Twighlight Zone

Today, we have nearly two feet of snow here on the farm and it’s still falling. Normally I adore the snow and although it’s chocolate-box-pretty outside, I’m not loving it quite as much as usual because some of my family are trying to get home for Christmas and travelling conditions are treacherous.

As the snow tumbled down yesterday, I couldn’t help but feel guilty that the farmer and I were inside with the fire on watching fantastical festive film Inkheart while my poor sister- and brother-in-law were stuck at Gatwick Airport with our 18 month-old niece for the second day running...

Thankfully, they eventually got a flight into Edinburgh, but last night I was still unsettled. I found myself familiarly frustrated by our afternoon viewing of Inkheart, wondering why I hadn’t come up with such an enchanting tale of myth and magic myself! I always feel this way after watching a captivating fantasy film – clearly I’m young at heart! - as this is the kind of book I would love to write.

Take the Twighlight series by Stephanie Meyer. I first heard of Meyer on a flight from Geneva to Heathrow earlier this year. I was suffering a terrible bout of travel sickness (Farmer in Shining Armour) and had my head in a paper bag for most of the journey, but miraculously still managed to lug into the conversation the two women in my row were having. They had discovered a mutual love of the author of a book one of them was reading.

‘I’ve just finished the second one, it was fantastic,’ the woman next to me enthused. ‘This one’s even better, she’s such an amazing writer,’ agreed the woman next to the window. Before another wave of nausea struck, I swivelled my head a fraction to find out what this amazing book was. I observed a striking matt black cover emblazoned with the word Eclipse in scarlet and made a mental note to look it up on Amazon when I got home.

When I did, I was slightly taken aback. Like me, these women were in their early 30s and I was bemused to learn that they were fans of teen fantasy novels about vampires; until, that is, I watched the movie adaptation of first book Twighlight a fortnight ago. It was fabulous! And tonight – weather permitting – I'm off to see New Moon, the second in the series. Then I shall start Eclipse, book 3.

Twighlight reminds me of a modern day version of 80s classic The Lost Boys, while my friend Morn compares it to Romeo and Juliette. Either way, Meyer’s clearly hit on a winning formula – love, high school angst, blood sucking vampires. If only I'd thought of it first...

Crazy about Kitzbuhel

For anyone who noticed I was away, I’m back! Last week, I was in Austria, visiting the beguiling Tyrolean City of Kitzbuhel. I was sent there for work – it’s a hard life – to experience the enchanting medieval old town with its spectacular architecture, hearty mountain cuisine and most of all, its stunning natural landscape and invigorating alpine activities.

Yes, you read that correctly, I was sent to experience invigorating alpine activities (Fitness Drive), though not skiing (we arrived ahead of the snow), but rather Kitzbuhel’s extensive hiking trails. Happily, the farmer was able to take a few days off to join me on my trip, which was just as well; at least one of us was able to make it up the mountain...

On the first day, we met with our effervescent walking guide, Engelbert, who looked at my washing-machine-white trainers briefly before shrugging his shoulders. He announced cheerily that we were going snow shoeing, and to be frank, my inappropriate footwear was the least of my worries. The news that we were about to embark upon a 1000m ascent with a group of 8 seasoned walkers had started to give me mild heart palpatations.

It was either the adrenalin or more likely the fear of losing face in front of our significantly older and considerably fitter walking companions, but I made it to the hut 7/8 of the way up the mountain. However, my delight at having made it this far was somewhat diminished by the prospect of the horrifyingly steep last 1/8 – the summit.

Luckily, the decision as to whether or not I should continue was taken out of my hands when Engelbert took my pulse and told me to rest at the hut! Not wanting to second guess our expert, I sat on a bench in the sun, taking in the endless blue skies and panoramic vista, while the others went to the top.

Not long after, a few of the group returned, the ascent clearly too challenging for them (lightweights!), proclaiming that my husband was practically running to the top – ‘he’s like a mountain goat!’ the estate agent from Munich announced (ironically, the chamois, or young mountain goat, is Kitzbuhel’s logo). Sure enough, less than 40 minutes later the farmer was back down – Engelbert had said it would take them an hour!

After a late lunch of local speciality ‘Grostl’ – diced potatoes, bacon and onions pan-fried with cumin and topped with a deliciously gooey fried egg – and several songs from the restaurant’s legendary proprietor, Rosi, we finally returned to Kitzbuhel’s magical fairy lit old town and our accommodation, the historic and utterly charming Hotel Zur Tenne.

The rest of our whirlwind Tyrolean trip involved a 4 hour valley hike, an open air concert by the Five Tenors at the top of the world famous Hahnenkamm, a visit to the region’s latest 5 star resort complete with golf course, amazing Aveda spa and private Fondue Room (sadly, we were only being shown around), and a guided tour of the city.

Fresh air, fairytale setting, first class hotels, fabulous hospitality, unforgettable hiking (!) and very firm massages; Kitzbuhel, me and my mountain goat will definitely be back.

Chilli up North...

In between my many trips to Elgin over the past seven days (Cashmere Queen), I have actually managed to get ahead with my Christmas cooking. And by this I mean stocking up the deep freeze and making a few edible gifts, not, as you might expect, that I’m preparing for Christmas Dinner – so far I have successfully avoided hosting Christmas for my enormous family, although if Mum’s not-so-subtle hints are anything to go by, my time is nearly up...

Inspired by the festive frost up North on Monday and feeling guilty about the glut of root veggies from last week’s box, I set about making soup – punchnep (creamed turnip and potato), parsnip and apple, and a vegetable broth – as well as a batch of Nigella’s sweetcorn relish and two batches of chilli jam. I also received an unexpected delivery of Auntie Ruth’s homemade mincemeat, so am endeavouring to make my very first mincemeat pies to add to my bounty.

‘Nigella of the North’ – aka my friend Jill – introduced me to chilli jam last year and I was quickly converted. Despite my difficulties with preserving, this fiery sweet concoction made with jam sugar is virtually foolproof and fantastically versatile. As well as a condiment to cold cuts or cheese, I use it in stir fries, Bolognese or any tomato-based dish in need of a tangy kick, and it’s great smeared on a joint of pork near the end of roasting to produce sticky chilli crackling! This love affair with chilli jam is why I decided to make double quantity this year.

Nigella's Christmas open on the counter, I deseeded and chopped the regular red peppers, throwing them in the processor, then set to work on the 20 or so hot red chillies. I contemplated putting on rubber gloves, before deciding it was probably unnecessary – I didn’t need them last year.

