Quercus here again.

Well, that was quite a week! Many things have been fixed, or prepared, or done in some way. I had forgotten how everything takes 3 times as long as one thinks it might. I won’t list the rather long and tedious list of things that have changed, but think it fair to say that it’s been a productive week.

I think I should thank the Earthenwitch for actually upping and offing with the Witchling for a week, as it’s given me the opportunity to spend far more time than I would have done otherwise working on the chateau. I know that they have both been enjoying their time at Gwandma’s house (she is so called by the Witchling) and that they have had a chance to a) rest and b) visit ducks. Always a bonus. I have had a chance to lie in undisturbed this morning, which has been absolutely blissful. The week has seen me up at 5.30 and working til 7 or 8 in the evening; this comes of naturally being an early riser, I think. I do like the feeling of being outside stripping a door or something in brilliant sunshine, while everyone else is asleep. But today it was me who was asleep!

In other news, we are almost ready for the Witchling’s second birthday. Bless her, how can she be two?! I am sure pictures will be posted in due course of both beaming child and of presents. We have a couple of things we have made for her, and I’m particularly pleased with one of them. The other, from me, involved spending some time with a chainsaw in order to make it.

Right. Now I’d better toddle off to make the house look presentable again. Piles of tools in the middle of the kitchen – far simpler than putting them back in the shed every day. Can’t wait – I get my girlies back this afternoon!

Hello. Quercus here.

Well, now that I am all alone, or rather just accompanied by paws and claws, I have taken the liberty of hijacking the tiny white box to ramble about what’s happening here. It’s been very hot here, and spending all day outside has had a curious effect on my skin – I sensibly slathered myself in sun cream, but was unable to reach a section in the middle of my back, and forgot my legs altogether. The resultant blotches may take some time to fade. I have never been a very shirt-off type of person, but in this heat doing hard work all day it seemed like a good idea. Plus I thought the only beings around to see were the cats; Pyewacket turned up her nose in disgust and retired to the pile of sawdust under the chainsaw trestle, and Wixon is too stupid to form an opinion.

So far I have worked for three rather long days, getting up at 5.30 one day and working through until the light started to go. For my own reference and to make me feel good, I have so far broken up the concrete paths all round the house and moved them to the now even more enormous rubble pile outside the back door, despite the temptation to put it all on the Witchling’s newly -laid lawn, which would have been a damn sight more convenient, sanded the render off the porch woodwork, scraped, sanded and cleaned every window in our tiny house (all nine of them; this was actually rather a big deal as they were covered in render and I had to take all the casements out as I went, then reinstall them), cleaned and sanded the fascia / soffit boards, then painted them, dug out a gatepost which was a devil of a job, and started putting guttering up.

Gosh, I’m boring, aren’t I?! Possibly the most irritating bit of it was this morning, when I painted the fascia / soffit boards. Usually the Earthenwitch does painting, particularly when it’s fiddly bits, as she is better at it than I, but I had to do it this time as it had to be finished before the guttering went up. I had primered it the day before, so this morning hoped to do the first of two top coats. We had coughed up our life savings and plumped for a Farrow & Ball number called Railings, in exterior eggshell (well actually the Earthenwitch had sat on me while reading my debit card number out to the nice man on the telephone, leaving me gasping for air and for reeling from the realisation that I had just spent £48.50 [that's a lot of dollars, for our American readers] on 2.5 litres of gunky dark paint; Messrs. Farrow & Ball must be laughing all the way to their extraordinarily large piggy bank), and I had just begun to apply it, up at the top of a very tall and wobbly stepladder, when a bloke appeared round the side of the house. I came down, and he explained that he was a tree chopping chap doing the rounds for the electricity company, and that one of the poles in our garden had about 6m more ivy on it than was allowed. I was delighted that he was prepared to hack it about instead of me, so after a pleasant conversation about wood which they might chop and I might collect, I went back to my painting. The Farrow and Ball had grown a skin. It was OK though, as I stirred it back in. I went back up the teetering ladder and continued. Almost immediately our neighbour appeared, along with two year-old boy and aged hound, who proceeded to make his way indoors to polish off Wixon’s breakfast (much to his horror). They chatted for a minute, then disappeared just as another neighbour, who is an electrician, dropped by to talk to me about some work we need doing. The skin was forming again. I continued, only to be halted five minutes later by a delivery van with bits of house for me, and then again two minutes later by the neighbour / boy / dog, passing the other way. The last straw was when a building supplies lorry turned up with more stuff for us, and I had to pause to direct the chap craning sand over the hedge. Mind you, he was my favourite driver – an animated Italian, who gesticulates wildly and talks almost incomprehensibly while beaming in glee at everything you say.

