Monday 30 November 2009

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...

Friday 27 November 2009

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!

Wednesday 25 November 2009

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.

Monday 23 November 2009

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.

Friday 20 November 2009

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 porkfree 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.


Wednesday 18 November 2009

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!




Monday 16 November 2009

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!


Thursday 12 November 2009

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.


Wednesday 11 November 2009

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??

Monday 9 November 2009

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!


Friday 6 November 2009

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!

Wednesday 4 November 2009

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.


Monday 2 November 2009

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.)