On Avoiding Gardening

My favourite Saturday mornings are those when I wake to a warm and still sleeping household, pad downstairs to a beautifully tidy kitchen and make a cup of tea before I've properly woken up. Often there's a bit of last night's left-over takeaway (my favourite brekkie of cold curry and a scoop of naan bread while the kettle boils); sometimes a bit of chicken absent-mindedly torn from the carcass in the oven with a dollop of chilli sauce (I like to roast off a couple of chickens at a time, so there's always something for lunch the next day). Rarely there are the softening remains of a plate of cheese, as this only happens when friends call round on a Friday night, and as Friday night is Gardener's World night, this is not something I like to encourage.

I reckon on having a couple of hours to get the weekend jobs out of the way, and by ten I'm watching Saturday Kitchen with endless cups of tea and the papers. I like the excerpts of old TV chefs preparing food before strange and unusual backdrops. Anthony Carluccio appears to be the master of backdrops. I like the little ranty strops that Rick Stein works himself into doing his face-to-camera shots. And afterwards there's Rachel Allen teaching us to suck eggs. Tonight we face Nigella pretending to cook fast food in her warehouse mock-up of a London kitchen.

One of these days they'll bring back the Fanny and Johnny Cradock cooking shows. Food rationing in the UK was finally lifted in 1954, and I suppose Fanny and her day-glo coloured food was a natural reaction against the austerity of the weekly 2oz butter / 3oz sugar / 1 egg rations. I grew up on her cooking, as my mother embraced with enthusiasm the food dye and piping bag during the psychedelic sixties. A favourite dinner party staple from my childhood seems to have been green butter (or was it mayonnaise?) piped into shells around the base of dariol moulded chicken towers. And potatoes piped around everything, often stiffened with beaten egg and moulded into baskets holding back mountains of green peas or a vast sea of prawnage. And Russian Salad. Remember whole melons cut into basket shapes, balled out and stuffed with melon balls and red grapes? And everything garnished with bunches of watercress, especially the roasted pheasant's bottom. Unmistakeably British. I learned to pipe before I could ride a bike. The first cookbook I received was the Hamlyn All Colour Cookbook, and by the time I took my O Levels I'd cooked the entire book. That classic black front cover and the impossibly tall Dundee cake...

I've a torn out review of the Fanny Cradock show between the pages of Frances Mayes' Bella Tuscany. Everyday food mixed with more elaborate recipes. Aide and fawning husband Johnny delivered the best-ever cooking ad-lib: "If you're very lucky your doughnuts will come out looking like Fanny's." I'm with Edith at the link below, on modern TV cooks...

http://www.skiptonweb.co.uk/message_board/reply.asp?thread=49395

No Seriously, The Telegraph Is A Broadsheet

Picture the scene. It's just before 5 on Friday afternoon, and I'm sitting at my pc composing a Friday Five (thank you She Who Influences for the whole concept), when I make the mistake of flicking onto the Daily Telegraph website for today's headlines. Now, I buy the Telegraph on a Saturday morning for the gardening section. And the magazine. And the weekend section. Ok I buy the damned thing really for the hatch, match and dispatch. Anyway. Back to today's front page. Now be quick, or you'll miss it.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/?CMP=KNC-umknc01_ne_17_ggl_NeGB&HBX_PK=daily+newspaper&HBX_OU=50

It's the news story on the left hand side, under the lead article about Iran's warning "Of a "decisive strike" if US attacks; International tensions rise after Washington imposes unilateral sanctions on Teheran." Yes, I passed over this lead article in order to read about "Man attempted sex with bike." It's not a bit rude, it just beggers belief. And as if that wasn't bad enough, it appears that, "He is not the first man to be convicted of a sexual offence involving an inanimate object. An electrician was jailed for having sex with pavements in Redditch, Worcestershire in 1993."

I can't quite believe I've read this on the front page of a broadsheet. What is going on with the British?

On Leading The Life Of Riley This Week

I've just lived one of the most delightful weeks. It began on Saturday afternoon last week, 13th October, with a lazy lunch in the garden of pumpkin, chilli and ginger soup. It was really too cold to sit for long, but we managed it anyway, wrapped up in sweaters and scarves for although the autumnal sun was bright and low in the blue, cloudless sky, it was chilly enough. That night we skipped off to the Buxton Opera House for an evening with Ray Mears. I love Ray Mears, and if ever I find myself on a desert island I shall take my eight records and Ray as my luxury object.

