Radio Gaga

I have been under-sharing recently. This is not because there has been nothing to report, quite the contrary, a whole fleet of excitement buses have been passing by. The result of this procession has been a lack of both the energy or the wherewithal to fill you in on the sordid details. Actually, there is little, if any, “sordid” at all. I just wanted to keep your attention.

On this rainy day in North Devon, whilst listening out for Grumpy Cat timer to tell me it is time to put the bread in the oven, what better occupation than to recount one of these adventures? If you are sitting comfortably …….

Last Sunday I was on Toby Buckland’s morning show on Radio Devon. Not as someone wondered, possibly one of my loving family, in the Crimewatch section. Yes, little old me, on t’radio! I was flattered to be invited; concerned they had got me mixed up with someone else. After some initial technical shenanigans whilst setting up, and having ascertained that it wasn’t imperative to be wearing clothes as no one would see me, we were all set to go. When Toby announced the upcoming Garden Guru section, I thought, that will be nice to listen to whilst I’m waiting for my turn. Then I realised he was talking about me.

For some reason, perhaps our gas-powered internet wasn’t up to the job, part way through I went a little (and I quote Caroline the Producer) “Dalek”. A quick flip of my chosen disc and a transfer to ye olde telephonium and we were back to humanoid, an interpretation anyway. I blethered on for a while, mostly nonsense, rarely about gardening, before a large hook came and pulled me off centre stage. It was all over in the blink of an eye. Toby was nothing but charming, fun and, to be honest, was just as daft as I am. And I mean that in a very good way.

Perhaps I should have warned you; you could have listened live and felt my pain. But I was worried that I would say “bottom” or burp or become Monosyllabic Mona. As far I remember I didn’t. I may have said bottom. However, if you wish to hear my not so dulcet tones you can, due to the wonders of our modern world, catch up with Toby’s Show. I’m sure you will want to listen to the whole programme, but if you are late for your extreme macrame class, my piece is at approximately 12.25pm. At the very least you should get a good dance out of it.

Either or Or

I am of the opinion that there are some who focus on the flowers and others that can only see the weeds. Can this be cured? I’m not sure. Perhaps it is just the way people are made. Usually I am a flower spotting kind of gal, but not always.

In the picture above, some might see a rusting chiminea, stuffed full of broken-up oddments of wood, standing next to a galvanised bin. Today, I chose to see a happy ginger monster, mouth crammed with giant twiglets, waiting for his friend Oscar the Grouch to come out to play.

It is not always this way. And sometimes it takes a little effort. But at the moment I am determined to see the flowers and not the weeds.

Rainy Day Cooking – Tomato and Courgette Loaf with Tomato Chutney

Raining again, so no gardening for me today. I’d put aside a recipe that had caught my eye in the weekend Guardian. Tomato and courgette loaf with tomato chutney, “well that sounds delicious” I thought, perhaps I should give it a go. As luck would have it, I had a couple of manky/well-matured courgettes lurking in the nether regions of the fridge, just waiting for an opportunity to shine. Even better I had a fair few of the other ingredients. I decided not to attempt the chutney this time, considering it best to concentrate on the loaf and hopefully, with a prevailing wind at my stern (no sniggering in the cheap seats Mr K) my creation would be ready by lunchtime. Delayed slightly, but also buoyed-up, by a re-run of Star Trek “The Next Generation”, I boldly went where no cook had gone before. In our kitchen anyway.

As always, the recipe, or approximation of, will appear in normal text, my interpretation is in italics.

Tomato and Courgette Loaf (sans tomato chutney)

First make the chutney…..

Not doing that so blah, blah, blah, skim and skip straight to ……

Heat the oven to gas mark 6, something about preparing your loaf tin.

Turn oven on, as so nicely requested, oil loaf tin.

Put grated courgettes and half a teaspoon of salt in a bowl and steep for 20 minutes.

