Wednesday 28 June 2017

Shanks, sheets, snow and fur


The front lawn is a crisp white with winter well and truly here.  You feel sorry for the plants as the harsh frost must slap them in the face pretty hard.
Last weekend we came back from an overnight trip to Strahan and came via Lapland (pictured).  Or so it seemed. It was thick white snow on pine trees that just says Christmas, or not!  No carols to be had we took our photos in the sludge and took off, slowly.  The days are bright but the sun just can't muster enough warmth to go around.  It's a short day and the warmth only stays around for a short time as our family of chickens make the most of it.  The wood fire goes on, and on and it's a bit like the eternal flame as each cold night rolls into a freezing morning.  The slow cooker kicks into slow gear for a good eight hours with some browned off shanks that look more like they came from something prehistoric rather than something lamb like.  But come dinner time we'll be grateful for the dark red, Chianti soaked meat that could be 'cut with sigh' to quote Matthew Evans. Now we're past the winter solstice we can look to the warmer weather.  Just not any time today.  Our outdoor cat Minnie launches out of her bed in the shed for meals only and indoor Max has his behind permanently embedded, in ours.  We're at the point now where all of our sheets now appear to be flannelet, with a fur coating on them that doesn't come off in the wash.  The hardest part is going out to feed the chickens.  Their water bowl has a layer of ice on it and if you get it on your hands it stings, particular for someone like me with hands like raw filo pastry.  And it's really just the beginning.

Wednesday 21 June 2017

Midsommer Murders have nothing on this place

While Max considers the dinner arrangements, I'm out there committing random acts of violence on his behalf.  Keeping chickens also means keeping rats,  I've discovered.  They'd taken up residence under the chook pen and were only discovered by our yard patrolling Cocker Spaniel inspector Bennie.  Chief farmer and husband decides to put rat bait under the hen house far out of reach from anyone other than a rat.  The plan appeared to work, until today.  One delirious and not at all well looking rodent ventured out to escape the scene of its not such a good idea last meal.  And of course Bennie found it.  Bennie doesn't quite know what to do with it and as chief mouser was still tucked up in her flannelet high vis jacket laden bed, she offered no instructions.  Ordinarily Minnie would hunt out the mice and direct them into the courtyard where she can share the game with Bennie.  They go halves.  Not as in, here I'll play with it and then you can play next, it's more, here's your half.  That game usually ends pretty abruptly.  So no Minnie to instruct, Bennie keeps barking at the toxic rodent and I'm worried he's going to pick it up and bite into it.  So I quickly pick up a nearby shovel.  And I'm not a shovel wielding kind of person either.  I hate violence.  I can't watch anything more violent on TV than really old James Bond films where baddies just fall to the wayside.  So with a heavy blow I land the rat enough spade to cease its pain.  And then sincerely apologise to it.  But it just looked at me with tail and legs still twitching.  I apologise again, and repeat the blow.  This time a few less twitches but not the intended outcome.  Jeez, this is hard for me you know!!  I'm not sure if I'm more horrified at my pummelling an unfortunate creature to death or the fact that I'm incapable of even doing that.  Struggling to keep Bennie as a spectator, when he's back is turned I swiftly shovel up the almost dead rat and fling it over the fence into the bushes to die a less eventful death.  And I stop apologising. I can't be sorry for something that I didn't completely. do.  Two cats you say!!!

Friday 9 June 2017

Apples keep coming

Apple season rolls on.  Ruth at the monthly Bream Creek Farmers Market has some of the best pink lady apples around.  At the Farm Gate market the couple from down south might still have some Geeveston Fanny's but you can only have what they've picked the night before.  We've been loading our crisper with freshly picked apples now from about March.  Including our own, home grown provided we got there before the grubs.  Given our large chicken population in the garden, I was surprised that the local moths even had the nerve quite frankly.  Knowing that apples lose their love in the fridge, we're doing apples every way and every day including sliced matchsticks on yoghurt for breakfast topped with home made toasted honey and oats, coconut and hazelnuts, we're eating apple teacake courtesy of the Australian Women's Weekly Cookbook, even without the 1970's burnt orange and lime tiled kitchen to match.  An apple and blueberry crumble will make a showing again for dessert tomorrow with Ruth's tombolla sized blueberries she's still picking off the bush from down Huon way.  Being a colder climate down in the Huon Valley I suspect there's no need to cold store fruit there, you just leave it on the trees and eventually it will freeze.  It was a tiny two degrees as I headed off to an appointment yesterday morning.  I put on my hand knitted scarf that is half scarf half blanket and headed into town.  Hobartians have heaters of every sort for every occasion.  The only weird thing is that they don't call it air conditioning, they call it a heat pump.  Known to me as a split system heating cooling air conditioning unit, they say they only ever use it for heat, so that's why.  A tradesman once entered my Hobart office and said he'd come to fix the heat pump.  I said good luck finding it, looking around for some kind of plumbing apparatus.  He must have thought I was completely clueless given I was sitting under the wall mounted heater.  Lost in translation, not to worry.  Now back to those apple recipes.