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'...