Battle of the bumps

After an extended leave of absence, I’m back by popular demand...well, by a handful of kind requests anyway. Where have I been? Right here on the farm, as ever, and since losing my biggest copywriting client (long story) and finally falling pregnant (even longer story) – both coincidentally back in March – I seem to be turning into a fairly good farmer’s wife as it happens.

A lack of work coupled with the increasingly undeniable fact that there will be a baby here in two months’ time has seen the farmhouse undergo a series of much needed improvements and me go into domestic overdrive. Our newly created larder is now stocked with jams and jellies – blueberry, redcurrant, raspberry and strawberry (thank you Silver Spoon Jam Sugar with added pectin) – and I’m in the process of filling the deep freeze with meals for when the baby arrives.

Inspired by last week’s opening episode of the River Cottage Every Day series and Hugh’s stew club, today I decided to make a batch of hearty beef stew.

Down at my local butcher, I selected some root veggies and onions while the nice lady-butcher diced me a shed load of chuck steak. As we waited for my card to process payment, she asked me what I was doing for the rest of the day. I told her of my freeze-ahead plan before the imminent arrival of my baby, at which she looked quite taken aback. ‘I had no idea,’ she said, staring openly at my belly in disbelief. ‘You’re very neat,’ she added politely.

This, I have to tell you, is pretty much the standard reaction of strangers and people I haven’t seen for a while on discovering I’m 30+ weeks pregnant. I know, I know, I should be grateful that I am so ‘neat’ but at the same time I can’t help but wonder what they must have thought before finding out my news. That I’ve let myself go? That I'm a bit portly? That I’m taking my role as farmer’s wife altogether too seriously?!

I’m just disappointed that after waiting so long for the stork to visit our nest that it’s not immediately apparent to all that I’m with-child rather than with-an-awful-lot-of-extra-pounds. ‘Who cares?’ the Farmer reassures, ‘we know you’re pregnant. Just think of all those people who have big bellies with no baby inside. Look at your Dad!’

True, I console myself thinking of my foodie Father. Nowadays when we hug I don’t get anywhere near him, his bump being as big as mine. Instead we kind of bang bellies sumo wrestler style.

‘This is very expensive,’ he says proudly of his paunch, referring to the many Michelin-starred meals that have gone into it. ‘It’s cost me a lot of money,’ he adds, slapping his stomach forcefully, something I’ve had to discourage him from doing to my own.

Ironically, by all accounts (friends, family, books, the media) my bump – albeit temporary – is about to cost us a lot of money too.

Power of the Pen

Despite the fact that I write marketing copy for a living, I would have to say I am fairly susceptible to the odd advertising campaign or two. Okay, as the Farmer is fond of telling me, I’m an ‘ad man’s dream’. Always have been. A new mascara that increases lash volume by 10, it’s mine; a moisturiser that turns back time, I’ll take it; an email from Citalia about city breaks to Venice, I’m there. I even bought a (very expensive) cream in my mid-teens that promised to increase my bust size (if only I knew then that gaining several pounds in weight does the same thing for free).

It should come as no surprise then that upon receiving a proof of the Kitzbuhel brochure I penned the words for (Crazy about Kitzbuhel), complete with breathtaking photography and striking scarlet branding, that I was instantly captivated – again.

      Arriving in Kitzbühel is like stepping into a 21st century fairytale. World renowned for its winter    sports and hair raising Hahnenkamm downhill ski race, Kitzbühel with its candy coloured Medieval Old Town and magical alpine setting is a beguiling Tyrolean treasure; a place, as locals are keen to tell you, of legends...

As if this wasn’t enough, a few days later Kitzbuhel Tourism asked me to proofread their KitzLux brochure – more than 20 seductive pages featuring the cream of the Kitzbuhel luxury hotel crop. So when the Farmer suggested we book a pre-Easter break somewhere, it was a done deal. How could we resist Kitzbuhel the Legend?

Naturally, I couldn’t. We head off next week to effectively plough the money I’ve just earned from Kitzbuhel back into Kitzbuhel... Gee, they really saw me coming.

Working Girl

After a rather extended Christmas break and a bout of blogger’s block, I’m back, albeit a bit reluctantly. The problem is that my cunning plan to alert the publishing world to my writing prowess via my blog doesn’t seem to be working.

According to my tracking statistics, I have garnered a total following of just over 100 visitors since starting the Bad Farmer’s Wife in September (2009), which – don’t get me wrong – I am very grateful for, but clearly it’s not quite the volume of traffic that’s going to have Bloomsbury beating a path to my door...

Since the dawn of 2010 then, it’s fair to say that my motivation has been pretty poor. And until last week, I’ve had very little to blog about apart from the tiresome weather. What happened last week? It all started when the Farmer got a call from the police asking if we were landlords of a flat in town.

About three years ago, we bought a one bedroom flat in a fairly smart neighbourhood as a rental investment. It was one of about a dozen in a converted Victorian hospital and until last November, had been successfully rented to the same quiet living tenant. Sadly he left, so the flat was re-advertised in the local paper.

Being unfeasibly paranoid about showing the flat on my own to potential axe murderers, the Farmer did a couple of viewings and let the property within a matter of days to a bubbly Brummie girl who told him she was setting up a Fake Bake franchise. She gave him two letters of reference and paid the deposit and one month’s rent – in cash. The subsequent month was also paid in cash.

I immediately thought she’d done a runner on hearing the news of the police phone call. ‘It’s worse,’ the Farmer said grimly. Worse? I repeated. She can't pay the rent? I groaned. ‘No, the rent’s all paid up,’ he said, ‘because the flat’s being run by a ring of prostitutes!’

He went on to explain that after a tip off from one of the neighbours, the police had done a stake out of the property: the girls worked in 2 week cycles leaving the key under the bin for the next girl. However, they couldn’t prosecute them – allegedly they were doing nothing wrong (tell that to the neighbours!) – it was the pimp they were after; in most cases, usually the landlord! But after interviewing the Farmer, they quickly ruled this out. ‘A spot of farm diversification,’ the Farmer joked.

We were, as you'd expect, completely gobsmacked – our lovely little flat, a brothel! Worse still, I had to go round and clear out their belongings, left behind in their hurry to leave. Armed with rubber gloves and bin bags, I found a colourful selection of eye-popping underwear, bottles of baby oil, value packs of BIC razors and lots of air freshener... Fortunately, there was nothing more sordid than this.

Sitting down to dinner that night, the Farmer pointed out that while the situation was not ideal, at least they had paid the rent before they were busted. True, I agreed, we may be suspected pimps but at least we're not out of pocket.

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...