legacy

Hey hey hey! summer is here and it looks as if today (at least) will have some decent sunshine. Hopefully coupled with a decent breeze into the evening since summer also brings the curse of the twilight midge. It's midsummer's day today and I'm sitting at the desk in the newly-cleaned bothy hoping to get a decent chunk of thesis written before heading off to Drimnin for a pre-wedding chilli evening. I am temporarily without transport since the fat-wheel electric tricycle which was last year's grand birthday present to myself has suffered its second major breakdown in just 20 miles. This means I'll be walking out and, if I feel vigorous enough after the chilli, cycling back on one of my other bicycles, the canondale bad boy. For the past two weeks I've been indulging in all sorts of displacement activity to avoid the thesis writing some of this has been useful (clearing out the bothy) and some of it less so (baking extravagant quantities of cakes). So I'll be carrying out a quantity of cakes and flowers as my contribution to the wedding when I walk out this afternoon.

The bothy is a key bit of my parents legacy in Drumbuidhe. For years it was a storage shed and occasional rough-sleeping room whose corrugated metal roof would periodically blow off. About thirty years ago it was roofed and lined as an office for my dad. This was one of my mother's many schemes to live with my father but not have to actually, you know, live with him. After my mum's death we moved a single bed in here and, as my dad's turbine obsession moved into mania, it filled up with a quantity of stuff that took three wheelbarrows to remove. My dad also slept here for a year before he died which has meant a lingering hospital smell. My dad suffered from incontinence which he kept trying to disguise so not only is there a fair bit of urine seeped into the floorboards but his disposal of chamber pots out the door and window has led to the window-closing mechanism seizing shut.

It took a whole heap of displacement activity, the dismantling of the window frame and the judicious use of  small crowbar to get the window open but it means I now have a through draught to go with the fine views to distract me as I fret about not working.

At the end of May - while I was being all academic at an energy-policy conference in France - BB came up here with a group of friends to reassemble the wind turbine but this time as memorial art instead of electricity generation. Weather, time and logistics meant that they only got the pole erected. Their grand plans for bacchanalian barbeques came to naught as well so I was left with a whole heap of meat filling up my freezer. I had a paying guest arriving on Sunday which meant I had to clear out the fank freezer and - with no space left - I made a random stew that has sustained me for the past three days. The random stew doesn't really merit a recipe but suffice to say that it includes:

* one pack of cumberland sausages
* shoulder of mutton
* chilli-marinated chicken
* two tins of chopped tomatoes
* split green peas

The meat and peas were cooked beforehand and the whole lot is slow-cooked each morning for my lunch. Summer should be the time of salads and new potatoes but both of these are late this year after the loss of the lean-to greenhouse in the March storms. My other displacement activity has been flower-petal syrups with a very pretty rose and poppy.  wee bit of citric acid added to the rose syrup has enhanced the pink colour but the poppy remains an ominous dark purple. I was using  French recipe for vin de couliquot which is noted as having pharmacological benefits but I'm now displayingn my puritan streak and fretting that a drop of it will turn me into a dead-eyed junkie.

Sunshine on Snow

The weather is behaving as winter weather should with overnight snow and bright, sharp sunshine for my journey south.
Drumbuidhe, being right next to the shore, gets very little snow but the trip out can be a bit interesting once you get to higher ground and it's always wise to carry a shovel. The trip out is made more interesting because the track is going through a really, really bad patch.

A distillery has started up at the big house and the leftover mash is being fed to the cattle. This is excellent news for the cattle who are in fine fettle with glossy coats and good health. However it's rubbish news for the track. The tractor and trailer used to take the mash out to the cattle has a combined weight of 7 tonnes. This is too much for the track and sections of it keep collapsing. It happened last winter and it's happening again with two bad bits, just above Auliston and just before Port a'bhata. Once a patch of the track gets soft, that patch gets worse and worse.

Last year the track was patched in the spring and I assume that's going to happen this year as well. Obviously it doesn't fix the underlying problem which is that the track is not robust enough for the current agricultural use. If it's patched again (rather than the whole track being upgraded or lighter vehicles beinng used) then the same thing will happen next winter, albeit in different places.

The issue of the track is complicated because I don't own it and there is no formal agreement in place for its upkeep. The current owners of the estate would like me to move out and buy Drumbuidhe so the more difficulty I have getting to and from Drumbuidhe, the better for them. The current owners are also short of money so they would like me to contribute to the cost of track maintenance. Since the track problems are caused by their use, this is unlikely to happen. The current owner also has unsupported confidence in his ability to devise schemes for track maintenance which I am definitely not going to support. His cunning plan to dig out the hillside at Sornagan a couple of years back is causing regular problems as landslips keep blocking the drainage channels.

The rubbish track means that, if possible, I walk out. On Sunday there was a skiff outing which I walked out for and, for all the track problems, it's still a glorious route. Here's to a fine new year!

