A night after dark

Thank you to the very wonderful and creative people who put together the Winter Feast as part of the Dark Mofo event.  To bring together so many people on a cold and wet Friday night for a showcase of art and food is sheer brilliance and no doubt much hard work.  Our hearts went out to the stall holders spending hard days prepping and nights on their feet doing the same service delivering a seamless experience.  What must have originated from an out-there idea has resulted in a yearly event that is loved and growing in attendance.  We had a night in town free from farmyard noises and demands.  Whilst it was bliss to know that someone was cooking my breakfast in the morning I missed the early call of roosters and the sleeping lump of ragdoll at the end of the bed.  Our city stay reminded us that there is life beyond sun down and sometimes it's ok to let someone turn down your bed.  We soon returned the following day to grumpy faced cocker spaniel and where the hell have you been chicken looks.  Well worth it though.

Shirley's not tap dancing today

Living on a small farm it was always going to be that 

we would have sheep. Lawnmowers.  Pets not chops. Our four girls as we refer to them is a little misguided as one of them is in fact a castrated male.  He got into the mix when being selected for a privileged life.  Can't blame him really.  He now has to live with a girls name, Rosie but he considers it a reasonable sacrifice.  Betty has the most protruding eyes as in Betty Davis eyes and is always the last to the feed trough.  But today Shirley is our worry.  Shirley had the curl in the middle of her forehead which has almost disappeared now. Shirley's curls are the least of our worries as she has a front leg that she cannot put weight on.  She can hobble on the other three but needs some medical attention.  I rang the local vet surgery.  According to their website they look after dogs, cats, birds and horses.  But no sheep.  I thought that they might laugh at me for considering a vet visit for a sheep.  They didn't.  They asked her name and asked about her condition.  The vet is coming out to see her today.  I hope it's just a boxthorn in a hoof and nothing more sinister.  I know it's probably slightly hypocritical to be a lover of slow roasted lamb shanks but any animal in distress goes straight to the heart.  I'm staying away from her until the vet arrives as she sits on the ground and only gets up when I come to the wire fence.  She loves a slice of apple so I will save her some for later.  Fingers (and hoofs) crossed for Shirley.

Bugger the barley it might have to be rice

It turned very cold very fast.  The morning air froze and the sun revealed a layer of white crunch underfoot on the grass.  Then it rained.  And kept raining.  Today, it's raining still.  A weather pattern from the east they say.  Gotta blame someone. Muddy paw prints are a constant on the kitchen floor as number one son sports a smashing red doggie puffer jacket but alas no gumboots.  Can't convince him to leave the pre-loved bone on the back step and so forced to decide between bone and inside wood fire. He chooses bone.  I'll never understand dogs.  My barley boils on the stove, the desire to go down the ancient grain route may result in a bonus for the chooks as my superfood is taking super long to cook.  I've had a pulse influenced weekend with a red lentil soup that was enticed into flavour by garam marsala and ground cardamon.  For someone who is notoriously bad at soup making I did pleasantly surprise myself, and with much gratitude to Elizabeth David.  A purchased pumpkin from the Hobart Farmgate market will be roasted tonight with some every reliable thyme from the veggie patch still vibrant, where all other herbs have accepted their redundancy and terminated. Two pieces of salmon that came over the fence rather than upstream will be pan fried followed by a plan to clean out my stove filters in the coming days.  Ah winter.  Now back to the bloody buggery barley.

A serving of with or just go without

Deciding what to cook for dinner has been a problem ever since we came out of the cave and discovered there was choice.  Many choices in fact.  Not just the supermarket version of choice between premium expensive brand and theirs.  The biggest question is what will Max have for dinner.  To describe him as a fussy cat really doesn't give it justice.  He's gone off most of the standard cat food varieties and he won't even look at anything raw.  Fresh chicken slices was met with a look of disgust and the offer of a morsel of freshly caught flathead provided a response that could only be interpreted as offense.  I can't think what goes through his mind.  That we would somehow insult him by offering something that didn't even come out of a tin or a pouch.  Long ago I discovered that the cat foot labelling was somewhat vague.  The majority of brands describe their offering as with Lamb, Beef, Salmon etc.  But they don't actually tell us what 'with' is.  So in our house Max has a can or pouch of With and we hope for the best.  We've tried with all the varieties but lately he's bored with them all.  Frankly we've run out of tinned species.  All that's left are endangered and rare breeds.  And I can't see Whiskas running with a range of With bottle nose dolphin in seafood sauce anytime soon.