"Over the last decade the name Ray Mears has become recognised throughout the world as being an authority on the subject of Bushcraft and Survival. Ray founded Woodlore, School of Wilderness Bushcraft, in 1983 and has been teaching for the past 25 years. Bushcraft is an encyclopaedia; bushcraft liberates and empowers. It re-acquaints man with nature and his roots and provides an escape from the shackles of modern life."

He entered stage right, preceded by smoke. Honestly, this man's an arsonist, and has carved out a successful career setting fire to everything he can lay his hands on. I bet Ray Mears could set a fire using two bits of asbestos. His stage show was really interesting, and if he ever considered getting members of the audience up on stage to try and set light to each other, his show could go global...

Liberated and empowered to escape the shackles of modern life, I nipped off to Bakewell on Monday morning. I parked up along the main road, just down from the agricultural centre, and walked through the children's playground to the river and then on to the weekly street market for vegetables and a few olives. They had black plastic boxes of small mixed peppers in autumnal reds, yellows and oranges, looking so crisp and perky I bought two. That set me thinking of harvest festivals and Hallowe'en. Walking back along the park, I noticed this beautiful scene; the wind had got up and sheets of leaves were drifting and falling right around me.

And all this week the clear night skies and cold mornings led to heavy mists rolling down the hills and filling the valleys with morning fog. Some of the tallest oak trees growing along the hedgerows were the only part of the valleys visible at breakfast time. The ground frosts over this week thankfully began the destruction of the annuals, which should clear some space for mass spring bulb planting in the next couple of weeks. I still haven't potted up the prepared hyacinths for the house, which as last year, won't now flower in time for Christmas. But I have made the most sublime recipe from Sophie Grigson's Vegetables book.

Htipiti, or Greek red pepper and feta dip, contains a small and seemingly ordinary list of ingredients which transform themselves, as Sophie promises, into a dish of sublime delight. I shall take a photo of the page in this cookbook and include it here to encourage you all to rush out to Waterstones and buy it.

Sophie instructs us to halve, seed, grill until charred then skin about 5oz red peppers; and throw them into a food processor with a seeded and chopped red chilli, 6oz feta (I used the standard supermarket 200g / 7oz packet), a clove of garlic and a drizzle of olive oil sufficient to make a creamy mass on processing. Pour into your favourite serving dish and force feed to your new best friend who historically claims to dislike both chillies and peppers. She scoffed the lot. This dip is so beautiful to look at, especially if served in a white dish. I made it with the mixed peppers from Bakewell, so got a golden sunrise colour, with the flecks of chilli and a shake of paprika adding a "red sky at night..." note.

So there you have it. A wonderful week full with Ray Mears, markets, vegetables; frosty mornings and late evenings; lolling about on the sofas watching Bridge to Terabithia with Merci Beaucoup Enfant Deux; Sophie Grigson and a Saturday night double bill of NCIS. Life really doesn't get too much better than this.

Prunus Domestica "Warwickshire Drooper" and Delia's Spiced Plum Chutney

I picked the last of these rosy golden plums a couple of Fridays ago, then got up early on Saturday morning and made Delia's Spiced Plum Chutney, click here for the recipe. I usually make it every other autumn, as a pan full of chutney makes enough to keep me going for the next couple of years. It really tastes best when made with damsons. This season has been so wet, my usual damson supplier had barely enough drupes for my annual damson gin... no contest really...

Rising early, I took everything out onto the terrace and prepped it there. It's at times like this that I realise I lead the life of Riley.

Pumpkin Harvest

I love this time of year, when hard work and horticultural perseverance is rewarded with so much orange and green. Thankfully, my obsession with Rachel Allen's crab and coconut soup has moved with me into autumnal mode, and I make it with diced pumpkin, rather than crab and prawns. I've also learned to up the chili factor but tone down the ginger. It's just such a happy-looking soup, with shards of red chili, strips of orange pumpkin flesh and the tiny scallion slivers floating on the surface. Thanks to Nigel Slater's winter recipe for giving me the notion.

Friday Five: Early Morning Alarm Calls

Each morning this week I was brought to consciousness by a blast of classic rock. As my alarm usually announces the start of my day with the Today Programme, I thought initially it had picked up interference from Planet Rock. Oh how wrong I was. Now, to fully appreciate the experience, you might want to turn your volume up to maximum; this is, after all, an early morning alarm call...