In the end the Farrow & Balls-up went alright, but took a lot longer than expected.

I have to say it’s very strange to be here on my own. I don’t really like it, although the heavenly bliss of uninterrupted nights (even if I do get up obscenely early) is enjoyable. But I miss my baby. Where is the little voice that demands “pruuuune” at the end of breakfast? Where are the tiny feet that run around upstairs? Where is the little bare naked baby who runs away at bath-time? And where is my garden helper? I miss her enormously. Oh, and I miss the Eathenwitch a bit too.

Right – I’m off for tea. Pizza again (gave up bacon sandwiches after eating nothing else for a day and a bit, and then being very sick; too much salt). Cheerio.

I’m off to West Sussex for a week, with the small girl. We’re abandoning Quercus to his fate, which is to work on the house and finish various things off, in favour of an extra pair of hands to entertain personages of a diminutive stature (his mum), in favour of tidy gardens with sprinkler systems which are just asking to be played with, in favour of growing tomatoes in need of pollination help in the form of being rattled about each day, in favour of SOMEONE ELSE DOING THE COOKING. In short, it’s a sort-of holiday which gives Quercus the space to work without worrying that he’s causing utter chaos for the rest of us.

Other things: sourdough bread. Well. The small girl and I used Hugh F-W’s recipe, and though we followed it to the letter, I was surprised that the resulting loaf wasn’t more… well, different. Admittedly, given that I wasn’t using organic flour because I hadn’t got any, I did end up having to boost the starter with a scrap of yeast – could that be why, to all intents and purposes, it seemed an awful lot like, well, normal (in a homemade context) bread? I’d love to give it another go, as I hear all sorts of good things about sourdough, and so far, while it was nice, it wasn’t exactly the revelation I’d hoped for. Suggestions? Recipes? Pointers? In the meantime, I’ve been making that spelt recipe I posted a while back quite a lot – the only problem I have found with it is that, I think because of the ratio of water to flour, the top tends to flatten off during baking; I need to fine-tune quantities and rise time, I think, but the crumpetty texture is intriguingly beguiling. Crumpbread. I mean – !

Still other things: it’s the small girl’s birthday in a little over a week. She will be two on the first of June, and I have no idea quite where that time has gone. Last week, she cracked (if that’s the right verb) her first pun – a small fish finger-puppet was stuffed down her dungarees while an enormous grin formed on her face, and she then said, giggling so much that it took me a minute to work out what she was on about, ‘fish it out! fish it out!’. She is increasingly chatty, day by day; a friend told me that a two-and-a-half-year NHS check-up includes the questiof of whether a child has a vocabulary of c. 200 words – I should say that the small girl’s vocabulary now extends to something like 500 words easily. She speaks in phrases of up to about six or seven words, and often offers words I didn’t know she knew. Her company is a delight in so many ways, and we are having tremendous fun together, more-so than I’d ever imagined possible at this point. I’ve been making a few things for her birthday – so far, a small mattress, with washable quilt and pillow covers to go on a little wooden bed which Quercus is making for her various soft toys, and a set of napkins with a table cloth to supplement the tin tea-set we’ve bought her – and this week, while I have the unusual luxury of childcare in the form of the much-loved Grandma, I’m going to try my hand at making a Waldorf doll. I’ve never done this sort of thing before, but I’ve armed myself with various supplies, internet tutorials and ‘The Children’s Year’, which I read about here and couldn’t resist, so keep your fingers crossed that I don’t mangle it too badly, and if the results aren’t too horribly unexpected, I may even go so far as to post a picture.

