Garlic and Sourdough

There is a trip planned for next week and I have an awful lot to do before I leave.

• Plant garlic.
• Rack wine.
• Plant daffodils.
• Turn up new black trousers.
• Buy toiletries.
• Organise spending money.
• Buy presents.
• Wrap presents.
• Sort clothes for packing.

Today I made a list - not the one above. And collected my big suitcase from the attic. I put my long list on top of it and smiled a satisfied smile. That'll do. For today.

I also had this conversation with Bert.

I'll be wanting you to keep my sourdough mother alive when I'm away.

What! Can't you get Hannah to do that?

It's not hard.

I'll never remember.

I'll also be expecting you to put the recycling out on Wednesday night.

What!

But if you don't do that it's not the end of the world. However, that sourdough has been going for seven months now. I'd hate it to die just because no-one was able to give it a spoonful of flour, a dribble of water and a wee stir.

Can't you take it with you? If I forget you'll yell at me and if Hannah's responsible for it you won't yell at her.

This is true. But Hannah's got enough on her plate. I'll get Les to remind you.

Last year's garlic

I'm definitely not taking that sourdough mother with me. Imagine trying to explain that to airport security.

7th September

Continuing on the theme of daily achievements I can report that I....

Baked an excellent loaf of sourdough bread without recourse to measurement tools.

Finished a superb bottle of Damson Wine so delicious that it made me want to cry.

Listened to a potential Ted Talk from my nearly eight-year-old granddaughter on the pointlessness of homework for primary school children. It was such a well thought out argument that I couldn't help but wonder if she had been listening to the same programme on Radio 4 that I'd caught a couple of days ago. Impossible, as she'd have been in school at the time. Bolstered by her argument, we polished off homework in about seven minutes flat then moved straight on to Horrid Henry on Netflix. She was middling on the spelling of 'sequencing' but she convinced me that it wasn't crucial.

Made (for the third time) that delicious tomato salad so good that I am duty bound to share the recipe. It's from The Guardian courtesy of Anna Jones.

This is my take.

Some tomatoes. Preferably home-grown, include a green one.

Put in a colander, sprinkle with sea salt and let liquid seep into a bowl. Discard liquid.

Add finely chopped chilli. Mine are home-grown. Yum!

Add two cloves of amazingly fresh and deliciously juicy home grown garlic cloves. Yum!

Season with black pepper. Add one part red wine or balsamic vinegar. (I'd run out so used cider vinegar - was OK.) Then three parts olive oil. Look, I know this is boastful but I used home-grown, home-pressed olive oil straight from Sicily. A gift from Hannah's boyfriend and probably the culinary highlight of my entire life so far.

Believe me, this is undoubtedly the best tomato salad ever.

Busy Day

First of all, I baked this loaf. It had been rising all through the sleepy-time hours so I gave it a quick knockback, turned the oven on to high, took my coffee back to bed then baked it for thirty minutes exactly.

Sorted out my chickens, showered and went to Belfast.

Then straight to the Ulster Museum to look at the exhibition that wasn't child-friendly, the Francisco Goya 'The Disasters of War'. It was harsh. I also took another look at recent Irish history section, the part that depicts what some call 'The Troubles'. I have a friend, a Republican and Sinn Fein activist, who finds this part of the museum anodyne but I am always affected by it and often tearful. The so-called Troubles were my entire adult life from around fifteen years old until they ended, if they even have ended. Maybe my friend is right. I'm sad and sniffly at the Ulster Museum but in our other city at the Museum of Free Derry  I was in pieces.

As always it was impossible to resist the Palm House which is so close to the museum and the delights of the exotic and wonderful plants within. Just one niggle - why aren't they named. I always feel I don't know a plant unless I have its Latin name. I knew the Dizygotheca elegantissima, Passiflora caerulea, Crassula ovata and Monstera deliciosa because I have or have had those plants at some time but what's this?