1. Monday's alarm call

2. Tuesday's alarm call

Let's be realistic, most normal people with half a brain cell would have worked out by Wednesday that something was up. Not me, as this next one came as a real surprise;

3. Wednesday's alarm call

It was Thursday before I thought that something other than interference was responsible for my startled awakenings at 6.30am. That merci beaucoup enfant deux slept through the entire performance was nothing unusual, and she still had to be throttled awake at 6.40am.

4. Thursday's alarm call

This morning I had a relatively gentle awakening;

5. Friday's alarm call

One minute into this most favourite of Jon Bon's music, Tico Torres was joined by Merci Beacoup Enfant Deux on her Ludwig 5-Piece in the music room. I staggered across the landing and opened the door, to see m.b.e.d. laughing her head off and shouting, "Morning mum."

Teenagers.

Teenage girls.

Teenage girls with the patience and cunning to build a scenario over a week...

School Run 4: October

This is the school run of Merci Beaucoup Enfant Deux; over the mountains this afternoon on the way home from school, across misty, autumnal Derbyshire. The bee-keepers have moved their hives into the heather-filled foothills of the Pennines; the buffalo are destined for Derbyshire mozzarella and ultimately sausages; just as surely as m.b.e.d. is destined for A levels, university, career, and greathood. So there we have it. My beloved only daughter, taking photos; catching an unplanned ride home with mum rather than the school bus; eating a wrap from Sainsbury's (oh wow thanks mum!), immortalised in print. All the days of my life I shall be thankful for digital photography and the world wide web.

Click here to download this beautiful autumnal image of Arum italicum subsp. italicum 'Marmoratum' for your desktop.

Wife Takes Clothes Off Washing Line As Her Cheating Husband Burned In Garden Shed Only Yards Away

Continuing my occasional theme of a woman's love for her laundry, here is a story widely reported this week, that just takes my breath away. Actually, I was breathless because I was laughing so much, even though this is a terrible tale of tragedy and loss of life. Nevertheless, the woman's behaviour upon discovery of the main event is, I believe at least, entirely reasonable. You just have to have an understanding of a woman's love of laundry. So here is the news story reproduced from the Daily Telegraph...

Inquest of fireball 'suicide' judge begins

By Richard Savill
Last Updated: 2:30am BST 09/10/2007

A judge's "controlling" wife took clothes off a washing line as her cheating husband burned to death in a garden shed only yards away - less than 90 minutes after he had asked her for a divorce, an inquest heard yesterday. Judge AC, 58, died in a fireball in the shed at his 19th century farmhouse near Chard, Somerset, on the evening of July 29, 2001 - shortly after telling his wife J, 60, that he was leaving her for his 38-year-old mistress.

At the second inquest into the judge's mysterious death yesterday, neighbours told how Mrs C appeared surprisingly controlled after the blaze and immediately claimed her husband had committed suicide. She had helped take clothes off the washing line and closed windows in the couple's home as the shed continued to burn.

A gardener who went to the scene told the hearing: "I found it strange that if her husband was in the shed, she was bothered about the washing." Mrs C even became "upset" when a police officer told her they could not find a body in the blackened remains of the shed and she insisted he was in there, the inquest heard. She told one neighbour on the night of the fire how she had told her husband of 34 years: "You're not going to divorce me."

Mrs L, a neighbour who went to comfort Mrs C, told the hearing at Glastonbury Town Hall how she appeared convinced her husband was in the shed and had committed suicide. She added: "She was very controlled. She knew what she was saying, she knew what she was doing. That is very strange stuff to say to someone half an hour after your husband's been incinerated in a shed." Mrs L said: "She was adamant he was in there and that he had committed suicide. "While we were waiting for the fire brigade, J told me she had been told by A that he was having an affair. Mrs L added: "J's friend said to her 'Are you insured with Bob? Bob pays out very well for suicides'. I didn't hear her reply. "I thought that a very strange thing to talk about when your husband is being incinerated in a shed and the smoke hasn't even gone out."

The hearing continues.

Alright Babe?

This makes me scream with laughter. I love footie, I just love footie...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nh7gm4jj6c

Early Autumn Sunshine

Jan! Look What You Did!

http://thephantomstapleremover.blogspot.com/

Free Burma

Link here -->

Thank you Jan.