Who needs a truffle pig when you've got an egg dog.

It's a bold step to respond to anything that would indicate I knew about farming but I will say this.  When there's a report in the newspaper that eggs are in short supply in the local supermarket, I know why.  There was the reasons officially given which talked about supply chain problems, new industry regulations about how many birds you can shove in a phone box or something to that effect, but I know it's gotten cold.  And when it's cold my chooks lay less eggs.  They don't know anything about super foods, consumer demand, and free range is actually very free indeed.  Trends don't matter but winter chills do.  They're in bed before I get home sometimes and I apologize for a late offering of the dinner service.  They lay a couple a day at this time of year with one in the nesting box and the other, well anywhere really.  Lately it's in the old shed.  The one that is being held up by the spider population and when it's windy it creaks.  Or that's the sound of all the spiders yelling 'hold on boys, she's blowing a gale'.  I try not to go in there.  My ever faithful cocker spaniel actually goes in there and collects the eggs for me now.  He's a soft mouth breed trained to retrieve pheasants.  Well we're a bit short on those so he's happy to have a job to fetch eggs.  He places them ever so gently at my feet and gets a big reward.  It took a few goes to get it right and a few casualties on the back step but we got there.  Better than fetching a newspaper, what do they know about eggs.

Betty wasn't keen on the final team building activity

When you're a chicken being a good team member is important.  No matter who your parents were, if in fact you even know, you will be assigned your reporting line rooster each day.  Should you fall out of line with your direct reporting line rooster there will be a fuss made with loud flapping of wings and much chasing about.  Your reporting line rooster will determine the best route for the day.  He will determine best use of sunlight, preferred patch for scrounging (not my bloody roses again) and appropriate scrub area for resting.  But don't expect much of that from what I've seen.  You will eat when told (stay out of my goddam lettuces) and take time off for laying when required, but be quick about it. Team building activities will include running when told, getting yelled at for falling behind and other unspeakable acts that roosters and chickens do.  So sign up and remember, there's no I in TEAM ...or FLOCK.

Some days you should just stay in bed

Are we destined to really only do what we want to?  In a veiled attempt to create some variety into my cooking regime, I decided to increase the limited range of soups on offer.  I'm not a soup fan.  I have always associated it with illness or failing dentures.  Tomato soup is acceptable and onion soup only with the boldest of stocks, and a melted cheesy baquette boat serving as a delicious dive wreck at the bottom of the bowl.  The other reason I'm considering upping the soup ante is that I have succumbed to the shared household pre-winter lurgy.  So I started with a pumpkin. A fine specimen to be had from a recent trip to the Launceston Farmers Market.  A joyful looking colour of a vegetable.  So I made pumpkin soup and it was awful.  How can you get something so simple so wrong?  I combined a few recipes and roasted the pumpkin with took dispute with the recipe variations.  Then I added more sour cream and the whole thing became bad soup trying to be a desert - too much cream.  Then it hit me. I just don't like pumpkin soup.  Never have.  Unless it's disguised with enough spice to register itself either Moroccan or Thai the old faithful is never my chosen option.  Perhaps we are just destined to turn out joy in our cooking only when we truly want it.  Or maybe I should just go back to bed as Max suggested and ride out my failing energy levels.  There will be no soup today.

No sorry, we gave at the office

We have a few residents on our farm that fit the description of dumped.  Our little farm cat Minnie was found in the bushes one Saturday morning just on a year ago.  She called out to me as I stood there wondering where the meow was coming from and a little face poked out.  Not knowing if she was feral and likely to lash out I stayed a bit weary of her but she kept running after me and rubbing up against my legs.  She was dumped alright.  I suspected the empty cardboard box scraping along the road down the hill may have been her launching pad.  She certainly found the right property when she found us.  Knowing Minnie now I suspect she instructed her driver until she got to our house and said 'yep, that's the one, here is fine, thanks'.  She now occupies her own store room complete with bed containing out of service woollen jumpers and Max's hand-me down Laura Ashley blankets.  Laura Ashley would be horrified if she saw what Max handed down.  Minnie is now our chief mouse catcher and inspector of all newly dug holes.  And a great gate keeper of the veggie patch.

