Tag Archives: country

Stick ’em up

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Mrs Smug’s fire!

So with the children and I spending more time at home during the day and the evenings drawing in, our thoughts have turned to keeping warm.  Primrose had already reached for her fluffy slippers and Poppy and I had resorted to a cosy blanket on the sofa, all of us moaning about how cold the cottage has got all of a sudden.  Ever practical and frugal, Jerry suggested wearing another jumper but this was very quickly dismissed out of hand.  Surely, Mr R Lauren’s jumpers are worn to be seen, not to be hidden under a layer of inferior wool and before the frugal among you suggest it, ‘Fagin’-style fingerless gloves will not be making their fashion debut in this little corner of suburbia any time soon either.  Thankfully, the log burner (which we installed as a pseudo-country ‘feature’) is coming into its own now.  Only one problem.  It eats logs voraciously and I have no woodland handy to go and chop some of my own.  Not unsurprisingly as this is SW London and not the country.  I did breathe a huge sigh of relief over the lack of forest on the doorstep.  Jerry is not to be let loose with an axe.  He might not return with his limbs intact.  The building of the log shed was enough of a warning sign.  Jerry’s DIY efforts, although valiant, were somewhat lacking and we now have, what can only be described as, a down and out shack to rival any under Waterloo Bridge at the bottom of the garden.  Affectionately known as the ‘Jesus’ shed, Primrose and I did joke last year, as Christmas Eve was fast approaching, that if I did not make it to the hospital in time, I could always give birth to Poppy in our very own Bethlehem style stable.  I am sure that you will be grateful to hear, dear Reader, that the shed remained fit for purpose (in its loosest terms) and instead, Poppy’s first view of the world was of HMP Wormwood Scrubs.

Whilst I deliberated about log suppliers, I turned to a new book I had bought in the hope of learning a new ‘country’ skill to impress Primrose and Poppy.  Ever since our last woodland walk when I ended up carrying Primrose’s bike for at least a mile, Jerry and I have been trying to come up with ways to keep Primrose occupied on long walks.  This seemed perfect: The Stick Book by Jo Schofield and Fiona Danks

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This book is THE ‘must-have’ if you have outdoorsy children or if you think that they need a bit of encouragement to become outdoorsy!  Primrose is, without doubt, in the latter camp!  It has everything from den building, making camp fires and impromptu fishing rods to creating woodland fairy houses, pooh sticks and the ultimate stick creating, a bow and arrow.  I think that I was more excited by the prospect of the bow and arrow than Primrose was!  Knowing that it was definitely beyond my stick-making abilities, I set to work on creating another stick masterpiece.  Collecting the right sticks was the first hurdle.  Speaking as someone who has no idea of the difference between hazel and hawthorn or can tell my ash from my willow, this was not easy.  I did manage to gather some sticks though with Primrose’s help.  (Primrose’s main incentive was my outlandish claim that I could make her a witch’s broom for a party she was going to).  Not sure if they were the right ones after an hour, I wasn’t going to spend another minute freezing my bottom off in the park, whilst we looked for the perfect stick to complete our challenge.  Returning home, I attempted the witch’s broom and failed miserably.  Apparently, I had left the sticks too long and they had dried out, making them useless for bending into the right shape.  Harrumphing, I went to make a cup of tea.  Meanwhile, Poppy managed to put most of the sticks in her mouth and then crawled with them into the sitting room, almost gauging out one of the cat’s eyes…… Witch’s broomstick maker was not going to be added to my list of skills this week.  Witch with one-eyed black cat – mmmm – might just be able to recreate that, with Poppy’s help.

At the very last hour before the party, I managed to convince Primrose to go as Bo Peep and I rustled up a shepherdess’ crook out of some bamboo sticks in the garden!  Clearly a little improvisation (and some stick knowledge) can go a long way.  That and a lot of brown tape!  Turning back to The Stick Book, I reckon that with a bit more practice and some further acquaintance with which sticks are best, I might just work out how to make that bow and arrow.  No chance Primrose will have that one if I do manage to make it!

By hook or by crook….sorry couldn’t help myself!

