Make-do Mince Pies for the non designated driver

No matter how many times I tell him, it's no point waiting by the chimney.  He's not coming TODAY.  At the earliest sign of tinsel and Santa stockings, he's sniffing and poking around.  Bennie just loves Christmas.  He knows it's a time of more food than usual.  More baking, more leftovers, more likely loose items of food fallen to the kitchen floor.  Having just done another round of mince pies, the kitchen floor now has a slight pastry coated film about it and those loose raisins have a way of hiding in corners until you have someone come and visit, then they suddenly appear.  This was my first attempt at fruit mince pie baking.  Having decided to spend a little less this year, I decided that baking my own would be this years challenge.  

I've had some monumental yuletide disasters over the years including Christmas Cakes that would hold up ancient ruins and berry tarts with pastry so hard you could dry wall your house with it.  So this year I set out with realistic expectations (meaning none).  I'm using a triple tested recipe and one that doesn't require rare ingredients from some unpopulated island in the Pacific or some alcoholic beverage that is only available by travelling more than 24 hours on a plane.  So my first batch was undertaken with a somewhat distracted approach, and as a result turned out semi decent considering I left out only two of the ingredients.  It's always when you later go back to the fridge then you wonder why that particular item is still there. Oops! I also didn't have the right baking tins and didn't have the right size star cookie cutter so my first batch fruit mince pies were renamed 'make-do mince pies'.  Not a bad result, certainly edible.  So gave the second batch a serious go with all of the ingredients and even the right pans and star shape cutter.  My only substitute was whisky for brandy, and only because that's all I had.  Other than being a little bit lethal and not recommended if you are the designated driver, I'm happy with how they turned out.  So is Bennie.  Oh, he'll just sleep it off.

TV's dinners are to blame

In name only.  That's what the vet said in response to meeting Minnie.  Nothing mini about her.  Rude veterinary comments aside, she's a picture of health, just a wide screen one.  What can you do?  She loves her food...and everyone else's.  The weight issue is not something we focus on too much around here.  Enjoy good food in moderation we say.  She just didn't hear the moderation bit.  We eat, pretty well everything that we like, but largely our dinner is home made so we know what went into it, and we don't eat anything that is handed to you through the car window.  Meals for me are something you sit down at the table and have, even if it's just for one.  Sitting with my dinner on my lap watching television would only end up with me in a spilt food mess.  Watching TV whilst easting just makes us eat faster with no conscious act or acknowledgement of what we are putting into our mouths.  No thought to where it came from, the time and effort put into it and the decision whether to bother with that recipe again or not.  The concept of TV dinners appeared around the 1970's when bringing out the metal folding tables became a sign of a modern family allowing everyone to turn their attention to their favourite program instead of each other.  Get Smart won over your parent's day at the office on most nights and The Brady Bunch, with their good intentions and moral dilemma's beat real life ones any day.  The convenience con had begun.  Television of course also brought us advertising to digest along with our digestives and packaged TV dinners to accompany our folding metal tray tables.  Here we could learn about getting food faster to our door with little or not much effort at all.  And from there it became even easier.  Convenience nowadays is any number of choices of takeaway meals chauffeur driven to your door so you don't even need to drive up to a drive through to get it.  It comes with it's own driver.  My God, I hope Minnie never discovers this, she won't fit through the door.  I'll stick with the dining table for now.

Crossbeak

You know those days when you realise that the only one who understands you is a rooster?  Ok, well perhaps it is only me but Crossbeak was a dear friend.  When you had a day that left you wondering what the hell is wrong with the world and why don't people just do what you would expect them to do, Crossbeak was right there with you.  He'd stand next to you, right beside your feet with that funny little squawk that said 'oh yeah, life's crap sometimes but you just get on with it'.  And so you would.  Crossbeak started out in life with a serious disfigurement to his beak that meant that the top one was headed in the complete opposite direction to the bottom one and almost impossible for him to eat.  Me, in my great wisdom took him off to the vet for some minor surgery.  The vet was able to clip his beak a bit shorter so he could eat.  When I got him home in the box he was in shock and couldn't move.  I thought I'd almost killed him.   I should have just sent him off to one of those resorts in Asia that people go to and come back looking like a completely different person.  But Crossbeak didn't need a little freshening up, he needed to survive.  And that he did.  The other chickens didn't care about his peculiar looks, there was even the odd (short sighted) girlfriend but they never lasted long (we're talking minutes not months).  As he struggled to eat off the ground I always hand fed him what I could before getting into trouble from Lewis the head rooster, and always had a special treat for him at the back door.  He'd follow me around the property like a pet dog and inspect every weed I pulled.  He'd make a mess of himself with the leftover sponge cake and couldn't get the cream off his face before getting found out by the others.  Unfortunately he went downhill recently and his tail feathers were getting lower and lower.  He was struggling to swallow food and yesterday he quietly passed away.  Farewell Crossbeak.  I'll miss our little chats.  The world is a lesser place without you (wipe the tears off the keyboard now...).

Nurse Minnie to the rescue - of her own bed

Could have been something he ate?  Not sure.  A night in the emergency Vet Hospital and $1200 later, he comes home to sleep it off as Nurse Minnie oversees the sleeping patient.  And whilst I'd like to think that his nurse is more concerned about his welfare than the fact he's on her bed, I could be a bit wrong.  It's so hard when your beloved animals are unwell.  They can't speak to tell you which bit hurts so you have to make a lot of assumptions and pay a lot of money to have every possibility eliminated.  We thought it might have been something he stole from the chook pen, like too much bread, pastry etc., or could have been some of the old eggs he finds around the property, that only he knows the location of.  Either way, he wasn't travelling at all well and didn't get up for an entire day.  He was not eating or drinking which was not his style so we needed to make a call.  He seemed to be in some sort of pain in the rear end region but we couldn't say exactly, which made us think it could be a bite or injury.  We know if it was snake bite we wouldn't be standing around scratching our heads, and he most likely wouldn't be still around to see us do that.  So a late night visit to some wonderful staff at the Hobart Vet Hospital who kept us well informed during the night.  X-Rays, examinations, medication.  Nothing found, a few digestive issues but at least we could rule out the sinister possibilities.  He's home now and fast asleep as the medication from this morning will keep him confined to bed for the day.  As for his full time carer - unfortunately she's asleep on the job and officially stood down.  Very unreliable.

No fire today - hopefully

There will be no fire stoked up tonight in the old tin shed out the back.  It's a day of no lawful outdoor fires (total fire ban).  We built this shed from bits and bobs and put in a black fire burner to keep us warm while the slow turning pork cooks away on the other side.  We always say it's pork. Particularly when there are chickens around.  We've got strong northerly winds today that are fuelling fires around the central areas of Tasmania.  It's worrying to smell and see the smoke but you really feel for those who are living close by.  It does raise the question of what do you pack to leave in the case of fire emergency.  We're in an 140 year old weatherboard cottage that would go up like a stack of newspapers.  There would be little point trying to save her.  My first thoughts would go to the immediate family. Us.  Cats.  Dog.  But chickens and guinea fowl would just have to follow the instructions of the fire warden and do a role call at their own evacuation point.  I guess you need to take passports, photos etc., but then you start to think of what could you not part with?  The Kitchen Aid would be a big ask.  I'd probably take food - because that's what I mostly think about.  It's something you hope you never have to face.

