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.