However, as I waited for my second batch to come to Nigella’s recommended ‘rollicking boil’, I noticed a definite stinging in the pads of my left thumb and forefinger. I washed my hands but found myself wincing at the hot water. Drying them off, my thumb and finger started to burn. I ran them under the cold tap for a minute or two – still burning.

It was irritating but I carried on potting and labelling my scarlet flecked jam, pleased with my productivity. But the second I stopped, I was aware of the unbearable burning again. I may as well have pressed my digits straight onto the hot plate they were stinging so much.

So with my work done for the day, I spent the rest of the evening alternating between pinching a bag of frozen rump steaks between a very tender thumb and forefinger, and slathering them with aloe vera gel... Merry Christmas!

Cashmere Queen

The end of November holds a special place in the hearts of me and my Highland girlfriends and no, this isn’t some sort of patriotic salute to St Andrew’s Day or the culmination of the costly Homecoming Scotland celebrations. The sole reason for our unstinting affection for this time of year is down to one thing and one thing only: the annual warehouse sale of world famous cashmere house Johnstons of Elgin!

Every year, this genuine clearance sale sends hundreds of women in the north of Scotland quite giddy at the prospect of cut price cashmere – yours truly included. Held for 8 days only in an enormous marquee behind the woollen mill, spellbound customers sift fastidiously through the rails and tables groaning with the glorious goods, black bin liners at the ready for their lush loot.

And what loot! Indulgent throws are half price at £140, fabulous tailored coats and luxurious cashmere lounge pants go for £120, velvet-soft sweaters for £60, silky-smooth scarves for £35 and cosy gloves a mere tenner. There’s a host of fine woollens too, from dapper tweed shooting jackets to lovely lamb’s wool rugs.

On Friday, I was on a mission to find plus-4s for the farmer, an early Christmas present for an annual shoot he attends in the Borders. Elbowing my way through the throng, I headed straight for the tweeds, found one pair in his size, double checked the measurements with a measuring tape (seasoned shopper, me!) and stuffed them happily into my bin liner before heading for the rugs and scarves.

Yet in spite of my due diligence, the plus-4s were a tad small for the farmer; all the more disappointing since it’s a 100-mile round trip to Elgin from the farm...

Anxious to exchange the trousers before they sold out, I trundled back through again yesterday with my sisters, Mum and Gran. The slight flaw in my plan was that Johnstons don’t do exchanges until the 5th day of the sale... However, I managed to convince the security man that I genuinely couldn’t come back next week so really had to do the exchange yesterday.

He eventually conceded I could swap the trousers – a like-for-like exchange – only for me to find that there were no plus-4s left in the size I needed. Explaining my predicament, Mr Security sighed loudly and said he supposed I could exchange them for something of equal value.

Sifting through the tables, I found a beautiful cream lamb’s wool throw with navy stripes and fringing – perfect! The exchange was done and I left happy.

Last night, showing off the throw to the farmer, spreading it out fully for the first time, I noticed half the fringing was missing along one side - disaster! So unbelievably, it looks like I’m going to have to make a third trip through to exchange my exchange.

Naturally, this is most inconvenient not to mention costly – my fuel consumption will soon cancel out any cashmere savings – but more pressingly, what am I meant to say to Mr Security? I said I was going to be out of the country this week. I may have to go in disguise...

Sheepish...!

Needless to say, the running (Fitness Drive) has fallen by the wayside, particularly with the recent atrocious weather. Being particularly exposed here at the farm, we have been hit hard by gale force winds and torrents of icy rain. Of course when I say ‘we’, I am actually watching the squally weather from inside with the fire on. It’s the poor farmer who’s out there working in it.

I still take the dogs out for their morning walk, though this is an increasingly brief event on account of Molly’s arthritic knees. We normally go up the track for five minutes then back by the field occupied by the sheep being wintered here from my father-in-law's farm, for a bit of variation.

Yesterday was particularly soggy and cold here, and when the farmer came in at lunchtime, I asked him how his morning had been. ‘Not great,’ he replied, peeling his sodden outdoor gear off, ‘we had to move the sheep in this pouring rain.’

‘Why were you moving the sheep?’ I asked, genuinely confused. I may not pay much attention to farm business, but I’m sure they had just gone into that field last week. ‘They got out, somehow,’ he explained, settling himself at the table for lunch. Oh...

Bringing our mugs of tea to the table – Builder’s for the farmer, Darjeeling for me – I looked at him and suggested innocently that they must have pushed the gates open, they weren't very secure after all.

He studied me for a split-second – ‘It was you! You left the gate open!’ he accused. ‘I didn’t,’ I protested, ‘I tied the wire back round the gates, the sheep must have barged through, or the wind blew them open.’ But he wasn’t buying any of it, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

It was true, I had re-tied the wire that secured the gates...I just hadn’t managed to twist it twice, the way the farmer does. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling bad but unable to fully shoulder the blame, ‘you have to admit though, those gates should bolt shut – why don’t they meet in the middle again?’

‘Don’t blame the gates,’ he said, laughing, ‘you let the sheep out!’

‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ I pointed out. ‘I would hope not,’ he said, adding, ‘then you really would be a bad farmer’s wife.’ Harsh. Very harsh!

Fitness Drive...

After another weekend snuggled up watching the lithe, oddly fatless bodies of the Strictly Come Dancing professionals followed by The X Factor’s enviably polished and toned Danni Minogue, I decided I could no longer sit on the sofa and moan about my expanding waistline while doing nothing about it.

Apart from the lack of exercise, my main problem is that I love my food.

Gone are my single days of surviving on a diet of Cosmopolitans and brown basmati with steamed broccoli because since marrying, I feel I’m now legitimately allowed to eat a proper dinner every night – spaghetti carbonara; roast pork and apple sauce; braised lamb shanks and roasted pepper cous cous; homemade fish and chips; chicken, butterbean and pea risotto; sausage and mustard casserole with creamy mash etc etc – as I can hardly expect the farmer to eat brown rice and broccoli after a hard day’s work on the farm, can I?

However, since marrying I have also gained an average of 3lbs a year... So yesterday, I dug out my jogging bottoms, donned my trainers (and several layers) before selecting an appropriately motivating playlist on my iPod. I would run round the track encircling the farm – something that used to take a manageable 15 minutes pre-wedding – I decided sensibly, not wanting to do too much after doing so little for 5 years.