Party prop crisis averted, I turned my attention back to the business of keeping warm.  Trusty Country Life produced a top tips list this week on preparing one’s house for winter.  My favourites being: checking the gutters for trapped tennis balls (if only the cottage had a tennis court…) and making sure that one has the game larder disinfected ready for restocking.  Deliciously brilliant advice I thought!  Logs ordered on the interweb and finally delivered, the weather warmed up…..Typical.  Come on winter!  Hit us with some very cold days so that I can remain Mrs Smug of Suburbia, boast kiln-dried logs rather than moan about gas price fixing and retreat to my cosy, warm cottage to drink mulled wine!  Now, where to find that game larder?………..

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Someone has been reading The Stick Book! Amazing what the humble stick can be turned into!

Jam, Jerusalem, Judges and maybe a little chutney

Apparently the entry must be all your own work. Back to the cupboard for this one then…

Some time ago, Edie, a staunch Margot supporter, set me a challenge and I have found countless ways to evade that particular gauntlet, as when it was thrown down, it made me rather nervous.  The challenge: to enter a Real Jam Festival competition.  Dear Reader, you will realise my fear straight away.  Jams, jellies, chutneys: staunchly Barbara’s territory.  Margot, making jam?  Whatever next?!  Growing vegetables and knitting my own yoghurt….. I stewed on it, for want of a better word.  I couldn’t let Edie down and after all, this is all about my journey from townie to bumpkin.  I simply could not pass up this opportunity to try my hand at some real  ‘Jam and Jerusalem’.  With the deadline for entries looming, I felt that maybe little old Margot might be welcomed into the billowing bosom of the Women’s Institute with this little challenge.  I so dearly wished to  see myself clutching a winning entry with its WI seal of approval.  Oh to have an awardwinning chutney!

I had a brainwave.  I would make a chutney and make it Christmassy.  There is nothing like the smell of Christmas and I thought I might just be able to capture that in a chutney.  Christmas is all about aromas for me.  Those which bring back powerful memories like the heady scent of oranges and cloves, brandy in the mincemeat, fresh pine needles…. I could go on for hours!  I had already gone slightly stir crazy buying Frankincense and Myrrh scented candles much to Jerry’s glaring disapproval.  To try and get back in Jerry’s good books, I did splutter that I could enter the competition and then, in the spirit of all things ‘Margot tries etc’, I could even pass off the leftover jars of chutney as Christmas presents.  This, of course, appealed to Jerry’s frugal nature.

Just reading the entry requirements alone made me quiver with anxiety.  I hadn’t realised quite how seriously these things were taken and perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew.  I had half thought that these jam jousts were the preserve of ladies in lavender and little old biddies in hand-knitted cardies.  Still, always up for a country challenge, I set to work.

It seems that chutney had its origins in India (in Hindi, chatni).  Generally a relish or pickle made with fruits and spices, it was brought home in the days of the Raj by the British.  No doubt it raised eyebrows at dinner when produced by footmen in silver pots and accompanied by a large clove-studded roast ham.  Through the haze of time, I could just make out guffawing monocle-wearing gentleman crying “By Jove, what is this?” “The Indians call it chatni mi Lord.” “Chutney you say Dawson?  A spicy number what what!”  Scouring through hundreds of recipes ancient and modern, it was clear that coming up with my own unique recipe was going to be tricky.

I decided the only way to safeguard a good entry was to create my very own scent of Christmas.  Haphazardly, I threw all the ingredients on to the kitchen table and approached the making of Christmas chutney with careless abandon.  Chopping all the fruit and the onions took an age and I only thought of the food processor when I was on the last onion…  Plopping it all in my giant pan, it looked awful.  No.  It really did.  Take a look for yourself.

Not very appealing at this point

I was beginning to feel a little light-headed from the fumes of the cider vinegar (no recipe seems to mention that a gas mask may be needed) when I realised that making chutney was going to need one other ingredient.  Patience.  Something which, dear Reader, I have never had much of.  After the 2 hour mark, I stirred and tasted.  CRUNCHY onion.  Oh dear.  Not sure a chutney should have crunchy onions in it.  Hmm.  Most of the liquid was gone too.

Is it supposed to look like this?

