My grandmother made wild rabbit stew.

My grandfather, who we called Pa,  loved rabbit stew.  He had been a rabbiter in the Great Depression.  After losing his trucking business, this was how he fed his family. He took his rifles, his old truck, his ammo and his dogs and drove up into the hills to hunt rabbits. He sold the pelts to the tanners and divided the meat out amongst the families.

In those times you grew and hunted your own food if you wanted to eat. This is how it was. I have only seen the pictures of the Depression of the 30’s in black and white so that time seems to have been lived sepia. Try as I might I cannot add colour. The depression left my grandmother with the same feeling. She was often querulous and scathing about the plenty that we had in the 70’s, which she directly compared to the Depression and so was bound and determined to teach us how to live frugally. For her it was a proper treat to walk into town and buy a cup of tea and a custard square. For us it was just a long walk.

So it was important to Pa and Grandma that we were all able to grow our own food, or hunt for it.  That we could ‘make do’.  As far as I know Pa only hunted rabbits, he never hunted anything else. He was not interested in an entire deer, he did not hunt for glory or antlers. He just wanted dinner.  And My grandma cooked a mean rabbit stew. When I say mean  that is exactly how it was. It was mean as in awful. My grandmother never grew out of her frugal use of ingredients and her overuse of salt as the only flavouring to a meal.  I know it is fashionable to wax lyrical abut your grandmothers cooking but most of my grandmothers food turned me into a secretive hider of food.  I could apparently put food into my mouth appear to chew and swallow, then put my hand to my mouth for a discreet cough and down the lump of inedible meat went to join the little freight train of childrens hands that were passing food under the table and dumping it into her pot plants, under cushions, behind chairs or into our mothers serviette for collecting later and feeding to the chooks when Grandma was not looking.

My Great-Aunts were the cooks of wonderful meals. My Grandma was the beautiful one.  She really was a beautiful looking woman. She was dainty with the smoothest skin and wore her hair short and crimped and set in a twenties style all her long life. Her fingernails were always clean and well shaped, her hands slim and pale.  As a young woman she was a millener.  She had been raised for a modern life of music and books and sewing the tiniest of stitches. Her father was an editor of a newspaper. She and her sisters were educated and wore the latest fashions. They made their own clothes and they were beautiful.  She was quiet, demure and fiery when raised. As a young girl she fell in love with and married this extraordinarily good looking, gregarious, young, strong,  blue eyed charmer with the gift of the gab, and not a penny to his name. Our Pa.  He would try his hand at anything and did, he would strike up a conversation with anyone at all and yarn for hours and did.  And so her life took a wild, adventurous, sometimes dangerous  and sometimes desperate turn. For soon after her marriage the Depression came. A real Depression.

But we will not stay in the depression with Grandma today, (though I would like to return as there are some fantastic stories from that time) for today we are going to fast forward to her granddaughter. Her little tiny, all knees and elbows granddaughter who was the apple of her grandma’s eye.  The daughter of her daughter. Her first granddaughter. Me.

Pa and Grandma had another holiday home in a place way out in sheep country. Very different from Kumara and the cows.  Huge open hills and shallow rivers lined in huge old  willow trees. This place was all light. It had  a bach, big, very basic, no electricity and an out-door dunny and a collection of odd little buildings surrounding it.  We will return here another day as this place is not our ramble for today either.

Anyway Pa, who ruled with an iron rod or whatever stick was closest, chose this summer to teach me to shoot rabbits. Why I do not know. I was tiny and scrawny with this wild long curly hair that no-one but my grandma could get a brush through without a screaming fight.  I was Grandma’s child.  Grandma and I had one of those special bonds that sometimes blow up between a small  girl and her grandmother. Pa was a towering terror to me.  I was about ten or eleven years old the summer  I was handed my first rifle and told I was to go out rabbiting  with Pa. My stomach was roiling with nerves.

But as we walked up into the gently rolling scorched summer hills across farmland, my grandfather changed and softened and shape-shifted into a new grandfather. The crotchety short tempered old Grandad sitting on a tree stump grumbling in the yard sloughed off to reveal a long limbed, laughing, strong, old man. I was taught how to climb through a fence with a rifle and not shoot my foot off. I was taught how to hold a rifle -my hands manipulated into the correct positions, my trigger finger getting special instruction, the stock tucked into my bony shoulder and my legs knocked apart to get the proper stance. I was taught how to sight down the length of the barrel, lining up the two bits on top of the barrel that have to be dead on (no fancy stuff here). I was taught how to follow a running rabbit with the rifle, then run my eye and the barrel ahead of it at the same speed and shoot. I was taught never ever to let my head rise above the horizon.  I was taught to breathe down and shoot. I was taught to be still and quiet for a very long time. I was taught that most importantly I had to kill the animal.  I was shown where to  shoot the rabbit so that it was instantly dead with no suffering. To wound was the most terrible thing. This could never happen.  Pa was adamant about this.