Good Things

After a brief cold snap, winter is coming slowly this October. I harvested the first of the parsnips last week and so lunch today was curried parsnip soup. This is a classic soup which can absorb any number of variations (old apples and creme fraiche in my case today) and is a fond reminder of family for me. It's not that it was cooked often in our house but it is the original invention of Jane Grigson and comes from her classic cookbook Good Things. This book was always around in both Glasgow and Drumbuidhe and my mum gave me my own copy when I left home at 18 - a rite of passage. My latest move from Glasgow to Edinburgh has been rather chaotic and my copy of Good Things has gone missing, hopefully temporarily since my wee flat doesn't really feel like a home without it.

Curried Parsnip Soup

3 parsnips
1 onion
2 small apples
butter
1 teaspoon medium curry powder
1 teaspoon vegetable stock powder
1 pint water
creme fraiche

* peel and core the apples and roughly chop the parsnips and onions
* fry the vegetables with the curry powder over a medium heat for a couple of minutes
* add the water and vegetable stock, bring to the boil and simmer slowly for at least half an hour
* add the creme fraiche, blend the soup and season to taste

The nostalgic haze on my photographs is due to a broken lens cover on my phone which has allowed dirt to get in. This does obscure the writing on my notepad which refers to the checking and rechecking of building performance statistics. What shines through despite the haze is the bright mustard wall colour which was selected to show off my kimonos and calligraphy.

The soup is finished so it's back to statistics for the time being.

peak whimsy

There is much to be said for tidying up. After spending a good three months with my sitting-room-office in Edinburgh strewn with various research notes awaiting filing; an upside-down table awaiting mending; various bits of clothing awaiting mending and a fancy Danish shelving system awaiting assembly ... I finally snapped. Turns out it took just an afternoon and a morning to assemble the shelves (I ran out of the crucial rawlplug and had to wait for the shops opening the next morning). Once assembled they do look very sleek and Scandinavian which may or may not fit in with the Oriental maximalism on the other two walls. It was then the satisfying work of mere minutes to get my research notes placed up on the shelves; the table fixed (since I had my tools to hand) and my clothing tidied away into the sewing box. I even rediscovered my poor drought-stricken swiss cheese plant.

There was then a long but gentle drive to Drumbuidhe via Inverness (bumped into my old colleague, Mike, waiting for a haircut in the mega Tesco) giving myself a dinner at the Whitehouse on the way so that I arrived well fed, watered and socialised at 10pm as the summer sun was setting behind Ben Hiant.

The fine sailboat Bessie Ellen was moored in the Loch as I arrived and, with a fine spring tide in the early morning, I was half considering taking my new inflatable canoe out to say hello. It turns out that was unnecessary as they came visiting to me. One of the sailors was John, a charming surveyor who worked alongside me on boatbuilding at Galgael. It was lovely seeing him again. Although the crew caught me in my Sunday-morning-dressing-gown mode, leaving the cottage tidy when I head south meant that I could rustle up tea and biscuits for the Bessie Ellen hordes with ease.

Sunday afternoon was then spent making rose petal syrup. This may be a sign that I'm reaching peak whimsy but it did allow for a very decent rose martini that evening.

rose syrup

* 120g scented rose petals
* 3 stalks rhubarb
* 3 cups granulated sugar
* 1.5 cups water
* 2 tsp citric acid

Add one cup of sugar to the rose petals and rhubarb, mix thoroughly by hand (crushing the rose petals) and leave in a covered bowl for at least 2 hours

Bring the remaining 2 cups of sugar and water to boil, add the rose petal mixture and citric acid and boil for 5 minutes

Strain the syrup into sterilised bottles




It turns out that rhubarb and rose petals contain quite a bit of pectin and I boiled the syrup for a wee bit too long so I now have a very thick syrup but it still tastes very fine.

A Party

Although we had a very fine party at Oran Mor in Glasgow following my dad's death in January 2016, the folk who'd known him in Morvern were still missing a chance to share the many weird and wonderful tales of his japes. I'd thought about a party in summer 2016 but I was A) in France and B) too damn tired to organise it ... I did get as far as designing the invites

The following March was also a possible date since it was his birthday but getting folk out to Drumbuidhe in daylight hours was tricky and some key folk (Dad's brother and our good friend H) who could have helped with transporting people, were both a bit poorly. Now that we're over two years since dad died it was starting to look as if the Morvern Remembering might never happen - so I resolved to kill two birds with one party and combine my birthday and a memorial for dad with one jolly get-together at Drimnin Hall.

I ordered a stack of wine from the Wine Society, food from the Whitehouse and some two-metre photocopied banners from the copyshop next to my Edinburgh flat. I think the key ingredient for the party was the sparkling wine (folk were strangely resistant to the remains of dad's dirt-cheap red wine collection) but I'm sure the food and banners helped.