Right, time to improvise a little more.  Adding enough water just to loosen the slop, I then left it to simmer away with the pan lid on.  In the end, it simmered gently for 4 hours.  I know, I know.  Far too long for chutney but I had to do something to stop the judges choking on onion slivers.  Sniffing the wafts from the chutney cauldron, it did have a faint whiff of Christmas.  It would have to do.  Sterilising the empty jars in the oven for 10mins, I then filled them and cut a greaseproof circle to cover the top.  (The jars had been a rigmarole in themselves.  I made Jerry, Primrose and Poppy devour their contents to cries of “Not jam again!” so that I could reuse the jars).  Carefully going through the last of the instructions, I readied my jar of passable Christmas chutney.  Entries must be plain – no labels, logos or ribbons.  They do take entries from young jam enthusiasts but I wasn’t sure I would get away with passing the jar off as Primrose’s work!  So there it was, my entry.  I wondered if they might give me some extra marks for the quirky jar?  I had, after all, recycled an old Indian pickle jar for good karma!

Could this be the winning chutney entry?

Well, Jerry gave it the thumbs up and I was quite proud of my first attempt so Dear Reader, we shall just have to wait and see what the WI judges think….  You never know, dear old Margot might just manage a little mention!  Well one can hope, can’t one?  In the meantime, Edie darling, at least you know what you are getting for Christmas and have time to rush out and purchase a jar of trusty Tracklement’s to replace it!

Margot tries…..chutney (and REALLY this is all my own work….I can’t blame any chefs, cooks or foodie bloggers for this concoction)

1kg apples, plums, fresh cranberries (mix all the fruits and then see if they collectively weigh a kilo)

2 onions (I think they weighed 400g in total)

200g raisins

half a reasonable knob of ginger

around 250ml of cider vinegar

around 300g soft brown sugar

3 star anise

1 tsp black peppercorns

1 tsp salt

1 tbsp cinnamon

1 tsp cumin (although it felt like more as the aroma was evocative of sweaty Londoners’ armpits on the tube.  Beware of this)

Plop it all in the pan and then wait a serious number of hours.  Improvising required.

Are you game?

Dear Reader, if you are of the vegetarian persuasion, you may wish to look away now.  I have no wish to offend but this one is for my carnivorous chums and I shall make no further bones about it…..

Watching a recent Great British Food Revival programme on the BBC, I was reminded of the wonders of game by one of my cooking and countryside heroines, Clarissa Dickson Wright.  Inspired by her fervour for wild meat, I set to work on finding a suitable recipe and fell upon this.  Apparently, November is Game to Eat month.  How glorious!  Deciding to indulge my ‘wild’ side and always up for a culinary challenge, I thought that I would attempt some gamey gastronomy this week.  I suppose as a countryside offering, it doesn’t get any more authentic than game.

First things first, where to find a feathered or furry friend to eat?  Jerry and I have often wondered about the deer culls in Richmond Park and where the meat goes as it is certainly not on any of the gastropub menus in our little corner of suburbia.  Thinking that local venison would probably not be in the pot and not wishing to pick up any roadside offerings from our jaunts to the country, I began my quest at beloved Waitrose.  I found, to my surprise, that they did have a good selection of all the usual gamey items: partridge, pigeon and even wild mallard.  Thankfully all plucked and ready for roasting.  Not so long ago, I did find myself in a feathery mess when a brace of pheasants were brought to the door by a member of the family.  I had been expecting them in more of an oven ready condition….

Moving on from the great plucking incident of 2011, I decided that perhaps birds should not be part of my  dabbling on this occasion.  I can still hear Jerry reciting the ‘Pheasant Plucker’ ditty and we had to explain to a wailing Primrose that they were very naughty birds who had eaten all the farmer’s crops.

Remembering a delicious meal Jerry and I had in a charming little osteria in Florence some years ago when we were footloose, fancy free and sans children, I thought how wonderful it would be to recreate the roasted rabbit we had had that evening.  No feathers to worry about there.  I was out of luck at Waitrose so went in search of a butcher.  Dear Papa has an excellent butcher down on the South Coast whose shop is beautifully adorned with the heads, skins and feathered carcasses of all sorts.  A delight for the meat lover’s eyes but not one for the vegetarians….  I continued my ‘townie’ search for the elusive wild bunny to cook but no fluffy bunny could be found.  To be honest, at one point I thought that I would have probably had more luck trying to bag one myself with a shotgun.  I pondered, for a brief moment, my friend Minty (Araminta) and her recent dilemma of how to rehome her domestic bunnies but thought that she might not appreciate my idea of ‘rehoming’.  Well, after all during the Second World war, rabbits were bred for the pot…..