Or this?

No doubt I'll find out some day.

It was a good day. I needed to get out on my own and when I got home the people I live in where in very good form (they had enjoyed a Nelly-free day) and the sourdough bread was very delicious indeed. 


Since posting this I had the following message on Facebook from a South African friend.

The yellow flower is a Hibiscus that is a genus of flowering plants in the mallow family Malvaceae. They grow prolifically in SA.

Look What He's Done To My Bread Ma

I persevered with the sourdough bread, kept the mother going and worked out a recipe and method that works for me. My last two loaves have been excellent. The trouble is, they are so yummy that it is hard to get a photo before the bread is scoffed.

I was going to take a photograph earlier today but it would have meant decluttering the kitchen and today was a gardening day - so no time for housework. If there was to be a picture of my delicious bread then everything had to be just right, perhaps an artfully placed linen tea towel, or a posy of spring flowers, maybe I could even arrange one of the cats to sit on the dresser to add interest to the background. What I wouldn't want is dirty dishes, piles of unsorted laundry and a massive heap of newspapers on my catless dresser. I consoled myself with how very pretty my loaf looked, good texture, unburnt crust, decent shape. With a few slices cut from it would make a very decent picture.

Now imagine how I felt when Bert hacked my lovely loaf to pieces before I had the chance to Instagram it. It couldn't have been less photogenic if a rabid donkey had got to it. Why? He couldn't find the right knife, sure it was only going to be eaten anyway. What did it matter what it looked like?

It's a pet hate of mine when people leave loaves, pies, and cakes looking unpresentable. And, of course, when I say people I mean Bert. Do you know what he'd do if he thought he could get away with it? I'd be taking some delicious baked thing out of the oven and before it even had a chance to cool he'd have pulled a lump out of it to taste it. Sharp rap over the knuckles with a wooden spoon soon put that nonsense out of him.

Anyway, here is a picture of one of my first loaves. The one that got mauled looked better, was bigger and tastier and was going to have a better tea towel. Here's to the next one.

Rooster Attack

When a rooster flies at you and puts his spurs into your leg, you notice it. This fellow was a big heavy lad and he ruled the roost. I'm going to miss hearing him crow tomorrow morning. Blogged on 02/06/2015



This is Duke, our senior rooster. He was reared as a battery hen and turned out to be a male so, as our previous rooster had been taken by the fox (see above), we gave him a home.

He was a timorous fellow to start with but, as his confidence has grown, he has turned out to be one of the most vicious roosters we've ever had. I have to keep a tight eye on him when I go into the run. Tonight I forgot. The seven youngest chickens take ages to go into the house at bedtime and I was giving them a bit of encouragement or, to be honest, chasing them, when he came flying out of the house and launched himself at my right leg, at knee height.  I limped into the house to clean the wounds, both bleeding, where his spurs had punched right through my heavy jeans. My knee had already started to swell. Of course, I was raging and considered having Bert kill him, or leave him out in the woods for Foxy to find. It's not as if he hasn't three fine sons to take up rooster duty in the hen run. But,  then I relented for he was only doing his job, protecting his flock.

Hopefully, my knee will feel better tomorrow and I won't lose the leg owing to some filthy chicken disease. Then he gets to cock-a-doodle-doo for another while and we won't be eating cock-a-leekie soup for our Sunday dinner.

That was the bad news. The good news is that my latest sourdough loaf was a big success and my grandson James thought it was delicious. Sadly, no pictures of the loaf for it got scoffed far too quickly. All I can offer is this picture of James after spag bol and a bowl of yogurt. I wonder if he would like some chicken soup?

Sourdough Wars

The husband is in my bad books. First, he suggests that I can keep my egg money. I reply that I’d rather not as he buys the chicken feed, so he should keep it. He says it would be handy for you, give you a bit of independence. I say, what is the egg order again? Two and a half dozen. That's £2.50 a week. A generous allowance indeed. Go on Bert, you can keep it.