I still have a birthday crown to make, using up some felt I’ve had kicking about for aaaages, and hopefully I’ll get through that in the coming week as well. Oh, and possibly some trousers for the small girl, and a summer dress, given that we are having improbably summer-like weather (I won’t go so far as to say that it is now summer, as this is Devon, which is in England, which makes really virtually any mention of the s-word the kiss of death in terms of ongoing, settled warmth without some hideous drawback, like rampant humidity or thunder or some-such appealing meteorological phenomena). Let’s hope the sewing machine continues its current mild manners, or the small girl’s vocabulary may be subjected to some developments I would rather postpone until at least, say, three.

Other, other things (ahem): the orchards which surround Earthenhouse are in blossom, and it’s a real sight to behold. Acres of careful rows of little stumpy cider apple trees, all weighed down with millions of dusky pink flowers, and humming with bees (some of whom live in hives at the back of the fields). The small girl and I rather like walking between the rows, surrounded by the busyness of said bees and the fragrance of the trees. The best bit, of course, is when Pyewacket and Wixon come with us too – other people walk dogs, but not us: we have walking cats.

(Since you ask, which you probably didn’t, the bonnet is made from a scrap of Kaffe Fassett’s lovely ‘Roman Glass’ fabric, because it is just tooooooo good. The colours! The circles! The – *passes out*)

I leave you with news that the caravan has finally departed the parish, after nearly a year of worrying, chivvying and general bollocking about with both its owner and the one-time friend who arranged its appearance here. We are not missing it, unsurprisingly, and I am still boggling at the situation, to say nothing of the fact that we still have a few things belonging to the one-time friend which, I imagine, he may at some point want back, but which he (apparently) can’t be arsed to come and get now. Irritating, but not eight foot by twenty, so surmountable, in the general scale of things.

Right. See you all on the other side, and have a lovely week.

I’m hoping to post the odd (probably decidedly so) picture of our house and the life we’re living in it as we crawl out from under the shadow of large-scale renovations and the general exhaustion which seems to go hand-in-hand (for us, at least!) with having a small child. Well, actually, we’re not quite crawling out (of either) yet, as we’re about to head into another phase of Big Work (this being finishing off the exterior and contemplating such lunacy as interior re-plastering [our ceilings are falling down; what can I say?]), but, like Mon, I like seeing snapshots into people’s lives beyond the words they choose to put up on the screen (hence this is also part of her Through the Keyhole series, which kicked off yesterday – do join in, as the more the merrier for those of us nosy enough to want to know if our kitchen is alone in its midden state; I think it’s a Saturday thing in theory, but I’m too shite to have managed it yesterday).

So here is what I see when faced with the kitchen sink (which makes me hugely grateful every time I come near it, for a multitude of reasons including [but not limited to] having a sink! a real ceramic sink! which isn’t stored under the piano in the dining room!, having taps! real, shiny taps! which give out water! wet, drinkable, clear, reliable water! [older readers may remember our well shenanigans... let us draw a veil over that], the fact that the sink is not piled full of washing-up waiting for my approach in order to adopt its darkest, most sinister laugh while it points out the lack of washing-up liquid because we have a DISHWASHER WHICH WORKS AND EVERYTHING).

The plants you can just about see are lavender, a tradescantia, an unidentified chap called only ‘small foliage’ by its garden centre vendor, and an obscenely pot-bound lemonbalm, found in this unhappy state (well, not really unhappy – perhaps mildly discontented?) because there is nowhere in the garden to put it, given that most of the space outdoors is still broken.  Which reminds me – I really want to put up some pics of the latest garden developments, which have given us some workable lawn space for the small girl to play in, and a rather nice wild plum tree which we hadn’t noticed, really, in the chaos which was there before we rotovated. That next, perhaps, though I’ll probably forget (again).