And I started off really rather well, running at a respectable pace past the field full of sheep wintered here from my father-in-law’s farm, on past the croft house and along the line of modern bungalows. Despite a slight stitch in my side, I was especially determined not to stop in front of these houses, being the abodes of the house objectors (Bonfire of the Vanities) and even found the energy to belt out the chorus of the track I was listening to: ‘It’s not fair and I think you’re really mean, I think you’re really mean, I think you’re really mean...’

Since it wasn’t yet 4pm, there probably wasn’t anyone home to hear my tuneless Lily Allen lyrics but it helped me push on through. Yet by the corner, just over half way round, I was forced to slow to a walk, the searing pain in my side not abating until I was almost back home. Still, it was a start, I thought, vowing to make this my new afternoon ritual.

Today, I can hardly walk.

So I’ve decided to give myself a day off and see how I feel tomorrow. Venison steaks with potatoes dauphinoise for tea tonight, followed by a bit of Waterloo Road and Spooks, I think.

Wedding (Cow) Bells!

This weekend, my brother-in-law and future sister-in-law were up doing wedding things in preparation for their Big Day next Spring. They had appointments with the minister, florists and stationers. They were also sampling wines to accompany their wedding meal, which the farmer and I were invited to assist with. And naturally, being dutiful family members we were more than happy to help out.

My mum-in-law cooked a delicious dinner of roast pork (plum pork, of course) with gravy and apple sauce and as well as much wine, the evening was filled with talk of the forthcoming nuptials, inevitably evoking memories of our own wedding and all the delights and dilemmas that accompanied the planning of it.

Married in our garden at the farm, it is fair to say that our wedding was a pretty informal occasion in as much as we did away with the church, official photographer, line-up and wedding favours elements of the wedding. And in much the same way that I embrace a new business venture with all its branding, I embarked on an all-out cow theme for our wedding.

My friends Sarah and Morn created stunning cow print invitations tied with udder-pink ribbons; old milk churns flanked the entrance to the marquee; all the tables were named after cow breeds and bedecked in white linen topped with black-and-white cow print velvet, and rare roast beef was a centre piece of the wedding buffet.

I had also set my heart on an Italian-style tier of marzipan apples, my favourite local confectionery from Harry Gow the Bakers, instead of wedding cake. Since childhood, I have absolutely adored these glorious little 'apples' with their melting buttery centre sheathed in soft, toothsome marzipan dyed Granny Smith-green blushed with pink, complete with a clove for the stalk.

But the farmer, who had happily gone along with everything else I had planned, was less convinced. ‘It’ll get to the end of the wedding and people will be saying: where’s the bride? and I’ll find you under a table surrounded by a pile of half-eaten marzipan apples,’ he exaggerated. Well, kind of.

Being a big fan of fruit cake, he was hardly impartial though. But I conceded that we would have traditional wedding cake, which my Gran – of Dumpling Charms fame – kindly made for us. Marriage is, after all, about compromise.

The Pig Lady

Today is what I call a ‘pig day’. This entails collecting a whole pig from our lovely local butchers, Fraser Brothers in Dingwall, trimming a vast quantity of vacuum packs containing various cuts of pork, before weighing and hand labelling each and every one, packing it into our ‘pork-a-cabin’ deep freeze, or distributing it to customers.

The weighing and labelling part is not my favourite thing to do in the world, but it’s a change from the writing and I only have myself to thank that I do it at all.

Having successfully bred and reared his Gloucestershire Old Spots (This Little Piggy...), the farmer and I were astounded by our first taste of the rare breed meat. Not only was it rich red in colour rather than the usual grey, it was succulent and close-grained thanks to the outdoor life, milk-apples-and-barley diet and subsequent generous layer of fat characteristic of traditional breed piggies. And the crackling! It was the best we’d ever tasted.

The feedback we got from the pork we had given to family and friends was overwhelming too, which is when I decided we should turn the farmer’s hobby pigs into a business. As usual, I got overly excited with the branding and business side of things – we would make pancetta, prosciutto and chorizo! – not quite appreciating what a hard slog artisan food production actually is.

However, 3 years ago it seemed like a good idea as we launched ‘plum pork – free range, traditional breed pork and charcuterie from the Scottish Highlands’ at the north’s largest agricultural event, the Black Isle Show. And demand for our pork still outstrips supply. So while the bijoux business has been a big success, it has also been a steep learning curve for us.

At the launch, for example, the food hall’s Chef offered to cook some of our sausages during one of his demonstrations. (Now, due to the high number of artificial colours and E numbers found in many seasonings, I had opted for an organic, preservative-free mix for our premium pork sausages, giving them a slightly crumbly texture when cooked.) Located at the opposite end of the hall from our stall, we were alarmed to see Chef William rushing towards us with his pan, strangely shielded under a tea towel.

‘Look!’ he commanded dramatically, pulling up a corner of the tea towel. The farmer and I peered into the pan and saw that the sausages had burst out of their casing a bit when cooked. ‘Oh no,’ I panicked, caught up in William’s mild hysteria.

‘Who made these sausages for you?’ he demanded. ‘Our local butchers,’ I told him. ‘Ah-ha!’ he said, triumphantly. ‘What are you saying?’ the farmer asked. ‘That they’ve sabotaged our sausages,’ I supplied, rolling my eyes. ‘Thank you! Exactly!’ William confirmed, unaware of my irony.

By now, the farmer had had enough and helped himself to a broken half sausage. ‘Tastes pretty good,’ he announced firmly, dismissing William’s theatrical claims. ‘You mark my words, they’re trying to put you out of business, you’ll see,’ William muttered as he walked away.

Yet 3 years and a number of pigs later, I have a great relationship with our butchers and although we’re currently winding the business down this, I’m happy to say, is nothing to do with Chef William’s wild conspiracy theories. The farmer is busy enough with the cows and as for me, well I’m way past my 2-year boredom threshold (Julie & Julia) and let’s face it, this farming malarkey is damn hard work.

Thunderbolt of Lightning...

Part of the Hen Weekend celebrations included a matinee of We Will Rock You and during the showstopping finale as die-hard Queen fans moshed then swayed to Bohemian Rhapsody, I couldn’t help but think of the impending sale of Voltage, the farmer’s bull.

Geddes Voltage, to give him his full pedigree name, is a delightful 6 year-old Belgian Blue bull who has been with the dairy herd for the past 4 years. What makes him so distinctive, apart from his beautiful mottled cream and grey colouring and placid nature, is the fact that he is double muscled; a physical trait that makes him look like a pumped up bovine body builder.