Insects - friend or foe?

In an act of pure vandalism, possum has been at the roses again.  Partial to a Peony he sucks the tips of the not yet opened bud drawing out the moisture and making it almost impossible to bloom.  Then along comes this shiny beetle.  I never quite know with insects if there intentions are good - or not.  The aphids on the roses seem clearly bad, but the lady birds eat them so, that's good.  This shiny beetle was reflecting in the sun light making himself very obvious to all.  And given the amount of chooks and birdlife in my yard, I considered this to be a bit on the foolish side  but I'm sure it served some purpose.  The first year we moved in here we had a plague of grasshoppers.  As in biblical proportions.  They managed to eat everything we planted and even came indoors.  We could not get rid of them.  Then the chooks arrived.  No more grasshoppers.  They still enjoyed the odd nibble on the veggie patch but nothing as destructive as the grasshoppers.  The large blow flies as we call them are on steroids at the moment.  Pumped up and with full strength they hurl themselves at the windows.  I'm convinced they watch the back door and as soon as it's even slightly open, they whizz in.  Max loves to stalk them and will get close enough to them to pat them on the head.  Unfortunately that's about the best of his efforts.  He's doesn't like violence.  Insects can be interesting creatures and I'm sure there is much more to them than we know.  Except for spiders.  They're just plain evil.

Saturday

Well the  good news is the Sage has come back after a dormant stick looking winter.  It's flowering which is sometimes a warning of sign of going to seed and then it's all over but fortunately we've got new growth and my burnt butter and sage sauce with tortellini pasta will remain on the menu.   Minnie (pictured) is my regular kitchen consultant and her immediate appearance whenever the oven is turned on is remarkable.  The sound of the fan forced oven is enough for her to come to the kitchen and peer in its door.  She's got very little hope of seeing what's inside that oven as the years of baked on grime certainly prevent that.  My husband has unfortunately got her into the habit of taste testing our food.  Chicken, duck, sausages, you name it she's up for it. Unfortunately this has become a bit of problem for her waistline as a recent trip to the vet resulted in a few less than complementary comments about her less than mini appearance.  She's not obese just big boned, we like to say.  That was certainly the case last night when I tried to move her from her position of warmth in between us in the bed.  Regardless of the fact that she's big and heavy and takes up half of the bed, she snores something shocking.  I put on the light so I could pick her up and move her but all I managed to do was move the front half of her towards the end of the bed and the remaining bulk seemed to stay put where it was.  Fortunately she got the hint and jumped off.  Thump.  No wonder we don't get much sleep. Anyway back to thoughts on dinner.   I haven't got much past the herb garden. The herb flowers get picked and put in a tiny vase on the kitchen window sill and I get completely distracted.  Love Saturdays.

Beware of the flying jet skis

Viewing time is open at the maternity ward.  She's brought them out from the hedge for public viewing.  She's the proud mum of five, all different colours.  I put next to her a very shallow pet bowl for water, just enough for them to drink but not drown in.  They mostly stand in it anyway.  The water bowls can get a bit like a public swimming pool for all the wrong reasons.

We're definitely spending a bit more time outdoors these last few days.  Weeds have been pulled, paddocks have been mowed and lawn seed planted.  I've embarked on regular watering program to make sure everything is watered and no sections get neglected.  Yesterday I took the side hose around the to the front of the house to make sure I could water all of the iceberg roses and lavender.  I was careful not to disturb the army of bees in the lavender bushes.  They were everywhere.  I watered at the roots of the plants but still the humming became louder every time I came by with a hose.  I soon realised that I was being pursued by an angry humming.  A bit like being chased by a air bound jet ski, I soon discovered you can't outrun it.  I ran towards the other side of the front lawn near the big oak tree where there isn't a lavender bush in sight but the angry bee was still after me.  This bee had been inside one too many empty cans of Red Bull and clearly wanted a fight.  I grabbed my straw hat off my head and waved it around but that didn't work.  I took off my pale blue jumper and threw it on the lawn to encourage it to pursue the jumper instead of me but it kept buzzing around my head.  This occurring all the time with me racing around the front lawn in circles like a woman possessed.  Not accustomed to random acts of bee violence, I ran towards the house only to trip over two very uncoordinated feet and face plant (or fall arse over tit as I understand the term to be) on the lawn.  When I got up (bruised ego mostly) I could hear the sound of bee laughter trailing off in the distance. But at least it was Bee begone with dignity gone too.  Bugger them.  They can have dried lavender in future.  See who gets the last bee laugh now.

So much for peaceful mornings

Why is it when you plan a quiet, peaceful morning it all goes to hell in a handbasket?  Husband off fishing at 5am left me to snore blissfully in unison with Max at the end of the bed until a sneaky bit past 7:30am.  The sun gaining some momentum leads me to take my mug of tea out into the courtyard to enjoy the not so early morning.  Over the years of living here I've come to recognise the regular sounds of farm life.  The neighbour's cows, the lambs in the paddock next door to them and the familiar birds that live in our trees.  I've also come to recognise the sound of baby chickens being hatched. First one cheep, then another, then a chorus of cheep, cheeps.  We've been vigilant with the egg piles around the garden knowing that last year our chicken population spiralled out of control costing us a small fortune in chook food.  We've managed to sell most to a breeder and now have just a manageable few - until today.  Right under my nose the sound of cheep, cheep was getting louder.  It was coming from under the fountain.  In the dense shrub I couldn't even get a look through a gap, but could hear a gentle clucking of a proud mum.  Bennie unfortunately caught me looking and now is trying to get a look in.  Thinking they need rescuing he's barking at the shrubbery.  Being a retrieval dog he thinks it's his place to seek them out and bring them to me.  He would never hurt them but wouldn't get a chance as the mother hen would give him a piece of her mind if he came anywhere near them.  So rather than put up with the barking I bring him inside.  And before I can pick up my now barely warm mug of tea, I see Minnie scoot across the courtyard chasing a half dead sucked on mouse.  I think I'll stay in today.

Who wants to be a chicken - I do

I can't imagine living in a place that didn't have chickens.  Apart from the obvious egg collecting they are really very entertaining.  Doris (pictured) has taken to laying eggs at the back door in the wood kindling box.  I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must be not to mention the potential splinters.  But, it works for Doris.  It works for me as well as I only have to poke my head around the back door for an egg.  Doris has a full plumage of feathers on her head (bouffant if you like) and whilst it's a great retro look, I suspect a lot of the time she can't see where she is going.  I've seen her plummet head first into the rear end of another chicken, not attractive.  Thanks to Doris though we now have a variety of chickens with feathers on their heads.  Mostly more mohawk than Doris Day but it's a good way of knowing that they come from our farm.  Particularly now that the neighbours have chickens with feathers on their legs and spikey hair hairdos.  Two years ago they only had Isa Browns. Now they don't have one brown chicken.  Our rosters don't worry too much about fences or borders.  I'm not really sure how long chickens live for.  I've been told that Isa Browns only live for about 3 years or if raised for commercial reasons, probably about five minutes.  We're proud to say we've got some seniors on our farm.  It's a bit of a retirement village for our flock where they come out for their morning and afternoon tea.  This morning they polished off some leftover scones and the crusts from last night's home made cherry pie from a bottle of preserved cherries.  They'll sit in the dirt in the sun now and then slowly close their eyes and have a little snooze.  I'm sure if I put a TV out there they'd be sitting around watching Who Wants To Be a Millionaire waiting for their supper.  Won't encourage them.