I was  placed just below a hilltop with a couple of dogs (to retrieve the rabbits) and a big view. Pa beside me with his rifle as back up and  to my Pa’s absolute beaming delight I did not miss. I was evidently a natural. When I sighted down that barrel my nerves just disappeared. I hit everything I shot at.   I was a star. My dogs brought in rabbit after rabbit.  Day after day.  All clean shots.  Pa was so proud you would think he had given birth to me himself.  For those few weeks of high summer I basked in the glory of this most unexpected talent and we were the hunters.

My brothers were appalled (they hated rabbit stew), my sisters giggled. My mother and grandmother were secretly proud. A girl who could shoot would never go hungry! Pa uncurled his spine and started telling stories and  told anyone who came within shouting distance about the crack shot his eldest granddaughter had turned out to be.

And that summer my brothers and sisters and cousins and I pretended to eat a lot of rabbit stew!

The next summer that we came to this bach was terrible. I just could not make myself shoot the little rabbits any more than I could  eat them. My Pa was heartbroken and went quite silent when he realised.  He blamed puberty.  he blamed the feminist movement. Heaving great sighs, he returned  to his tree stump and mumbled about useless modern girls.  I felt wretched with misery. But there was nothing for it.  I had gone soft. Pa waited for my elder boy cousins to arrive with their own rifles,  and I was consigned back into the rabble of laughing kids carrying huge heavy rocks into the  deep river pools to see who could hold their breath the longest!

Grandma and Mum switched to cooking great legs of mutton that summer. My grandmother could stretch one roast of mutton into three or four meals. The roast was always good, then we waited through the next days of inevitable mutton  stews and soups which were frankly horrible, until Grandma made rissoles out of the last of the mutton on the last day. We loved the rissoles.

I am going to share that rissole recipe with you tomorrow as we are running out of time today.  And somewhere in my old recipe book is the original recipe written in there by my grandmother. I will find it for you.


Easy Tomato Chutney

My mother was the jam maker and my father  preserved hundreds of jars of fruit,every summer. We ate one huge jar of peaches or pears every day at breakfast –  if  the season had been good. So it was kind of rare for one of my parents to make a chutney or relish. My great Aunts were the real chutney makers.  It is a summer smell.  A summer taste, along side all those other summer tastes.  Chutney should be chunky with that whole sweet and sour thing going. It complements cold meats and is perfect with cheese. 

But on the rare occasions that my mother did make a chutney it lasted about a week. So good. Today I thought I would be clever and make this batch with the yellow tomatoes. There are so many.  I imagined I would get a creamy golden product.  Instead I got a brown kind of snotty product. But it tastes perfect.  The next batch I will make with the red tomatoes as it is really such a simple recipe. And the deep rich burgundy colour is a little more appetising!

This is an old early 70’s  recipe  and it really does reflect the period i think. All that sugar and cayenne!

My darling friend in NZ makes this every summer as well.   She just makes it in tiny batches, whenever she gets a few extra tomatoes out of the garden.   She is a very laid back cook. She just wanders about the kitchen as she drinks her coffee in the morning,  throwing bits and pieces into the pot.  Later in the day she pops it into any jars or containers she can find and seals it up.    All very matter of fact.  No fuss. We are sisters from different mothers. She is the sister who does not fuss.  I said to her years ago that I had lost my Mothers recipe and she pulled out hers and it was the same one from the same book.  An old  NZ Womens Weekly recipe book if I remember rightly.

Tomato Chutney

4lb ripe chopped tomatoes (about 16 big ones)

1lb peeled and chopped apples (about 4 or 5)

1lb onions, sliced and diced (about 4 or 5)

2 cups each  of sultanas and raisins

1/4 tsp cayenne (or more if you want it hotter)

1tsp each dry mustard and ground allspice

1tblsp salt

3  heaped cups brown sugar

2 1/2 cups cider vinegar

Place all ingredients in the big heavy bottomed pot and stir, cook for 1 1/2 hours to two hours until thick.

Ladle hot chutney into hot jars, seal.  These keep quite well in a dark cool cupboard but to be on the safe side you may choose to  store them in the fridge.

Last night I roasted two chicken breasts, basting them with the last of the pickling brine and a little oil. After turning the chicken twice I slathered it with a little mountain of  fresh warm chutney, grilled, after 10 minutes or so I topped that with heaps of grated parmesan and grilled some more.  So good. And very pretty.  Actually I almost took a picture but hunger got to me first. So here is a picture of Queenie’s bottom instead!


Confessions of a Basement Farmer with a Frisbee

Back to the Farm.

There is more to this little farm than meets the eye. And in the interests of honest and transparent discussion I feel I must tell you something. I have been hiding this from you. I have a confession to make.

In a very large iron bathtub, down there in the gloom of my basement I  keep .. um.. sigh.. Worms. (Gasp!).  I know.  It is a rather dark secret. I don’t tell many people because I am afraid they may look at me funny. Well, it is true that the moment I open my mouth and speak they look at me a bit funny (NZ accent) but no need to compound my problems.