Not good weather for ducks while Lewis takes shelter...under a lemon

We're very grateful for the rain.  Although winter hasn't arrived yet, the Autumn winds are hammering under the tin roof.  It seems to come from every direction.  Animals know when the weather is about to turn.  Last weekend some dark stormy looking clouds were moving in quietly and before anyone noticed Lewis was up on the gate calling in the clan.  Whilst we were still pottering in the veggie patch the hens had relocated to the chalet and the sheep had headed for their custom built timber shack.  I enjoy the drama of winter weather and think nothing of putting a hand knitted article on my head rendering me somewhere in appearance between warming tea pot and gnome.  We get inside for some reprieve while the leaves swirl around behind us and stand to attention in front of a glowing fire.  The back door heavy from the recent rain only closes with a sludge and slam and the middle duck on the wall takes a 10 degree turn south. Unfortunately his mother took flight and smashed into tiny pieces all over the slow cooker.  So they're on their own now until I can find a surrogate.  I wonder if Lewis would be up to it?

Who needs fire when fur will do

So we can forget about putting out the washing I guess.  But I can't complain because it's so great to see grey skies and rain.  Lots of rain last night.  A green tinge has already formed on the chocolate brown cracked fudge that is the back paddock.  The fire was, well fired up as they say.  I'm new to wood fires.  In my previous world heat came from a turned on switch or device on the wall and there were selections of how warm you wanted to be.  But then that was apartment living and everyone had the same unit and the same options.  This is wood and fire heating.  Which doesn't offer many options other than burning or smoking.  I don't actually know how to light a fire.  I know how to put wood into one but somehow just lighting wood doesn't work.  My last attempt at starting the fire resulted in enough smoke signals pouring out of the chimney spout it could have been the new internet. I'm sure there is a Tafe course I can do or something.  In the meantime it's not that cold and I've got a warm ragdoll (pictured) on my lap to keep me warm.  Shame about the washing though.

Freshly picked farmers

A fabulous morning at Bream Creek Farmers Market with bread just baked, apples just picked and coffee just brewed.  With a shared small blueberry and almond tart on a picnic table, what could be better.  The market is gearing up for its annual ball, the Bream Creek Show.  The animal nursery got a dress rehearsal today with guinea pigs and ducklings getting a rough going over by some small and cautious hands.  The white Silkie chicken just looked plain annoyed - as they often do.  The green hills around in all directions provide a watercolour landscape with a soft haze on an Autumn, feels like end of Summer, kind of day.  A guitar plugged in and a smooth voice provides warmth for the soul while beanbags offer comfort for the rear.  A bottle or two from the local winery and a trolley full of gatherings are loaded into the back of the car, and home to enjoy the bounty.  It's not quite Easter yet but the freshly baked hot cross buns have no hope of going past Labour Day.  These buns were light, with some spice and no traces of hard orange rind bits.  They were baked from beginning to end by the same person as opposed to the factory kind that start life as a pre-mix then are transported to an outlet who only finish them off in an oven.  That's the one thing I love about farmers market, it's the real deal.  The apple lady said that her apples were chemical free, and the tiny grub graffiti was the stamp of authenticity to that.  If you can, support your local farmers market at every opportunity.  There's nothing par baked about them.

That's not busy...this is busy

We've been so busy on the farm the last few weeks it's been hard to find time to sit down and write.  I'm already hearing the BS detector go kapoing as I write this.  I can't really call myself busy when our little farm yard family are always at work.  Our chooks never take a day off.  They're up as soon as head rooster blasts them out of the pen and they don't stop until the sun sets and he says it's ok to go to bed.  They even forgive me when I'm late with the chook feed and come racing up to me with the oldest of the Wyandottes standing on my foot looking up as if to say 'where the bloody hell have you been?' I apologize and get last night's pasta out on the ground as quick as I can.  Whilst I was off being busy the apples trees have fruited their best to date with the green granny smith variety in bunches of two and three, and mostly free of moth and grub confinement.  A big thank you goes out again, to our chicken community.  I haven't had time to pick the capsicum and the plant now resembles a little christmas tree trimmed with dangling red ornaments like lanterns.  I know I need to get to the basil plant as it threatens the end of abundance with the seed flowers appearing with their mini wedding bouquet flowers.  I'll get to them and a pesto sauce will result with some recently salvaged almonds that the green parrots so kindly left for me.  Garden produce waits for no man, woman or chicken.  It's ready when it's ready and if you're not ready it's gone.

