and inexplicably they invariably stuck there with the pupil facing down giving the impression, when viewed from below, of being looked down on from above. As a small boy I was most impressed by this.

The butchered pig was then transported into the farmhouse 'dairy' to be treated with saltpetre for preserving, while those parts intended for more immediate consumption were turned into brawn or faggots.

That smell, the smell of warm blood and warm flesh is in my memory still. I could cope with all the unpleasant tasks of livestock farming. I could not deal with that smell of death and blood and flesh and disembowelling."

And still we eat rotting flesh. 'A nice piece of well hung beef please.' (A friend of mine, in somewhat reduced circumstances following divorce, decided, with her new paramour, now her husband, to 'go into service' for a time. Returning, as the housekeeper to a large estate, some tough and expensive steaks to the butcher in Henley, she replied, following a 'put down' by the butcher, "You must realise that I require my beef, like my men, to be well hung." Silence in shop. Exit.)

So, with all things now in flux, politically, environmentally and ethically, with the wind of change blowing perceptibly in the air, should we (and I pose the question advisedly) now be seriously questioning, at the very least, the notion that we should continue to eat meat? And this at a time when probably most individuals have the smallest connection with the earth and the food chain than at any other time in history.

I was a committed smoker for most of my adult life. I now do not smoke. Might it be realistic to suppose that, like smoking, eating rotting flesh will be seen to be outdated, unless, as in more 'primitive' societies, the killing and eating of flesh becomes once more an act of celebration on high days and holidays?

Do I have to?

 
 

What do you think? For me - for any of you? Whenever..

High Summer

 
 
 
 

Just a few local photographs of this last glorious weekend. I do hope none of you were serious inconvenienced by the floods.

It will be swarms of locusts next.....

Blood Ties

 

Let me tell you a story.

I bought this old print at a junk shop shortly after my first child, a daughter, was born. I thought it represented, despite its overly Victorian sentimentality, the indivisible bond that a mother forges with her new-born child. It was especially poignant for me as I myself was adopted soon after birth...

~~~

Last week, as I toiled in the kitchen pre-preparing food for my father-in-law's wake, I caught the tail end of a Radio 4 programme featuring two men, adopted at birth or soon after, who had successfully traced but had unsuccessfully met with their respective birth mothers. They were philosophical but sad at these failures of communication. I did not catch the men's full names but one had written a book about his experience. Both advised adoptive children to resist tracing their birth mothers. It rarely had a happy ending, they said and rejection is all the more painful the second time around.

~~~

My father-in-law's ninetieth birthday was last November and a family party was organised on his behalf at his local pub. My husband and I were in Tasmania. An e-mail from my oldest daughter, now living locally and in attendance at the party, was sent to me describing the eventful day.

A good many of the extended family were there, including his grandchildren, daughter and husband, nephews, as well as close family friends. It was not a 'closed' party but was held in the lounge bar of the pub.

Father-in-law was ensconced in his usual seat, birthday balloons billowing from strings tied to his walking frame. Along with other casual customers was a youngish couple who were clearly strangers to the area. They were sitting next to father-in-law on the bench seating. At some point during the celebrations, the couple were seen to speak quietly to the landlord, a man who had owned the pub for well over twenty years.

My sister-in-law and her husband were noted as leaving the bar with the landlord for some little time. The young couple disappeared in the same direction sometime after that.

Few people noticed when they all returned to the bar, until my sister-in-law, visibly shaken and with tears streaming, walked up to her two grown-up sons and said, 'Tom, William, you'd better meet your brother.'

Up to that point, only four people, other than his mother, knew of Dan's existence: his mother's husband, her oldest friend, her brother and myself.

Dan had traced his mother who, at the time of his birth was a penniless art student in Manchester, abandoned by her lover and too proud and, I expect at the time, too ashamed, to confide in her parents. Adoption seemed the only option.

With the aid of social workers and councillors, Dan had come upon the village, asking in the local butcher's of any known whereabouts of a lady of his mother's maiden name. He was pointed to the old family farm, now the posh bed and breakfast over the road from our own home. Here, explaining his mission, Dan and his girlfriend were welcomed in and shown around. They could not stay the night there, as it was fully booked. Why, it was suggested, did they not try the pub in the next village? It might have a vacancy....