Now there are a number of reasons why I have a Worm Farm. I drink a lot of coffee, it is all freshly ground every morning in Our Johns great grandmothers coffee grinder and it seems terrible to waste the coffee grounds after all the care we put into making the perfect cup and worms love those expensive coffee grounds.  Also I really hate junk mail which is  the only mail I receive, though I had to change my name  to  Miss T H E  Resident just to get this rubbish, so I find enormous satisfaction in shredding it all up and feeding that to the worms!

The real reason of course is worm tea. This stuff is magic fertiliser.  Really, really good fertiliser.  And it is free.  You can make it yourself.  My bathtub has a small bucket under the drain to collect any tea. Plus you can make liquid fertiliser from the worm castings when you want more than a cup full. We spray gallons of it onto my recovering  fields in the spring and of course the vegetable gardens.  (Our John tried to tell me that maybe I should be spraying it under a full moon, naked with a hat on in case I got cold and doing some kind of funny dance. I don’t know. Seemed a little far fetched to me.)

To make worm tea from the castings fill an old thin pillow case with worm castings, immerse and  suspend it  from a stick in a really big bucket of water with a cup of molasses added. Using a fish tank air pump bubble the air under the bag for 24 hours. Dilute with water into your sprayer and  use within the next 24 hours.  Dig the left over soil into your garden around your favourite tree!

Worms are easy, they stay in their pen and they don’t talk back. Feed your worms with equal amounts of green and brown and keep moist. Just like regular compost.  When I say green I mean, salads, peels, good weeds, anything really except dairy and meat.  When I say brown I mean, paper shreds, coffee grinds, tea leaves, straw, autumn leaves, etc. I always keep a layer of shredded paper on top – there are little bugs that are important to this mini  ecosystem  and the shredded paper seems to keep them IN.  Then a wet sheet of paper and your lid.

A wee worm farm is perfect for the small urban gardener.  You can turn your left overs into the most beautiful soil conditioner plus the liquid gold fertiliser. Even if you are in a condo, maybe you have a garage, or back entrance or somewhere out of your home, you can start a wee worm farm to fertilise your house plants and recycle your kitchen waste.  You can even use the worm casings to mix into your indoor potting mix.

Worm compost is made cold though (not heated like regular compost) so be aware that any seed you put in will grow when you bring it out.

And if you do start a worm farm.  Ssshh. I will keep your secret.

Today I am making Mama’s Tomato Chutney so stand by for the recipe. And I really must practice my frisbee technique.  TonTon has such a time!


Route 66 and Lasagne

A wee while ago we traveled down Route 66 from Chicago to California.  We did not get to eat any lasagna on our travels. Because no-one wants any lasagna other than Mama’s.  I am going to part with my old family lasagna recipe.  I have no photos of the dish itself as it is very hard to make it look pretty.  I like my lasagna saucy. So instead I will show you some of the service stations we found on the way across the country via as much of Route 66  as we could find.  Then you have something to look at as you are cooking.

We live a stone’s throw (well a long throw with a very good arm and just the right stone) from Route 66. In fact I am going to get my hair done in a little hairdressers ON Route 66 this morning. What? You thought I was a natural blonde. Oh that is so kind! But no, my blonde needs a little chemical encouragement. My Friend who is a natural blonde says it is blondes like me that give real blondes a bad name. Really!  How unkind!  I have to point out that she would be saying this in her NZ drawl, as she tipped her natural blonde head back, to tip a lively East Coast Sauvignon Blanc down her tipply throat.  I love that girl!

 lasagna!  Take your time. One of the secrets to this recipe is long cooking of the sauce. Then a lovely settling cook in the oven once constructed. So a rainy afternoon is perfect.  The rain is not madatory to the taste but it does help!

1. One large onion, and one small stick of celery sliced and diced and slowly, slowly cooked in butter until transparent. Then add two cloves of garlic finely sliced and toss for about 30 seconds,with a tiny bit more heat, until they are fragrant. 

2. Add one can of dark red kidney beans, washed. Quickly toss about in the onions and garlic. I love a good toss in a recipe don’t you? It is fun to bounce food around in the pan. Remember the three second rule if anything hits your perfectly clean floor!

3. Add two cans of good Italian tomatoes or your blended summer sauce. A couple of fistfuls of basil. And a chilli  to taste(without its seeds unless you are quite, quite crazy). This is not meant to be spicy.   Then cook stirring often for at least an hour and a half. Reducing until it gets thicker.

4. Add one medium sized chopped zucchini. Once the zucchini starts to soften begin to stir and lightly pound with your potato masher. Mash up some of the soft beans and zucchini into the sauce this helps the sauce thicken. Make sure your beans are soft before you play with the masher though.

5. When you are almost done add a jar of tomato conserva or a little tin of tomato paste. Not yet though. Your sauce may catch on the bottom of the pot once you do this so be careful. And half a teaspoon of sugar. I do not know why but the tiny bit sugar has to be in there. It is tradition.  Of course lots of pepper and salt to taste.

While your lovely sauce is simmering after Step 3. Make your pasta.  Zap your little internet wand, click on the word pasta and go over to Bartolini Kitchens and grab his recipe. It is very very simple and very very tasty. You know how I like simple and tasty.  But really I was at the kneading stage is seconds!!  Well, it felt like seconds but you know how time flies when you are having fun.  After your dough has rested, been rolled and cut into sheets and when your sauce is good and saucy. Time to construct your lasagna. 