The Apple doesn't fall far from the crumble

I hand wrote out the Sally Wise Apple Crumble Recipe off the website.  If it's one thing I can't seem to master it's cooking from a computer.  I've got enough flour and nut particles lodged in my ipad device to cause considerable concern to a whole raft of food allergy suffers.  So resorting to the old methods I took great pleasure in spending a sunny afternoon picking apples from our variety unknown trees.  One of the trees only produces in green and is intending to stay that way so we'll call them Granny Smiths for the sake of a name.  This year we  pruned and watered, and the chooks put in a tireless effort in scratching for bugs and insects at the base of the tree.  And with much combined success this year we've been fruitful.  The odd grub has managed to somehow distract a scrounging chook and scurry up the tree but we can live with that by surgical removal.  Our local possum life have set off my car alarm in the middle of the night in the hope of bounding off the roof into the tree only to most likely be flung across the driveway with fright.  So the finished apple crumble was warmly welcomed with a large spoonful of vanilla ice cream melting across the top.  And using your own produce just makes it  feel all the more special.  Now I just need to conquer the almond tree before the green parrots do.

When you're a Jet

This is Harold.  He's one of the previous batch of chicks born and bred on our property.  We know he's a he because he acts like one, and the crowing was a bit of a give away.  Harold is a loner.  He won't assimilate with the rest of the chicken family.  He's broken away into his own gang and recruited a couple of the younger hens into his posse.  He's always in trouble and is constantly chased by Cyril our team leader rooster who pulls him by his feathers but cannot get him to join the group.  Cyril storms off spitting white down all the way back to the hen house.  We attempted to move Harold on before we even knew he was a Harold.  He was destined to move with three other chicks to a family nearby whose kids were excited about their new pets.  Harold busted out and took off before we could get him on the bus.  He trusts no one since that day.  He's cuts a lonely figure in the yard, living by his own rules.  If I found cigarette buts behind the fishing shed I'd suspect Harold.  His gang hang around as opposed to the energetic foraging done by the others.  They hang out in trees and look down on the others.  Their request for a pool table has been denied.  I'm not sure about Harold's future if the rumbles continue.  I've seen the likes of Harold's along the edge of highways.  They ignore the rattle and thunder of the early morning traffic as if they've turned their backs on civilisation.  They're chicken outlaws.  Prone to holding up wagon trains I suspect.  We can only hope that one day he'll grow up and turn out to be fine upstanding rooster as the others are.  Failing that we'll have a chicken stomping around our property in a leather jacket.

Shoulda listened to your nanna

The life we have selected for ourselves on our small parcel of food producing land is not entirely one of self sufficiency but certainly can head towards it.  Each time I pick a vegetable from the garden and use it in my cooking I give myself a congratulatory pretend gold star.  I high five myself ever so discreetly when I've denied a supermarket at least the cost of this home grown, transported and consumed item.  When I've used more than one ingredient from our trial and error planted offerings I'm at the point of a warm glow inside equal to at least a large purple elephant stamp on my homework.  Whilst joyful of frugalness of a few less items bought in the weekly shop is great, we are a long way off avoiding the shop altogether.  We can't grow toilet paper and sewing my own anything is a craft yet to be acquired.  The ability to make do, repair, recycle and reuse is a whole new hessian bag of skills that needs to be learned as I'm probably part of the first generation that lost it.  The life I am so keen to emulate is nothing more than what my ancestors were very familiar with. They didn't grow up on a farm, but they grew lots of what they ate, and made mostly what they wore. They chopped wood for fires, ate meat that was local and baked their own for birthdays, babies and special events.  They didn't need to learn, they were essential life skills that were taught.  My grandmother (pictured on the left, not sure who the scary woman is with the bird on her shoulder but I suspect it's Jack Sparrow's mother) would roll on the floor laughing if she knew what we didn't know today. Basics like baking, sewing, knitting..err, polishing etc.  So while I'm quietly smug about my non consumer achievements I'm just relearning what was already learnt many years ago.

No, doesn't look straight to me...