Although much of the breeding here is done by artificial insemination, Voltage joined the herd to ‘mop up’ the rest, so to speak. And with 170 girly cows to choose from, you may well think lucky Voltage, except that despite his incredible stockiness, he is a little on the short side for all those leggy Holstein-Friesian lovelies...

So unfortunately, it was off to the auction mart for Voltage on Monday, but only after a false start two weeks earlier. The lovable bruiser was supposed to go to auction a fortnight ago, but on the morning of the sale the farmer discovered his ear tag was missing – it had been there the night before. ‘He’s torn it out because he doesn’t want to leave us,’ I declared unhappily, ‘this is his home!’

Alas, all my highly emotive and impractical protestations were in vain. The farmer drove Voltage the short distance to Dingwall Auction Mart on Monday, and at the risk of ruining my reputation as a BFW, I decided it was my duty to go to the sale too, to say goodbye.

Perched nervously beside the farmer in a prime ringside seat, we watched seasoned bidders buy up breeding heifers and calves before it was time for Voltage to come trundling out. I felt like an anxious parent, looking on protectively as the stewards in their white coats prodded him with their sticks – leave him alone! I wanted to shout.

It only took a few minutes for the soft brute to fetch a price the farmer was happy with and when he ambled out of the ring, I had tears in my eyes. Turning round, I saw that the farmer was sad too.

‘You okay?’ I asked gently, putting my hand on his. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, patting my hand and clearing his throat manfully, ‘at least Voltage will get some action now.' Men!

Farmer in Shining Armour

Ever since I was little, I have suffered from terrible travel sickness. Most people seem to grow out of this, but not me. I’m the kind of fragile person who becomes ill on twisty roads even when I drive.

This tiresome travel sickness is how I managed to convince myself that if I was taking the train to Edinburgh for the Hen Weekend, I would need to go first class.

Having managed to get a good deal on an advance ticket on the National Express, I wheeled my case through the grubby economy class carriages (the train was about to depart), emerging into carriage M and a whole new world, as it turned out.

The atmosphere was hushed, the lighting soft and golden, the ample seats upholstered in calming fawn or smart navy, the tables set with white china mugs, Walkers shortbread and mineral water, and as I settled into my window seat, a steward offered me a complimentary copy of The Times. This was the life, I thought gleefully, relaxing back with my paper.

At 8.15am, I ordered some toast to accompany my tea and was tickled pink by the fact it arrived with a baby pot of Bonne Maman bitter orange marmalade; I even felt compelled to call the farmer to tell him about it. Yet as the purple mountains and pine trees of the Cairngorms gave way to the fiery foliage of Dunkeld, I started to feel a little queasy. By 9.30am, I was in the loo frantically wiping down all surfaces with my anti-bac wipes, before being rather less thrilled to see the return of my toast and Bonne Maman bitter orange marmalade.

The next hour and a half was spent spread across two seats – not, I imagine, best first class behaviour – trying to will my motion sickness and general all round misery away. It was pretty grim. But I made it to Edinburgh, feeling fragile at first, but a lie down followed by a restorative facial at The Balmoral Spa helped speed me to recovery.

The rest of the weekend was a whirlwind of food, friends, fun and far too much money spent at The White Company. And just as I was beginning to dread the return train journey home, my valiant farmer said he was on his way down to pick me up. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I protested, ‘I’ll be fine.’

But he absolutely insisted, charging down George Street in his trusty silver jeep to rescue me from certain bankruptcy at LK Bennett and the trauma of public transport; my very own Farmer in Shining Armour!

Hen Weekend

With a heading like ‘hen weekend’ in a farming blog, you might reasonably expect that this weekend will be spent busily preparing for the arrival of some softly clucking bantams - a lovely wooden chicken coop with spacious grassy run in the garden near the vegetable patch, perhaps (we don't have a vegetable patch).

In fact, I’m actually going on a hen weekend. But as I discovered earlier this evening, my 82 year-old Gran would much prefer I was doing the former.

Every fortnight, my vegetable box gets delivered to my Gran’s house in town (we live just outside the delivery catchment area), but as I’m away this weekend I rang to tell her she could keep it. ‘Where are you going, dear?’ she asked innocently. ‘Edinburgh, Gran,’ I told her, realising too late that this conversation wasn’t going anywhere good.

‘What are you doing in Edinburgh, dear?’ she pressed. ‘I’m going on a hen weekend, Gran,’ I confessed, foolishly. ‘Oh,’ she said gravely. ‘And have you got permission to do that, dear?’ she continued, entirely serious. ‘I don’t need permission, Gran,’ I sighed, going on to explain that the farmer frequently goes on stag weekends and similarly doesn’t need my permission. ‘You’re a funny pair,’ she replied, not sounding the slightest bit amused.

Keen to change the subject, I asked her what was in the box this week: a big bag of mixed salad leaves, some sort of chard, a head of celery, beetroot, potatoes, carrots and onions. ‘It looks lovely dear,’ she enthused, mood considerably brighter, ‘I think I’ll make some soup and a casserole!’

Ringing off, she told me – very reluctantly – to enjoy my weekend before adding: ‘you behave yourself, Young Lady!’ I give up. 'Enjoy the vegetables,' I said sweetly.

Julie & Julia

The latest movies are often a little late in showing this far North, which is why I only got round to seeing foodie film Julie & Julia yesterday. It seemed somewhat indulgent to go to the cinema in the middle of the day, but I managed to convince myself that it was a work-related outing. It was, after all, the inspiration for this blog.

After reading some of my food memoir-type stories, friend and esteemed food writer Joanna Blythman suggested I start a blog to give me an edge when approaching a literary agent. ‘Have you seen Julie & Julia?’ she asked. At the time I hadn’t though I knew the premise: aspiring Manhattan writer, Julie Powell, blogs about her year of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, cooking her way through Julia Child’s famous cook book – 524 recipes in 365 days.

What I didn’t realise until yesterday afternoon, snuggled into my well padded seat at Eden Court Theatre’s La Scala, was how similar Julie Powell’s life was to mine! True, I live in Mulbuie not Manhattan, but I am a foodie; I have half written a novel (and a script); I have ADD (2 year boredom threshold); I am married to a saintly husband and now, I am writing a blog with a massive following...well, I can dream. The parallels were uncanny.

Reflecting further, I realised that I even have my own ‘Julia’. With six books under her belt, two newspaper columns, many food writing awards and all round epicurean excellence, Joanna encouraged and mentored me in my early food journalism days and continues to be my gastronomic writing guru.