Now be kind to yourself. If you do not have ricotta, use cottage cheese. If you do not have egg plant use thawed, drained frozen spinach.  If you hate both use mushrooms (pan fried in nothing until moisture evaporates.)  I think I am saying just use whatever veg you have on hand, that you love to eat, that will hold its form but become soft in the cooking.

To construct your lasagna. Spoon a generous layer of sauce into the base of your greased DEEP  dish.  Always start with sauce.  Then a sheet of lasagna pasta.  A layer of sauce, sheet of lasagna, layer of egg-plant (sliced, dried and lightly fried in olive oil, drained) or spinach fresh or frozen. Layer of sauce, sheet of lasagna, layer of ricotta or cottage cheese, layer of sauce, sheet of lasagna,  layer of eggplant, or spinach and then sauce and lasagna until finished. You get the picture. Start with sauce and end with sauce the rest you can make up. Leave enough space at the top so the mixture can bubble in the oven without making another mess! My oven is a fright if I forget.

Grate your fantastic homemade cheddar, or a nice sharp tasty one from the store, mix with a handful of breadcrumbs and pile on top. Make sure the cheese mixture covers your lasagna, think of it as a lid to keep in the moisture!

Pop into a medium oven, and cook for about 30 – 45 minutes or golden brown. Serve with a big herby green salad.

Note: Make more sauce than you think you need because you always need more!  Any leftover sauce goes into the freezer.

Now I had better go and try to drag a brush through my hair before I go to the hairdressers. You know how that is!!


Don’t look, revolting shots today.

My Mother had a spider, who sat down beside her and lived in her wash-house (in our house we called the laundry the wash-house). This spider was called Elizabeth. A  perfectly lovely name for a spider I always thought. Anyway Mum said that she did not do major housework in the wash-house because it might disturb Elizabeth. Mother hated flies and Elizabeth loved to spin with them so they worked together in the wash house very happily for a number of years. Yes, YEARS… mm, I hear you say. I did not realise that spiders had that long a life span.  Well they may not have but Mothers ability to make up stories to avoid housework lasted many years.  Of course I am doing my best to keep her memory alive by adopting spiders and avoiding housework at all costs too.   I do relocation housework, it is the best kind.  Remind me and I will explain the concept to you one day.

Below is a spider. This is not Elizabeth. This is called The Big Spider. Now you might think that The Big Spider is not a very original name.  But we also have a dog referred to as The Big Dog.  And you know how married people have pet names for things. Well when Our John comes in from the garden and says there is a Big Spider by the Wendy house I grab my camera and go to the woodshed expecting to find this guy. And so I did. (No this is not the revolting shot)

The Big Spider is a protected species in the gardens because this spider has a huge web, he will run 3 foot lines to trees on either side of his web because he is after a big catch.  So in fact it is hard to get a shot of him without disturbing him with all that webby stuff everywhere. He is waiting for the quiver.  He is very big, from foot to foot about as big as the palm of your hand.  (No this is not the revolting shot either)

Then I took this just to terrify myself a little further and when I looked back to shoot again he had disappeared.  GONE.  Gone Where!!!  I have to confess that I brushed my hands wildly all over my body as I leapt without looking, back out of the garden. I am not afraid of spiders but it is hard not to get some prime -evil shudder when you don’t know where the little buggers are hiding.  I hate it when they do that.  I left the spider then, as I could not bear the thought of it scuttling around like that.

And off I went to check my hives.

But look at this.  My poor hive.  No I did not have a bear! We don’t even have bears here! I did this taking the hive apart after I discovered  ruined comb from the DREADED wax moth. He had to be found and rooted out but he was already all over the place in there.Usually this moth and their clean up larvae live in a symbiotic relationship with a strong chemical free hive. The bees move them along quite smartly. And sometimes they will pop into the hive  and clean up an old unguarded area before being shuffled out by the bees.   But when a hive is weak,  and combined with a cold snap (last week) which means the bees leave their doorways unguarded (to cuddle up against the cold),  these hideous creatures get in and will take over and move further into the warm dark nest and the larvae burrow in and eat the brood. Bad bad wax moth.  Yes, this was one of the weaker hives. I am so mad I could just spit. This is the revolting shot!

I have taken off the two infested supers.  Ripped out the nasties. I will wrap them in black plastic and store them in the shed. The freezing temps in the winter will kill what moths are left and then I will have to take out each foundation and burn it.  A winter job.

Two interesting things. I was able to take this whole hive apart and brush the bees into their one clean super without smoke or protective gear, in a short skirt and singlet. My only extra gear was gloves. Not a peep. A depressed hive indeed. Plus there is another underlying cloying smell in amongst the honey scent. I think it comes from the damaged comb. So this can be an extra warning trigger for me next time. Now I know that this next image is out of focus but really it is the sentiment.  You will agree I am sure. Go little fly guy!!  What a mess. 