Animals interact with us all the time. Sometimes we notice it more than others.  They interact with each other in their own silent world.  But today I could do with some less interaction and a little more silence. There is a thunderstorm outside.  The sky went dark with a blanket of even grey all around and everything was still. It was like the birds were holding their breath, just waiting. Then came the lightning, thunder and rain.  Blissful, heavy rain.  After months of dry it's a welcomed pinging noise on a tin roof.  Number One Son doesn't like the thunder. He barks and barks and no matter how much comfort, consoling or shouting of go to your room, nothing will quieten him.  He's farm manager when the real farm manager isn't here.  Sometimes it's tolerable but most of the time I wish we could demote him and offer the position to Minnie (pictured).  She's a quiet achiever.  She's always around when you are and apart from the dribbling and purring when you pick her up, she shows great leadership capability.  She's fearless with the sheep and pushes the chickens out of their comfort zone.  She's handy around the yard in the mousing department but has a keen eye on the building works as well, and always available to test out a newly dug hole.  I'm considering getting her a high viz vest and some work boots soon.  Meanwhile the thunder is still rolling overhead and I've got a sooking cocker spaniel at my feet.

What's wrong with a patriotic iced vovo?

In honour of my father who is no longer here to celebrate his birthday this week, we had a quick moment of reflection in his much visited rose garden.  We, being me and five chickens.  Australia Day was commemorated today with the erecting of a green house (why can't everything just be put together with an alan key) and the making of a Matthew Evans version of Anzac Biscuits.  They are easy to make but in my view highly overrated.  They resemble somewhere between an overly sweet oatcake and a run over muesli bar that can turn from soft chewiness to plasterboard in a matter of minutes.  They spread in the oven like burning cheese and come out the size of dinner plates no matter how dainty they begin.  In their defence for those who dunk (or drown) biscuits in milky tea they probably get a gong but for anyone who has spent an amount equal to a home deposit on veneers and crowns they shall be passed over for the less denture wrenching options.  Come dinner time Lewis (pictured) will be pleased.

Life is just a bowl of cherries

More cherries with much gratitude from Stonecrest orchardists our generous neighbours.  I spent a quiet afternoon pitting and delighting myself with my pretend post massacre blood red hands all for a batch of poaching in cardamon and vanilla. The recipe I found was a bit part of a french dessert involving sables and some patissiere creme magic that was so not going to happen with any success in my kitchen.  Besides, biting into a thin butter biscuit with a fancy cream filling topped with poached cherries would require a bucket of paper napkins and the pressure washer from the shed.

I made these little fellers for the first time a few days ago and before I got a chance to critique them they had gone into a plastic container over the side fence.  We share produce. And goodies.  I didn't even get a chance to take out the cardamon pods which by this time had been become cherry red and difficult to find.  I felt bad about that.  Rustic is one thing, but spitting out chewy fragrant pods is another.  Not to worry.  Judy says it best...

Human Services at work

Patsy won't win any mother of the year prize this year.  She stood up last weekend to reveal 13 fluffy heads underneath after disappearing for a while.  I'm sad to say that we are now down to 11 with the loss of two to drowings in the water bowl.  There is speculation about them being left around water unsupervised but I'm not one to point the finger.  I guess that's why she's been assigned a female Wyandotte companion to manage such a large number.  The roosters don't seem to participate in caring responsibilities and head off to working in the garden with not even a peck on the cheek.  There is one little chicken that struggles behind the rest.  He's got shaky legs and I'm keeping an eye out for him as I often need to scoop him up to transport him to the rest of the group as she often leaves him behind.  I don't think counting is one of her most identifiable skills.  At this little age you can only hope they make it through.  I've done my best to fence off unsupervised water bowls and replace them with shallow ones.  I keep an eye out for predator birds and have been known to charge them like a mad woman with arms flapping is if that means something.  I've even fed up our outdoor cat Minnie to the point of no interest in anything but sleep in the warm sun.  If I continue on this path she's going to need lapband surgery by the end of the week.  Number One son finds them an oddity but doesn't consider them of that much interest and Max can only observe from the back door in wonder as to why these wind up ones don't come to a halt like his does.  Whilst I hope to influence nature towards a happy and healthy life for these little fellas and girls (hopefully not too many fellas) I do feel a twang of hypocrite with a frozen Marion Bay variety in the freezer.  Sometimes disassociation just works.