Here is a better impression of the view we get from this side of the house, which faces down the garden:

(This is not the garden, I hasten to add, but the field behind the garden. There. Glad we got that all cleared up.) The sunlight is stretched and lazy this evening, causing the shadows to reach far across the field as a storm-cloud blows over towards the east,  and it’s quiet here – all I can hear is the hum of the oven (the week’s granola, sourdough bread adventures, coupled with rhubarb crumble [and a topping I keep meaning to post here, come to think of it], baked taters and a ham with bayleaves and a herby cheese sauce, since you ask) and the birds telling us all about their troubles and joys (which now include two new feeders around the other side of the house, partly to redress the balance of the bird-free garden which arrived when the chickens departed). See the colour of that earth? Our walls are that colour, underneath their new clothing of lime, and someday, I hope to have a cob oven in the garden which won’t be rendered, to remind us of the earth which gave us our house.

Right. That din-din-din-dinner is calling to me, and as it’s now eight-thirty, I feel inclined to respond. Let me know if you’re posting pictures, and I’ll nosey mosey along to look at them.

Ever since I read Claire’s recipe for nettle soup I’ve been meaning to give it a go, but, predictably, I discovered Claire’s blog in the winter, when nettles were rather thin on the ground. So thin, in fact, as to be non-existent, except in their very stringiest, inedible-looking form. However, the world has turned, and spring follows winter, and here we are, with absolutely heaps of the wretched things. Well, I say ‘wretched’; I must say, nettle soup has rather changed my opinion of the humble stinger, and now I’m eyeing up the crop up the lane with greedy eyes and reaching for a pair of stealthy gloves. For some reason known only to the gods, I forgot about Claire’s recipe, and found instead a Woman’s Hour version which looked worth a go; of course, midway through I suffered a fit of the ‘that looks too grim even for me’s, and ended up changing the ingredient list a fair bit, so here, for your edible edification, is the result (and I would have posted a picture, but we ate it all).

Nettle Soup
Get:
1 large potato
1 large onion
Slug of oil
About half a carrier bagful of nettles, picking only the young ones (we used the tips)
2 bayleaves
1 vegetable stock cube
1 litre of water
1 tsp of Marmite (yes, I know: love it or hate it, but it’s handy in such situations)
6 cloves garlic (might as well be hung for the proverbial, what?)
A rather grubby-looking carrot found at the back of the fridge
4 sticks of celery
About half a mug of cooked rice which was looking sorry for itself in an overlooked pan
About ¼ pint of milk (I used goats)

Then…
Fry up the onion in a spot of olive oil, adding the carrot, garlic, potato and celery when the onion’s softened up a bit. Poke it all about for a bit, then realise that washing nettles might be helpful. Approach bag, armed with gloves, and gingerly remove said stems before waving fairly hopelessly under tap while small daughter (optional) shows alarming interest in eating main ingredient raw. Hope this interest does not persist. Realise onions now perilously close to catching fire. Turn hob down and sling in nettles before adding water, stock, Marmite and rice. Boil the lot for about fifteen minutes, adding bayleaves when they catch your eye.

When you’re happy that the potato is done, bung in the milk and don’t boil it if you want to avoid, ahem, odd-looking particles floating about the place. Remember, though, that should this, by some bizarre twist of fate, turn out to be exactly what happens, you are going to blend the results to within an inch of their lives. So, er, blend. And eat. And marvel.

Next up: what goes with it. Which, given that it takes much longer to prepare, should really have come first, but hey – let’s not get picky, shall we?

Spelt Bread
Find…
5 cups strong white/spelt flour
1 cup oats
2-3 cups warm water
Dollop of sunflower oil
1 tbsp quick-acting yeast
Pinch of salt
1 tbsp honey

Then…
Get the yeast started off in with about a cup of warm water and the honey; I normally use a Pyrex measuring jug which I stick in the airing cupboard (which, now I come to look at it in the cold, hard light of day, is rather revoltingly covered in dough, courtesy of a yeast explosion which took place, er, some days ago) (why do I admit these things? ). (Of course, if you’re using one of those yeasts which you just sling in, then press on; I’ve got a tub of stuff I’m using up which isn’t quite that compliant.)

While that’s doing its thing (i.e. getting about an inch of foam on the top of its little self), pop the flour and oats in a large bowl; as soon as the yeast’s ready, sling in the warm water and the yeasty liquid, along with the oil and the salt, and mix it all up using a nice wooden spoon. Or a nasty one. I’m not particular. (As it happens, my current favourite is a smallish spoon with one edge burned to a flat line – doubles as a spatula thus. Normally, though, I pseudily prefer arbutus spatulas, which Quercus and I bought on Cortes Island, where, if the gods could only see their way to helping me work out how I’d earn a living in such a situation, I would happily move tomorrow.)