I have comb in the freezer with good honey in it. I shall put this into their clean box  as a pick me up.  Now they are in coventry. Isolated. But well fed.  But on the edge poor bees. 

What I should have done.

Listened to my instincts and made the hive smaller a few months ago. Initially I was so afraid of them swarming again that I gave them too much room, they were not able to guard it all and  with the weather cooling – the moths got in.

Or I should have combined this hive with another stronger one much earlier. Instead of trying to build up a hive that was too weak.

Now the really bad news is that Our John fell off the wagon yesterday, caved in, succumbed and went to the supermarket and bought BAD stuff! And brought it home in plastic bags –  PLASTIC BAGS! Little plastic containers of fake food in Plastic bags! I was appalled.  I won’t tell you what he bought, it will make you sick in your mouth! I said what is all this Unclean Fake Food in my kitchen, my voice rising to an hysterical tone and he says well there was nothing in the fridge for my lunch. I spluttered (as you do) and  stomped a bit.

Today I am making a pound cake. Maybe a bacon  and egg pie.  Hopefully that help pull him back from the brink. WELL!  I ask you .. mutter mutter.. it is hard only eating the food you cook yourself with the stuff you grow yourself, but living simply is not always that simple! AND  (please don’t tell anyone) the words LOW FAT  were stamped on the side of the container that he was eating out of with a spoon  – the horror of it.)

Told you not to look.


The 7 Links Challenge is well met

I have been writing in the world of Blog since July 4, 2011. So you can imagine my surprise when I was asked to join the illustrious cast of the 7 Links Challenge and have a go myself.  It is really hard to describe the feelings that are generated when you watch your readers popping in and out of the pages on your own blog. It is not like sending work away to be edited and printed. This is instant coffee. This is personal.  This is right now. This is sitting around my table.  This is just so much FUN with a little pressure thrown in just to keep me on my toes.

And  this 7 Links Challenge is so hard!  My body of work is so slim and most of it still cooling. It is like having to pull SEVEN really excellent shots out of ONE roll of film. However the challenge gives me a chance to look back and do some searching myself.

Thank you ChgoJohn from the  Bartolini Kitchens for issuing this challenge and consequently scaring me half to death.  His food is great so pop over there and have a look. I love him because he loves tomatoes!

Most Popular Post :

Even reading the word popular is exciting for me and  sexy on the farm has been the most popular so far. And a good one to start with as it is a wee roundup of all the characters on the wee farmy.  Now,  you have to do the voices.  With all the accents. I will be listening. No cheating.

Most Controversial Post:

Not controversial really, just funTen tips on surviving a heatwave   People were awfully hot this summer, suffering from the heat, the news was full of it. It was murderous outside and then I publish this flippant piece.  I did not mean to be flippant. OK you got me. I did.  But I have to say that some people would moan if their arses were on fire.  It is either too hot or too cold or too something. So I bite my thumb at them.  How did the weather become NEWS anyway.

Most helpful Post :

How about this one.  capturing a swarm of bees. Well, I think that should you ever wander out into your yard or onto your terrace or into your bathroom and discover a swarm of bees sat in your tree or your pot plant glaring solemnly back at you then you would find this a very helpful page. Don’t you think? Nice little fluffy bees. 

Most beautiful post:

For me piles of fresh vegetables at a farmers market in chicago are the most beautiful. If you are not into vegetables just scroll past them and look at the naughty naughty sheep at the end of that post! But I love this post. I do see the irony (these are not MY vegetables) but oh they are gorgeous. However just out of interest which post did you think was the most beautiful because I had a really hard time with this criteria.

Most surprisingly successful post :

This one I put together for a new bloggie friend who is going to get her first bees next year and asked me what flowers to plant hence flowers for bees  It was quick and easy and pretty. This was the first page I wrote that attracted readers who I did not know. Which really did surprise me.  And pleased me! Of course. And now look!

Most under-rated post :  

This was a little story  about some cows in church.  It only made a wee splash. But I just love it. I loved the sounds in it.

The Post I am Most Proud of :

I have agonised over this. I do not have a post that is perfect yet.  I am still working at getting it just right. Now, I know it should be a post, but it is actually a shot in a post, that I am most proud of. I took this out of the train window as I was being whisked up to the Big City a few weeks ago.  

 I love this shot because it roars along just like you and I do.  Here is the post that goes with this image  taken on the way to chicago   I love this city and have only just begun my exploration of it.

My last task is to pass forward this challenge. If any of you have done this before I am sorry, I did not know. Mainly I am nominating you because I want you to show us your work.  And I want everyone to see your work because you are some of my favs!

Bird Light Wind

The Dassler Effect

Mini State of Mind

Camerahols/Food, Photography and France

Chica Andaluza

Most blogs are new to me and these ones strike a chord. I do recommend a look.

Whew!  Now back to work. I had better get out and do some weeding.  There are huge weeds actually growing IN through my bedroom window.  I don’t think they are meant to be doing that.