Grated? Sounds like hard work. I’ll grate them in the food processor and then I can give it a cursory wipe it out and use it for the cheese later. Please note that I was reading ahead, as all good cooks should do when attempting a new recipe. Courgies duly grated (no not corgies, rest assured no royal dogs were harmed making this loaf) and set to steep. Ponder on “steep” for a moment, consider it a rather wonderful word. Say it out loud a few times.

Mix flour, baking powder, bicarb, garam masala, caster sugar and salt in a large bowl.

All easy except for the perennial wrong sugar problem, used demerara which of course wouldn’t go through the sieve so just tipped it in the bowl and stirred it around a bit. Not sure why we need sugar in a savoury recipe, but it seems to happen a lot these days. Of course, I could just leave it out, but I am by nature a follower of rules (again, quiet back there!).

In another bowl, whisk eggs oil and yoghurt, grated cheddar and coriander.

As I didn’t have Greek yoghurt, I used soya yoghurt. To my mind, one word in common is good enough. Although sometimes it is less than one. This often ends messily. Best not dwell that. All whisked to perfection.

Tip steeped courgettes into a clean tea towel and wring out as much liquid as possible.

Tipped steeped courgettes half onto the tea towel (clean) and half onto work surface (cleanish). Scoop wayward gratings to where they belong and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze murky green liquid into the sink. Quite satisfying.

Stir the courgettes and egg mixture into the dry ingredients and 150g of the reserved chutney.

Oops

I said……

I heard you! It seems I needed the chutney after all. Too late now, what to do? What is red and a bit liquidy? I know, red pesto! It might work. I know, there are absolutely no words in common with tomato chutney, but at least it is a similar colour. And it is all I’ve got. Stir all the stuff together with a jar of red pesto and hope for the best.

Transfer to the lined loaf tin and arrange halved red and yellow cherry tomatoes on the top.

Lined? When did you say that? Oh yes, I see. Quickly line tin, carefully spoon in mixture and arrange cherry tomatoes prettily on top. I only have red, but that is definitely acceptable. Compared to other “adjustments” it is small beer. Place in oven.

Drizzle the loaf with the final tablespoon of oil and bake for 40 minutes.

Take loaf out of the oven and drizzle with oil. Put back in. Set grumpy cat timer.

Cover with foil, lower temperature to gas 5 and bake for 45 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean.

Easy peasy, except the skewer bit, so I use a knife. Bit wobbly, put it back in for another 5 minutes. That will do. Probably.

Leave to cool in the tin for at least 30 minutes.

What, you have got to be joking?!!!!

Naturally I did wait, restraint is my middle name, and very nice it was too. We ate warm slices of the loaf with label-free homemade soup from the freezer, most likely tomato and carrot, and our cockles were warmed.

Back to my roots

Today’s predicted “fair” weather transpired to be “a fair amount of mizzle” or even “a substantial amount of gloom”. Still there was light to be found in this dreary day.

A couple of months ago, myself and Mrs Bun took some rose cuttings. As we couldn’t find a pot of quite the right dimensions, we pushing the prickle stripped stems into a gritty soil, cossetted in a customised litre milk bottle. Mrs Bun can be very creative, and not just in the cake department.

Five new rose plants is more than enough for most mortals, so I shall be helping out by taking one or two off her hands. And who wouldn’t want a little piece of this action …..?

Anger

I am hopeless at defending myself. I am the submissive, roll over on my back with my legs in the air, type. However, when it comes to my own, it is a quite different matter. Yesterday, I found out that some (I am struggling to find an adjective adequate enough to describe them, so please feel free to fill in your own special word at this point) ……… person had attempted to defraud my Mum. I was very angry. I am still very angry. It is now sorted, thanks to my brother and the bank. There is no excuse for this vile practice and I want revenge. Quite stupidly of course, as it would do no good. But still I am very angry.

My Mum is quite alright, because she is a strong woman. Although a little daft on ocassion. I like to think I take after her.

