Farewell from the Farm

It's with a degree of sadness that I write this last post from this Blog.  We've sold our farm.  With nearly 5 acres of land and an old cottage farmhouse we decided that the next phase of our lives should be more coastal than rural, and a little less weathered house history to repair.  We're pleased to be relocating but sad to say goodbye to the country view from our front porch.  I'm still intending to continue writing and blogging but will no longer call myself a farmer (ahem!!).  My new blog will continue on (and on and on) about eating great produce and being more self sufficient.  I encourage you to pop over to A Wiser Woman Said if you get a chance.  You'll see some familiar furry faces and the food theme will be quite strong.  I hope to see you there....
https://awiserwomansaid.blogspot.com/

We're getting the bus outa here

They might be waiting for a bus...who knows what goes on in chicken land.  I didn't like to ask.  Summer brings a new batch of baby chicks and a very protective mother.  She's probably the only hen we've had that didn't lose the majority of her chicks to the Butcher Birds.  They're dynamite on defenceless chicks.  I wish I could prevent this cruel theft but nature is a hell of a lot smarter and faster than I am.  One of our more mature age hens called Doris sat on eggs for weeks and weeks waiting for them to hatch.  She sat there through some of our hottest days, wildest gales and a thunderstorm.  And unfortunately was only able to hatch one chick.  She came out so proud.  But by the afternoon she was childless and beside herself.  I felt so sorry for her.  She was screeching blue murder when I went to see here with feathers all up while going around in circles.   I gave her some rind off the Christmas ham to cheer her up but pork fat didn't suffice on this occasion.  People often curse cats for their destruction on wildlife, but nothing measures up to the cruelty of wildlife itself.  We've got Quolls here who remove heads from chicks and leave the rest, like some sort of delicacy.  And to make matters worse Quolls are a protected species.  They'll be furry mittens if I ever catch them!  No wonder my chickens are looking to hit the highway.

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.