Needless to say, I absolutely adored the film. It was, of course, foodie, funny, a little sad in parts but ultimately uplifting with Julie landing herself a publishing contract with Hollywood movie rights. And all from a humble blog...

Jo & Joanna anyone??

Dumpling Charms...

On my side of the family and for as long as I can remember, my Gran has always made a cake or a ‘Clootie’ dumpling for birthdays and special celebration dinners. And although I prefer to eat her Victoria sponge sandwiched together with whipped cream and homemade strawberry jam, I am far more excited by her darkly fruited dumpling because along with the sultanas and currants, the dense spiced pudding is studded with charms!

Scots recipes suggest 5p pieces for charms (pieces of silver), but carrying on the tradition of her Grandmother and Mother before her, Gran wraps a whole host of dinky talismans in greaseproof paper to bake into her dumpling.

After the fireworks at Cromarty on Friday night (Bonfire of the Vanities), Gran produced her dumpling for dessert, but before I get to that, let me tell you about the most memorable dumpling to date, pre-Guy Fawkes. It was about eight years ago at my Dad’s, I forget the occasion but as usual we each helped ourselves to the dumpling – this ensures the fate of the charm is completely in your hands! – and sat in front of our bowls waiting until everyone had got, abstaining from the custard and ice cream until the charms had been revealed.

Dad went first, unwrapping a tiny silver elephant – a charm denoting travel (he went to India the following year); my younger sister Kate went next, unwrapping a penny – the pauper symbol (she was a student at the time); my brother John got the 5p – silver for wealth (he had just sold his flat); I was next, tentatively unfolding my tiny greaseproof parcel to reveal...a ring – a sign that I would marry! (I met the farmer the following year and am still the only married sibling); then it was my elder sister’s turn. Reluctantly, she tore open her paper and out popped the thimble – the charm for spinsters...poor Vicky!

On Friday then, it was with some trepidation that we sat over our bowls wondering what charms were concealed in the musky, moist dumpling this time.

Bravely, Kate went first, delighted to discover a star – indicating she would shine at something (she is an excellent teacher); the farmer went next and also got a star (for his jam-making perhaps?); then it was my Mum: the penny (her house renovations have been expensive...); Gran got the 5p (she recently discovered a bond she had quite forgotten about); John enthusiastically unwrapped the thimble (a happy bachelor); Vicky wasn’t there so I went next, wondering what was left – travel? Unfolding the sticky paper, I tipped the charm into the palm of my hand. It was a tiny piece of pale blue velvet ribbon tied in a knot.

‘What’s this, Gran?’ I asked. She smiled. ‘That’s for a baby boy!’ (I was touched; it’s no secret we’d like family.) Everyone cooed.

Last but not least, it was the turn of Mum’s partner, Carlton. Bemused by the whole tradition, he brusquely ripped open his paper package as we all looked on eagerly. ‘Something you want to tell me, dear?’ he challenged my Mum, holding up his charm – a pale pink ribbon tied in a knot!

Bonfire of the Vanities...

The farmer and I seem to be in demand tonight. We have been invited to not one, but two bonfire and firework displays: one in the fishing village of nearby Cromarty by my Mum, the other by one of our neighbours here on the farm... exactly! Who in their right mind has fireworks on a farm populated by calves, pregnant cows and piggies? Not to mention our own little ones, Millie and Molly.

As unhappy as we may be about this annual get together, we're not party poopers so don’t make a fuss. We even went one year, leaving Millie at home with the TV blaring, while we sipped mulled wine with all the folk who live around the track bordering our farm. This year, however, we are less inclined to toast marshmallows with our neighbours (okay, we never did that) since learning that a few of them are not our biggest fans.

This revelation came to light a few months ago when we put in for planning to build a new house because we need the farmhouse for an additional staff member. Six out of 10 of the neighbours objected. Admittedly, our proposed house is fairly radical. Designed by a local eco architect with curved walls, sustainable timber and lots of glass, it would be dug into the hillside facing away from the neighbours to maximise privacy for them and us.

‘Did you go round with muffins before you made the application?’ my sweet friend Morn asked reproachfully. Of course not, I’m a bad farmer’s wife! I doubt it would have made any difference to their clandestine meetings and ridiculous concerns though, such as the increased traffic on account of the farm shop we were putting in (what farm shop?) or the fact that the local primary school was full (what?!).

Needless to say, the local planner who had been on board pre-objections, jumped ship. We were furious!

Our architects set to work sketching landscape plans to show the house in context, pegging the footprint out on the site, redrawing the elevations to show that the pitch of the roof was in fact lower than a storey and a half, not higher. They even conjured up photo montages of how the house would look when built...and that’s when it hit us.

Despite proudly showing off the dinky model of our cool, contemporary house to friends and family, when confronted with a 3D image of it on the site, we were alarmed. It didn’t look right at all – way too modern. We were kind of embarrassed about this architectural awakening, although to be fair our original brief had been for open plan inside, lodge-style outside; we had just got carried away with our architect’s vision.

So tonight we’ll be heading to Cromarty for the fireworks. Well, we’re hardly going to wave sparklers around with our neighbours (okay, we didn’t do that either) and admit we object to our own house!

Windfall Apples

Confession: for the past two days I have been embracing my inner domestic goddess, I cannot tell a lie.

It may have been the crisp autumnal air, the glorious shades of copper, russet and gold all around, the euphoria of two new comments on my blog, one accompanied by a recipe for damson gin (recipes warmly welcomed, keep them coming!), or perhaps that my copy writing has been a bit slow of late. It was probably all of this and the fact that I could simply no longer ignore the carpet of windfall apples on our cattleman’s lawn that has been catching my eye (and conscience) every day for the past two weeks when returning from my morning walk with the dogs.

So on Monday afternoon, I rapped on his door and asked permission to harvest the apples, not admitting I’d already been pinching those I could reach from across the wall that divides our apple tree-less garden from his. And what a harvest! There were dinky Golden Nobles, grass green globes blushed with pink, knobbly lime Catsheads, yellow skinned Greensleeves, and the most beautiful rosy Blenheim Orange apples. I set about dividing them up – the reds and pinks for jelly; the rest for stewed apples and chutney.

Normally I just make chutney, but as the farmer didn’t get round to making raspberry or strawberry jam this year (see What kind of farmer’s wife can’t make jam?), I thought I’d try my hand at jelly, recalling the fragrant peach-hued stuff of my childhood. And this, I can report, is my new favourite preserve; no tedious peeling or coring, simply bung the fruit into a big pan, barely cover with water and simmer till soft and pulpy before straining the juice through a jelly bag overnight. Except that the next morning I was dismayed to see that my juice was a cloudy pink instead of clear...