Don't even think about taking electric blankets off the bed

As I walk towards the glasshouse and veggie patch, I'm accosted by the Lilac tree now in full bloom.  The perfume hits you like a wall of fragrance along with the baby yellow roses of the Banksia on the other side branching out for a brush across your arm as you walk past.  As keen as I would be to pick these magnificent lilac blooms and stuff the into anything containing water inside, I've read somewhere they had a reputation for bringing about death if you put them inside.  As silly wives tale as this may sound, I'm reluctant to push my lilac luck and settle for a water filled gin bottle outside the kitchen window.  Would be rather grim for such a beautiful blossom to be so horribly violent but best to play it safe.

Spring is a beautiful time of year in the garden but fickle she is.  Today we've got snow down to 600 metres here in Hobart so that means it's bloody cold.  The wood fire is burning and the rain swings in and out as the strong winds push through the house like an unwelcomed guest.  Next week we are promised warmer weather and again...we state 'I guess this will be the last of the wood fires for this season'.  Or not.  The chickens have been in hiding all day to avoid the wind and wet.  Doris simply hates to get her head feathers out of perfect plumage.  I'm still wearing three layers of clothing and there is an assortment of indoor pets scattered at various intervals in front of the fire.  We're so over winter here.  Come on summer.  This morning I threw a batch of Soda Water Scones in the oven (thank you Sally Wise for the recipe).  We had an abundance of cream about to expire in the fridge so with some home made raspberry jam, the whipped cream and hot scones were soon put together.  Any thoughts of salads or outdoor cooking will be shelved for now.  I'm thawing out Lentil Soup for dinner just in the case the rolled lamb shoulder is still an ice block by dinner time.  And whilst the days are getting a little longer with the sun setting a little later, it's still mostly early nights and electric blankets switched on.  In fact we do this most of the year come to think of it!

I'll never understand them

The Guinea Fowl are probably not the most attractive bird in the place.  They've got a small red fin on top of their heads that looks like it could pick up the internet, and they have a painted white head mask just to confuse people.  They're not interactive like our chickens.  They don't stand on the back door mat and peer in at breakfast. They don't stand on your foot while they're pecking at seed and we never attempt to pick them up or pat them.  They don't even have names.  Just 'the Guinea Fowl' who roam the property in a constant state of alertness.  They call out when the neighbour gets on his tractor or a stranger pulls up into the driveway.  They are great watch dogs.  Their best reputation is for keeping snakes away, particular at wineries.  Not sure about visitors though.  They make a hell of a racket if we move the garden house after it being in the one place for a long time. They don't really get along with the chooks and will happily pull a rooster by the tail if it gets near the food before them.  We've tried to let them breed because they're fairly sought after but unfortunately we've got a night predator of some sort who get the chicks before eBay.  So this year we're going to try and be a little more vigilant and attempt to protect them and their chicks.  I did that last year but the males busted them out.  And then the chicks got eaten.  Watch dogs yes, intelligent creatures...not so much.

Reports just in from witnesses of a backyard abduction

I walked through a canopy of blossom on my way to the chook yard this morning.  The scent from the flowers and the hum from the bees just screams Spring is here.  The warmth in the air means that you can get away with only wearing two layers of clothing and the legs of your jeans aren't stiff with the cold when you put them on in the morning.  You just feel a little bit cheerier when the weather is this good.  You do a good deed or in my case, swear at the television a little less.  Their attempts via the morning breakfast programs to distract my interest towards an everyday event that most likely has been occurring since time began fail.  Just because someone provided the video footage, and it's comes  with a heightened level of drama in the voice for emphasis for what is mostly a mundane event, it doesn't interest me that much.  A fight on a bus, a wave hits a boat, a celebrity did something, again.  Everyday stuff but now we've got the video.  Every day stuff happens here without the need for emphasis of drama in our voices.  The Butcher Birds sing outside the bathroom window, very grateful for the sunny morning and the constant supply of baby chicks they keep snatching from my property.  It's distressing for the mothers, and no doubt the snatched chick, and whilst I've waived my arms about and yelled profanities in their general direction as they whip off with another (in their view) chicken nugget, it is helping to keep my spiralling chook population down.  And I'm no vegetarian so can't be too hypercritical.  They swoop on a regular basis just for the fun of it and send the hens into hysteria.  The roosters call out in full voice to warn off others and the volume is raised across all 4 acres.  But no one gets interviewed.  No one does a piece to camera saying 'yeah it was really scary' like as if we didn't know that already.  The witnesses won't post anything on Facebook and the only twitter feed that's worth noting is from a branch in a tree.  It's just everyday events that happen.  And will probably happen again tomorrow.

No good smells today

It's heavy rain here at the moment.  Steady, wet rain.  It won't last.  But try telling that to a Cocker Spaniel.  Bennie hopes and prays every morning.  Dear God (also a Cocker Spaniel), please let today be one of those days when I get to go out and sniff dead things.  When I get to track possum scent, pull on my lead and try not to look embarrassed when my owner stops and talks to cows.  Bennie is truly man's best friend.  On our walks when the old yappy terrier comes up behind him outside their driveway and tries to intimidate him, he walks away.  Mind you if said terrier was to have a crack he'd learn how to fly really quick!  Bennie located some baby chicks yesterday and sniffed them to see if they were alright.  He doesn't touch them, he's just showing concern at the constant 'cheep, cheep'.  He gets very stressed when we try to catch chickens for sale.  He doesn't like to see any animal hurt. When our two ungracious felines decide to wrestle and attack each other he quickly gets in between them to stop them. He's better at it than me.  I just yell at them and that upsets him so he jumps to it.  Animals know when you are angry.  He comes over to me when I'm having a rant at the breakfast television programs.  You know the drill, 'OH MY GOD, WHAT'S WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?'  So today it's a sad face that will lie in front of the fire (gosh life sucks Bennie!!) with the other assorted pets.  And hope that tomorrow brings good news.

