On Funerals, Eulogies, Wakes and the World Wide Web

I like to arrive at funerals a good 45 minutes before the host. Unless of course it's a Catholic funeral, when the body is brought into church the night before. Arriving early enables you to seat yourself in the appropriate part of the church. Not too near the front (unless you are family, very close friends or just plain rude), half way back (if you are distant family i.e. second cousin status and beyond, work colleagues and parishioners), or at the back (people of no faith, those who need others to show them when to stand when to kneel, etc., and drama queens.) I sat myself quietly with the better dressed and distant family and friends in the middle section. Packed church, lovely funeral, on point eulogy and a good spread afterwards. Three hours later I'm still there renewing distant family relationships and swapping email addresses. Then I blackberry my PA.

"At wake. Negotiating purchase of coat. Google up musquash. Not rabbit is it?"

Into The land Of Carmel

I'm knackered. My right shoulder aches, right in the middle. Not as bad as tooth ache, but persistent and annoying just the same. I once described this in great detail to an ortho, and was told the pain was most likely due to holding back a punch. I've always rather liked that (wholly facetious) explanation. That's how work's been these last few months, knackering and driving me to silent, well-contained fury; hence the shoulder pain. Still, it pays the bills and since Christmas I've turned in some amazing work.

And rather surprisingly, my garden hasn't had to endure months of neglect. Instead I've written one huge list, then gone at it like a mad thing in short, hour-long bursts a couple of times each week. The potatoes were planted in one early evening 45-minute blast (staff induction then pointless back to back meetings then a two-hour crawl along the M1 car park). All the bean supports went up in another 40-minutes (interviewing for colleagues and realising no-one was appointable after seeing 9 illiterates one of whom actually submitted their band 8 presentation entirely in text-speak.) That day almost ended with no shoulder pain... Even the onions sets, shallots and all the roots are in.

Part of me worries about this. Like Tita, will all this rage find an explosive outlet in the vegetables I've sown? Hope so. Imagine the rabbit that eats my French beans. This could be the year of a reasonable crop.

At the end of May I took off for the flat lands of Norfolk and some peace and quiet with the vegetarian sisters. An onion tart, a simple dish of perfectly cooked green beans and some fruit were set out for my arrival, and together with a bottle of Isla Negra High Tide and thoughts of my favourite poet I started a few days break from the world. I'm planning a return visit in the autumn, for who can resist the allure of a journey into the land of Carmel to enjoy its fruits and blessings?

This Year's Bean Crop

Well who'd have thought it! Quite a few of the beans survived the rabbits. And not only that, they survived the latest spring for decades, condensed when it finally arrived into a magnificent three-week explosion of scent and colour; and the longest, hottest, driest summer that brought about green growth at the expense of flowers and pods. Except there were pods, hiding under all that lush greenery.

The photo above is one of my favourite pictures this year. I shall save every one of the blue beans for planting next year and do a taste test in twelve months time.

Left to right in the picture above we have white beans, good for winter soups; the pale green beans, some lightly speckled with red, are a dwarf Borlotti that bore much of the brunt of the early feeding by the rabbits; then a few small ochre beans, these are Canadian Wonder and a great substitute for kidney beans, but smaller and sweeter; then a huge range of pink and purple splashed beans, large and juicy; then large purple/pink beans, again great for autumn and winter soups. To the back of the picture are the glossiest black beans you will ever see; and the stangest blue beans, that darken to an inky midnight blue on drying.

Fecking rabbits... and a Friday night lasagne

As predicted, very busy week. Mind you, the M1 was a relative breeze, and I finally swung into the drive feeling ready for the weekend. And what should be lying across my garden table, just waiting for me to come home? 6 rabbits. Their eyes bright, their fur fresh, their fat little tummies full with my vegetables. Yummy yummy, in my tummy.

Don't you just love having farming neighbours?

Skinned and gutted, I roasted off the carcasses on a bed of garden herbs, then stripped the meat. Splashed some olive oil into a pan, fried off a couple of shallots and some frozen garlic (see earlier posts!). As the heavenly scent began to fill the kitchen, I picked some very peculiarly shaped peppers from the glass house and washed and chopped them into the pan. Add half a dozen mixed tomatoes (more about them over the weekend), some salt and finely chopped herbs then let the whole lot cook off. Added the meat and simmered off to a thickish sauce, made a bog standard white sauce and assembled the lasagne. Threw in the oven for 90 minutes with a dish of dauphinois potatoes. Settled down to watch Gardener's World with a glass of chardonnay, and the world doesn't seem too bad after all.

Lists, lists and again I say lists

I love coming home from the seaside to my garden, and there are few more delightful tasks than the eager stroll around the garden checking each little horticultural miracle. The size of the annuals thrown in any old way and thriving, the forgotten gloves and Felcos discovered under the bench by the hedge, the roses, the soft fruit, apple trees and herbs, all calling, "Welcome back!" and, "How was your holiday?" and "Look what we've been doing whilst you were away!"

And then I strolled into the vegetable garden. Pumpkins looking quite respectable, plenty of greenery and a respectable number of fat yellow flowers unfurling for the bees; sweet corn waist high; three netted tunnels of fat, outrageous brassicas; four long rows of field tomatoes each plant interplanted with its garlic bedfellow; wigwams of beans.... er, where are the beans? I've got 8 wigwams and two long rows of beans. The bloody rabbits had eated the lot. Feckers. That's the third set of beans I've set out, two lots of plants and finally good old fashioned beans dropped into a hole made with a finger dibbed into the soil up to the knuckle. Every bloody one chewed by those fur-coat-good-for-nothings.

Here's the obituary:

Fagiolo rampicante -
Borlotto lamon
Santa Anna
and some glossy black beans, white beans and brown speckled beans saved from last year

Fagiolo nano -
Slenderette
Borlotti
Canadian Wonder as these resemble kidney beans

Rabbit with tomatoes & balsamic vinegar

First shoot, skin and gut your rabbit. You must gut them pretty much immediately, so do that in the field, (or, as in the case in hand, in the garden...) Cut each rabbit into pieces and shake into a plastic bag of seasoned flour. Brown rapidly in a pan and transfer to your baking dish. Cover with the following sauce and cook uncovered for 40 minutes at 180'C basting midway with an extra 3 or 4 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar.

Sauté a large chopped onion with 3 or 4 cloves of finely chopped garlic in olive oil until transparent but not browned. Add 5 or 6 chopped tomatoes, season with salt and black pepper, handful of finely chopped rosemary, half a teaspoon tumeric, and one teaspoon of lightly toasted fennel seeds. Stir in 4 tablespoons balsamic vinegar and simmer until sauce is thick and reduced. Pour over rabbit, and enjoy your french beans via the rabbit. Feckers.