The Moment

A lot of people enjoy the autumn; look forward to it even. Not me. I don’t like it at all. Unfairly, of course. I struggle to appreciate this season for itself, in its own right. Instead I consider autumn merely a herald of the coming gloom and doom of winter. Blighted by the company it keeps, I suppose.

Today I studied a golden bee, feasting on a seed-swelling sunflower, taking advantage of the few unpollinated flowers left at its disposal. It was a moment of peace and reflection. Which was a mistake. The morning, up to that point, had been spent defending plants from the over-exuberance of the Nancy Nightingale autumn clear-out. This consisted of my shouting “NO!” as the secateurs/fork approached the innocent party, executing a right shoulder judo roll and throwing myself between NN and the victim. All done in slow-mo. I really should demand danger money. I may have scuffed my new boots. Several “still life in the old dog” cosmos and a “merely resting” pot marigold undoubtedly hit the compost heap during in my bee distraction. No matter, they are after all hers to do with what she wills. And at this time of year it is tempting to throw in the towel, get rid of the ragged and half-spent, look forward to spring perfection. But in doing so we miss out on the moment. I must try harder, after all the moment is all we can be sure of.

Am I warming to the autumn? Perhaps. But on a glorious day like today, who wouldn’t? Ask me again at the end of the week. I will keep practicing.

Six on Saturday – Slack

I haven’t been here for a few weeks, but possibly you were. What did I miss? Anything much? Any scandal or intrigue to report? Of course, I’m talking about Six on Saturday. For the few sorry folk that haven’t come across this mega-meme, there is no need to feel embarrassed. If you pop over to The Prop’s site, you can study all the intricacies and many codicils attached to this world famous weekly event. For the more impatient here is a précis: Six. On Saturday. I have been a little slack for a while on the blogging front, but rest assured I have been very taut elsewhere. Let us see if I can remember how it is done.

First, we have Helichrysum bracteatum, the strawflower. It is one of my feeble attempts at front of house bedding this year. Too tall, not floriferous enough; but on its own, in its own right, it is rather lovely.

Now onto Dahlia ‘Verone’s Obsidian’ which I believe is one of the honkas. I’m a little confused as to its real identity. This its first flower to bloom successfully and even that is a bit wonky. A little more honking and a little less getting scoffed by snails would be nice.

Next Hedychium ‘Pradhanii’, the only flower worth a public showing. Pots have been shuffled recently and this stunning ginger has unfortunately found itself in direct rotary washing line range. Each time our matching “his and hers” lederhosen whizz around in the breeze they whack this poor beauty in the mooch. I should move it really. It makes sense.

Onto someone looking very guilty “It wasn’t me guv, I just sat down for a rest and the big hole was here already”. I believe you.

Now Heliotropium arborescens ‘Chatsworth’ purchased a few weeks ago on a birthday visit to Atlantic Botanic nursery with my old mucker Hero. I have grown this Cherry Pie fragrant lovely before, but it didn’t make it through the winter. Fingers crossed for this one.

And finally, Salvia involucrata ‘Hadspen’; pure dazzling pink furry joy.

All done. I might try this SoSing again, it wasn’t too bad after all. Take care, my friends, I’ll see you in the gloaming.

Serene

Yesterday the Red Admirals were feasting on the windfall apples, a late summer tradition in Max’s garden. I enjoy this annual event as much as the tipsy butterflies, watching them flit from fruit to rotting fruit, with the odd frisky interval. I’d best make it quite clear that it was the butterflies that were frisky, not me. Neither was I tipsy. Far from the flocking bank holiday hoards, I was content working in the warm sunshine and welcome calm, all was serene.

There was a slight blip in my tranquil day, which involved a close encounter of the slow worm kind. The accident was quickly resolved and his home reinstated. I left two juicy slugs near his disturbed front door as recompense. Hopefully I am forgiven and he has recovered from the invasion of the giant gardener.