Data intelligence - the sleeping giant

When the phone battery starts to die a little faster you know it's getting to that time where you have to face a telco shop.  I can't say I've ever had a good experience in one of these.  They have a way of making you feel really old and dumb.  They speak at you and ask you questions that you can't answer because you don't recognise the language.  It sounds like our own language but you don't recognise any of the words.  They then stand there looking annoyed with you but satisfied that you are about to part with a regular commitment to a very large sum of money for something that you don't completely understand.  I don't really want much from my technology.  I'm ok with the basics.  I don't have many apps because I don't want to hand over more dosh, remember more effing passwords and because they are something that I don't know exist I basically don't miss out on having them.  I don't need my phone to unlock my front door, turn on my household lights, start my car or drive it for that matter.  I would like it to sweep the kitchen floor but that's not about to happen any day.  My generation and older are seen as incompetents when it comes to the latest technology and whilst I'm perfectly fine with that I'm not fine with the fact that they use it to suck money out of your account on a monthly basis. Something younger generations don't seem to mind.  Whilst my generation invented the technology, we often get wrongly assumed as not being able to adjust to the changes.  What rubbish.  The amount of technological changes someone in their fifties has had to live with is mind blowing.  We were employed as data entry operators on some of the largest and most basic of computer operating systems.  The hard drive was the size of your washing machine and changing the tape drives involved heavy lifting.  Word processing required us to memorise every single short cut and function operation with no look up or data intelligence.  We were the ones that had to be intelligent.  The early word processing machines had a display screen of one line only.  You typed letter by letter across the screen and then when the maximum got to end of the display it disappeared until you printed it out and hoped for the best.  Or went back line by line.  The end result of this and the type writer was that the more accurate you were, the less time you spent repeating the same piece of work. Then when the intelligence came through technology, it made it easier.  And the technology got smarter and smarter.  It became intuitive, collected data and memorised our patterns of behaviours.  Now it wants the keys to your car.  Is anybody worried about this or is it me?

Avoid the long haul blueberry

As the official Spring date is less than a week away it's time to go through the large freezer and see what can be salvaged.  During the summer months we pack away for safe keeping the surplus fruit where we can.  At the end of the hot season you can pick up ordinarily expensive fresh fruit for a really good price.  Blueberries are a really good example.  We started growing them and now know that they are a labour of love, in that you can only pick them individually because they all don't ripen on the branch at the same time.  Who wants a dessert with only two blueberries!  When the local ones start to descend in price I take the opportunity to stash them away in the freezer.  I don't buy fruit out of season if I can avoid it, and I certainly never buy fruit with a passport.  I know how bad I feel after a long haul flight.  Imagine how a blueberry feels? Apples are a really good example.  We're fortunate to be in a place in the world that once was a huge producer of many varieties of applies and to a certain degree, still does.  They are disappearing unfortunately as the big shops don't buy them because they say the demand is not there. The difference in apple varieties is staggering.  Some of the old English varieties are only available at market stalls and it's worth checking them out when they are in season.  They don't keep though.  Someone tell the shops that, please.  They become powdery and tasteless if picked too early and ordered to ripen by some sort of gas, they'll be disappointing and er., gassed!  For many years they coated them in wax to make them shiny, now they sit in large warehouses waiting, waiting, waiting for supply chain to send them to market.  That's why they are tampered with.  Fruit doesn't like to sit around and wait to be eaten.  You've only got to look in the bottom of my fridge to work that out.  Was that a passion fruit once or is it some kind of stone?  But at this time of year we wait patiently for the stone fruits, berries and later, much later the apples.  And the best way to work out when their actual season is, is to plant a tree yourself or shop at the farmer's markets.  Our apple trees are only just beginning to wake up and sprout new growth for blossom.  And as for the blueberries, we're hoping for a bumper crop this year.  At least four anyway.

Well they said they just don't like needles...

I like to cook fish at least twice a week.  Not for any religious reason or to reduce another type of meat it's just because I actually really like it.  These days I generally pick one of the ugly species.  The ones that are cheap, have a really ill-thought out name (God, who came up with 'Snotties'?) and are the least attractive.  Generally line caught, out of the ocean with no tampering other than a serious blow to head does me fine.  I used to be a big fan of eating a particular type of farmed fish because I thought, yeah farmed is good, stop depleting the rivers and oceans of this much sought after variety.  There were some reports about enhanced colouring in the farming processes which put me off slightly, but I thought gee, I could probably do with a little colour myself but it got worse.  The reports...not the colour, I'm still deathly white.  I read recently in the newspaper that a particular fish company that farms a type of fish vaccinate them against disease.  GREAT!!  And it's not a case of line up with your fins rolled up for your annual flu shot, I could be wrong but I suspect this vaccination gets put in the fish food and therefore it's in my food.  End of my interest in said fish.  The likelihood of me getting Gill disease is probably still very low even though my immunity may have worn off but I'll take my chances.  It doesn't take an expert to work out that trying to recreate nature is difficult when you want live species at your beck and call on a massive production scale.   The movement of these fish through their natural environments naturally prevents this disease.  And so when farmed it needs to managed other ways.  I get all that.  I just don't want to be vaccinated against it.  Thanks very much.

Room in front of the fire for everyone

As I sit at the kitchen bench writing this, I can feel the cold wind sneaking under the kitchen door beside me.  Wind has many entry and exit points in this house.  Under doors is a favourite and no matter how many stuffed sausages you jam against them, wind always finds a way in.  I can also hear the gentle whining of the hens and roosters at the other side of the door.  Doris hates the rain.  It's bad for her hair. They're asking me to open that door and go out into their feed area and disperse some grain.  On good days it's leftovers like pasta and bacon rind but today I've only got some sad looking lettuce leaves from a Cos that's overstayed its welcome in the fridge.  I feel bad.  I need to go out and feed them but the weather is coming at us sideways.  We've got a series of cold fronts that are being blown up from the south which means it feels like it's come via Antarctica.  The dark grey clouds are zooming across the skyline with curtain trails of rain dropping what looks like sleet being blown in every direction.  Autumn is a crap month here.  I don't know how the blossom manages to hold on with 50+ km winds but somehow it manages - depending on where you've put your trees of course.  We look forward to the coming months when you only need to wear two layers of clothing not three.  And that's just in the house.  Old homesteads are wonderful in summer but in winter unless you've got a Carson to go around and light a fire in every room that has a fireplace, you'll have an enormous electricity bill or you'll just stay warm in one room and complain about the others.  My dining room sits in between the warm wood fire heated living area and the frost bitten hallway that has leaves blowing down the carpet runner.  We don't dine in there, particularly during winter as it would be more suitable to hanging meat than dining right now.  And as I work from home my entire days (and nights mostly) exist around the confines of a rectangle rug in front of a fire shared with two cats and a cocker spaniel.  And if I open that back door right now, that will also include at least 8 chickens.

I'm not about to start growing wheat

I've been using a bread maker for a while now.  It's one of those things that can divide people.  They were a kitchen gadget that went out of favour for a while but the later version is as easy as it gets.  Unfortunately the difficult part of bread making for me is finding bread flour.  The big shops with the long aisles only have bread mix.  And after reading about the unlisted ingredients in bread mix that so wonderfully stop it and me from going mouldy, I'm a bit reluctant to go down that hidden additive road with them.  Is it me or is it getting harder and harder to source food ingredients that haven't been tampered with? If we've got the situation where ingredients, no matter how small don't need to be listed what hope have we got?  Teeny tiny portions of bad stuff might have zero (proven) effect on our health for one portion but we generally are habitual feeders and return to the same product time and time again.  And we actually care what shit they put in our food chain.  I try to take responsibility for the stuff that goes into people's mouths around here but it's an ongoing battle.  The dog eats the cat food which is very bad for him, Minnie our outdoor cat that lives inside by the fire, eats our food as well as her own which is not good for her as she's already overweight, the chooks are constantly sneaking the dog food and the ragdoll cat won't eat any food that's been in a bowl more than 5 minutes.  When did food for survival become so hard?  According to a well known vital organ foundation they state that how we prepare meat and poultry and fish can make a big difference as to whether we are healthy or not.  This is true in some aspects, and that deep fried shoes would taste good if the batter was just right but what about getting the product to us that's healthy in the first place.  The problem is we just do know what funny stuff has been added before we even get it so we're buggered before we start.  Well at least I know I won't go mouldy any time soon.

