The Cottage Smallholder

Today I was creeping gingerly up a roof to paint a gable. I looked up and spotted a collared dove sitting on a slim nest of twigs. If she was comfortable at this height why not me? I sat on the ridge and surveyed the view. A duck hatched out eleven ducklings yesterday and the brood were having fun on the pond. The moorhen’s chicks are growing fast. Unlike the ducklings they are kept well away in the reeds so seeing them is rare. But she still has three.

After school three young lads (about ten years old) appeared by the pond with a fishing rod and a lot of equipment which they left on the road. This meant that cars had to slow right down as they passed the gang. Sometimes people would stop and alert the gang to how dangerous their activity was. Their response was angry and abusive. As I was painting a bargeboard barely fifteen feet away from them I finally crossed the road to ask them to stash their gear on the grass. They were stunned. I moved their gear three times onto the verge before they let it stay.

What was more unsettling was the fact that I suspected that they were trying to catch the day old ducklings. They would throw bread to attract the mother and ducklings and then dangle a tempting piece of bread on the end of a hooked line. The reflection on the windows of the house revealed all. I didn’t tackle them on the point as I reckoned that it would encourage them to try even harder. I watched their endeavours with a heavy heart.

If they had caught a duckling I would have leapt from the ladder in an instant. In the end I couldn’t bear to watch so went to work on the back of the house.

The ducklings proved to be more intelligent than their pursuers. When I eventually climbed into Jalopy’s front seat I counted 11 ducklings so today all was well.

My client returned from work and told me that he’d stopped them stoning the Moorhen chicks. Their response was bitter and nasty. But when he swung into the drive today they vanished.

Why do some kids feel impelled to torment and kill wildlife? Are they growing up in homes where they feel so small that they need to destroy and abuse anything smaller than them?

This afternoon’s experience sickened and depressed me deeply. This was not high jinks it was three angry and disturbed children letting rip on the world. Perhaps growing up in a pretty yet isolated village is not the rural idyll that we imagine that it is for children. Maybe they feel trapped and confined when the school bus dumps them back at the end of the day.

And do their parents have any idea what they are doing? I doubt that they even care.

Tomorrow the new laptop arrives. Meanwhile I’ve borrowed Danny’s so just have time to dash off this post. Emails and comments will be answered at the weekend if all goes well.

Photo: Mystery plant

I watched a pair of butterflies canoodling for ten minutes this afternoon. Settling on the grass and then opening their wings for each other. If I had wings that beautiful, I think that I’d have opened mine too. They fluttered about the garden in between the wing displays, beautiful and intimate creatures on a mission.

Meanwhile I had been getting acquainted with giant spiders. The higher you climb on a ladder propped against a house, the bigger the spiders you meet. At the apex of the barge boards I met a giant. It was just an unsuccessful speed dating moment as the spider glanced at my brush and scuttled away. Throughout the afternoon the spider ventured into my life apperaring at key moments. Not helping, although it was large enough to wield a brush. It just added a frissance of apprehension. What will I do if I flush it out and it runs for freedom down my bare arm?

Meanwhile back at the cottage we are harvesting strawberries and raspberries. Finally after four years our raspberry patch is bountiful. I pick every morning for breakfast. You can’t beat just picked raspberries, yoghurt and honey. The evening pickings go into the freezer. This year I’m determined to make raspberry wine. A real winner according to Joanna’s Food. We have already made several bottles of raspberry gin. Doubling up the raspberries this time.

The autumn raspberries have the best depth of flavour but the July harvest is perfect for raspberry gin or vodka. The Guinea Fowl and chickens love any fruit that is tossed into their lair. The main fruit cage is beside the chicken run. When I step under the nets they are watching my progress carefully. I have two pots. One for perfect fruit. The other for more dubious specimens. The latter are guzzled gratefully by our flock.

On the peaky laptop front, The Newmarket Computer Company have finally decided that my old pal cannot be mended. Luckily they are a no fix no fee company. So as D snoozes above my fingers fly across his keyboard.

Meanwhile this beautiful perennial has started to bloom in the pond garden. Can any plant expert identify it? It was bought from the secret garden stand and the label was lost a couple of years ago. Even when it wasn’t flowering I loved its fronds. Our unidentified visitor is framed by Rosa Complicata and a very pretty pink fuchsia that was given by our friends Jocelyn and Miles.

Incidentally Seraphina and I went to the secret garden on the second Saturday in June to find no fete in progress. A few weeks later I bumped into the lady that tends this paradise. The local church had dilly dallied – planned to have the fete in their grounds and then realised that the uneven earth was a health risk so the fete is now going to be held on July 25 2009 at Shrublands, High Street, Fordham. If you would like to dive into a wonderful garden – don’t give this a miss.

