a camera for Christmas

A key rule in relationships (well, my key rule) is that selflessness helps with sanity.  Expecting gratitude or even reciprocal gifts is a quick route to disappointment.  Especially if your boyfriend is an alcoholic.  For D's birthday I got him a lovely lumix camera.  For my birthday he got me, well, nothing.  Soon after that he told me to fuck off back home if I wasn't prepared to sleep with him (I wasn't so I did and life has been calmer and happier since) thus confirming that I wasn't ever going to get that birthday present.  All it took was a whiff of a PhD stipend and I decided that I could just buy myself a present if I really wanted it.  After much searching on ebay I tracked down another lumix in a charity shop being sold cheap since no-one knew if it worked or not.  After a bit of shoogling with a generic battery charger I got it up and working so I've started running around the damp Scottish hillsides experimenting with all sorts of gloomy colour schemes.

Heriot Watt University (where I'm doing my research) are short of space for research students so I've been given a university laptop on condition that I don't turn up to the university every day.  Since it's an hour trip to Heriot Watt that suits me fine but it does mean that I miss out on the camaraderie of colleagues.  Thankfully my boatbuilding course payed dividends again with not one but two Christmas parties.  The second one was a full-blown Christmas dinner for all volunteers, staff and trainees with food donated by Morrisons served on the workbenches.  I was trying to use up food before heading north and so I made an orange and almond cake based on Claudia Roden's classic recipe but with the added yumminess of a chocolate truffle icing (adapted from Julia Child's recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cookery).  It was eaten swiftly, enjoyed by all and much praised.  It's also very, very easy with most of the cooking time taken up by waiting.


orange & almond cake

3 oranges
6 eggs
250g ground almonds
250g sugar
couple of drops of almond essence (if available since sweet almonds don't taste that almondy)
1 teaspoon baking powder
~
100g plain chocolate
50g unsalted butter
grated zest from one orange and some orange juice

* simmer the three oranges for one hour, cut open to remove pips then purree the soft oranges, peel, pulp and all
* heat oven to 160C, line a loose-base 22cm tin with baking paper
* mix the orange puree, eggs, almonds, sugar and baking powder
* bake for roughly 1 hour (it varies depending on how watery your orange puree is) until a skewer comes out clean
* remove from tin and cool upside down on a wire rack
* melt the chocolate, butter, orange zest and juice together ... only stir lightly in case it separates and once combined leave aside to cool until it's spreadable
* spread icing on cake and serve at room temperature

rain

I was up in Drumbuidhe two weeks ago with C, attempting to fix the boiler but hampered by the lack of a crucial photocell (actually it's a thermocouple rather than the 'photocell' referred to in the manual but it's still crucial).  My lovely, but temporary lodger called me to say that my kitchen ceiling had fallen in.  There's just too much damn rain.

 I took this as a sign from God that I should continue with my planned trip to Marseille and get serious about the kitchen refurbishment I've been dithering about for ... ooh, ages.

Marseille was lovely (sunny, warm, filled with French folk and lovely food) and I squeezed in a walk through the Calanques, a visit to the MuCEM archive, an Olympique Marseille match, a deeply French theatre experience (Genet's Splendide preceded by his 1950 film Un Chant d'Amour) and much wandering round the Panier et al.

I arrived back in Glasgow to discover that C had been contacted by fraudsters following a visit to a porn website.  After much badgering by them, they managed to withdraw £2,000 from his bank account.  His bank refunded it but it's left him shaken, nervous about his computer and even more confised about passwords.  I got his macbook sorted out (remote access software removed, password restored and admin access removed from C himself) and he's agreed that a new (more expensive and more hip) macbook may not be the panacea he was hoping for.

While my kitchen is still (mainly) intact I got back to my standard of fasting for 2 days a week which I'd put on hold whilst looking after C and then sampling yummy French food.  I'm keen to avoid my mum's trajectory of weight gain, immobility and early death so it's a return to no carbohydrates and lots of vegetables which needs a but of ingenuity to stay interesting.  Although it's not particularly low in calories, this recipe is low in carbohydrates and did use up the odds and sods in the fridge leftover from pre-Marseille ...

gorgonzola custard

2 eggs
2 cups milk
1 oz grated gorgonzola
salt & pepper (the cheese is very salty so easy on the seasoning)

mix well and bake in a water bath in a low oven for one hour

The gorgonzola doesn't fully mix with the custard but it does taste lovely and is particularly good with bitter greens

the nights are fair drawing in

Scotland's had its first cold snap so I'm typing this fully-clothed and with a dressing gown on top. My PhD topic is "The effect of building energy models on low-carbon refurbishment schemes" so I'm spending a fair bit of my time reading articles about the variation between buildings in operation.  It seems right and proper that I should at least attempt to live at the lower end of this variation.