No fake sleeping in my house

One of the big supermarket chains announced yesterday that they had their own brand of fruit mince pies out on show for early Christmas shopping.  Allegedly caused outrage everywhere.  Of course.  It's normally September you know.  But seriously, if people didn't buy them, they wouldn't put them out.  We can't purchase our way out of this one folks.  A bit like the bowling ball girl.  Whatever television program I seem to be watching of late contains the same ads for every ad break.  I've seen the girl with the bowling ball trying to sell me a mattress topper so many times I'm beginning to wonder if we've actually met somewhere.  She drops that bowling ball on the bed at least ten times per hour along with her colleagues who ham up some of the worst pretend sleeping ever seen on television.  It's annoying and I wish she'd go away.  I'd even buy one of her mattresses if that would mean I would never have to see her and her tossing and turning friends again.  But there lies the problem (no pun intended).  People do.  The bowling ball girl is only replaced by the pillow people who also have a bowling ball for some reason and again, these ads are on high rotation to nudge your mind into actually considering that purchasing the super sleeper foam thing will not only give you better than fake sleep, it will make them go away (plus postage and handling).  It appears to be very expensive foam but who am I to judge a bowling ball.  So if it's not foam sleeping solutions, it's slicing and dicing gadgets that do torturous things to vegetables.  How many of these plastic bits are tossed into the back of kitchen cupboards or landfill?  I often wonder how many of these gadgets get returned.  Perhaps they are recycled.  Into foam of course.  Or bowling balls?

The wasteful generation

There was an article in Saturday's paper in the weekend magazine section about a young woman enjoying the pleasure of growing and producing her own food.  She said something along the lines of enjoying the less commercial aspect of putting food on her table.  The term sustainable living gets tossed about a bit too much these days but I take my, one of many hats off to these people.  It's a lot harder than it looks.  Growing anything in the middle of a Tasmanian winter is hard enough and even the most die hard of sustainable advocates can't live on turnips for ever.  My veggie patch is a sad state of affairs with only rhubarb and a tiny parsley bush able to hold on through the frosty mornings.  Living sustainably unfortunately means a number of things these days.  It's lost a bit of its meaning with everything from sustainable clothing (ok?) to sustainable toilet paper - really!  Our grandparents invented sustainable living to get through the depression.  Food rationing and lack of just about everything drove them into a waste-not mindset that would be a great challenge for many today.  Having limited butter, flour and tea would be hard for those of us who bake and struggle to get out of bed without a cuppa, for others it wouldn't even rate a mention.  Particularly if you've never baked a scone, a pancake or heaven forbid, put the stuff that looks like butter on your toast.  Convenience food and packaged, highly processed pretend food give us convenience at a price.  It's expensive.  It's not a healthy option and it puts profits into international boardrooms rather than local farms.  I was watching a documentary on the 50th Anniversary of Woodstock (the music festival) last week.  I wasn't old enough to relate to this generation at the time (I was too busy establishing the toddler fundamentals).  Some of the footage showed the festival goers talking about living a more peaceful and commercially free life. I think we could learn a thing or two from this.  Unfortunately we've become the wasteful generation with every inch of our lives wrapped in plastic and tossed away.  We've been convinced convenience is more important than everything even though part of our social argument is about preserving the planet and saving important species from extinction, we hear very little about extinct varieties of food.  The amount of fruit varieties lost to supply chain efficiencies must be massive.  Not to mention heritage animal breeds that live healthy and longer lives that are no longer bred in preference to the mass produced quick kill option.  We can't have both the convenience and the good conscience as well.  We have so much to learn from our older generations about living sustainably.  Unfortunately they are also running out of time.  I want to share that feeling of joy when you grew it, preserved it, baked it, all from your own efforts.  If I could have a sustainable diet that was only jam, parsley and rhubarb I'd be in business today.

Murder

A slight drizzle this morning sent some of the hen clan into the workshop.  Not put off by power tools or petrol they stay in the dry and inspect for any lonesome insect or dropped dog food pellet.  They're a big fan of the dried dog food.  No matter what I do to move them away they always come back.  It can't be good for them.  And I don't want that passed through the food chain into my eggs thanks very much.  But for now they're just interested in staying warm and dry.  If I left the back door open I would easily find a few sitting around the fire amongst the collection of assorted indoor pets casually arranged around the living room.  If there is ever proof of reincarnation, I'll plead right now not to come back in my next life as a rooster.  They get a rough deal.  They never get a day off and are frequently dispersed for just being a rooster.  We have many as we're not the type to murder anyone on our farm so as a result you can hear the sound of crowing at just about every hour of the day and night.  Quite ok if you don't live cheek by jowl next to your neighbours.  And there lies the problem.  People dispatch roosters because they make noise.  Jeez, if that's all they do!!  A neighbouring property did exactly that recently only to leave his hens wandering around with no one to protect them, point out food and set boundaries for other predators and roosters.  As a result no doubt, and exactly what has happened before, one of our maturing gentlemen will wander over one moonlit night and serenade and woo and before long they'll have a rooster.  Although, if the rumours persist that it's a bit of a chook Midsomer Murders next door, he might encourage his girls to move in here.  But I just don't need any more, truly.  We're all full here.

Natures freeloaders

I've declared it Spring.  Don't bother with calendars. After freezing rain lashed us last weekend I opened the back door to a slightly milder feel this week.  The almond trees have again put on a magnificent display of blossom and waft you with fragrance as you walk past.  The chickens are starting to deliver eggs again after a seriously long period of unauthorised absence. The familiar garden birds that whip in and around the trees are now seen with twigs in beaks for nest making and major home renovations.  The first year we were here we heard a fluttering of wings coming from the chimney in the bedroom.  This is a chimney that's been sealed up for years. The fluttering was a bird no doubt -we thought it was caught in there.  Unfortunately that's the sound we hear at this time every single year.  It's Starling nest building time.  Probably my least favourite bird those darling Starlings crap all over the front of the house and windows, and have the cheek to set up a nest in the same place every year.  We go from the sound of mad fluttering wings, most likely the sound of the kids rumpus room being installed, to the sound of cheep, cheep, cheep as little beaks demand food from the warmth and comfort of a fully converted Victorian chimney.  The cheep sounds drive Max crazy.  He sits there staring at the fireplace wondering if they are going to burst through at any minute.  The smartest thing to do would be to wait until they are old enough to move out, get their licence or whatever, and seal it up.  Easier said than done with an old verandah that contains enough entry points for an entire village of indoor/indoor Starling retreats.  Sometimes you just have to live with nature.  A just wish it would stay out and be with nature rather than bringing it indoors sometimes.  Nature owes me a lot of unpaid rent.  Don't get me started on Possum.