Photo: Pork meatballs in a delicate sweet and sour sauce

I love meatballs. But only the melt in the mouth variety.

Having sharpened my teeth on  ultra firm chewy meatballs, I decided never to attempt to make them myself. What was the point? Why push hardened walnut sized balls of meat onto anyone else?

Several years ago Danny’s special brother, Donagh, gave me the secret of melt in the mouth meatballs. He had served meatballs to die for and I was desperate to get his secret.
“It’s so simple. I learnt the method from the mother of my Spanish girlfriend.” He finally revealed.
I was all ears.
“Never use just mince for your meat balls. They need to be mixed with bread crumbs soaked in milk and, even if they are frozen, they will always be soft and delicious.”
The milk and bread combination sounded pretty gross but I had to try making them myself.

His recipe worked for me and meatballs have been a regular dish in the cottage kitchen since then. Donagh’s method of making meatballs is superb. So good that I totally ignore even give away cut priced supermarket Aberdeen Angus meatballs. Better to pounce on a pack of marked down mince and a loaf of white bread from the almost give away basket.

Best melt in the mouth pork meatballs in a piquant tamarind, fresh ginger and honey sauce recipe

Ingredients:

500g of pork mince
2 tbsp of organic honey
2 chubby cloves of garlic (chopped very fine)
1 inch piece of fresh ginger (peeled and chopped very fine)
2.5 tsp of tamarind paste
1 tsp of lemon grass
Half a tsp of soy sauce
2 tbsp of oyster sauce
1-2 star anise
2 tsp of mushroom ketchup
1 tbsp of corn flour
500ml of litre of water
Quarter tsp of lemon zest.
50g of fresh white breadcrumbs
4 tbsp of milk
3 chunky bell peppers (2 red and 1 yellow) diced into 1cm cubes.

Method:

Add the milk to the breadcrumbs and mix well. Allow these to soak in before mixing the breadcrumbs through the minced pork. Then mix the beaten egg into the meatball mixture. Form 14-16 small balls the size of a large walnut. Pop them into the fridge while you make the sauce.
Dice the peppers. Peel and chop the garlic cloves and fresh ginger very fine. Bring the water to the boil, add the chopped peppers, garlic and ginger. Then add lemon zest, honey, tamarind, mushroom ketchup, star anise, oyster sauce, soy sauce and lemon grass.

When the sauce has reached simmering point add the corn flour to a large spoonful of the sauce to make a wet paste and return this to the saucepan stirring it in well. This will thicken the sauce.
Gently place the meatballs into the saucepan and simmer (lid on) for 10 minutes. Then turn the balls very gently to cook the other side and simmer for ten minutes (lid on). Simmer for a further ten minutes.
Add sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.
Serve with rice and crisp French beans.

Even though I spent 20 years in education, my general knowledge is very limited.
I’m great if you want to hear about fine art, classical music or Victorian novels. But life skills and knowledge are sketchy.  The great thing about Danny and my old friend Ross Cameron is that they welcome any question.
“I admire the fact that you want to know and don’t mind asking. Most people try to cover up the gaps in their everyday knowledge. Think about it. You can’t know everything.”
Ross always softened the blow and the fact that most people that I knew seem to understand a lot more than me.

Bringgg  Bringgggg.
“Hi Ross, I’ve found a pink lizard like creature under a brick. Do you have any idea what it is?”
“I think that it’s a female newt, Fiona. If you need to use that brick, pick her up on a leaf and gently transfer her to your pond. She will find a good place to rest.”

I can ask Danny anything too. He was the Childrens Encyclopaedia Britannica Kid. Read all the volumes from cover to cover. And remembers everything – very handy when I’m drowning in physics or just a simple question.
“Why don’t they ever mention the kipper fishermen?”
Danny managed to keep a straight face when he explained that kippers are smoked herrings . I thought that sea fish must be automatically salty.

With my laptop, I had access to everything that I wanted to know.  I’m missing my laptop big time. I don’t watch TV so it’s my window on the world. This evening I discovered red spider mite on the runner bean plants. I sprayed them with a soapy organic spray but would normally have rushed back to the kitchen table to search on the Internet for the perfect cure.

My laptop is still in intensive care. I dropped into the shop this afternoon and discussed the prognosis. It doesn’t sound good. The gentle guy recognised me although I was in my tatty decorating garb.
“Your laptop is a nightmare.”
Tell me about it.
“There is just one more procedure to try and then it’s curtains, unfortunately.”
“Oh. I see. In that case, if I buy another laptop can you transfer the information over?”
“Yes, no problem.”