Bridge on Route 66

Yesterday we were on Route 66 and we found an amazing working drawbridge.  I am now a confirmed drawbridge stalker. I am gobsmacked by the engineering and sheer weight of the components and how they all link into each other. Plus as the traffic roars across, the bridge jiggles something terrible which lends a certain amount of excitement.  (Not to mention wild camera shake.) This photo here is really only a context shot, so scroll past this one at speed.

The bridge goes over the Des Plaines River.

The colour of this bridge is really government.  Utilitarian.  Quite Intense.

Just plain, hardworking.  Look at all the grease on these um…. what do you call those things that guide the cogs?  Or are they the cogs? Someone will know and maybe drop the info into a comment box for us.

And here is the pier where our Riverboat and my darling little Tug (see yesterdays page) are moored.  Marooned at a mooring.   You can see the wall I walked along yesterday with my camera. If you follow that long straight wall right to the center of the shot you will see where the boats are hiding.  Pretty hidden, aye.

It is possible that this river feeds into another river that feeds into the Mississippi. Which means that my little Tug could take me right across America maybe even to New Orleans.  If only I could find a way to liberate Little Tug from its chains! ( What is that children’s book about the little Tug boat that ended up out at sea.  Nope that memory is too distant for me.)

I am going to find a way back in, you know. The locks on the gates were old but there must be someone who knows something –  so I can get the key and have a proper look and maybe get all the way out onto this pier.  I desperately want to know the story.  There is a story here.   I will keep you posted.

This morning we awoke to a gentle warm rain. How I love that sound. All the weeds will be easy to pull  under the grapes today so once the bread is rising and  I have  started the tomatoes  cooking  – off out I go!

I am very tempted to write  ‘Toot Toot’  now, but I won’t. Too weird.


The Riverboat and The Tug

Yes, yes I know that an abandoned river boat and a tug have nothing to do with sustainable little farms. However I could slide these shots in if we put them in under the banner of preservation or .. um.. recycling!. We had to drive up to Chicago today and on the way back we wandered a little on  Route 66 and it took us along the river. I saw a bridge I wanted to investigate and then another one (I will show you those shots tomorrow) and as I walked to the bridge I peered through an overgrown padlocked gate  and I saw this. Hhmm I thought to myself. As you do. 

I walked along the road a bit trying to get shots over the top of a 12 or 15 foot concrete wall  and Look ..

and then this.. 

Well. So with the help of Our John and a pallet and some other junk that he found and turned into a ladder, then the infamous leg up – I managed to climb over the No Tresspassing sign. And the You Have Been Warned sign, No Go Area sign,  the One Way Street sign and the We Shoot Stray Dogs sign, way up onto this enormous, very high but wide concrete wall. I have to add here that of course I was wearing a vintage 1940’s dress, but I had just kicked the silly heels off in the grass. Over this wall was a wonderland of junk.  I LOVE JUNK!  This place was heaving with piles of  stuff.  Abandoned. Like someone walked away to get their lunch 10 years ago and just never came back.

I could see no way across this strip of water so I had to be content with my concrete wall. I walked down further, trying to get a better shot of this amazing decaying riverboat but now of course I was TOO CLOSE!  But then I found this.  Well here was a treasure indeed. An old Tug. Such a beautiful little dinky toy of a boat, just big enough for me.

This completely darling little rust bucket. Isn’t it gorgeous. I would be queen of the tug boats!

Everything paled into insignificance when I saw that little boat. I want that little boat. I want this one.  “I found a little boat, it is just right. Can I take it home?” I called back to John waiting on dry land for me. Our John said No.  No? NO!  No boats.


So I stomped all the way back along my wall, climbed back down  in a pretend  huff refusing his helpful hand and ended up with the skirt of my dress flying up over my head, and landing with an Alice of Wonderland thump on the grass. That was OK.  Teensy bit unglamorous. At least I had let John hold the camera.  So we laughed at me for a bit which is always fun and off home to the animals and the gardens.

This afternoon we are sowing more lettuce seed, and spinach in big pots close to the house where they get a bit of shade in the afternoon. It is still hot. Summer is still here. But we need greens for the Fall.


ps. and yes I can see that hair on the sensor.  I didn’t think you would mind. Out with the huff and puff tomorrow.

Steak with Onion Pie and Ram gets a Hair Do

You will NOT believe what Hairy has done to his hair.

Evidently in the night he must have snuck out to see that French Fleece-Dresser down the road and has turned up this morning with a very cool DO.  Apparantly Mama is still not coming out to play so he is pulling in his beer gut and tarting himself up a bit.

I Have to say that these pictures do not do justice to this terribly interesting piece of work. There is a lot of green and pink in there as well. 

More importantly. I am going to make a New Zealand Steak Pie today. In NZ every gas station, every store, every cafe, every bakery has a pie oven filled with small steak pies. You grab your little brown paper bag, and whip  the pie of your choice from the pie oven  and then eat it straight OUT OF THE BAG.  This is very important. This is something we all learned at our mothers knee of course. How to eat a meat pie, while it is REALLY hot and dripping with dark heavy gravy, encased in the flakiest of flaky pastry in the world without making a mess!