I've settled down into a mix of research work, boat-building and care of father.  The research work is still in the reading stage whereby I spend an hour or so checking reference and trying to quell the rising panic at how much there is to check and I now travel everywhere with at least one article print-out on my person.  The boat-building is a project called 'Anchor & Sail' and is at the Galgael workshop in Govan.  It's a delight, even if I do seem to make mistakes with most things I touch.  I'm already starting to get excited about the possibility of building my own rowing boat for Drumbuidhe. Care of father has also settled down. He has once a week visits from cleaners and the local newsagents (they deliver the Saturday papers and fresh milk).  I call round every couple of days and while I was hoping to establish a more regular routine (brunch on Sundays and shopping on Thursdays for example) the current arrangement is working OK and there's room for changes in the future.

C's medical crisis last month was initially thought to be bleeding from varices (definitely caused by excess alcohol) but it turned out to be a gastric ulcer (possibly exacerbated by excessive alcohol).  As a result C's initial vow to give up alcohol has turned into an intention to cut down on alcohol.  C would be healthier if he cut the stuff out completely (he still has toilet problems which are quite restricting) and it would limit the possibility of him slipping back into his more-than-a-bottle-a-day habits.  I try not to get anxious about C's continued drinking (he's the one with the toilet problems after all) but it's depressing to find him back drinking when my sister visits.  I now see alcohol as evidence of distress rather than enjoyment.

I really dislike agreeing with Giles Coren (he was spectacularly ungracious about Benbecula during a visit there in 2010 which put the cherry on top of his self-centered restaurant reviews) but he did point out that spicy food is great if you're not drinking.  This, and the current cold snap, explains my current urge for some hot and interesting.  This is an updated version of the quick 'n' dirty Tom Yam Soup which saw me through two very chilly Japanese winters.  The variations are thanks to my flatmate Xinxin who always used to poach British pork which she felt had 'boar taint' and Nigel Slater's recipe for Thai meatballs.

Spicy Soup

500g pork mince
large handful coriander leaves chopped
six red chillies finely chopped
2 inch piece of ginger finely chopped
4 spring onions finely chopped
2 stalks lemon grass finely chopped

...... mix together and form into lots (about 40) meatballs; simmer the meatballs briefly in stock (the spare cooked meatballs can be kept for quick suppers or packed lunches through the week).

one chicken stock cube (or stock from simmering the meatballs)
one Tom Yam stock cube (or one teaspoon Tom Yam paste)
vegetables (chinese leaf, cabbage, carrot, mushroom ... whatever you fancy)
small amount of oil for frying

...... fry the meatballs and vegetables quickly over a high heat; remove and add to individual soup bowls; pour the stock into the frying pan and scrap up any residue left; add stock to bowls once it has boiled

The final result may be a bit greasy for western tastes but, for those of us wearing dressing gowns over our clothes, it's just what we need.

bashed about and a fair bit blooded

Crikey, that was a bit of a week.

Having registered for my PhD at Heriot Watt I took the scenic train & cycle route up to Drumbuidhe to continue the harvest (broccoli, rhubarb, cabbage, rowan) and to bring back my car. I headed back to Glasgow on the Monday to find that C had suffered internal bleeding on Saturday and had spent the weekend in a flat liberally covered in melena.

He was convinced that this was the end and, having refused the advice of our GP to go into hospital, had summoned my sister for a deathbed farewell. After cleaning him, his bed and the flat I realised quite how much blood he had lost, overruled his protests and called an ambulance. After a fair bit of unpleasantness (12 hours in A&E; a failed entroscopy; 2 blood transfusions and some spectacular sulking from my sister) the bleeding was identified and stopped and C was discharged last Saturday.

To complicate matters further, I then went back into the Southern General for a knee arthroscopy. I can now negotiate the fancy lifts in my sleep and yes, the views from the rooms are spectacular.

Subject to a bit of checking we're all back in our homes (my sister is back in Devon which also helps matters enormously). C has cut back on his drinking and, after trying Glasgow's homecare system, we've got an adhoc care system in place that shows promise.

Eating for the past week and a bit has been a mixed affair, including: vending machine chocolate (3am Southern General); tea and toast on a tray (from angelic nurses after I'd been awake for 36 hours); M&S ready meals (I got a bus rather than a taxi home after my knee operation and blew the savings on fancy food); Little Italy pizza (eaten through an ocean of tears after C's successful treatment and whilst watching the Great British Bake Off final); sliced bread donated by my corner shop (I think I looked particularly in need as I was buying toilet paper in a dwam) and macaroons (yes! macaroons!) from the (third) Heriot Watt PhD induction.