I suspect that it will be Argos Clearance Bargains, here I come. We’ll have an answer on Monday.

Photo: Interpretation of murder

If you want to lose yourself in a book why not try this one? The Interpretation of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld was published in 2006 but as I don’t read the Literary Review and rarely glance at a newspaper, I missed this gem. My review comes with a warning. Don’t start this book if you haven’t hours to spend alone turning its pages. If you are a worker bee don’t open this book this during the working week unless you are severely addicted to delayed gratification.

My mum sent me a chunky parcel when she heard that I was ill. It was propped against the door on the morning that I returned to work.

I retreated into the kitchen and ripped open the bulky package. Inside was a small Rupert Bear (sold to raise funds for Muscular Dystrophy) and this book. There was also a brief note from my Mum.
“Get well soon. I couldn’t put this book down.”

In a fever of excitement, I rushed up to The Rat Room where D was on a conference call. He hit the mute button and I reported my news. He looked flummoxed.
“A thriller about Rupert Bear? That’s good. Sorry, can’t stop.”
Within seconds he was back talking to India.

Aaarrrrghhh…

I left Rupert sitting on the kitchen mantelpiece and took the book to work. I opened it at lunchtime. This was a mistake because I could hardly bear to put it down after I’d swallowed the last mouthful of sweet blue cheese, tomatoes and rough oatcakes.

When I rang to thank my Mum that evening she explained why she had sent it to me.
“It’s exciting and surprising right to the very last page, and I don’t like thrillers. I bought it to read in hospital last year as it had such a great review in The Times.  But in hospital I hardly touched a book so I’ve only just finished it. ”

Oh that moment when you finish a good book. Surprise and true angst. For me it is always,
“Why didn’t I read it slowly and savour every word.”

This book was stunning. I didn’t earn much money at the beginning of last week. In fact I spent so much time holed up in Jalopy that I wondered if the locals thought that I might be a Private Detective posing as a decorator.

Basically the author weaves fact and fiction. Freud and Jung both travelled to New York in 1909. The timescale is slightly elastic. The book examines their falling out which didn’t happen until 1912. This book pits Freud and an American disciple to solve a major murder mystery.

In my early twenties I was a craft instructor in a psychiatric day centre for a few years. All staff had to undergo psychiatric support – counselling, therapy or analysis. The post was challenging so I chose the most intensive therapy available.

I undertook Jungian analysis. Every working day for five years. The last year was after I left the job as I realised that I hadn’t finished and needed the wisdom. This was a bit of a shock. Everyone likes to think that they are “normal” with knobs on.

Looking back, I was far too young to get the best out of the therapy but I’m sure that the psychoanalysis must have had a beneficial effect. I did privately study Jung’s and Freud’s works at the time. I was far more attracted to Jung’s ideas. This book redressed the balance a tiny bit but if I was to undertake analysis now I still would chose the Jungian route.

I finished The Interpretation of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld  last Wednesday and now Danny is in the grip of the book. He’s still involved in conference calls – under extreme duress.

News flash: my laptop is still in intensive care so have borrowed D’s machine for an hour.

Danny's potato border (a week ago)

Fiona suggested that I contribute my first “Guest spot” this evening, while she cooks up a mouth-watering frittata. Seems like a good trade to me. The aroma of the frying bacon wafts up to my eyrie in the Rat Room to spur me on.

 Her laptop is still in intensive care. The ‘fixes’ haven’t worked. She has stopped ringing the company twice a day to enquire about the health of her companion. She gets the health report each morning. The prognosis his spiralled rapidly down from.
“We’ll ring you at the end of the day to arrange collection.”
To.
“One problem opens up to another. We’re wondering if it’s worth exploring the problem.”
So at the moment Fiona has no voice (just worldwide as the laryngitis is a bit better and she was back at work today).

Potatoes are one of the current topics of discussion across the Cottage Smallholder dinner table at the moment because this year I have planted two “ridges” the width of three spuds for the first time in our 12 year association. I followed the techniques that I remember my dad using 40 years ago in rural West Cork.

He started by ploughing over the plot in late autumn and applied fertiliser in January or early February so that it had several weeks to break up and soak into the soil before planting commenced in March. He was a primary school teacher but should have been a farmer. He loved the land and was never happier than when he could shed his schoolhouse garb for his “home gear” at 3:30 in the afternoon and go out to work on our five acres.