Leaving a sour taste

At this time of year the farmers markets are in full swing with produce by the crate load.  With blue berries ordinarily priced somewhere between an exotic super food and a brand new small car we can rejoice in the season of oversupply.  Which leads me to consider the lemon.  Having grown up with the standard lemon tree that was present in every quarter acre backyard one of the first things we did when we moved here was plant our new lemon tree. Lemon or tree doesn't really describe its current state.  It's more an installation of an appearance of something that could have been a lemon tree.  The heat rebounded off the shed that it stands beside and gave the effect of planting it on the middle shelf of the oven with temperature set at bloody high.  Even though the soil now so lacking in nutrients in our little shed corner complete with rusty Hobart town ploughing horse paraphernalia has still managed to provide enough for the odd battered attempt at a lemon.  I'm not educated about lemon tree ways and not even sure when they are in season having grown up with over producing trees that threw lemons to the ground regularly in a tantrum.  And whilst my under performing specimen works tirelessly against the odds I'm at a loss to understand the supermarket offering of USA lemons.  It's nothing against the country of origin but the fact that this selection of local supermarket produce is offered instead of our own is a sad state of affairs. I'm confronted by this sticker of the glossy wax museum lemon in its perfect shape and mutter to myself ever so loudly that our backyards (obviously not mine) are full of this easy to grow Australian fruit so why do they source from elsewhere? 

Peace short lived

Sometimes you just need to get away.  We snuck away recently for a night free from feathers, fur and all our other four legged family members to experience a night of peace.  We chose somewhere that is for adults only and assumed no pets allowed.  With the exception being when seated for dinner the resident wombat met his stage call appearing at exactly the right time "cue wombat stage right...", and sauntered slowly past the dining room window. The black tiger snake rumoured to have visited earlier had fortunately exited stage left before we arrived but we checked under the table just in case.  Beautiful scenery, food, bed, people and service.  Then back to chaos.  Number One Son barking crazy at a bird in the fireplace retrieves the intruder only to rush outside with it in his mouth until he goes to bark and the bird takes off with a crazy dog in pursuit attempting to take off like a helicopter.  A second bird appears in the fireplace with husband and broom no less effective which fortunately had the good sense to exit via the open window.  Max screaming blue murder that his bowl has food in it that's over an hour old and wants to raise a formal complaint.  All before we've unzipped our suitcase.  Peace was but a blissful moment.

Flat out like a lizard

 They demand our attention and behave appallingly at the best opportunities.  A quiet cup of coffee with my neighbour is served with the tragic serenade of cocker spaniel at the back door determined that a bird requires retrieving from the fire place.  Mistakenly I might add.  Then my quick email on the computer results in a fur lined keyboard with attached motionless cat lying over rendered functionless keys to divert my attention.  Whatever we are doing, they are never far away.  They are number one priority and it's their job to remind us on a regular basis.  And at 5am.  Max feels responsible for wake up calls but misunderstands days off. His day whilst subject to early rising ends only an hour or so later as he retires to our bed for a reasonable 12 hours of shut eye.  A few days ago he took his afternoon sun on the dining table and cast his lordly glance out of the window to the flock below.  He then began a growling wail and call of distress that would normally indicate a predator cat or worse, trip to the vet.  Since neither were present I thought I would venture out to the garden to see what was causing his upset.  As I approached the side of house under the window, a thick blue tongue lizard tail scurried under the house.  It had been soaking up the sun on the warm stones until his cover was blown.  Given Max is an indoor cat with as much natural instinct as a velvet cushion I was surprised to see that he considered the lizard to be of concern.  Maybe he watches Swamp People while we are out.  Anyway, he calmed down when the lizard legged it and went back to chatting to the starlings.  Too much excitement for one day.

A shared kitchen but not the table

I admire those who can work in an open kitchen. Whilst they are trained professionals it's always a view that provides insight into the ballet of getting all different kinds of food on the plate at the same time and according to everyone's requests. My kitchen is an open kitchen.  Open, meaning I've got no way of keeping anyone out.  My open kitchen doesn't quite have the same obligations that a commercial kitchen would have and the only temperature checking that goes on is done by the fridge which starts beeping at me when I've left the door open.  There is little consideration given to food costs and portion control only means the server of dessert gets the bigger serve.  People and animals seem free to come and go during my kitchen service.  They lick the floor when I'm making pastry or rub up against my legs when I'm up to my elbows in butter, herbs and a former chicken.  The plastic container on the side of the sink is the takeout order for the chickens who want extra carbs and next door's horse has already spoken for the leftover carrots from the farmers market.  The outdoor cat eats the dog food, the dog eats the indoor cat food, the indoor cat just pretends to eat and the sheep just want to eat and eat.  Fortunately we don't all eat at the same time.  Or at the same table. 