You should find yourself with a very stretchy, elastic sort of dough which wouldn’t be up to any of that kneading malarky. Leave it in the bowl, put a cloth over it, and stick it in the warm spot identified earlier to rise for about twenty minutes, after which knock it back to its original size with the aforementioned spoon and put it in a LARGE BREAD TIN. I cannot stress the LARGE sufficiently, I find – three attempts at this bread I have made, and all have exceeded even my expectations on that second rise, leading to the shameful state of the airing cupboard. (Which also looks like a dog’s dinner anyway, in the usual airing-cupboard-chaos manner, of course.)

Second rise should take about another twenty minutes, and then in it goes, at about 200°c for somewhere between forty minutes and an hour, et voila! Scoffage, of a crumpetty and highly addictive nature.

(This one is based on Sophie Dahl’s ‘Musician’s Bread‘, which I liked, but couldn’t get to stop sinking in the middle a little on cooking; I think the ratio of water to flour is simply a bit out in the original, hence the tinkering. If anyone has done Miss Dahl’s recipe and NOT had this happen, however, I would love to hear from you.)

So, I think I’ve finally decided the ol’ hair question, and I think (subject to change, of course, because I am hopelessly indecisive at the best of times, and this is, of course, no different) that I’m going to get my hair dreadlocked. I’m not certain, partly because the person I’d like to do it lives about ninety miles from here, and is currently limited in her transport options, having been let down a few times by public transport. I have decided pretty much for sure that I don’t want to risk having a go at it myself, courtesy of a few YouTube videos; after all, if I wanted to make a complete mess of my hair, I could just ignore it for a few months, et voila! So, I think getting someone else to do it is probably the answer, and you’d be surprised (or perhaps you wouldn’t) how few people there are around who do this sort of thing, particularly if you’re familiar with Devon and the south-west’s tendency to attract velvet-shirt-wearing types and the like. Sadly, Quercus doesn’t think he’s up to it in hairdressing terms, and the only other candidate has the nerve to live in Ireland… so that probably rules her out too, at least for the length of time my patience will hold out.

It’s funny, though – thinking, finally, that I actually am going to do this, after years of hankering after other people’s dreads and thinking I’d love to try it some time, has made me all the more interested in reading about other people’s experience, some good, and some bad. Some people have talked about the attitude of other people if you’ve got dreads (assumptions being that you’re into drugs, or a pikey [because having a static caravan, in a right state, in your totally destroyed garden doesn't give that impression at all], or that you never wash, or that you’re morally degenerate), and some have mentioned the practical irritations of finding the right shampoo or abandoning shampoo in favour of apple cider vinegar-based concoctions.

Mentally, I’ve been trying to think how I would feel about people judging me based on my hairstyle. Some of you might remember that the last time I mentioned this, opinions were divided, comments-wise, between ‘yay! for dreads!’ and ‘er – why would you want to do that?’, particularly in relation to the judgement people might form about me and the small girl. I’m not such a hopeless idealist as to pretend that these judgments won’t happen, but I do think that probably, if you’re going to judge me on my hair, it’s unlikely we’d get along particularly well anyway. I know it’s probably not always that simple, but seriously: we are talking about a hairstyle here, not a form of social terrorism, and I imagine that anyone talking to me for more than a second will form judgments about who I am, and what I do, whether I like it or not, and in ways that I may or may not agree with. For example, a colleague recently assumed that I was vegetarian (again). Yes, this is something which happens often, and no, I have no idea why: I think I’ve written before about how it’s possible to look like a vegetarian, and I’m still no closer to answering that, other than the fact that, for most of the people I’ve asked about it,what prompted their assumption was normally either to do with my perceived eco-consciousness, or with the way I dress. Of course, the assumption that I don’t eat meat isn’t a remotely offensive one, and, indeed, it’s not far from the truth in that I don’t eat very much meat, and I try to buy free-range organic meat when I do eat it, and I love love love vegetarian cooking (as most of the recipes here will testify). But it’s still one based on appearances, and I suppose that means it probably goes deeper than just thinking about what someone does or doesn’t eat; my colleague also assumed that I had been to Glastonbury at least once, and that I’d be the person to ask about how to make your own wine. So, no matter what I do with my hair, my appearance seems to give off a dreadlocked vibe, as it were, and surprisingly conservative friends have been all for the idea of a dreadlocked me. (Either that, or I have some very polite friends!)