Six on Saturday – Sighing

I have been a little slack on the blogging front recently. There are reasons of course, none of which I will bore you with at the moment. Rest assured, nothing bad. Hopefully anyway. I felt I should make a special effort this week. In missing a couple of Six on Saturdays, I’ve discovered that there is only so far you can push the patience of Akela. I had a note from my Mum (and it wasn’t even forged) and even Mr K said it would be OK ( on reflection it was a mistake to give him that money in recompense) but still there were repercussions. Believe me, a Propagator tantrum is something to behold. I would suggest that no one attempts to have even one week off, let alone two, it just isn’t worth it. There are sighs, there are mega-sighs and there are Propo-sighs. Less of the excuses, let us get on with it, Sunday is chomping at the bit.

First, we have Ageratum corymbosum, looking a little like a soggy muppet after our storms. Still I love it; the colour, the form, the everything.

Next is Tomato ‘Harzfeuer’; my first but hopefully not my last. I haven’t done well with my toms this year; I was late to the party. There is time enough to regain a little ground. A miracle however would be handy.

Now a potted cutting of Fuchsia procumbens ‘Variegata’, the mother plant is playing hard to get on the flowering front. I cannot get over the other-worldliness of these little psychedelic blooms.

Like many, I thought I would try my hand at a few more vegetables this year. My report card would say “easily distracted”. Here are some mixed oriental salad leaves that I sowed and forgot.

Now another fuchsia, I didn’t realise I was such a fuchsia fan. Perhaps it is time to stand up and be counted. This is F. ‘Thalia’. Lovely.

A self-inflicted rule is “you must always save the bee shot for the finale”. Here is our star, supping on a weather-ravaged Salvia involucrata ‘Hadspen’, a bit worn around the edges but still full of the good stuff. A lesson for us all perhaps.

That is your lot my friends. I hope all is well on your planets. Keep safe, happy and full of fun.

Guest Photographer – A Chance

I have recently written about a wonderful project in North Devon called The Wholelife Project. Shortly after my pitch was thumbs-upped by Devon Life, I had a visit from an old friend. She answers to many names; Inner Dialogue, Imaginary Friend, Subconscious Suggestion, call her what you will. And this gal is persistent, popping an idea into my head with superglue. No shifting.

I first heard about the above project from Nancy Nightingale’s nephew, Marley. As part of his home-schooling curriculum, he helps out with both the maintenance and crowd control. One day, whilst he was helping out in Nancy’s garden, he mentioned how much he enjoyed his time at Wholelife. The cogs don’t always whirr, sometimes they dawdle. Several weeks later it dawned on me that this small-holding, which specialises in helping those with behavioural problems and learning difficulties, would make a great article. Their work was something that deserved to be shared.

Please bear with me, I will get to the Guest Photographer bit eventually.

Later Nancy mentioned that Marley was very keen on wildlife photography and his work was pretty good. I checked out his Instagram account and it was obvious that this was not just familial bias. Then my head-popping friend crashed the party. Why not? I thought. You should always give people a chance. I did some maths, approached DL, contacted Matt and Emma from Wholelife and when everyone was in agreement asked if Marley would like to take the photographs for my article. Marley is fifteen. A teenage boy, brimming with hormones, in charge of the pictures for my piece, was that a wise decision? After all it is not just about snapping away; the right shots had to be selected, they had to be reflective of my writing, they must mine into the essence of the subject and they had to be submitted on time. Deadlines: love them and hate them! What could possibly go wrong? I did begin to worry that I had been a little rash.

My worry was wasted energy. Marley produced (a catalogue) of wonderful photographs, far better than anything I could have produced myself. They were well lit and crisp, but more importantly they were sensitive, affectionate and intuitive. There are a lot of good photographers out there, but you have to have something a little bit special to succeed. And I have every faith that Marley will do just that.

And when he makes his first million, I think he should buy me a Harley Davidson.