Here is one I didn't prepare earlier

Max never misses an episode of Delia Smith's Cooking.  It could have something to do with the fact that I watch WAY too many cooking programs - or perhaps he just likes her  cat.  I'm sure there is some syndrome associated with the ill effects of watching SBS Food more than any other channel.  I noticed for a while there I was 'plating up' my food and wiping the edges with a cloth before serving.  Sad.  Like everyone who watches these programs we watch and think hey that's a great idea, I should try that one day.  Unfortunately however I never remember anything past the ad break anymore.  I've tried to write recipes down but because of the editing and the magic of television it's never quite the same.  That magic doesn't translate past the wrong size baking dish, the five missing ingredients you left off, the fact that it's a commercial oven and you don't have a team of kitchen hands to help you clean up the crater of burnt substance that won't lift off the wrong sized pan.  I've many years later come across my television recipes that are written on the back of envelopes, telephone bills (when they were just telephones) and scraps of conference note pads.  There is usually a few ingredients and about three words for the method.  Mix, bake or shove in oven with other ingredients.  But it looked so simple when Nigella did it.  I'm often left there wondering, after having proudly put my magic dish in the oven why there is a container of unopened ingredient left on the bench. Oops.  Just for once when they stick that finger into the bowl, lick and declare a precocious 'yummy', I'd like to see someone fess up that it takes bloody awful and they need to start again.  Ain't no magic in that I guess.  The worst offenders are the ones on the beach, on the top of a cliff, in the middle of a lush green paddock that pull out a parade of about twenty ingredients that would be as hard to find as the paddock they're standing in.  If you followed some of these recipes, you'd be rocking up at the BBQ with a trailer loaded with a bunch of unheard of ingredients.  Those, so very set up scenes of outdoors cooking amongst some of the country's spectacular views are great viewing for scenery but pretty unlikely you'd be bringing along a Kitchen Aid in your backpack.  I'm yet to see a Sherpa prioritise a mortar and pestle amongst the life saving essentials.  At least Delia understands.  She's got a cat.  They can pick fakery a mile off.

My best friends right now are chickens

It did occur to me recently that my best friends right now are actually chickens.  I can't see that this is a great state of affairs.  I'm living on an island with my husband, we're perfectly sane and capable of making friends (without feathers) but some days, poultry will do fine.  August is for me, a completely shit month.  Every year since I moved to Tassie I've been hit with a bout of bronchitis.  Barking like a dog for weeks on end leaves me depressed and exhausted.  The weather is equally depressing and exhausting with grey skies, wind gusts and a push to get the temperature into double figures.  The idea of staying in by a crackling wood fire sounds romantic, and is a novelty for the first few months but by August you're completely over the ash, the constant need for kindling and the fact the you've been living in the confines of a two metre carpet mat shared with two inert cats and a bored Cocker Spaniel for too long.  So for a reprieve, with any glimpse of a parting through the clouds and some sunlight, I'll grab a cup of tea and sit on the church pew out under the verandah.  I'm always joined by my goods friends.  Doris loves to chat about her day.  It's a bit of a one sided conversation but it doesn't put her off.  She just thinks I'm a bit limited with my excitement about her efforts of the day.  None the less, friends are welcome on the church pew and we look to the sky for some sun.  A few home baked crumbs from an excuse to use up some eggs never goes unwelcomed and I find myself a little richer for having such good company.  As I look out the kitchen window right now I see my friends are waiting for me.  Will put the kettle on.

A cow safari

The temptation to stay indoors gets stronger as the afternoon winds whip up a frenzy.  The cold mornings are increasing as we get closer to the wintry months and the wood fire sits at a low burn on more days than not.  It's hard to tell a Cocker Spaniel that you don't feel like going for a walk today.  He's not real good with taking no for an answer.  In fact, like most dogs they get to know the word 'walk' very well and will pick up on it in any conversation.  We've had to now refer to it as a 'safari' to keep him in the dark.  I spoke to someone recently that had gone from walk, to safari to holiday by the coast, just to keep the dog from working out what was happening, or not.  Today he got his safari.  We walk along a country lane with paddocks either side of us.  A friendly horse friend pokes her head over the fence to see if I remembered to bring that carrot today.  Oops, sorry still in the fridge...next time I promise.  She looks at us both with big black eyes and long eyelashes.  We walk on, and one of us feels a bit bad.  We get to the corner of the lane before turning right.  At the corner paddock gate are the white faced black cows.  They are inquisitive and seem keen to chat to Bennie.  We're often accompanied alongside our walks by cows wondering what sort of a cocker spaniel calf walks on a lead.  Several months back the paddock on the other side was full of young cows with a spring in their step that couldn't get enough of looking at Bennie.  They would come racing towards us with the loud thundering of hooves.  It was a bit concerning for me given the only thing between a large group of boisterous cows and me was a flimsy old wire fence that was now on a forty five degree angle from strong winds and cows leaning over it which could be flattened by not very much at all.  I know living in a rural area you are not supposed to be worried about certain things like spiders, septic tanks and particularly, not scared of cows, but on mass, gee, I'm not so sure.  My dear husband, coming from more legitimate rural stock than I kindly demonstrated later on, who's the superior being by running up to them and saying 'booh' to which they all took off.  All very fine I thought on a later trek knowing you'd only get away with that one for so long.  Fortunately those cows have now gone.  Must have gone to another paddock for better feed, I kid myself.  Time to turn back and return to the fire.  That's all the safari for today.

Does the rat want one sugar with his coffee or ten?

I came inside after feeding the chooks and taking this picture of the many webs on display in the slight glimmer of sun poking through the heavy fog that is now slowly lifting.  Bloody spiders.  I know you're not meant to discriminate but I'm not a fan.  And whilst I'm sure they work hard on the aphid elimination program for my sad looking roses, they really do take liberties.  They extend webs from rose to rose, across branches, paths, gateways and probably highways as well.  Nothing worse than walking through one on dusk.  Queue the mad woman shake and shudder dance.  At this time of year the critters are about during the times that we are.  Possum as he's known, is a permanent member of the household.  He's been a resident here long before we moved in so we figure it's his place too.  He's a big bushy tail and is clearly an old feller who's enjoyed the greater things in life.  If you are in the bathroom when he jumps from the rain water tank to the roof you'd swear a man was about to fall through the ceiling.  We hear him at night in the roof doing the oddest of things. The list of things that go bump in the night here is extensive but at certain times of the year possum can be heard to be undertaking what sounds like some serious renovations in our rafters.  Hammering, moving large fragments of wood...was that a power tool I heard?  Nothing like a DIY possum.

When I came back in after feeding the chooks I fired up the coffee machine and stood by waiting for the little milk frothing light to tell me it's done.  But above the whirring of the Nespresso machine was a scratching in the wall behind the fridge.  Max looks, Bennie growls and then they lose interest.  It can't be Possum, he works night shift.  Most likely at this time of year it's a mouse or a rat.  Bennie has been trying to get his nose under the chooks pen for the last few weeks so I know they are around.  They come out at this time every year.  Fortunately we have two cats in the house...I said, FORTUNATELY WE HAVE TWO CATS IN THE HOUSE THAT CAN...oh, fine keep sleeping.  I'll just have my coffee with the rat.