Growing rows of redundancies

The concept of picking your own fruit was a bit peculiar to me as much as cooking my own steak in a restaurant and building my own house.  These were activities best left to people who either a) liked doing this and hopefully b) were not too bad at it.  I was neither.  Today we called in at the place where you pick your own strawberries.  You pick them, put them in a plastic container, walk to the checkout and pay for them.  Actually no, go back one step.  You also buy a cup of strawberry ice cream and add that to the bill.  I'm not completely crazy here.  And it was pretty damn fine ice cream too.  So by picking our own fruit in corporate supermarket land you've eliminated not only the middle man (whomever he was) but a truckload of supply chain leaders, category managers, marketing and sales experts, research and development teams and cold storage staff, all because you went from mound to mouth.  And whilst I appreciate the work and effort put in every day by these no doubt dedicated experts, the humble strawberry appears no better off.  My latest experience with eating a supermarket strawberry left me wondering if I bit into a raw potato that just looked like a strawberry.  It was that tasteless.  Picking your own fruit allows you to choose some over the others.  You can be your own quality controller.  So today I performed the role of all of the above by selecting only what I viewed as the ripest and most attractive, I had transport and cold storage organised and now I'm working on my promotional strategy that will drive consumer interest towards my purchased product.  I'll make a strawberry topped sponge cake.  And the only rewards offered for this one will be a smile on my husband's face.  The best kind.

No rain today

The ground is burnt and dry.  The wind is westerly again today so slapping my iceberg roses squarely across the face.  The tomatoes are sunning themselves and will be fully developed in nutritional flavour as they should be - according to Geoff Janz on the ABC radio program this morning.  I've shoved some pork into the slow cooker with enough spices to infer a curry and as the zucchini is in high production it will be grated up into pancakes for lunch.  With marinated feta.  And bacon.  Work with me here.  A walk up and back along a long stretch of beach this morning is the carbon offset of the bakery stop on the way back.  Number One Son exhausted had his eyes fixed in front all the way home in the car.  Paper bags and bakeries can only mean good things. The grass or scaled weeds are crunching under my feet as I do a turn around the garden in the hope of a small bud or bloom for a vase only to return with a sprig of mint and a stick of rhubarb.  How do we crowd fund some more rain.  If it takes a dance or a prayer, let's all commit to washing our cars today and hopefully the skies will deliver.  

I say potato you say potarto

 How could two cats be so different?  Minnie the outdoor farm cat, chief mouser and potato farmer 2IC is technically  the same species as Max the indoor cat but the differences are remarkable.  Max loves a routine.  Whether it's food or just destroying furniture, Max will most likely do it at the same time every day.  At 7:50pm each night he will scratch at the kitchen drawer.  That's where his toys are.  A not very glamorous plastic handle from a washing basket provides moments of entertainment when it apparently comes to life. This week Max found himself home alone with a loose Starling.  The bird no doubt had abseiled down the chimney to find itself in the living room.  When we returned the bird was perched on the curtain rail with Max sitting quietly below making polite conversation.  If the situation had have been with Minnie we would have a carpet of feathers and a crime scene on arrival.  Max likes Laura Ashley blankets, Minnie likes warm dirt.  Max won't eat anything that isn't out of a plastic pouch from the supermarket and Minnie eats everything that moves.  And for hours on end they both sit either side of the back door communicating about who knows what.  Until Minnie, clearly bored of the conversation excuses herself and heads off to kill something.  Back to the blanket Max.

Cherries aren't just for Christmas

When the fruit pickers have left and the best of the best have been boxed up with passport and travel money, sometimes you are lucky enough to have opportunity to acquire the left behind.  The left behind are the ones that weren't ready to leave ie., not ripe or just a bit spoiled and didn't deserve to travel anyway.  The rows and rows of generous cherry trees provided a canopy of green with their own moisture building climate.  It also provided a tropical paradise for a smart little Starling who built one of the most impressive nests I've ever seen.  This one was straight out of House and Garden with cherry wood verandah and views of the hills. We picked from the remaining bunches and were no match for the production of these magnificent trees.  It's heart breaking in one way to see fruit left behind and not sold when you know the constant and sometimes middle of the night attention and money that these babies require.  We are born to be disagreeable to waste.  Well most of the time.  Reusing and recycling feels good and but we're not sure why.  The plastic and technology revolution that designs and programs products to cease operating to ensure profitability just doesn't fit anywhere in nature.  Waste is food for others in growing and in our case it's the chance to share the bounty with friends and family.  You can only know the joy of fruit by eating it.  A bit like wine.  Knowledge doesn't come from staring at the labels.  So by picking fruit we learn a little bit about the tree and what it produces. Then I will be heading straight to the cookbooks for all I can find under C for Cherries.