Dan and his girlfriend were not to know that they would shortly be witnessing his own grandfather's ninetieth birthday celebrations, as Dan sat unknowingly beside him, watching his mother and his two half brothers as they drank to his grandfather's health, and as realisation would gradually dawn on him that here, in this pub, on this day, he would finally embrace his family....

~~~

Eight months later, in the village church, alongside his brothers and his cousin, he bore his grandfather's coffin down the aisle.

I still look to my old print. It still speaks to me.

RIP

 

My father-in-law died on Monday. He was ninety years old. He was recognised in these parts as a 'character'. He was a retired farmer and by all accounts, including his son's, was a very good farmer. That is to say, he looked after the land of which he was custodian and cared well for his livestock.

Last evening, as his daughter and my husband were discussing the necessary arrangements, they began to reminisce a little. Their father was a 'bon viveur'. He liked beer and cider and scotch and sherry, (sometimes all at the same time), but most especially he liked these if they could be consumed 'in the pub', with the requisite cigarette as company. He used to say that he'd started smoking aged seven, - 'And what's wrong with a cigarette, boy? You say What?? You don't smoke?? ....What a world! What a world!', spoken in a gravelly voice and with a shaking of the head in total disbelief that anyone would choose not to smoke.

He always bought large, wide cars during his driving years. This, according to his daughter, was to ensure that most of the car was on the left hand side of the road as he struggled to straddle the white line to keep himself away from the ditch on the way home from the pub.

He was not an unkind man but he was a man of his time. The only child of a strong and domineering mother widowed young, he was spoiled and indulged by her and was thrown into the responsibilities of running the farm at a young age.

His charming and talented and attractive and intelligent and long-suffering wife was at the mercy of her mother-in-law while her husband was indulged and feted. He was, I think, a man with no self-introspection, clever and articulate but self-opinionated, egotistical and utterly self-indulgent, as well as obdurate and demanding. He liked to use his charm, which could be considerable and which was often completely natural and uncontrived, even into old age. He was not a 'womaniser' but liked to charm the 'fairer sex'.

He was not a poor man, but would not spend money on the family home. His wife did a marvellous job of making the best of 'Cold Comfort Farm' and she had a good eye for fabulous bargains at the local auction houses. The house was stuffed with Georgian furniture, fine china and hand-knotted rugs. She earned the wherewithal for these 'extravagances' by selling eggs and other enterprises allowed within the hallowed marital prison walls. I wish that I could have known her.

Well, last night, after wine and food and a little more wine, we continued to talk around the table; and we all became a little philosophical. Apropos of nothing I now remember, husband said, 'There are two things that are vastly underrated in this life: 1)The Peasant and 2) Top Soil........'

If daddy could manage to produce a son capable of such an aphorism, which I believe to be entirely his own, then daddy's life was not in vain.

RIP

Desperate

Argh.... I have been really, really trying to give up.

No, not smoking: blogging.

Clearly, I haven't quite succeeded.

Oh dear. Back soon. xx

Out of the mouths of boys and men...

We have a large community of sparrows in our garden. They live in a very big hawthorn bush near the vegetable patch and nest every year in any available crevice on our property.

One morning this last weekend, trotting downstairs in the wake of husband, who always rises before I do, I'm informed that a whole ruck of these birds had gathered on dirt and lawn; he'd never seen so many gathered together before on our garden. Musing, I said, 'I wonder if there is a collective noun for sparrows?' He paused. 'Well, a number of years ago, young Wayne, a local likely lad, was learning to be a builder with a couple of his mates. He was the first to put his head in the loft of a house that they were refurbishing in the village. At the top of the ladder, Wayne turns to his mates below, shouting, "...kinell! You should see them sparrows up 'ere! There's fair enough to fill an ovary!"'

Husband and I then got to talking about 'local characters', who are plentiful, including his own father, who, at aged ninety, is still a legend in his own lifetime hereabouts.

Each summer, there are various 'Steam Rallies' round here, with enough aficionados to make each and every one worthwhile. At one of these, Fred, Jack, Bill and Norman are chewing the cud in the beer tent. Imagine. Four totally unreconstructed rural males of a certain age, married to 'the missus', and given to long silences between utterances, as they 'Ahrgh,' and 'Arhh' and sniff and snort and put the world to rights as they pull on the pipe or cigar, sipping all the while on their pints of beer. They are dressed in tweeds, stout leather shoes or wellies, check shirts, ties and flat caps at varying angles to the nose.

They talk about John Deeres, farm sales, John Deeres, the price of yearlings and John Deeres. They are heard, at one particular rally, to veer off the conversational tack for once. They begin to talk about sex. The conversation to's and fro's a bit between them; lots of grunts and nodding of heads and the turning of red turkey necks and the looking to the far horizon or the nearest steam engine and the trundling on... In passing, the tail end of talk is caught for posterity.

'Well', says Bill, 'Well...' he says with a deep intake of breath, and a pulling up and then ditching down of the cap on the head in one sweet movement, 'Well... it's a messy owd job, but it's gotta be done....'