I'm still struggling to catch up with, well, everything at the minute but, the sun is shining and everyone is up and walking so the signs are good.

default

My dad is now very frail (shuffling along, easily tired, deaf and very forgetful) and now needs a fair bit of care which, since he's insisting on staying up at Drumbuidhe, means me. For the past two years I've recruited volunteers from the workaway site to keep C company. This year his memory and temper mean that he can't be left alone with them and even some of the tasks have proved tricky. C had a panic attack driving the Discovery across the track and G, an italian volunteer, had to run the two miles back to the house to get me. Scary stuff for all concerned. I'm trying hard to get C back to Glasgow (the land of shops! cleaners! doctors! friends!) when I'm not up at Drumbuidhe with limited success so far.

When I am up Drumbuidhe looking after C is pretty full on. This weekend I had a stack of stuff to do in the garden (fruit tree pruning, planting out cavolo nero, feeding, clearing a bed for cima di rapa, scything the meadow) as well as beds to change and bedrooms to clean for the arrival of friends next month. Oh and admin for the forthcoming village summer party. What I actually ended up doing was the standard cleaning and cooking (which is heavy enough) alongside walking my dad down to the boat & pontoon; moving said boat and said pontoon; replacing the kitchen sink drain (including hacking out the effing silicon some unknown helper had blocked the overflow with); cleaning up after the replacement; entertaining the Lewises and their new farm manager (I was out at the end of the point, replacing our mooring but C can't make tea).

It's at times like this that I fall back on my defaults. Much as it pains me, a proper Scottish woman, to admit: I am rubbish at scones. So, for proper emergency cooking, shortbread it is. There are all sorts of variations (rice flour, lemon peel, semolina) but he basic Glasgow Cookey Book option is:

4 units flour
2 units butter
1 unit sugar

Mix, flatten and bake 'til just browned. Helpful with all sorts of situations including unexpected guests and panic attacks.

another one bites the dust

Crikey it's cold up here.  And wet.  And windy.

Driving south through Glencoe on Tuesday (ie the second of June) there was enough snow on the slopes for skiing, albeit of the Scottish ice-and-heather variety.

There was a brief sunny spell on Saturday when I walked out to Eilean nan Eildean with friends.  Back at Drumbuidhe we sat outside drinking beer and polishing our sword (not a euphemism).  After decades spent as a grimy prop, it's hilt and scabbard are now gleaming and it'd displayed proudly above the door next to the timber marked 'H Gordon Esq' which was removed when we renovated the kitchen and shows Drumbuidhe's build date to be about 1850.  The fine weather prompted C to try and set his turbine running but there wasn't enough wind to keep it moving (there's a starter motor to set it running).  C switched the electrical brake on when he went to bed but a variety of flaws (the electrical brake doesn't work; the starter motor may have been set to come on; the turbine is hideously unstable when moving; the bare minimum of guys were holding it down and one of the guys was fixed into a loose rock ...) meant that the turbine collapsed overnight.

C wasn't as upset as he has been in the past about turbine failures (this was number 19 so there have been a lot of turbine failures in the past) and I think there may be a wee bit of relief that he can finally stop all this striving for something that is never going to work.

I was down in London a couple of weeks ago (watching Krol Roger at Covent Garden, very fancy pants it was too) and while C was alone at Drumbuidhe he managed to break the phone, his car and the internet connection as well as assaulting one of the first workaway volunteers.  He cannot be left alone up there any longer.  Of course having stated this I've just left him alone up there ... I'm down in Glasgow for more supplies (and to see 'The Matrix' in Glasgow Uni quad) while he's awaiting the delivery of the fabled Greenhouse ... but I'm not sure he took it in the first time I told him anyway.

It's been more losses on the west coast as well with the news on Wednesday morning that our ex MP Charles Kennedy had died.  I felt the echo of another summer's day as I waited for the ferry on Muck three years ago in the morning sun and heard that the small isles GP had been found dead.  She'd been charged with drink driving the week before and, as it was described to me a couple of days before, "everyone but herself knows she's an alcoholic".  The loss of Charles is another sadness.

There's also the tang of local (very local) politics with the news that the estate shepherd is leaving on Monday.  We don't yet know why or where he's going but long, long experience says that Derek Lewis (the estate owner) will find it difficult to replace him.  As the NHS is finding with the small isles, what looks at first glance like an idyllic job can have too many strings involved.  That's one of the problems with idylls.

drowning democratic sorrows in dandelions

Turns out that making decent tasting wines is quite easy (although it does take a fair while).  Last May I made some dandelion wine and, after 6 months of steady bubbling in the south wood store, a very decent drink was produced.  It was rather like a vermouth and, with lemon juice and a dash of gin produced a very potent and sophisticated cocktail.  This autumn I had a go at beetroot and giner which was a fabulous colour and tasted not bad but showed up the first significant problem: all four of the bottles left in the wine rack popped their corks showering sticky flourescent pink stuff over C's Chardonnay stash.