And the winner is...

The Employee of the Year (farmyard) Award this year goes to Lewis our Rooster.  Sound applause.  He has excelled in all his KPI's and has fostered a high performance culture throughout his team.  He consistently offers a high standard of work and ensures all tasks undertaken in the team are performed safely.  He is punctual, reliable and demonstrates a good work ethic that would prove him an asset to any chook pen.  Well done Lewis.  If we could all have a few more employees like Lewis on the team then life would be a whole lot easier.  No day off, starts work at 4:30am, ensures everyone eats before he does and ensures the team all get to bed at night.  Roosters don't ask for a pay rise or flexible working arrangements and never complain about their work stations.  They just work and work.   I just wish I could have mustered the same enthusiasm at such an early hour this morning. 

No excess data required

I'm at the point that technology has passed me by.  I sit quite comfortably in technology darkness as the latest wave of must haves fail to connect to my no network lack of interest. My mobile phone is used mostly as a phone and the thought of wearing a computer on my wrist is as welcomed as wearing a typewriter on my head. I'm of an age that the latest of anything doesn't really have too much of an impact on me. My kitchen cupboards don't even display many objects of the slicing and dicing variety however I do worship at the alter of the stand mixer.  It's a mean and heavy beast and always gets priority bench top parking.  My other great contraption is the slow cooker.  A recent convert, the big guy sits close to the sink permanently reminding me to visit my freezer.  It's a wonder of simpleness that provides sticky soft bone rendering meat that has cooked its little heart out while you attend to other things.  Slow is the quick way to put dinner on plates in this house.  It doesn't come with a complex set of instructions, there is nothing to download and register your details on, it doesn't have a password that's forgotten before you've thrown out the packaging, and it will never need to be turned off and on just to remember what it was meant to do in the first place.  It offers a choice of high or low.  Which is as much instruction as one should ever need.  Sounds like a smart device to me.

Warning, home baking next 5 kilometers

The Tassie roadside produce stall is a marvellous thing.  Some backyard berries, a bag of spuds or an onion or two. A chance meet with the grower who launches into a story about when they were picked and a joke or two to get you going on your way.  I don't have much passing traffic out front of my house and the ponies over the road have heard all my jokes before.  I don't yet have a lot to sell other than potatoes right now but damn fine kennebecs if I may say so.  And we will be having some more again with dinner tonight along with some cherry tomato and canellini beans to go with some venison fillets that were very kindly donated.  My first time cooking venison has sent me head first into the collection of cook books pondering various saddles and backstraps.  But dinner aside, unfortunately my roadside shop wouldn't see the results of my culinary skills including cake baking than for no other reason than they are not worth dropping down a gear for.  And the bread I've got baking in the oven won't win any prizes being suspected of over proving by having developed the look of subcutaneous fat in over-tin overlap. No, definitely wouldn't stop the car for that one.  In fact you might even speed up a little just to put it behind you.  My veggie produce such as raspberries would be sold out before they even sold having only produced about 12 so far (berries not punnets), and following the hot days the blueberry bushes look like they've been in the microwave for an hour on high.  Growing and baking your own is a skill that takes time, and well skill really.   Won't be putting out the cardboard sign just yet. Even if the ponies think it's hilarious.

Oh Santa, I was a really good boy...

No matter how good you've been at this time of year it's about food abundance.  Surrounded by the offerings of an early dry summer the raspberries and blueberries are hitching a ride from their roadside stalls to be shared from the back seat of the car on the journey home.  Our not so early mornings are becoming accustomed to the sound of small bus or car on gravel of our driveway indicating another load of lost fruit pickers.  Our hearts go out to their day of hard graft at the mercy of unforgiving sun and underestimated physically hard job.  Our veggie patch provides its selections of small flavoursome tomatoes and zucchini by the truck load.  We're struggling to keep up with the supply.  Zucchini (or Courgette for some) fritters and zucchini frittata will keep pace with the egg supply before we succumb to zucchini slice or worse yet...zucchini surprise.  The tomatoes are slow roasting in the oven and will provide for multiple menus and the left over brie will slide off the fritters with not much effort at all.  The rhubarb is close to being slaughtered and the basil for once doesn't resemble a green stalk installation.  And of course the ham.  With everything. Yum.