A bit despondent, I measured the liquid into my pan and added the sugar (450g per 600ml), heated to dissolve then brought to a fast boil, large spoon at the ready to skim the scum. Ten minutes and a bowlful of froth later, I was ecstatic to see that the jelly had cleared to a brilliant glossy red topaz. It had even set perfectly!

So happy was I with this culinary triumph that I was, in hindsight, a bit blasé about my chutney. By the time I’d got through the triathalon of peeling, coring and chopping 3 kilos of apples, 2 of pumpkin and 1 ½ of onions, taking almost 3 hours, I couldn’t wait to abandon my pan for the recommended 2-3 hours cooking time. And it was all going swimmingly until I detected a sharp whiff of that all too familiar caramelised tang... Yes, once again, I had burned the bottom of the pan (I couldn't make this stuff up!). Fortunately because it was such a huge batch and I didn’t stir it, I was able to salvage all but the charred bottom layer.

By the time the farmer came in last night then, there were 8 jars of jewel-bright apple jelly on the counter, 5 tubs of stewed apples (ready to freeze) and 15 pots of pumpkin and apple chutney. ‘Look at you, good farmer’s wife!’ he enthused. Then I showed him the pan. ‘Oh,’ he said.

This little piggy...

Hallowe’en always reminds me of when the farmer first decided to rear rare breed pigs.

It all began one perfectly ordinary evening in front of the telly four years ago, watching Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall wax lyrical about the two plump porkers he was rearing for his kitchen table. ‘Gloucestershire Old Spots were traditionally kept on dairy farms and orchards, eating the apples and whey,’ enthused Fearnely-Whittingstall. The farmer’s eyes lit up.

Then came the series Jimmy’s Farm, the bouncy Essex lad turning his hand to rearing, marketing and selling the rare breed pork from his native Essex pig. And despite all Jimmy’s trials and tribulations, of which there were many, the famer was hooked.

He scoured Scot-Ads for Old Spot weaners (8 week old piggies) and on 31 October 2005, set off with his father for Turriff. Meanwhile, I was at a Hallowe’en party with a houseful of kids getting high on sugar (the kids, not me). In Aberdeenshire, the farmer bundled the two pedigreed piggies into a trailer knee-deep in straw, arriving home some hours later more excited than the kids at the Hallowe'en party!

The plan was to breed with one and rear the other for pork, which we would eat ourselves and give to family and friends. But because we didn’t know which one would get ‘in-pig’ – one might be infertile, the farmer pointed out – 'we' decided it was best not to name them. (So I named them Piper and Phoebe.)

In the Spring, Sonny arrived. Bought from a nearby fruit farm, our long-snouted, ginger-haired Tamworth boar was introduced to the ladies, by now of piglet-bearing age, and quickly became acquainted with the shapely sisters. Now we had to wait 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days to see is Sonny had been up to the task.

He had. And as it turned out, both girls were fertile.

The first litter was born in September 2006, followed a few weeks later by the second. Both times the farmer arrived at the back door proud as punch, saying, ‘Congratulations, you’re a mum!’ Great, I’m a mother of piglets...

Yet despite a combined litter of 11, the farmer insisted he would still be getting rid of one of the Old Spots. ‘You can’t kill one of the sisters!’ I cried, feeling like Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice – ‘how can you choose which one to send to the burner?’ I demanded. (He sensed I was not getting this whole farming thing at all...)

At 7 months old, the first of the litter was ready to go to ‘piggy heaven’ and the farmer, to my complete horror, prepared to send its mother along too. But the day before the big chop, he realised the curvaceous Old Spot was ‘in-pig’ again. Hurrah! This little piggy would stay at home and have roast beef! (Bad luck cows.)

BFW blog - how it all began...

Now that we’re coming to the end of the second week of the BFW blog, I feel I should come clean about where the original idea for the ‘Bad Farmer’s Wife’ came from.

Farms are dangerous places, especially if you’re a teensy bit accident prone, like the farmer.

For the past 3 years, almost to the day, the farmer has had a series of accidents. The first, and most serious, was when a vet student, here on work experience, stabbed him with a pitch fork while mucking out the byre (she hadn’t realised the farmer was behind her), the prong lodging itself 2mm shy of his eye, piercing his nose. The second year his thumb was ripped open as he tried, belatedly, to attach a kick-bar to the cubicle when milking a moody cow – she kicked, slamming his thumb between two pieces of metal. And last year, he fractured his ankle when jumping down from his tractor, landing awkwardly in a stubble field.

So really, it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise when he limped into the kitchen after work a few weeks ago, peeling off his sock to reveal 5 purple toes on which a section of crash barrier (yes, the central reservation stuff) had been dropped. Fortunately, the unique design of the farmer’s feet (‘Wake up and smell the coffee...’) meant that he wasn’t really feeling much pain.

Not being very medically minded, I told him to call his mum, a former nurse, for advice. Meanwhile, I plated up a rather nice dinner of pan fried rump steak with baked potatoes, roasted vine tomatoes and a mixed green salad from my local vegetable box. Of course, the advice was to go straight to A+E...but dinner was on the table, so we sat down and ate, although I could hardly expect the farmer to do the dishes afterwards, as per our usual routine.

Pulling on his jacket and grabbing the car keys, he said he was off. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said, ‘I’ll take you’. He said he’d take my car, an automatic, so he wouldn’t have to use his injured (left) foot. ‘Really?’ I swithered. He would take his new book, he assured me; there was no point in us both hanging around, that I would only be bored. True, I thought. So off he hobbled as I curled up on the sofa with Millie and Molly to watch Nigel Slater’s Simple Suppers.

Two hours later, he hobbled back in: swollen little piggies all strapped up with tape and gauze, clutching a paper bag of pills and bandages. The front of his foot was fractured! He was to stay off his feet for a fortnight. I felt terrible...I was going to have to the cooking and the dishes for two weeks??

Damson jam, the Vendetta!

Following last week’s disastrous damson jam-making fiasco (‘What kind of farmer’s wife can’t make jam?’), I was determined not to let those damn damsons get the better of me.

Last night after supper, the farmer decided to clean the chimney (when did he get chimney sweeping kit?) and not to be outdone by his industriousness, I retrieved the remaining damsons from the fridge and began again the sticky business of squeezing almond-shaped stones from flesh, by now very squidgy.