This year I've got a bit more professional and I invested in 24 beer bottles for the nettle beer (which shattered a couple of ikea bottles last year).  I'm also leaving the winter's parsnip wine until it absolutely, completely, definitely stops bubbling.

I'll wait 'til this year's dandelion wine is ready to drink to publish the recipe (limited ingredients mean that I've taken some liberties and I won't know if they've worked for 6 months).  However the nettle beer is damn quick (4 days to bottling) and damn fine.  I've had the first pint served over ice and it's as good as last year's but without the smashed bottles.  The following recipe is adapted from Roger Phillips Wild Food.

nettle beer

* full carrier bag of nettles
* 1.5kg sugar
* 50g cream of tartar
* sachet of ale or wine yeast

Boil the nettles for 15 minutes with up to 12 litres of water.  Strain the liquid into a fermentation bucket, add the sugar and cream of tartar and sufficient boiled water to make the quantity up to 2 gallons.  Wait until the mixture is tepid then scatter on the yeast, cover and leave for 4 days.  Siphon off into beer bottles.  It does get very fizzy so take care when opening but it really is delicious served with ice as the summer sun goes down.

Probably just as well that I've got a stack of decent cheap booze given the election results in Scotland which, for a card-carrying member of the labour party, were really rubbish.  Hey ho.

The good bit about the election was that C and I combined the voting with a lunch visit to the White House in Lochaline (mallard-cross with black mushrooms, wild garlic and walnuts followed by carrot cake with cream cheese and orange ice-cream ... really, really good).  This inspired me to grasp the bracken and finally have a go at eating the stuff (or fiddleheads as they're sometimes known).  My korean cookbook is down in Glasgow so I went for the simplest option I could find - bearing in mind that bracken is properly poisonous with variable amounts of carcinogenic ptaquiloside.

bracken
* pick bracken fronds before they've uncurled
* add to boiling water and boil for 15 minutes
* rinse in cold water
* dot with butter and grill 'til just browned

 Whilst I lived through the experience I failed to experience the delicious asparagus-like taste that is promised and I doubt I'll try it again,

In other news I've been offered a scholarship for a PhD studentship at Heriot Watt University.  It's four years looking in depth at the implications of current building performance models for low-carbon refurbishment schemes.  I'm very excited about it.  Here's hoping it'll allow me to keep the city/croft combination going.

snow, sunshine, springtime

We've had it all here in the past month: equinox! solar eclipse! midnight blizzards in Glencoe! and finally the sun has come out and Glasgow is frolicking in t-shirts.  I'm spending Easter in the big city having left Drumbuidhe to my sister and her family.  I had to drive down through the Glencoe blizzard late on Tuesday last week having fitted in a rather odd village hall AGM (there was a power cut so we all sat huddled in woolly jumpers, examining the financial statement by torchlight) and then a physio session in Glasgow.  I'm still suffering from the fall I had last summer and I'm aiming to strengthen my knee prior to examination and possible surgery for a torn cartilidge.

I'm also indulging in all the others joys of big city life including an excellent production of David Hare's The Absence of War at the Citizens.  I'm not sure what it says about me that I'm moved to tears by political drama.  I've also been catching up on my accidental vocation for looking after and/or listening to elderly chaps.  Just before Christmas I went through to Fife to try and track down my friend N whom I hadn't heard from in quite a while.  Turned out he'd had a slow breakdown and was stuck in his bed being very poorly.  The police broke his door down (nowhere near as dramatic as it sounds) and he was well enough to come back to Glasgow with me for Christmas and New Year.  Most of N's immediate crises have been avoided: he's solvent; he's stopped wheezing; the electricity isn't going to be cut off and his garden has been cleared to allow the post to be delivered but there's a way to go before he gets a lifestyle that will work long term.  However one of the great bits about having him up and functioning is that he was able to get a stack of tickets for the Edinburgh Festival when the box office opened last week.  The broadband at Drumbuidhe isn't up to high-level cultural organisation.  Now I have to get hold of N to check what is owed to whom and ensure he hasn't disappeared back to bed.

One of my other elderly gents is P who was a friend of my mother and is a retired lawyer with increasing mobility problems.  We went together to The Absence of War and over a picnic tea afterwards we talked about his possible move into sheltered accommodation.  He mentioned that a probable cause of his balance problems was his alcoholism.  When I looked surprised at this (P is currently teetotal) he told me that he'd been very miserable during the 1980s and had been drinking heavily at the time.  Although this happened thirty years ago, the neurological damage is permanent and is now manifesting itself in his problems with walking and balance.  We talked 'til late about, oh crikey, the alcoholics we knew: it was a key factor in my mother's death from breast cancer; destroyed any possibility of a relationship with D and is slowly rotting my father's mind up on the west coast.  I'm not sure how useful the talking was for P but I drove home (through a standard drink-sodden Saturday night in Glasgow) feeling lighter and calmer.