Did I ever mention that I am one of the multitude of women caught out by the rise in the pension age? There are women I know, only a few months older than I am who have been receiving their pension for over four years now which is very galling.

Yet, it was very unfair that women reached their pension age five years before men but it doesn’t stop me wishing that they’d waited until I got mine before the rules were changed. Still, I’ll probably get a pension some day and with me being the frugal sort, it will seem like a fortune when it comes. Unlike my poor children who will be quite old before their pension day arrives.

Now, back to my devilish husband – for there were two things… now, what was the other? Oh yes, sourdough bread and the imaginary competition between Les and Nelly. It was Les originally piqued my interest and was quick to offer recipes, advice, and encouragement. Les has created a great many loaves and is close to perfecting his method. I know, because he has shared those loaves with us. I, on the other hand, have been successfully feeding the ‘mother’ but have actually made just three loaves. For life gets in the way. Then Bert goes to Les for music practice on Tuesday and comes home raving, raving about the awesomeness of Les’ latest loaf. And there is half of it sent home with him and it’s true, the bread is sublime. Bert goes to check my ‘mother’. His verdict? Not as good as Les’ ‘mother’, too watery, needs more flour. Then there is the way Mrs Les served the bread, oil and balsamic vinegar, sea salt on the side, bet you’ve never even heard of that? Heh, Nelly?

Nelly raging, says,

Of course I’ve heard of it. Why, I was reading an article in the Guardian about that just weeks ago! I’m glad you enjoyed it because that’s what you’ll be getting for your supper all week! Bread, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sea salt! We’ll see how you like that!

He says,

Well I won’t if it’s Mother’s Pride bread!

I bet you all never knew how hateful he can be.

Anyway, I started another loaf on Wednesday. Assembled it yesterday, left it to prove overnight. It looked very promising this morning and I baked it at lunch time. Slow bread. Put the oven on high, placed a bowl of water on the bottom shelf, put the bread in, forgot about it, burned it slightly.

Had some with my homemade chicken broth made with own leeks. Tough crust but good flavour. Had some with Bert’s omelette at supper time. Made with own eggs, own broccoli, and own chives.

Later on we had some broken up and dipped in balsamic vinegar, olive oil and sea salt. Accompanied with glass of own rhubarb wine. Very nice but wouldn’t want to eat it every evening. (Unless it was Les’ sourdough loaf.) Did I mention I am turning into fat, bloated, sourdoughy lump? And it’s not even Easter yet.

Les and Bert

Success (Of Sorts)

When all around the world goes sad, mad and bad, it is the simple pleasures that count - one's chickens, the new calf that was born today - Martha says her name is Ava and we must never sell her. I say that we must but she shall have first refusal. Our other pleasures include friends, family and music.

And, of course, there is food. This weekend was not one of my better ones when it came to home-cooked food. Supper was shop-bought sausage rolls, tinned beans and an interesting salad made from tender leaves of kale (home-grown), olives, tomatoes and little sweet peppers. The dressing came out of a jar. I made (at Evie's request) the steamed chocolate pudding, chocolate sauce and ice cream dessert.  It was the wrong ice cream. Not popping candy ice cream. I made the excuse that I'd forgotten to bring my glasses which was a lie. It didn't matter anyway as Evie had been to a birthday party and was full to the neck of sweets and cake. She didn't even have dessert, said she was 'tired of it.'

Breakfast was Kellogs Variety Pack and Peppa Pig on Netflix. I wasn't part of it as I was reading The Guardian in bed. Some lad from Buckna was supervising the young'uns, helping them eat Variety and watching Peppa Pig. Lunch was (hang my head in shame) shop-bought pizza. I attempted to jazz it up with extra toppings and Lidls mozzarella cheese. But then, my triumph, the food that made up for all other culinary shortcuts and shortcomings, my first successful sourdough loaf. For, even though the first attempt resulted in rolls that could have served as missiles, I kept the mother going and made this...