Just blowin' in the wind

Sunny skies today, hardly any wind.  The weekend was very different.  We had up to 80km winds here battering on side of an old house.  We managed to come out the other end unscathed except for the lid off the chimney which took flight on a south eastern trajectory.  There were reports from the chook yard of a flying saucer nearby but nothing confirmed as yet.  And whilst the wind smashed us all from the west, a new batch of babies arrived safely. Er, like we need more chickens!!!  There's many predators around that take them before they get much of a chance so we've locked them up this time with mother for safe keeping.  Gulls and Butcher Birds are known thieves of chicks and I've seen both hovering around.  Yesterday I heard the Guinea Fowl screeching their most alarming of sounds when I noticed a cheeky Butcher Bird up a tree considering a swift move.  It was interesting to see the Guinea Fowl being protective of someone else's chicks even though they don't have much time for them themselves.  Come feed time the Guinea Fowl

will chase all chooks away until they've finished eating.  No manners, but pecking order rules.  So as the sun comes out today we've got some clean up to do as the 100 year old Oak tree out the front throws branches back at the wind and all over the front yard.  The hardest hit are the poor roses.  They're leaves are shredded as the wind tears through them and the flower buds hang on for dear life.  I'm sure it somehow makes them stronger but they're looking like they've been in a fight, and lost at the moment.  I'll try to keep the watering up (it seems like it never rains here) and give them some food to boost them up a little.  That's Autumn for you.  A selection of fabulous mild sunny days with a gentle breeze, then all hell breaks lose.  Never dull anyway.

Last in line has its advantages

Roosters get a bad rap around here. Whenever we try to sell or give away any of our chicks, it's always the same 'no roosters, please'.  We've had to take a few back when little Henrietta hen lets on she's actually Henry.  We've got way too many of course and it's not that we don't love them it's just that in the morning it gets kinda noisy around here.  Fortunately being on property and not so close to neighbours we can see into their kitchen as in our previous life, we can indulge a few of the early morning crowers.  Whomever implied that roosters only crow at sunrise obviously didn't stick around long.  They crow all day long.  It's a method of communicating.  If you listen, you realise they crow in response to another rooster who's sent up the call.  And not necessarily on your property either.  Crossbeak (pictured left) is a perfect example of bucking the trend though.  He's been to the vet and returned with a less protruding beak, and he's managed to accommodate his disfigurement to great advantage.  Quite frankly he knows he's special.  Roosters will generally scratch around for food and alert the hens to their findings.  They'll point out cake crumbs with great excitement and break up the bigger pieces to distribute amongst the girls, without eating any themselves.  However as Crossbeak is never entrusted to a group of hens (they're so judgemental) he pulls out that disabled sticker faster than you can say 'now who likes bacon rind?'  He'll shove any hen aside to get face first into whatever meal is on the go and ignore the protests from rule following roosters in the pack.  He's able to get away with this as he's so far down in line to the throne of head rooster he knows there's no point trying to impress anyone, male or female.  He knows he's special and follows me around the garden.  He'll eat out of my hand and cry blue murder when he's forced to eat with the others.  He's a lucky little fellow as our vet advised us, he was lucky to survive given the way his top beak crosses over the bottom.  He'll always be a special little guy for us.  Even if he'll never be king.

Does anyone have a chicken bandaid?

There's a cold front heading our way, expected to arrive some time tonight.  This is then to be followed by another cold front.  I'm not sure if that cold front makes the effects of the first cold front colder or just backs it up with a bit more cold front support.  Either way, the gentle breeze and slightly warmish sun peeking through thinly dispersed cloud will disappear by tomorrow under grey skies, wind and hopefully rain.  And so my opportunity to be in the garden will end very soon.  Whenever I head out in the garden I'm always accompanied by my feathered friends.  Yesterday, after a quick check on Narla our guest sheep who is eating her way through our weed paddock I headed back towards the courtyard.  At that point I heard a loud chook scream, nothing unusual.  There are often many chook screams and protests about many things in chook land but this time it was Doris (pictured left on the chair).  Doris is a popular character in the chook family.  She's named after Doris Day and has a 1960 hair do to match.  She's deserved of her own facebook page but I'm unable to find the time to manage it for her.  Today she came running towards me screaming.  I looked down and the front of her chest feathers had blood on them.  She was standing on one leg with her beak open, as if in shock.  I wondered if she'd been attacked but there were no likely predators in the yard and Bennie our Cocker Spaniel has no interest.  For a minute I even thought she might have lost a leg but realised that she did in fact run over to me and not hopped.  I got a bit closer and her foot was bleeding.  She appeared to be in a bit of shock and just stood there looking at me.  I wanted to help but didn't really know what to do.  With no likely predator, no motive and no evidence, there wasn't much to conclude.  I gave her a water bowl and she had a few sips and slowly recovered.  She stayed next to me for a while and then commenced limping off into the yard.  It's a bit difficult when they don't know why we can't understand them.  They try so hard to communicate with us but we're just dumb humans that don't understand chicken speak.  I'm sure she'll be ok, she's been known to over dramatize the situation.  But for now I really must get on and utilise this small window of outside weather before it's gone.  And according to Doris I need to look out for invisible leg mutilating monsters of some sort.

I said no parties...

The highly anticipated night away in a cabin over the Easter period restored the senses.  We sat fireside and ate slow cooked lamb and wondered what our two feline home residents were up to in our absence.  It's unfortunate that when you do go away for a night you can only take the dog with you as the option of having a banshee wailing cat in cage on the back seat of the car just kind of ruins the moment.  Let alone the stress you cause them every time they go anywhere, so best if they're well stocked with food and water and left to wonder if we ever even left.  We returned with our bags dumped inside the door to find the television blaring.  It wasn't on when we left.  We also very soon became aware of a live bird sitting in the chandelier in the dining room. Boy, talk about Home Alone!  The fireplaces are all blocked up and the working ones have glass doors that were all closed.  The not so home alone Starling had evidently flung itself throughout the entire house leaving a trail of destruction on the carpets, wallpaper, windows, you name it, it crapped there.  As for the two felines...sound asleep.  Or at least pretending to be.  I thought I said no parties!  One of them must have stood on the remote control although the On button is a teeny tiny dot on the end of a keyboard mouse size remote.  How they managed to do this is beyond me.  And as for the bird, I opened a window and it gratefully took off to the skies vowing never to visit ever again.  I did wonder what I might do if the next time we come home and there is a DVD playing and the electric blanket switched on.  Bazaar.