Looking back, he was a true entrepreneur and socialist. Just one of those guys that every village needs, someone who drives projects. He strove to establish a bacon factory in our area but failed. Not for want of effort but because of national party politics. He was the guy who organised the purchase of a field with quite a slope and had it converted into a fine football pitch over the course of several years.

The potato planting season began in mid-March with the early crop. I was a bookish child, happy to huddle in a quiet corner with an Enid Blyton. But I would always be summoned to help. A very cold east wind blew as my dad used a narrow spade and open a space where I would drop in a seed potato (one that has germinated a little and has “eyes” sprouting). I’ve discovered that in England you chit a whole seed potato. In Ireland my Dad cut the spuds up after chitting, leaving at least one eye on each segment. I tried this method in my potato patch this year. The leaves took a bit longer to come through but they are now sturdy, flowering  plants.

I hated having to help with those childhood potato planting sessions. It was bitterly cold and I’ve never associated pain with gain. When it comes to physical labour, I am a lazy sod. To this day, I blame those freezing March episodes for my antipathy towards gardening. My Fiona has gently guided me back to an appreciation of vegetable (and herbaceous) planting, and I thank her. When I look at my border of spuds I feel really proud.

Sometime around May, my dad sprayed the potatoes to protect against blight. Back then, the only spray known to an Irishman was pure Copper Sulphate. We called it Bluestone. When mixed with water in an old oil drum, it transformed into a magical cobalt blue lake that seemed to beckon me into its totally poisonous depths.

Early varieties were dug up for the table in late June and early July. They were balls of flour. One of the distinguishing features between English and Irish culture seems to be the preference for floury (Irish) or waxy (English) potatoes according to taste. My mum adored a plate of new floury potatoes accompanied by salt and a glass of homemade buttermilk. She always did have had great taste. I must confess to a recent strong liking for Jersey Royals. Sweet and waxy, they are absolutely divine.

I have no idea which of these are early or main crop but my Dad used to plant:
Home Guard
British Queens
Kerris Pinks
King Edwards
Our late departed and dearly missed neighbour, David Eynon, used to hoot with laughter that an Irishman could contemplate growing such British imperialistically named varieties!

The main crop was dug up in September and laid in a shallow pit that was lined with bracken. Then it was transported indoors to a dry outhouse to feed our family of seven throughout the winter.

The slice of life I have described here was 1960s to early 70s. Sadly, my dad succumbed to a rare form of leukaemia in the mid 70s. The village still misses him. His socialist leanings meant that he would inform the local small farmers about Department of Agriculture grants and assist everyone. He deputised for the government agencies at a time when poverty was rife in rural areas like ours and made a real difference to local farmers that might not have heard of recent grants or schemes.

My single biggest regret was that the village convened a “committee” to oversee the running of the football pitch. It should really have been named after my dad but it was not. Village politics took precedence.

I hate this kind of politics.

Bergenia and stachys

I stayed at home today. Can’t seem to kick off the laryngitis so spent most of the day in bed, with the Min Pins and a hottie.

This evening D and I strolled in the garden.
“What are these?” He touched the large evergreen waxy leaves gently.
“Bear’s Ears. Bergenia. Ours have pink flowers in the spring.”
“And what are these?”
“Lamb’s Ears. Stachys byzantine. Touch them. They’re as soft and silky as a Min Pin pup.”

I’ve included these two perennials in all my gardens. Flowers that I remember growing in gardens when I was a child. Both plants enjoy growing in sunny dry flower beds and are a perfect foil for each other.

It’s so easy to forget the importance of touch when exploring a garden.

We have two freezers. One at the bottom of our fridge freezer in our larder and the other lives in our barn.

The later is fuelled by electricity that runs from the plug in the larder. The cable goes out of the window and finishes beside the upright small chest freezer thirty yards away.

It’s a perfect setup as long as no one jiggles the cable.

This morning Danny had bought a half price free range Gressingham duck from Tesco for Sunday lunch (always eaten in the evening). I knew that we had Victoria plums in the barn freezer and offer to fetch some to stuff the duck.

When I lifted the lid of the freezer I could see that something was very wrong. I usually struggle to mini defrost this freezer. Removing the ice from beneath the lid with a wooden spoon.

Today the contents had dropped. I could have stored a suckling pig in the cavity. There was very little ice.

We now are heads down cooking up the defrosted meat. We enjoyed minted lamb kebabs for lunch. Tomorrow and the next day it will be Wild Alaskan Smoked Salmon for lunchtime sandwiches. I have just turned off a slow cooked Spring game casserole in the slow cooker. Danny will finally be making home made sausages tomorrow evening whilst pork and veal meatballs simmer in the slow cooker. On Tuesday we will be making salami.

