Snowed in

So, not being owners of even a car (let alone a four-wheel drive) we are snowed in. No gritter comes our way and the Co-op, our only shop, has been stripped. Quite often this is referred to a needless panic buying, but when the only shop for miles is almost empty and the roads to any town are impassable then things take on a different complexion. However, my habit of keeping an overstocked supplies cupboard (often laughingly referred to as my *nuclear supplies*) means that we can keep going comfortably for several days. Though we are being careful with logs and milk. And kibble.

The cats have taken personal umbrage at the disordering of their world and shuffle awkwardly through the garden like small, outraged snowploughs. Yesterday, just as the white heavens opened, I went for a solitary walk across the fields. Today Andy went a-wandering and came back with some splendid photos, such as this robin keeping within close shelter of a Dexter cow. Whether for warmth, or to take advantage of the earth being cleared (and grubs therein) - it was shadowing its large guardian, who seemed a little bemused by the attention.

Far beyond the village, the landscape lies buried and hushed.

And I might be biased, but I think nothing is as lovely as Cotswold stone in the snow.

We'll be fine - I have baked a loaf the size of a small planet.

Spicy chorizo and tomato soup

So, in the end the chorizo and tomato soup was made, and at the request of Merisi, I hereby divulge the recipe - for that particular day's soup anyway - I make things up as I go along, so things change, especially as I don't measure. But this time, and with Merisi in mind, I made notes. It makes a lot of soup, enough for four probably but we are greedy. This soup was prepared about 4 hours before eating, but it would have been better made the day before.Things usually are.

I got together all these -

Which are - 2x 400gms/14oz tins of cheap chopped tomatoes, 1x 500g/18oz box passata, 1x 225gm/8oz whole chorizo (or chunk of salami) one medium-large onion, 1x sweet red pepper (not shown), tomato puree, extra virgin olive oil, fresh or dried savoury herbs, two decent sized cloves of garlic, a chicken stock cube, sweet chilli sauce, HP/Brown sauce, paprika, chutney (optional).

IMPORTANT NOTE - you can't really go wrong with this. The measurements can be adjusted to taste, and the world won't stop turning if you use slightly different sized food containers, the ones I have here are standard for the UK. (Just make sure you use a decent olive oil, that's all).

Chop your onion how you like it.

Ditto the red pepper. Gently heat the olive oil (about two tablespoons or your own personal glug) until you can smell it, then add the onion and one teaspoon of paprika. Saute quietly until translucent, then add the pepper. While that is doing, take the skin off your salami if necessary - here I have scoured the casing vertically all the way along and peeled it back...

and then chopped into generous slices. Pop it in with the pepper and onion, and leave it to sweat its smoky, fatty goodness out, until it is moist and glistening.

Add the two tins of tomatoes and the passata, then your flavourings. Usually I just wallop them in, but this time I measured properly. And I put in - 2x teaspoons sweet chilli sauce, 1x teaspoon HP sauce, 2x crushed cloves garlic, 1x tablespoon tomato puree and about one heaped tablespoon savory herbs. And the stock cube. My herbs were from my pots, rosemary, hyssop, marjoram, lavender and a bay leaf. Dried would do fine. (Obviously, don't chop the bay leaf, leave it to marinade). Oh yes, I added a very generous teaspoon of my own peach chutney, but this is discretionary.

By now the soup was more like a thick pasta sauce, indeed it could be used for that very purpose if you simmered it down a bit more. But for soup, I added water - and see how much I love you all - I used American cup sizes. But I seem to have made a bit mess of my conversion, as I used what I thought were 3 cups, which is about 600 ml, but that converts to over a pint and I didn't think I added that much...so, about 600 ml, or, just make it more liquid with how ever much cold water you want. Let judgement and common sense prevail. You are going to leave it on a very low setting, (not even simmering) to quietly richen and thicken again. While you go off and do something else - drink gin/watch TV/have a bubble bath. I made bread, because sometimes my goodness knows no bounds.

It doesn't matter if it rains

I haven't baked much bread recently - it's too much of a battle when the weather is cold. The tiny Hovel kitchen is draughty and the dough sulks. But now the temperatures are picking up I've been getting my kneading hands back in action and it is wonderful to have a decent loaf again. Even the deli bread is not as good as this baby made with flour from Matthews Mill down the road.

before and after

But, with our British climate being a bit unreliable, it's all change again - we are forecast rain. Lots of it. So like everyone else in the village I was up and down to the little supermarket this morning, to get my 'Times' before the heavens opened. It was a bright but cloudy morning and the shop was bustling. I was at the back of the queue with a couple of ladies I know. 'It's like the Pear Tree roundabout in here' I remarked; they laughed and agreed. (trivia note for Inspector Morse fans - you will hear the PTR mentioned in some episodes, as it is a notorious Oxford traffic jam area, used by locals and Lewis everywhere as a genuine - or not - excuse for being late) Naturally we discussed the weather. I remarked that I was going for a walk that morning so I hoped the rain would hold off. It was generally agreed that rain was a pesky nuisance. Now, one of the ladies has recently suffered the loss of her closest friend. They went everywhere together and even wore outfits which complimented or matched the other's. Let's call this lady Peggy and her friend, Ivy. Peggy leaned over her trolly, her eyes shining with memory. She had a story.
"But walking in the rain is lovely" she said. "Me and Ivy, we were walking in the fields across the way once, and we were wearing no more then this" - she plucked at her light knitted top, which seems to be de rigeur for elderly women in the country. "And then there was this cloudburst! We was drenched! And Ivy, she didn't care, she just laughed. And we went on with our walk, even though my glasses were running with rain. And do you know - we didn't even catch a cold! "
I smiled at the thought of the two feisty old ladies striding across the wet fields in their summerwear. Laughing. And realised that after all there are worse things than getting wet.

