Growing up.

                                      

I'm heartened to see that there seems to be a world-wide movement afoot for children to be allowed to grow-up without the interference of the bloody mamby-pamby elf-n-safety brigade.

Playing outside, getting knees dirty, climbing trees, fishing for tidlers in a nearby pond, running with dogs, building a secret cabin, making dams in streams, going for a bike-ride with friends, tying an old tyre to a rope from a tree, choosing between being cowboys or Indians, having a 'spud gun' in your pocket; these were all healthy every day activities not so long ago. Now the interfering busy-bodies have outlawed 'normal' children's games; they aren't even allowed to play 'conkers' any more.

My move to France in 1972, was heavily influenced by wanting my own children (just 2 of them at the time) to grow up with open countryside as their playground. We had a huge stone hay-and-chicken-filled barn for them to have adventures in, woodland all around that seemed to go on for ever, and plenty of wild or domestic animals to fool around with.

Just yesterday Lady Magnon came across a young German family. In a mad frenzy, the mother had grabbed her two screaming small girls, as they'd totally PANICKED on seeing Monty and Bok calmly walking towards them, in the distance, ON THEIR LEADS. Two of the friendliest dogs you could imagine.

We discussed the incident over lunch, and thought how very sad it was that the two little girls didn't run over to greet the dogs, as most would. OK, had they been a couple of loose 'pit-bulls' we could have understood, but Monty is a LABRADOR for god's sake; a living Teddy Bear. It was as if these poor girls had been cocooned in some evil urban fantasy world, where everything spelt DANGER.

My own children always had bandages on their knees, scuffed elbows, and the occasional bruise somewhere or other; but that, to me, demonstrated that they were doing things, pushing themselves, and experiencing new activities (not permanently indoors in front of an iPad). They also had a dog who followed them everywhere; they were simply growing up, and were encouraged to BE CHILDREN.

N.B. Above photo is of my grandson Finn playing with Teddy Bear 'Monty'.

What NOT to do, with a BAD BACK.

Every year it's the same; I promise myself in Autumn that I'll keep Haddock's weed-free over Winter, so that it's so much easier to rotovate the following Spring.

Do I do it? Of course I don't!

So, each Spring I have to do all this bloody back-breaking digging to bring it back to a usable state again. Luckily we've been promised a few weeks of fine weather, so I'm taking it easy. I'm also showing Lady Magnon how it's done, but she doesn't seem too adept so far! I even explained how good garden soil is for her finger nails, but......

I shan't start any sowing or planting until late April, even into May, so I have plenty of time. But I need to see it all clean, tidy, and composted, well in advance; my brain insists on as much.

At the moment I just pop up occasionally and dig a couple of rows; my back doesn't allow much more.

N.B. For the new garden up at the séchoir (barn), I've already designed a plot with an open-able end that would allow a tractor to enter. A reasonable sized veg-patch could be ploughed in about 10 minutes; to turn mine 'brown side up' will take me more than a back-breaking week.

The bad old days.

                     

I'm not a big 'lunchtime' eater, I much prefer to 'dine'.

My parents, however, were more traditional, and Sunday Lunch was sacrosanct.

So, there was I yesterday evening, enjoying some simple roast Lamb, thinking back to when I was just a wee sprog, and how Sundays were so very different.

Of course, in those primitive days, all shops were closed on Sundays, and almost the only entertainment on offer was some silly old buffer's demonic, primitive, sermoning in church. Sundays were tedious; that is, apart from lunchtime.

My mother (like everyone's mother) was a wonderful cook. Those huge joints of roast beef, legs of lamb, or roasted chickens (usually our own) were sumptuous.

TV was not yet invented, or if it was it hadn't arrived chez nous. We had a big 'Odeon style' wooden-bodied RADIO (with a 'magic eye') that could pick-up broadcasts from Hilversum (why was it that all old fashioned radios could be tuned in to Hilversum?). It wasn't exactly like the one above, but similar.

We'd listen to Archie Andrews, Have a Go (with Wilfred Pickles), The Billy Cotton Band Show, and Two-Way Family Favourites. Listening time was limited; turning on the radio was a 'privilege'. Maybe later in the day we would also listen to a evening play.

Life was so simple. The kettle was heated with flames, Wilfred Pickles handed out £1 notes on the radio, the telephone was only used in emergencies, and the sun shone 365 days a year.

Raku.

The Art College where I took my degree course had three main departments; Painting and Sculpture (mine), Weaving, and Pottery.  The Pottery department had an excellent national reputation.

In the years when I was a student, there was a fashion amongst the potters for building experimental outdoor kilns, and for firing Raku pots.

Raku (as I understand it) is a risky Japanese method of firing and glazing all in one go, by heating-up the kiln to very high temperatures, firing for a very short while, then removing the pot whilst still 'red hot'. Many pots don't survive this extreme treatment, but those that do are often crackled, pitted, and very beautiful.

One of the advantages of hanging around the college's Pottery dep't (apart from the fact that it was awash with beautiful girls), was the possibility of being given their casts-off.

These two Raku pots, above, are a good example of their rejects. OK, they're not the world's finest, but they are practical, attractive, and were free. The fact that I still have them, and that they are still in constant use, means that for me (at least) it was right to save them from the wrecker's hammer.

I wish I could remember who made them!

Great Expectations.

"Would you like me to bring back anything from Blighty for you?"

I prepared a short list and she placed it in her handbag. I waited patiently for the two weeks that she was away, then when she returned I said nothing.

"I've got those fruit flavoured indigestion tablets you wanted" she said, as she slowly unpacked her suitcase "And the packet of Cavolo Nero seeds".

Still I said nothing, as I crossed my fingers even tighter.

"Oh, and there's this" she said nonchalantly, as she passed me a lumpy blue paper wrapper. 

"Ah, thank you darling; that's wonderful".

PSB.

For those of us who 'grow our own', the arrival of what all veg' gardeners refer to as 'PSB' is a definite marker of Spring.

Purple sprouting broccoli is one of those crops that HAS to be 'home grown'; the shop bought equivalent bears no comparison.

Your children/grandchildren would probably turn their noses up at it, but who cares; these first few flowering shoots, to me, are pure nectar!  

They were consumed last night, with a side-serving of pork chop. 

Veggie Wednesday.

We have decided to become 'one-day-a-week veggies'; and that day will be Wednesdays.

I'm kicking off with a veggie Couscous. Normally I would include either chicken or lamb into a tagine, but today NO MEAT.

To one of my last year's jars of courgettes in tomato sauce, I add a tin of chick peas, a chunky cut potato, a quartered preserved lemon, raz al hanout, cinnamon, harissa, a few herbs, garlic, and some veggie stock. 

After I have prepared the couscous I add olive oil, dried mint, and cumin seeds.

Couldn't be much simpler, and one can make it as piquante as one likes. We like ours quite spicy.

We both said the same thing; it was totally delicious, and we didn't miss the meat one bit!

Viva Veggie Wednesday!