One of Minty’s temptingly chubby bunnies….

Three butchers later and I found what I was looking for.  One wild rabbit ready for roasting.  Primrose wept at the thought of eating dear old Peter Rabbit or Benjamin Bunny (Beatrix Potter, you have a lot to answer for, in my opinion).  She was convinced that the butcher would present the rabbit with its dinner jacket still on.  Mercifully for all, he did not.  I did try the old “He ate all the farmer’s crops” story but no amount of white lies would persuade her to sample the end result.  She even hid her toy bunny in fear that I might just cook that too.

Looking down at the rather large rabbit on the meat board, I did feel a little out of my depth trying to follow Clarissa’s instructions on jointing.  I wasn’t too sure what to do with Peter Rabbit’s heart, liver and kidneys either.  Perhaps I had become a little squeamish by this point?  Jerry did remind me that it is not the done thing in the country to name one’s food…..  Bolstered with a good glass of Barolo, I soldiered on.  The effort was worth it.  Memories of Florence wafted back with each mouthful of Coniglio Arrosto con Patate which I can only describe as heavenly.  Signor Antonio Carluccio, I salute you.  I can only say that with a recipe as good as that, even dear fluffy-tailed Peter might not mind being eaten!

Margot tries Carluccio’s delicious rabbit dish

Rabbit well and truly polished off, Jerry and I settled down by the fire with a box of chocolates and I discovered a recent interview with Clarissa DW in The Telegraph.  She seems to have caused quite a stir with her calls for us to eat badgers to solve some of the proposed cull problems.  Mmmm.  Rabbit, venison, partridge, pigeon..all a resounding yes.  Badger….sorry CDW, not sure even I am game enough for that one!

Woodland walks in wellies

Magical Morgaston woods

Following some sage relocation advice, we decided, on a dank and miserable day,  to try and get the feel of our new countryside home in all weathers.  Countryside pursuits come in many forms and I confess to being pretty keen to join the hunting, shooting, fishing set as those countryside activities appeal to my more primeval instincts of getting food on the table.  Somehow walking doesn’t have the same pull and especially in the rain.  Walking in town always has a purpose: going to my favourite boutiques, popping out for a coffee, lunching out…. Even when Jerry and I take the girls to the park, it is usually with a view to letting off steam rather than specifically going for a walk.  Walking for walking’s sake – who ever heard of such a thing?  With our visit to Tom and Barbara’s hilly home nearly upon us, we braved the inclement weather for a romp through Morgaston Woods to improve on our walking skills.    Shedding our London look, Jerry and I donned ourselves in our ‘country’ gear and I even dusted off the unused Barbour.  I was overcome with envy at the sight of Jerry’s new flat cap and woollen welly socks and I found myself disappointingly lacking in tweed.  Something which must be remedied.

Putting on our wellies, stomping through the leaves and squelching through the boot sucking mud made me appreciate how autumn is so much more beautiful in the countryside.  Perhaps one just allows oneself more time to stop and admire the seasonal changes in the landscape?  This time of year Morgaston Woods are alive with fungi and we had a lot of fun spotting various delicious or deadly treats.  Sadly, having missed the seasonal fungi foray walk, we had no idea of what we could or shouldn’t pick.  I am yet to find a good book for mushroom dummies which helps with identifying the edible varieties and poisoning my nearest and dearest is not high on my list of country to-dos.  We had to make do with just….a walk.

Delicious or deadly?

A walk.  “What could be more glorious!”, some might say.  However, the walking, grey drizzly weather and quagmire of mud shone some light on our ability as a family to adapt to the countryside and all its earthiness.