So I hurried home and dragged Hercules off to the woods, parking him under his favourite hawthorn tree.




It being Saturday there was no one around but myself, the birds and a thousand fat squirrels. The birds were having a jamboree and didn't seem to mind me too much. I trod softly and cautiously, delighted when a blackcap warbled its bubbling song from a nearby holly bush. (the link has an audio clip of this modest little creature, singing its heart out). The woodpeckers were still thrumming away and cuckoos were - well, cuckooing. As they do. The elderflower is blossoming now, its wizened grey fingers offering the most delicate of posies. Winding round the slender limbs of the birch trees, the honeysuckle (always a bit of a strumpet I think) is blasting out a sensuous perfume from lascivious horns. It is almost-summer. But not quite. I was so close to some of the birds that I got rather frustrated with my poor old camera. It does its best, but by the time it has cranked itself up and puttered forth its puny zoom, the most I ever catch is a blob.

It's a robin. Really.

Despite expecting a drenching, the sun was now out and dappling the woodlands. Crossing a wooden bridge, I just caught sight of a basking Common Lizard, before it whisked into the grass. These little fellows belie their name. they are not at all common and I have seen very few in my life. Ruminating on this, I almost missed the still but alert form of a roe fawn in a clearing. Past the gangly cute stage, it stood quivering, unsure of what to do. Just a few metres away, I have never been this close to a deer. Such a soft, buff coat and such dark, liquid eyes. We watched each other for a few seconds before instinct took over and it fled through the undergrowth. I was quite overwhelmed with this abundance of wildlife encounters - all it wanted now, I thought greedily, was to see a fox or a badger. And then a lithe form sprang up from the bracken, almost under my feet and charged into the woodlands, leaping into the air like the Babycham character. Yet another fawn. Seconds later, a strange barking noise echoed from beyond and I wondered if it was the mother calling her young, somehow sensing that they were frightened.



I returned to Hercules with a fragment of eggshell and a handful of elderflower blossom. The rain clouds were sliding in like fat slugs, and it was time for home and tea. It hadn't rained on me. But I wouldn't have minded if it had.




While writing this I have been watching live-streaming webcams of birds nests from the BBC nature site - the buzzards are incredible. There are microphones too, so turn your speakers on.

Baking frenzy

Oh fix my hair, throw me a pinny and move me to Stepford. It's been baking bliss at the Hovel, as my creative wotsit lies fallow for a bit. Principally of the bread variety, though I did chance upon these plump little babies, while cycling out for 'The Times'...I do love a good honesty box and feel blessed that such things can still exist in our bit of the world.

I've persevered with the bread making - the key is to start first thing in the morning, then all you have to do is pop back every so often for the next stage. Although I'm using dried easybake yeast at the moment, I have discovered that it works better if I make an old-fashioned 'sponge' first; mixing the yeast with warm sugary water and a handful of the flour. In no time at all there is a heaving, bubbling mix which rises beautifully when made up into a dough with a slug of olive oil and a pinch of salt.

A quick knead, left for however long it takes to plump up in our cool kitchen cell, and then knocked back, massaged a little more, shaped and left again. I'm still battling with getting the right balance between having a wetter mix (I was making it too dry before) and having a dough which doesn't spread so much. This is why I haven't succumbed to a bread machine - I enjoy the process so much.

Oy - how did those gingerbread men sneak in?

Daily bread

I have always been lousy at making bread, and put it down to the old saw about hot hands making good bread and cold hands making fine pastry. With bad circulation I fall in the latter category, and my pastry passes muster. However, I have wondered if the lack-of-rising-abilities of my bread had more to do with the coolness of the cottage - with no central heating, draughts and a closet sized kitchen which opens directly onto the back yard - then any feebleness on my part. So, Wednesday last, on one of the hottest days of the year, I had the bright idea of giving it another go...and to make a whole chicken soup, just for extra punishment. We are lucky enough to live near a working flour mill, FWP Matthews - not a nice romantic spinning one, more like a Victorian orphanage, but it does make wonderful flour, especially the Cotswold Crunch, which I was using this time - 1lb of that to half a pound of white flour. Ordinary quick rise dried yeast, whack a slug of olive oil in, pinch of salt, bit of brown sugar in the warm water to mix with, and away I went, no buggering about.

I was determined this time; I kneaded that dough as if my life depended on it, and tucked it tightly undeneath until it could be tucked no more. And waited. In the sweltering heat, like a behemoth rising from the sea, my loaf rose. With a beating heart I gently manouvered the quivering mound into the little baby Belling 2 ring oven, '*handily* positioned behind the kitchen door.

It worked. It had a dense but soft texture, nutty flavour and crisp crust. It lasted 24 hours and then there were only a few crumbs to prove it ever existed at all. I no longer feel like a failure in breadland. It took about 20 minutes to make, plus rising/cooking time (roughly 1.30 hours in all) and cost about 50p. It doesn't solve the essential problem of how to bake in winter - it may just be a case of leaving it to rise for a very long time. But winter still seems a long way off...