Meanwhile the Newmarket Computer Company have discovered that my sickly laptop needs a new hard drive. They can also copy my files to the new one. As these are not backed up (shame ) I’m going to use their services and hopefully I  might have my laptop back under my fingertips very soon.

Meanwhile this post is from a borrowed laptop so just time to write a bit but not answer comments or emails. Many apologies.

Photo: Baby leek planted in stony ground

When John Coe reverses into our drive he sits for several minutes in his car before he gets out and opens the boot. I’ve never have the nerve to ask him why. I just open the front door and leave it slightly ajar.

This morning he was loaded with carrier bags, gardening gloves and his wellingtons when he pushed the door into the kitchen.
“I’ve brought you a lettuce.” He opened the bag gently to reveal a large head of butter lettuce. The kind that my mum used to buy when I was growing up. Do you remember those simple salads, lettuce leaves, beside a row of sliced tomatoes and flanked by some sliced cucumber. And salad cream rather than mayonnaise? When I left home Iceberg lettuce was a new and exciting discovery. Well it was years ago after all!

The Orford Oysterage still serves this type of salad. Old fashioned and reassuring and a great foil to the delicious oysters, fish and crab.

“Here’s a bag of my own new potatoes.” I peeped in to see lovely rounded spuds dusted with soil.

He waved a wrap of newspaper under my snout.
“And what are these? Chives?” I ventured. How clever of him to have thought of bringing the ingredients for a perfect potato salad.
“No. They are baby leeks.”
I could have hugged him.

You don’t know but was really keen to grow leeks this year and failed. I love leeks in a white sauce and if the plants go to seed they are so decorative. So I sowed enough seed for a twelve foot row of leeks and put the seed tray into the electric propagator. Two germinated within a few days. Then I waited and waited and waited. After a month the Emperor’s New Leeks were tossed onto the compost heap. I tried to buy a tray from the local garden centre but they had sold out.

Eventually I ventured onto the internet for tips and tricks on how to grow this ‘impossible vegetable’. All I found were reports of how quickly they had germinated and how easily they were to grow.

John was reassuring as we searched for spots to plant them.
“These were in the seed bed for weeks before they germinated.”
“How many weeks?”
“So long that I gave up counting,” replied my tactful vegetable guru.

John Coe’s leek seedlings were about 8 inches (25 cm) tall. He made a hole with a dibber for each plant (about six inches deep) setting the plants about a foot apart in staggered rows. He then topped up each hole with water.
“You’ll see, they’ll be standing straight by the morning.”

There’s useful leek growing information in the BBC site  and this site is fun too as it explains how to grow show leeks.  You can see from the photo that our ground is still quite stony in this part of the kitchen garden. We rake out wheelbarrow loads of stones each spring and autumn. But I just want simple, tasty leeks rather than Jean Harlot film star show leeks.

Photo: Herbacious border June 2009

“There’s a third of an acre of flowers. And not a vegetable in sight.”  John Coe was amazed fifteen years ago. I wasn’t. Back then I couldn’t imagine wanting to grow vegetables. They seemed so boring. Now they are the most exciting bit of the garden.

I was creating my garden for lovers. I forgot that these lovers might enjoy eating super fresh vegetables and fruit. John’s garden was the reverse of mine. A small flower garden for his wife and an immense vegetable patch for them both.

In the olden days smaller houses in the country generally sat in a vast plot. Most families raised vegetables, chickens and pigs in the back and flowers in the front garden. Amongst these flowers were tobacco plants.

Back then everyone was allowed to raise some tobacco which would be cured at local smoke houses. There was a capped yet generous allowance for each person.

So people on lower incomes had the opportunity to grow their own and raise a little meat. John Coe sold his eggs to people at work and bartered for things that he needed.

Over the past three years, I’ve started bartering big time myself.  I’m happy to return at a weekend and work for a fat roll of chicken wire, seasoned wood to construct raised flower beds, or a brace of pheasant. I pay a decent ‘swap’ for these things – a bit under the market value but never fleece the recipients. Generally everyone is delighted.  I always barter for things that I need and would have to buy. I love working for hoarders over the age of sixty. They generally have stuff that they have forgotten that I have spotted and value. Bills are adjusted with happy smiling faces all round.

Although we have an expanding kitchen garden we wouldn’t dream of digging up our herbaceous borders just yet. This is the view from our back door – open from dawn to dusk so that we can dive in all day and enjoy the magic.