It is a point of honour to be able to eat your hot hot pie whilst driving, cleaning a small child’s face, switching channels on the radio and honking loudly at those bad mannered drivers.  Crumbs in your lap take off points, but hot gravy on your chin and you are disqualified. It is an artform.  A lot of practice is needed.  Not too much or you will ‘put on the pies”  NZ for get fat.  In the US people say “mm I feel like pie” they say what kind , custard, pecan etc. In NZ we say ‘mm I feel like a pie’ and they say  ‘Buy me one too!’

There is steak and cheese, steak and onion, steak and mushroom, potato topped. Chicken and apricot, smoked fish, bacon and egg. And many many more.  DROOLING YET!? We will make a family sized steak and onion pie today that you can eat with a knife and fork.  Phew I hear you say.


Go for the All Butter Pie Crust.  So before we start, go and get half a pound of butter, chop it up into little blocks and then pop it into the freezer.

He thought you might like a closer look. Evidently there are lots  of grass seeds and weed seeds woven in somehow.! Must have taken ever such a long time.

Make the pastry, form two balls, wrap and return to the fridge. Keep chilled always.

You are going to love this.  Maybe we will put some cheese in too.   By the way this is my gift to all the NZers in the US and all the USers who love the NZers in the US and want to make them a special treat. And all the USers in the US who want to eat like a NZer in NZ.  Please don’t make me repeat that!


1. In a big heavy bottomed pot, slice two big onions thinly, butter in the pan,  and saute on extra low for about 15 minutes. When they are transparent, cover very thinly in balsamic vinegar and reduce until balsamic is gone but still shiny.  Remove onions to a dish to wait.

2. Using a reasonably good cut of beef.  I rummaged in the freezer and found a piece of sirloin. Slice into 1 inch cubes.  In small batches toss in butter until browned,  pouring off and saving all the juice each time.

3. Combine meat and onions, pepper and salt, Beef stock to cover, beef juice, soy sauce and worcester sauce, herbs (thyme for me),a touch of your favourite chilli sauce – all to taste and if you have any – a teaspoon of marmite. Cook slowly uncovered for at least an hour or until the meat is very tender but holding its shape.  In fact the longer you cook it the better. Add more beef stock if it starts to get dry.

4. Thicken with corn powder or corn starch mixed with some of the gravy.  I know this is cheating but it is TRADITION!   Not gluggy but not runny.  Sit to the side to cool slightly.

Taste and Pause.

Chop about 4 fat slices of cheese into cubes, put to the side.

Turn your oven on to high.

Nope. No reaction at all. Poor Hairy. You are going to have to pull out all the stops buddy.

Now moving swiftly.  Roll out two sheets of pastry the right size for your dish. Line the dish, add the meat, sprinkle with cheese cubes, cover with the next sheet of pastry.  Pinch the edges together quickly but carefully.  Decorate with left over bits of pastry.  Make three little slits in the top for air to escape. Into the hot oven. Every oven I have ever cooked in has needed different cooking times. I am using gas now and so it takes about 45 minutes at 400. When that pastry is high and puffy and golden browned, and you think the bottom is well cooked. (Sometimes you can slide a knife in there and lift to see.)  Bring your pie out and place onto some kind of trivet so the bottom will cool  as well.

However we never let it cool for long. We eat it too hot!

In my home  this is always served with mashed potatoes.  Try this new one. YUM.  Today we are also having marinated tomatoes.  These are terribly easy. Evidently Our Johns tomatoes are going to be fruiting until the end of time! So we still have tomatoes at every meal. And I am not sick of them yet!

Now I have done this all backwards today. I have written you the recipe BEFORE I make it. So please refer to my friends links above for gorgeous food pictures and I am off into the kitchen.

Now if I were to open a pie shop. My grandmother had a pie shop in the 40’s but that is another story. What (savoury) fillings would you like me to make for you?

Tomorrow I am going to talk about your autumn gardens. Hope you have all started! There is growing time left you know! Hopefully!


sex on the farmy

So let’s have a wander through the developing sustainable, self sufficient, old fashioned farm then. I will take you with me while I do my early morning chores.

I jabbed Daisy on Monday with her hormone injection, the first of three. (We are trying for a baby.. cannot make cheese without milk, cannot make milk without a baby) She gave me a filthy look and still has not forgiven me. This morning she wandered into the barn where I was mucking out and very purposefully stood on my foot.  I mean really stood on my foot, then she slowly leaned forward, pressing as much weight onto my foot as she could and said, ‘So you like that. Giving people pain like that?’  I am wacking her ineffectually on the neck . Bad cow, ow,  get off! bad cow!  Wacking her big long thick neck with my tiny hand, I am 118 pounds to her 1000 this is really not fair.  She grins evilly at me.  ( Cows can grin evilly  you know.) Then slowly she  drags her bony hoof off my broken foot.

Daisy has a personality disorder  and here comes her  other personality (tiny girlie voice)  “Oh, I am so sorry, darling. Was that your foot, sweetness? I just did not see that little foot way down there.  You want to lift up your widdle foot and I will kiss it better. Poor little pumpkin. I love pumpkins. Oh I feel terrible and here you are so kind to me and not Jabbing me in the Ass with a needle this morning.” She raises her foot again. (tone changes down to flat out mean) ‘Got any treats, Human!’ I climb over the gate.  An expedient exit.