Wanted - Chief Clock Winder on no pay

Old houses and old things require time.  This was a stark reminder as the cold wind whipped up the leaves from under the back door to gather them up in the hallway.  Autumn is here and it suddenly got cold.  This means fires to keep warm.  We do have electric wall heaters but they are quite expensive to run and you can't really whack a modern dual air conditioning unit into the wall of an 140 year old Victorian homestead.  Well you can...but I personally wouldn't.  So without wanting an electricity bill that requires the both of us to sell a kidney or two, we use the wood fire to stay warm.  And if you have wood heaters, you know they take time, kindling, and constant attention.  It means you all congregate in the one living room.  And it's a popular spot in front of the fire, where we try to accommodate drying clothes, rising bread dough, two cats, a dog and us.  We're a close family in winter.  The other labour of love would have to be our clock.  We toyed with the idea of getting a grandfather clock as I've always loved their imposing presence in a room.  It reminds you that you are in fact, just taking up time.  We decided on something more manageable and less likely to wake us up on the hour every hour, so we adopted an Ansonia kitchen clock (pictured).  It chimes on the hour and once on the half.  And it don't come with batteries.  Which means that someone needs to wind both the clock and chimes at least once a week or else silence.  The job of clock winding also requires a clock reset which means you must go through the clock cycle to pick up the correct chimes.  She's a bit fiddly and doesn't like to be forced backwards.  I suspect she detests Daylight Savings/Summertime as I do because it just throws everything out of sync.  Old houses used to employ people to wind clocks and attend to wood fires.  That would be perfect (dream on sister) but not likely and our house isn't exactly a castle and I possess no crown jewels to pay someone.  So while a cold westerly reminds us that winter is coming, we'll chop wood and put on extra clothing - and eat chocolate as well.  Happy Easter if celebrating.

Breakfast cereal with no added animation

I think sometimes we like to read the headlines of a favourite topic so we can quietly say to ourselves 'I knew that' or even better, 'hah, I was awake to this all along...!!!'  Fake food is one of my favourite aha topics.  Having long turned into one of those mad muttering people at the stores with the bright lights and trolley aisles, I feel a sense of pleasure when I read something suspect about manufactured foods that provide more nutrition in their packaging than the product itself, or at least the box may be less harmful.  Commercial breakfast cereals and I parted ways many years ago having gleefully read somewhere that one of the most famous of them contained as much salt as a packet of crisps.  I didn't want to know if it was entirely accurate or not, I just wanted to have my quiet aha moment.  Leaving my quality nutritious breakfast in the hands of food manufacturers was a risky route given they have shelf life to consider and wages to pay.  A lot of popular breakfast cereals now are so targeted at children they just look like an ad for the latest kid's movies - so rather than shoving a tiny Fred Flinstone in my mouth at 5:30am, I figured best if I do my own.  And geez, it's not hard.  You could fill a grain silo with the amount of granola recipes out there but depending on how much stuff you want to chuck in, it's mostly up to you.  Mine's pretty basic with no sugar.  Yes, no sugar needed as I don't need to keep it in storage for a year.  I use locally produced honey to toast with the oats and then add coconut and dehydrated fruits afterwards.  We're really lucky here in Tasmania to also have access to loads of fruit and also left over local harvests that are freeze dried with nothing added.  They do apple pieces dusted in dried blueberry or raspberry.  Just perfect for this.  And then I also add whatever nuts I've got in the cupboard.  We had a bumper crop off our almond trees this year and I managed to get most of them off faster than the green squeaky parrots.  These parrots make a noise similar to someone squeezing a rubber toy.  And boy, can they strip an almond tree fast so I get in quick, with me on one side of the tree with secateurs in hand, and parrots on the other side munching away at a rapid rate.  Once dried, I roast them (the nuts, not the parrots).  Fresh nuts are a treat as I'm convinced the ones in commercial muesli are a bit old, perhaps even had a birthday or two.  Your own granola or muesli (call it anything you like, just not anything that's copyrighted or about to be released into a blockbuster animation movie) it won't stay fresh forever so eat it on top of your poached fruit and yoghurt, and when you want to replace it, the chooks will be happy to help you out.  Oh, and by the way...Wikipedia states that a bag of potato crisps will be 1% sodium.  And a cupful of Cornflakes will be 8%.  Aha! No wonder they keep so well.

Bunny boiler alert

It's so dry.  No rain.  We've put in the oats with the hope that they'll manage to struggle up to the top with some tiny green shoots.  On my walk with Bennie yesterday along the farm lanes in between crunchy dry paddocks you could see the wide cracks in the earth along the side of the road.  It's been so very dry.  And even though we've got politicians in the media every day promising just about everything for everybody if we let them wear the biggest hat in town, I'd hate to rely on them.  Far away from the steering committees and policy advisory boards people are digging holes and putting the seeds of food in the ground for our survival.  My trip to the big shop with the bright lights, trolleys and long double sided aisles gave me a sense that real food was disappearing off the shelves.  I'm not talking about empty shelves.  No they're stacked full of bright, shiny packets with images of cooked food on the front and a list of unheard of ingredients on the back.  All very instant.  In the 70's they called it 'convenience' food.  Now it's called snacks.  Snacks seem to be replacing ingredients.  The choices are getting smaller and smaller and what was once a shelf with three or four brands of the same product, is now a choice of the house brand being the cheaper option and one other.  And when no one buys the house brand, the other seems to magically disappear somewhere.  Unfortunately this is occurring more and more as our purchasing is directed and monitored through the data available to these giants.  It's clever.  But it still smells.  And whilst they react instantly to trends and customer feedback, at the end of the day their shop is about profit.  Not our nutrition. So if the Easter Bunny dares rock up to my house with anything dairy free or soy based, he'll be conveniently crock potted.

The big dipper

Boy!  Talk about ungrateful.  We get high winds here.  Living on an island you see.  And when you're on a small hill on an island with no protection from a giant hunking mountain like Wellington, we cop it pretty hard sometimes.  Where we are the westerlies get us the most.  It leaves our front verandah with old and slightly rotted palings flapping in the wind like a lose baby tooth needing to be yanked.  The winds lift off anything unsecured and whip it around the paddocks.  Your if left on the line could quite easily be wrapped around next door's cows and your underwear found somewhere near the airport.  Our chimney cover has taken flight on the odd occasion even we thought it was secure.  It was found a few months later lodged high up in a tree looking like some sort of small lost space ship.  Well that's what the chooks thought it was.  We're yet to put it back (see long list of jobs to do) and as a result the starlings find hours of entertainment pushing each other down our chimney.  You'd think word would have got around starling circles that it's a bit risky.  Bennie, our ever vigilant Cocker Spaniel is right onto this one.  He checks the fire places every morning.  He hears them scratching around at the top and goes bananas.  As he did this morning.  I have to open the glass door of the unlit fireplace to prove to him that there is nothing there.  And so I did.  And so I was wrong.  Bloody starling comes belting out throwing itself at all and sundry.  By this stage both Max the ragdoll cat and Bennie are on the chase.  Bennie won't kill a bird, it's not his breeding, he's a retrieval dog and Max, well unless it comes in a pouch or a tin with a picture of a cat on it, he's just not interested.  I've tried feeding him cooked and raw meat in the past and the look of disgust on his face was disturbing.  So starling disappears within seconds.  Gone.  Big house and one loose starling.  Oh, and I forgot to mention the other outdoor cat who's sound asleep on our bed upstairs.  Yes, ahem, outdoors!  So after a small slightly interested search and about ready to leave it to some of the more interested parties, I discover a starling lying beside the fireplace, dazed.  I swiftly pick it up in a clean tea towel (you're not getting the good ones), and as I do this it instantly wakes up and starts squealing like a stuck pig.  I take it outside and release it.  Still screaming blue murder, it swiftly takes flight upwards.  Then I look up to see a few more lined up to do exactly the same thing.  Guy's it's not a theme park you know!