This time, I used my trusty Le Creuset pan with its suitably heavy bottom, throwing in the pesky purpley fruits and letting them warm through while I weighed and warmed the sugar. I had vowed to follow Delia’s recipe to the letter this time, but because the damsons were over rather than under ripe and I had substantially less fruit than the recommended quantity, I had to tweak things here and there. I also decided to roast some peppers to store in oil while the oven was on – sterilising the jars – and make myself a cafetiere of coffee.

Happily, I can report that despite these ill-advised extra curricular activities during the jam-making, I managed to produce 2 pots of unctuous damson jam the same wickedly luscious shade as my new Chanel nail polish: Vendetta. How apt! Now, if only I could conquer the strawberry...

PS – many thanks ‘Spurs’ for the first comment on BFW!! ('Wake up and smell the coffee...') Am off to celebrate with some tea and toast (and damson jam). Cock-a-doodle-do!

DAMSON JAM

600g stoned ripe damsons

400g granulated sugar

2 x jars

Preheat the oven to 110C and weigh the sugar, transferring to a heat proof dish and placing in the oven to warm. Place the fruit in a heavy based pan and turn the heat on low to warm. Wash and rinse the jars and lids and put in oven to sterilise. Tip the sugar into fruit and let dissolve completely over low heat.

Turn heat to high and when it reaches a fast boil, set a timer for 10 mins. Stir every few minutes to prevent fruit sticking to bottom...! After 10 mins, remove from heat and remove jars from oven. Leave to sit for 10 mins then decant into warmed jars. Cool, label and enjoy.

Wake up and smell the coffee...

Here we are again: another Monday, after a lovely weekend with our lovely friends Euan, Rach and adorable baby Murray. As always, my hosting anxiety was unfounded and the weekend went well, chock full of food, fun, farm animals and freaky feet!

A girlfriend once told me that the farmer looks like a cross between Daniel Craig and Prince William, but despite this pleasing and not implausible physical comparison, he does have extraordinarily large balls (we’re still talking feet), a fact Euan foolishly made reference to since he has 'spurs' (no, really) at the back of his feet! Aside from this bizarre revelation over Friday’s fish and chips, the weekend was a delightful cascade of eating, drinking, walking and talking with a visit to The Dairy at Daviot for a comfort food lunch – lasagne, meatballs, macaroni cheese – on Saturday.

And although the farmer and I don’t have children yet, in the spirit of parenthood I napped when baby Murray napped – when the baby sleeps, you sleep, as they say – taking to my bed for a blissful hour and a half mid-afternoon. I didn’t feel as guilty about this as I might have since Rach had a lie down too...except that she’s 7 months pregnant and I had another nap around the same time on Sunday afternoon...after they’d left. I'm preparing for parenthood, I told a bemused farmer.

I awoke refreshed and ready to see Ferris Bueller's Day Off at the cinema with my brother and sister, being a much loved film of our childhood. Allegedly, the farmer wasn't fussed about seeing this 80s classic on the big screen, but as I returned home at 9.30pm to find him already in bed, fast asleep, I get the feeling I wasn't the only one 'preparing for parenthood' this weekend...

Hostess with the mostest...

This weekend, the farmer and I are entertaining; a fairly infrequent event as I am a ridiculously anxious hostess (or, bad farmer’s wife). In a few hours, friends from down south will arrive with their 16 month-old baby for the weekend. And it’s been a busy 24 hours getting ready for our guests.

Yesterday, I paid my cleaner to stay an extra hour and this morning I headed for our local deli, Corner on the Square, in the dapper market town of Beauly to stock up on their brilliant black pudding and sundried tomato quiche, Cromarty Bakery breads and croissants, fat olives in rosemary and garlic, and some farmhouse cheeses.

En route home, I stopped at Ryefield Farm Shop, one of 3 fantastic farm shops dotted around us, and filled up on dirty carrots and tatties, Savoy and green cabbage, Ryefield's own apple juice, a bag of baby plum tomatoes and a velvety lollo rosso-type lettuce.

 I've already bought some lovely Buckie haddock from my infectiously cheerful fish van man, Lachie, which I’ll flour, egg and crumb for tonight’s tea – homemade fish and chips followed by Bramley and bramble crumble – and I’ve defrosted a bone-in shoulder of our own pork, which I’ll slow roast for 8 hours tomorrow while we’re out, and serve with baked potatoes, homemade coleslaw, salad and buttered corn on the cobs.

Not such a bad farmer’s wife after all, eh? I’ve even baked a banana cake, which was very easy to make and completely dairy-free (doh!).

LINDEN’S VEGAN BANANA CAKE

1 cup corn oil

3 cups dark soft brown sugar
1 cup soya (or regular) milk
Few drops vanilla extract
2 cups self-raising flour
1 cup fine wholewheat flour
4 tsp cinnamon
2 tsp all-spice
2 lev tsp bicarb of soda
Pinch of salt
2 cups mashed ripe banana (3 large)
1 cup walnuts, roughly chopped

Blend the oil and sugar in a large mixing bowl with a wooden spoon, then tip in the milk, vanilla, flour and dry ingredients mixing to combine. Next stir in the nuts and banana. Pour into a large pyrex dish and bake at 160C for about an hour. This clever cake keeps for a few days and gets more moist with age!

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What a twit!

This has been a big week for me on the new technology and social networking front. On Monday, I started my blog and yesterday I took the plunge into ‘global phenomenon’ (New York Times), Twitter, after a friend convinced me it would help drive traffic to the blog.

I set up a profile under BadFarmersWife and sure enough within 2 hours, there was a notification in my inbox saying: ‘Hi, BadFarmersWife! Brandon May is now following you.’ I clicked on the link and found that ‘Brandon’ is a 20-something R&B/hip hop artist from Dallas, Texas... How strange. Why would an American hip hop artist be interested in what a farmer’s wife from Scotland has to say? I re-read my Twitter biog: From city slicking to country living, I’m trying hard not to be a bad farmer’s wife. Oh dear.

I quickly edited my profile to make it clear I wasn’t that kind of bad farmer’s wife and as I’ve never been very good at witty one-liners, plumped instead for a line from one of my posts for my first ‘tweet’ followed by the blog link.

This seemed to do the trick as today I see that Brandon is no longer following me! I fear that signing up to Twitter may be taking this new technology thing a step too far, so am contemplating deleting my account and sticking to straightforward blogging. Anyone care to comment/post a reaction?? (Not you, Brandon.)

Award-winning farmer - tea and trophies!