I know it is boastful but that loaf was not my only success this weekend. At Martha and Evie's storytime I selected a book of fables, beautifully illustrated by Janusz Grabianski. But one forgets how shite fables are. There is no real story, no satisfying ending, no resolution. The one I chose was about a fox who fell down a well and couldn't get out. Said fox tricks a decent old billy goat to jump into the well and help it escape. Then, the fox being wily and all, fucked right off mocking the billy goat for his gullibility. And that was the end. So I said to the girls,

I didn't think much of that story! I think I could make a better job of it!

So, putting down the book, beautiful illustrations and all, I finished the story bringing in two brave young animal rescuers called Martha and Evie, a grandfather (Bert) with a length of baler twine in his pocket, a lovely woman called Denise who was in need of a billy goat, then a billy goat in a new home in The Parks with two wives and four lovely kids (three girls and a boy) and a nasty fox who called round and ended up getting butted over a hedge never to be seen again while everyone got to live happily ever after. I believe I enjoyed telling it far more than the girls enjoyed listening to it. My reward came this morning when Evie joined me in bed and said,

That was a good story last night.

Thanks, Margaret Green (and Aesop) for the beginnings of the tale and thanks to Janusz Grabianski for the wonderful pictures.

Sourdough Day 7

Les said everything was ready to make the bread starter on Saturday evening but Mrs Banjo arrived and we drank prosecco (with hibiscus flowers?) and red wine and I sort of forgot. So it got begun yesterday and today I made my first loaf. It didn't rise! So I turned it into bread rolls and we ate it with roasted parsnip soup and Martha said it was fabulous and she had the sharp little teeth for it. Les came round this evening and heard the whole sad story and he pronounced me too impatient for I should have given the bread more time. I'm to try again tomorrow.

Sourdough Day 4

This picture shows the little pinholes that indicate that airborne yeast spores are active in my starter. Les reckons I will be able to bake my first loaves on Sunday.

The chickens finished the last of the Les disasters today. Several days old now, I had to soak them in water to make them crumble. Little feathered friends loved it and it must have put new vigour into the seven new hens for two of them escaped when I was cleaning out their house. It was the sawdust spooked them. Happy as clams as I scraped and brushed but when I started throwing fresh sawdust down two of them panicked and soared over the fence and into what we like to call an orchard (three scabby apple trees and a bunch of rushes) and it was some job catching them. To make matters worse I was breaking the law for had a Defra spy been driving past we would have been in obvious breach of the keeping chickens away from wild birds rule. Or would we? What wild bird would ever go near a crazy woman chasing two chickens around a so-called orchard? Not even Bert's two tame robins, the ones that are really pissed that he has run out of mealworms, would have come near me and my henny friends.

Anyway, I caught the buggers and was very pleased with myself that I managed it, for this is how my life has narrowed - the big achievement of the day catching escaped poultry. That,  and cleaning out two hen houses and starting a damson wine.

Sourdough Day 1

A day that began full of worries and ended full of hope, that's a good day to begin a sourdough starter.

Tonight is usually Bert's music night but his clarinet is in for a service so Les came round here for a glass of wine and was very keen to hear if I'd begun my starter. I hadn't. His starter is five days old and he has baked his first batch of bread and the results pleased him. He stood over me until I began mine - so simple, one empty mustard jar, one spoonful of strong white flour, two spoonfuls of water, stir and set aside. I'm to make a note of feeding times, in the morning just before I see to the hens. Les will be checking.

Y'know, I actually love Les. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't be growing my own garlic and Bert would be nowhere near as good on the clarinet. And I wouldn't have those seven new hens. Friendship is magic. At least, that's what Martha and Evie tell me, being ardent fans of My Little Stinking Pony, which is what Bert calls their favourite Netflix show.