Practically, I’ve been experimenting with the latter having realised some time ago that shampoo was what made Quercus’s hair more than normally crazy (he’s fine with the sort of eco alternatives, but ‘standard’ shampoo – just no, in so many ways); so far, I’ve tried bicarbonate of soda and a rinse of apple cider vinegar and essential oils, and the results were pretty good in that my hair didn’t need washing half so often, and smelled really delicious in the meantime. I still need to fiddle with quantities, mind you, as a couple of times I’ve ended up with a rather clogged feeling to the ol’ barnet – too much bicarb? Hard water? Soft water? Should I be trying baking powder instead? – but the overall effect is rather good, I think, and my hair behaves much better between washes than it does when I use shampoo (which makes it static, oily-looking far more quickly and prone to that fly-away rubbish); the shift from washing hair every day to washing it once or twice a week has not proved the challenge I’d assumed, in that I haven’t wandered about looking as if I’ve dipped my head in a chip-shop, and this bodes well, methinks, for the once-a-week washing epic which dreadlocks – and their attendant drying – might entail.

Gosh.

And there was me thinking this would be a quick post.

So, anyone out there with any advice on the alternatives to shampoo? Any experiences of dreads? And any thoughts on the whole appearance/reality dynamic?

Right. Back to the ginger wine, now, then, as we all have stinking colds, and GW is my drug of choice in this situation – bugger the paracetamol: pass the alcohol!

So, I asked for nice things, and lo! nice things there were. Firstly, there was this extraordinarily nice parcel which winged its way to us from Claire at Whispering Acres. Look at all that loveliness. Approximately half a ton of felty goodness, complete with a very nice book indeed, together with some beautifully hand-dyed fleece and a rather very lovely hand-felted flower. Gosh, is all.

And then there were lots of lovely people coming out of the woodwork to tell me that I’m not a heinous arsehole, and that there are lots of lovely things cracking off in lots of lovely ways. (Yes, I am over-using the term ‘lovely’. No, I do not care. Yes, this shows an uncharacteristic lack of savagery. Blame it on the pastis.) Also, my very excellent chicken clock arrived this week – it has a pendulum foot which moves with the tickingness, and a chickeny face which could not fail to charm. Well, it charms me, anyway, and it serves as a reminder that, while we haven’t got hens just now, we are still Hen People, and, when the time is right and we have found the right set-up for keeping the laying ladies safe (and for giving them two areas of pasture, so we can rotate between seasons as Cheryl mentions here), we’ll have more hens, and we’ll reclaim our existing hens (who are living it up at Purple Towers for now).

Also rather pleasant was this evening’s dinner, which warrants a 52 Recipes entry, methinks. Thus:

Veggie Casserole with Herby Cheesy Dumplekins*
Wossinit?

For the casserole:
2 large onions
2 large carrots
2 parsnips
A fistful of garlic
About eight large mushrooms (or as many as are mouldering at the back of the fridge)
A slurp of olive oil
About a pint of veggie stock
A few bay leaves
About ¼ pint of white wine
A couple of tsp of cornflour

For the dumplekins:
4 oz self-raising flour
About 2 oz cheddar cheese
A fistful of fresh parsley
A knob of butter

Then…
Chop the parsnips up, coat them in a drop of oil and whack them in the oven to roast on a suitably incandescent temperature (I think I went for about 220°c, and that took about twenty minutes) until they’re roasted to destruction perfection (which = destruction minus approx. thirty seconds, in my experience).

Meanwhile, chop the carrots, onions, garlic and mushrooms up, and sling them in a pan. (I misguidedly used a rather large number, which meant that dinner looked a tad impoverished; note to self: smaller pan looks far more greedy-indulging). Fry that lot up with the slurp of olive oil for a few minutes, putting the mushrooms in last because of that thing they do where they appear to bring a pint of liquid (each!) to the party.