For the last 3 years, the farmer has been invited to enter the local agricultural show with his dairy cows. It’s no skin off his nose, he says modestly – the judges come to the farm rather than him schlepping to the show with the cows – but I can tell he’s secretly delighted when he wins in every category. Who wouldn’t be?

I’m just green because the one time I was shortlisted for a long lusted after Glenfiddich Food & Drink writing award, I lost to a bloke who wrote about beer in a Yorkshire rag. I was bereft! The prize giving (or not, in my case) was hosted at the swanky Hempel Hotel in London, all sunken white seating and sculpted bonsai trees. Pre-ceremony, the farmer ordered us 2 glasses of champagne at the bar and handed over 20 quid; it wasn’t enough.

A fortnight ago, the annual prize giving for the Nairn Show was held at the lovely seaside Golf View Hotel. Recently refurbished in muted tweeds and soft chocolate leather, the bar certainly looked the part but sadly didn’t do champagne by the glass, I was told. I settled for a glass of pinot grigio that tasted of oak thanks to a communal bar measure, but I hadn’t the heart to complain – it was the farmer’s big night after all.

The function room was laid out with big tables swathed in white linen bedecked with polished silverware, but this was nothing compared to the trophy table. Dazzling silver cups, rose bowls, salvers and coffee pots (don’t ask me why) of all shapes and sizes twinkled and shone under their spotlight. There were even more trophies than I remembered from the last time we were here - mysterious double-booking had prevented us from attending the previous 2 years...

Taking a seat beside the farmer, I searched the trophy table...and yes, there it was, not quite hiding in the middle – the cow trophy. Of the six prizes that the farmer wins every year, the cow trophy is the least tasteful. (Despite my love of all things 'farm' in our house, the moulded Friesian does not fit with my definition of farmhouse chic!)

A fortifying meal of tasty lentil soup followed by roast local beef with all the trimmings preceded the surprisingly speedy prize giving. And when my lovely farmer went up for his prizes, I clapped loudly and proudly, silently hoping the ‘cow’ might slip from his grasp amongst all the other trophies. (It didn’t.) And once again, I passed suitably feminist comment when the WRI trophies for best housewife, best chutney and best jam were awarded, while inwardly cursing these doyennes of domesticity. ‘Granny always used to win best jam,’ the farmer remembered fondly. That figures. His mum, his granny...clearly he has the jam-making gene!

What kind of farmer's wife can't make jam?

I adore jam and until recently, could not be swayed from my favourite kind and all-time-classic – raspberry. Lately, however, my eyes (and mouth) have been opened to the lush conserves lovingly created by friends and family: Sarah’s squidgy blueberry, Jill’s viscous redcurrant and peach, Gran’s Victoria plum.

I may be passionate about homemade preserves, but sadly I’m not particularly adept at making them, something I discovered the summer after the farmer and I moved in together several years back. We decided to have a ‘jam off’, he being as big a fan of the stuff as me. With half the stove each, we began our jam-making in earnest; weighing and measuring ruby red rasps and snow white sugar, washing and sterilising three dozen or so saved jars. But pouring the glittering granulated from its paper bag, I was alarmed at the vast amount dictated by Delia so decided, in my wisdom, to reduce the quantity in my batch.

Of course, it didn’t set and was a murky maroon colour to boot - a result of over boiling. Meanwhile, the farmer’s jam was a glowing jewel-bright scarlet with a perfect spoonable consistency...I couldn’t believe it! (Don’t even get me started on his sets-every-time strawberry...)

I didn't fare much better in subsequent years, so resorted to making freezer jam with liquid pectin, removing the irksome boiling stage entirely. Chutneys and marmalade I can manage, but I seem to have a real problem with preserves. (What kind of farmer’s wife can’t make jam??) So when my mother-in-law offered me a box brimming with bloomy violet damsons picked from her garden last week, I accepted with gusto, determined to transform them into the most delectable damson jam.

Last night after supper, I set about squeezing the tiny stones from ripe fruits, weighed and warmed the sugar and tipped it into a stainless steel pan - big mistake. Once the sugar had dissolved, I whacked up the heat and set it to boil for 10 minutes while I checked emails - bigger mistake. Within 5 minutes, the kitchen was filled with the autumnal smell of...toffee apples! I ran to the pan and peered down at the bubbling vermillion sludge. Too late, I gave it a stir and sure enough, the bottom of the pan was encrusted with caramelised damsons. Maybe, I hoped desperately, the jam on top would be okay. I removed a teaspoonful and left it to cool a little on the side. I stuck my finger in it and tasted: still toffee apple. Damn you, you damsons! The jam-making jinx strikes again...

FOOLPROOF FREEZER JAM
500g fresh berries
900g caster sugar
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
125ml liquid pectin

Crush the raspberries with a potato masher or back of a wooden spoon in a large bowl or pan. Add the sugar and lemon juice and stir thoroughly. Leave for a few hours in a warm place until the sugar has completely dissolved. Add the liquid pectin and stir for a minute or two. Cover and leave to set overnight. Spoon into freezer proof tubs, label and freeze (keeps for at least 6 months). Defrost as needed and store in fridge after defrosting.

The good life

If someone had told me 10 years ago that I would meet and marry a modern day dairy farmer, a trim six foot blonde with whom I shared a mutual love of skiing and strawberry jam eaten in copious amounts with cheddar cheese, I would scarcely have believed it. At the time I was living in a smart south London townhouse, working as an account manager for a restaurant PR consultancy with a view to setting up on my own, was very single and enjoying a rather glam life of cocktails, restaurant launches and press lunches.

Yet here I am, back in the bonnie Highlands, food editor turned restaurant PR turned food journalist turned farmer’s wife...although I can’t honestly claim to be a ‘proper’ farmer’s wife. True I have the black labs, a smart black Barbour, two pairs of (designer) wellies and live in a traditional stone farmhouse surrounded by sprawling fields. But I don’t do the farm accounts and certainly don’t get up at 3am to help with the early morning milking. (I don’t even get up at 7.30am to make my hardworking hubby a full cooked breakfast when he comes in, as a proper farmer’s wife might.)

What do I do? I write freelance, mainly commercial copy nowadays, and make an evening meal from scratch every night, because I love home cooked food - if only I could get someone else to make it! - as well as selling our rare breed pork to local farm shops and private customers. So from city slicking to country living, food pundit to pork purveyor, I really am living the good life. But as this blog will doubtless show, living 'the good life' doesn’t automatically turn one into 'the good wife'...