As I limp through the lambs paddock  to the chook house I can hear Mama and Hairy having some kind of serious chat in their new paddock behind me.

Mama (mama sheep) and Hairy McLairy (daddy sheep) have been reunited, it is time.   Hairy immediately started to follow her around, stretching his head out, sniffing at her in an uncommonly rude manner. He holds his mouth in such a funny way that his teeth show. Really not a good look.   She trots along ahead of him just out of reach.

If Hairy were to speak I imagine that his voice would have a smooth, smoky dripping with sex, French accent.(please use a smooth, smoky, dripping with sex French accent when reading this bit. All sex and woo hoo hoo and  bonjour madame, wink wink,)

Hairy Mclairy :  mm hmm my darling, my little weed petal,  my smelly love cushion,  my fallen angel in the grass, you have come home to me.  I have been watching you from afar through the wire bars of my really big cage and you are  ‘an’some, you are beeuutiful,  so sexy,  all woman, you have come back to me ..

mama trots on – (please use east end, fag in your mouf, been around the  block a couple of times, grown up guttersnipe, street girl,  voice. )

Mama: Bugger off ya filfy blighter! Ya big ugly sod.  Gerroff ya git. Ya oik! (I love the word oik) I saw you with that fat  cow, you two’ve been shacked up all summer, love cushion, my arse.  Go on…. git.   Out of it.  You dirty old ram.  You want them fat.  I’ll give ya fat. Stop your snivveling.. ya oik,  (still love it) you’ve been drinkin’  aven’t ya.  Not sharing neiver!  Ya  haven’t lost any weight off your fat arse  though  ‘ave ya..

Their voices fade  as I limp across the little home meadow to the chook house.

Rooster in the Chook House: Everybody! Pay attention please! (clap of wings). Please, don’t make me raise my voice.   Wings up if you are listening!.  Miss c is coming. Look lively there. Michelle put the lid back on the feed bin,  quick into the eggboxes look like you actually lay an egg once in a while.  Quietly rolling that water bucket back, Nina,  I told you it is not a toy, you want her to hear you, think you are a thieving chicken?  Quick wake up, wake up, off your perches, Tessa start pecking.  Because I am the boss thats why (strut strut) Toot, scratch stuff, forget about your nails – scratch, look busy, get off my desk Lily, Miss c is on her way. One to an eggbox esmeralda, one at a time you foolish chicken. No back chat – I am The Rooster.  Hmm.  Short stuff go see where she is. Let me know when she is close, Miranda did you poo on top of the door again so it falls on her head, you know she hates that.  That is such a nasty low down chicken trick.  Lay that egg Marylou, lay that egg  – this is not a holiday farm! What?.  because it is your job, quit whining… get busy. Chop chop!

I had to seperate Mia (ewe lamb) from her mother so I have put The Murphy’s (lambs for the freezer are all called Murphys) in with Mia in this little meadow with good green fattening grass.

Mia: Miss c! Miss c.! (gallops over)  The Murphy’s are being mean. Tell them off. Tell them off! They banged my head. They did the head butting thing. I just wanted to play with them. You brought them in for a play date didn’t you?  They are not staying in my meadow forever  are they? No! They are so rough.  I hate them!  I am their sister. They won’t listen to me at all! Can I tell them you are going to eat them, can I? Can I? Can they go now, can I help you put them in the trailer can I, can I?  Oh Miss c. Have you got a sore foot?  Oh let me see, oh no poor you, was it that big fat cow? oo  sorry my little hoofys are a bit sharp, they’re just new, sorry, sorry. I can keep up with you, you know, because I am a big lambie.  I will help you feed the chicks. OO Miss c is that Marys Cat? Hi Marys Cat.  You walked all this way by your little self. On those little furry feet? Why don’t you have a real name Mary’s Cat, like me. I am Mia, can you say Mia? Ow WAAA. Miss c they did it again.  They snuck up on me and head bashed me again. She’ll chop you UP!!   WAA. Ya wanna come here and say that! Come on then. Lets see what ya got!. 

WAA. Look Look ! BONK Quick. miss c look by the rock. Help her. OW BASH. The Murphy is touching my kitty. THUD Help.  They are trying to steal my kitty! I hate you, you are ruining my life!

After feeding the chooks, who had no eggs from me I went to visit the calves. The steer (all steers are called Bobby) and my sweet little Hereford who, when she is grown, will be the mother of my organic, grass fed, beef herd (fingers crossed) – Queenie Wineti.  They both lift their heads, and silently search me from afar for any signs of food, then sigh with  bovine resignation, and return to the grass. Ok.

Well I guess everyone is present and accounted for.  Now for my morning coffee.  TonTon I do not want those guineas, quit herding them with me everywhere I go. Go home. All cats and dogs go home.  No Mia.   Go play nicely with your brothers. I have kitty. Breakfast time for me.