While that’s cooking, start on the dumplekins, so-called because they were far too small to be dumplings, but were clearly second cousins to that noble beast. So, pop the flour and parsley in a bowl, rub in the butter and then add the cheese. About four spoons of cold water should make a workable dough; divide that into about a dozen or so little lumps and form them into balls.

At this point, realise the parsnips have caught fire, or – no – wait – there can be smoke without fire, particularly if you last used the grillpan in about 1603. Rescue parsnips. Add the stock and the wine to the casserole pan, and cook until you’re no longer swooning from the alcohol fumes (oh, that’s just me?), before mixing up the cornflour with some cold water and slinging that in to thicken the sauce a bit. Boil it all up until you’re happy, and then throw the dumplings in, stick the lid on, and leave it to ferment on a low heat for about twenty minutes.

Finally, chuck in the parsnips, and scoff surprising quantities of this while attempting to balance the warring demands of wondering if you put in enough cheese, while knowing that to add more would be dangerously close to obscenity.

* This is loosely based on a recipe in Nadine Abensur’s Cranks Fast Food, a book which details, in my experience, food which isn’t really fast, but hey. The recipes are delicious, but often seem to call on stuff which I just haven’t got, and can’t even find in various supermarkets, so I end up going off on a tangent, which is why I say ‘based on’ in this case. However, the book’s well worth a look, and not least for such delights as the stuffed courgettes recipe. No, really.

Lordy-me, I’m having a blogging slump, it appears. It’s not that I’ve nothing to report, and more that I’m not finding time to do it. I honestly don’t know how so many delightful bloggers find time each day to sit down and post things which not only consist of more than the written equivalent of the twin fingers of derision, but are well-thought-out and eloquent, complete with pictures and illustrations. It’s depressing. Or, rather, it would be, if I didn’t enjoy reading such pourings-forth.

Anyway, recent activities have included the acquisition of a reclaimed pine table for our kitchen, which genuinely feels like a kitchen now, and which has really changed the way we’re living in our tiny house to an extent I hadn’t anticipated. It’s so nice to have space for the small girl to toddle about the place without having to think about table saws and screwdrivers as potential weapons in tiny hands. We’ve even got space for a rug where she can sit and explore some of her recent haul from her grandma; she is loving the extra space, and we are breathing out, collectively.

We’ve also made quite firm plans for what this summer will be. So far, it looks like Quercus will take parental leave from his job in order to spend a concerted block of time on the house – three weeks to finish the outside of the extension, which includes drainage, guttering, painting and various bits and bobs of things like fixing lime render where frost came too soon for us. It’s going to be another busy year, but I’m trying to stay upbeat about this; the loss of the chickens has hit me harder than I’d imagined possible, to be honest, and I am struggling to find the optimism which normally buoys me up on even the greyest of days. Partly, I think that’s why I’ve not been writing here very frequently; it’s not that I have sunk into the slough of despond, but I do feel that it’s very wearisome to read yet another depressing ‘oh shit’ post, and it’s probably only going to hack me off further to write such witterings. So, I’m holding my metaphorical tongue until such time as I have more cheery tidings to impart.

I’m also conscious of being rather very behind in the 52 Recipes in 2010 stakes. I started late – I think it was April – but still, I think I need to be cooking something new every single day from here to 2011 at this rate. I’m going to try to get two new things in this week as a bid to turn things around, mood-wise. I’m reasonably cheery, I suppose, and I just need to remember that, and develop it, all of which is hard when the small girl is teething molars, and waking quite frequently, so we’re knackered, as usual. (It’s all so boring, sleep deprivation, yet utterly overwhelming from time to time, I find.)

Current preoccupations:

Children, the number, timing, and nature thereof;

Cooking, and the need not to repeat oneself ad nauseum;

House work, as in cleaning and painting windows, drainage, fixing gardens et al;

The physical self, and why my body wants either chocolate or sleep ALL THE TIME.

Tell me nice things in my comments box, please. (Inspired by DW, whose “I need to hear nice things” post made me smile.)