Primrose is renowned for her inability to use her God-given limbs.  She hates walking and gives up, asking to be carried after the first five minutes.  To solve this problem, she acquired a bicycle.  Cutting a long story short, on this occasion, we were persuaded that she would walk some of the way if we took her bike along.  If only we could have predicted the untold muddy disaster which followed!  Primrose took a turn too fast on her bicycle, skidded off the path and then promptly fell forward, face down into the mud.  Tears flowed shortly after.   It would seem that our dearest Primrose does not like mud.  The idea of mud?  Yes.   But in reality, when her hands, trousers and hair were covered, it was all a bit much.  Jerry remarked that at least it wasn’t a cow pat.  Calls for dear Primrose to ‘toughen’ up and “This is what it is like in the countryside!” did not abate the weeping either.  She could only be persuaded to finish the trek with the lure of a hot chocolate.  I have to say we did bump into some locals and did see a few raised eyebrows….the bike was perhaps not the best idea we have had!

Once crisis resolved, we forged onwards, kissing gate successfully negotiated with Primrose on foot, Poppy in the backpack carrier with Jerry and me dragging the bloody bicycle, cursing as I went.  (Dear Reader, I have already thrown the bicycle into the mud prior to this point, shouting that it would have to be binned if Primrose was not going to ride it.  God only knows what the locals were thinking at that point)!  We ended up in a field of beautiful black cows.  Calming and so very sweet.  Despite Jerry’s best efforts to stop me, I decided that maybe I was going to be the next Dr Doolittle and would try to see if the cows would come over to us.  Surprisingly they DID!  Finally, Margot at one with nature!  My prize…being licked by a baby cow whilst I stroked its nose!  Here is the little beauty.

My latest country friend!

So…the walk was successful in part.  We did complete the 2 mile circuit.  Houdini Poppy (known for her abilities to escape out of anything) stayed in the backpack carrier for the duration, Jerry did look rather fetching in his cap (or farmer’s hat as Primrose has renamed it), Primrose learned a valuable lesson (that mud will come out in the wash) and I am now on my way to becoming a farmer’s wife.  If I can just persuade Jerry to buy a farm……

Home Grown Ham

Delicious garden edibles on offer

Don’t worry dear readers, I haven’t gone completely mad and bought myself a pig.  Although, if I am completely honest that really would be one of my top ten ‘must-haves’ on my journey towards becoming a country bumpkin.  I have always harboured a soft spot for the perfect little Ginger pig, a Tamworth.  One which is wonderfully well behaved, devoid of mud, doesn’t require mucking out and could be decked out in Cath Kidston of course….  Sadly no pigs matching this description were found on my jaunts this week.  No, the ‘Ham’ to which I am referring is the rather large and elegant Ham House.

The perfect backdrop for indulging in some tasting

Having been members of the National Trust for years and only used the membership a handful of times, Jerry and I decided to get out and enjoy the autumn sunshine with a trip to one of our nearest NT gems.  We stumbled upon a wonderful event hosted by Ham House this weekend.  Nestled in the stunning and rather enviable 17th century kitchen garden, ‘Home Grown at Ham’ brought together lovers of fruit, vegetables, plants and artisan products.  I was determined to learn something about growing my own fruit and veg but in reality, I was seriously sidetracked by the glorious garden, tasted a lot of cheese (we found a favourite in Sussex Slipcote), sampled some ‘Hammy’ goodies from the Giggly Pig and had a chat with a very nice lady from Ruben’s Bakehouse about the demise of the cottage loaf.  Why has the shape of this loaf fallen out of favour?  Maybe I should attempt to bring it back if I can ever get the hang of breadmaking?!  Last breadmaking attempt resulted in the need for a tooth to be crowned!

Thank you Ruben’s Bakehouse!

Primrose even delighted in the largely forgotten arts of apple bobbing and posy making as well as testing out her food knowledge with a trip on the Slow Food Kids’ Taste adventure.

Apart from all the eating…..I found out some interesting uses for aloe vera jelly.  Did you know that you can use it for treating burns?  Definitely something for the kitchen clumsiness.  The number of times I have burnt my fingers on the oven, I might as well get my own patch of aloe plants!  Inspiration did come in the form of some tempting recipes from the cooking demonstrations and I admired the manicured patch of lawn recreated in the image of the floor of the Great Hall and cut each year using scissors!  This has to be my absolute favourite of the day though so hats off to Quack’s Pickles – you have compelled me to have a go at making my own specimens!

Jerry, what do you mean we can’t afford a house like this?