Grunt, nod, cough, snort, 'Another pint, Fred, Jack..?'

Audrey was married to Awful Aubrey. He was a local stock dealer and was known to have something of a drink problem. His poor long suffering wife had been as supportive as she could have been over the years. One night, she decides that finally she can put up with him no longer. She packs her bags and waits for him to return from the pub. Hours later, he turns up.

'Aubrey, I've 'ad enough. I've put up with your drinking and bad behaviour for years'. She picks up her bag. 'I'm leaving!'

He looks at her, rheumy eyes wavering and legs swaying.

'Well, if you'm leavin, Oiy'm coming with you!'

If you can't say something nice...

It has just struck me. That phrase. It's not conducive to anything or at least to anything necessarily good or persuasive or admirable. It is, essentially, a cop out. A cop out for not saying something that may be important; a cop out for not acknowledging rank hypocrisy; a middle-class 'Now be nice to those poor people who don't have our advantages' type cop out. A 'Don't rock the boat and cause a scene' type cop out. A 'Don't show yourself up to be ungenerous and therefore not nice', type cop out. There are lots more.. - fill in the details as the ideas strike.

Of course, being negative per se is, well, fairly negative, a self serving cliche that bores and is counter-productive. No point gained there then. But sometimes, sometimes it behoves us all to say something 'not very nice'. To forgo our natural liberal inclinations (if indeed we have them) and to speak out and say (at the risk of being unpopular sometimes) that the Emperor indeed has no clothes and is a prat, (or a bully or perhaps a disingenuous power-monger who is an ace manipulator, garnering strength from risible statements of 'poor me-ism' which others may fall for because of their own essential 'niceness').
Be 'nice' therefore, but not necessarily too nice. Keep your 'not always so nice head' on. Be wary of being manipulated.

Just a thought.

I have just finished reading Lionel Shriver's 'We Need to Talk about Kevin'. I thought it was very well written. I do recommend it.

Apropros...

Just thought I would give you a little aside for now.....

Of radishes and things

I thought I'd post a few garden pictures. The lillies, roses and peonies are as real as the pink poppies, which, as far as I know are quite legal. (That, I confess, was a bit of a tease.)Those tiny things on the table are a few of the offending radishes. The reported conversation happened entirely as stated and without any pre-amble. It was so stupidly 'off the wall' that I burst out laughing saying 'I bet there aren't many women in the land who are greeted like that,' and promptly let the world and his wife know about it. The point, as eventually explained to me, was that husband had planted too many radishes (he can't get to grips with successional planting, you see) and was merely self-confirming what he already suspected, namely that I had not, indeed, eaten any radishes that day, necessary, he thought, to lesson the glut in the garden.

The juicy photograph was included just because - well, why not? And after all, nobody questioned whether husband really works on the 'chain gang'. How real is real?

Speaking of which, I thought after all that I would join in the 'tag' game, with thanks to Pig in the Kitchen and to Marianne who both tagged me and to DJ Kirby, whose tag I avoided because I'm a coward. I will include, of course, only such things as may be printable and suitable..

I) I was a foundling.

2) I almost squandered a very good education by leaving school and leaving home at sixteen to live in St.Ives, Cornwall.

3) At seventeen years old I had what might, in years gone by, have been called 'a vision'. I was then and remain, a non-religious, non-Catholic. I dreamt that I walked along in a barren landscape accompanied by John the Baptist and Jesus Christ, who each were helping me to avoid large and unforeseeable craters in the rocky terrain. We came eventually upon a very steep, near vertical escarpment, the incline of which was covered with impenetrable trees and undergrowth, fighting our way as we did to the top in almost a frenzy of endeavour. Finally, the sky was visible and the ridge top revealed, in a blinding flash of golden splendour, a huge and glistening orb: I understood. I was looking upon the face of God.

4) I am very competitive and for that reason therefore never compete. For years, from the age of eleven onwards, I played tennis, the only game I have ever cared about. Then, in my thirties, I stopped playing completely because it became too stressful, such was my desire to excel. I took up squash instead; that was fine because I didn't care about it; I was a novice and therefore could not expect to excel. I gave up playing chess when my daughter beat me one day. It's not so much that I resent others winning. It is that I resent myself for not being better. For that reason I do not even do the crossword.

5) I have always had a secret desire to get my HGV licence.

6) I adore 'The Italian Job', especially the bit where Benny Hill's character, Professor Peach, is seen about to 'assist' the large Italian mama up the steps on the bus. The expression says it all.

7) I hate 'hobbies'.

8)I am addicted to addictions. I stopped smoking three years ago after a lifetime of dedicated commitment to liquorish-paper roll-ups. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. This was when my waist started to disappear.

There, I've done.

Sorry, what did you say?

Husband just arrived home from working on the chain gang.

"Hello darling!" I murmured, folding arms around his neck.

Small aside kiss. In mid-nuzzle, " Hello darling! How was your day? I expect you haven't eaten any radishes today have you? Don't suppose you have...."