I put together a slideshow of images of dad and me: principally from Morvern but with bits from Glasgow, North Carolina, Japan and Oman. As I said to folk in my introduction, I've moved house 29 times in my 51 years but the one constant has been Morvern - I can truly say it's my home.

The party was judged a fine success thanks to:

* Sumarroca Cava
* Treacle Scones
* The Drowning of the Landrover


I have never had any damn success with making scones (so many failures that I've begun to doubt my womanhood) so I include the Glasgow Cookery Books recipe for reference only. Taken from the 1960s edition:

Treacle Scones

* 1lb flour
* 2oz lard or butter
* 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
* 1 tsp ground cinammon
* 1 tsp mixed spice
* salt
* 1 tblsp treacle
* buttermilk to mix (add 1/2 tsp cream of tartar if using sweet milk)

- mix dry ingredients and treacle
- add buttermilk 'til you have a stiff dough
- divide into four, roll out and cut into four
- brush with a beaten egg and bake in a hot oven for 12 to 15 minutes

The Drowning of the Landrover featured in both the banners and the slideshow and is now firmly entrenched in Morvern's oral history: One summer's day  in 1978 we were due to head out for a picnic at Ben Hiant (with the Sandground family I think). We were taking all the food for the picnic and, since it was low tide, we had to carry it all out to the boat at the end of the point. My dad decided it would be easier to drive the landrover out over the beach. My mum said this would be a bad idea since there was a clay deposit on the beach just under the sand. My dad decided to drive out nonetheless; the landrover got stuck; much panic and shouting ensued; the tide came in over the landrover; JohnNeil came with a tractor the next day to haul the drowned vehicle out; we spent the rest of the summer taking it to bits and cleaning every piece. Despite gallons of Jizer lavished on it, the landrover was never the same again.

Mud!

My earliest memory is of getting stuck on the track to Drumbuidhe. One fine, hot summer when I was just over a year old and my mum was heavily pregnant with my sister, we came up tyo Drumbuidhe with Kenny, a friend of my dad's. The landrover got stuck, as it was wont to do, on a flat portion of track near where we used to cut peat. Kenny had to spend the first few days digging the landrover out, spurred on by my mother's daily trips to see how he was getting on ... the sight of my heavily-pregnant mum wearing a swimsuit and pushing me in a pram drove him to frantic digging out efforts. Given my age at the time I suspect this is a manufactured memory but it's backed up by the regular, annual incidents of the landrover getting stuck. The portion next to the peat digging used to be the worst spot, partly because it was high up, above Drumbuidhe bridge, and getting the required volume of rocks to fill in the limitless bog was difficult. About 35 years ago almost the whole track (from Drimnin to Drumbuidhe Bridge) was refurbished and flattened. For 10 years after that it was possible to drive a standard car to Drumbuidhe and I can remember barrelling along on my bicycle back in 1985. Although the portion of track from Drumbuidhe bridge to Drumbuidhe wasn't improved, it wasn't either soft or heavily used so it's held up well with minimal maintenance such as gabions where it hits the beach. The track from Drumbuidhe to Dorlin is another matter and the portion where it dips down to sea level (and a burn crosses the track) has always been treacherous. It caught out our friendly neighbourhood potter who came on an outing to impress his girlfriend, got stuck and had to withstand being called every shade of stupid by my dad. He's still with his girlfriend and still making lovely pots but he's moved down south ... possibly to avoid the combination of mud and shouty old men.

The 35-year-old flattening of the track is now wearing off and every winter a new portion disintegrates. Inside the deer fence there's very little useage of the track so we're just prone to acts of god (cloudbursts and storm surges). Up on the high ground it's a combination of tractor and stock that churn up the damp ground in winter. Cattle are being kept up on the high ground and the tractor that takes their feed out weighs 5 tonnes, the fee trailer is another 2 tonnes so any soft patches in the track can disintegrate quickly. It tends to be a different patch each year but this winter is particularly bad. There are patches by Crow Gully and Auliston which are close to impassable. I got stuck on the way out to deliver soup & sandwiches for the Morvern Community Woodlands fundraising lunch. My contribution was not essential but the digging and cursing required to get me out did make it feel a fair bit more exciting.

I was able to introduce an innovation to the monthly 'Lets Do Lunch' session which was toasted cheese. Truly the food of the gods. Turns out that everyone loves a bit of toasted cheese but not everyone has the chutzpah to realise that this is what lunchtime needed. It may seem a bit unecessary but here's the method that I use for toasted cheese:

wet winter arrives

Everything is squelching underfoot and the water turbine is blocking every 30 minutes with twigs and leaves. Winter has arrived. In the last squeak of fine weather (and it was very fine) I got fourteen folk out along the track to help shift the really big rubbish that Campbell had left behind out. Of course there's still a mountain of small rubbish (cables! pipes! copper fittings! timers! radios!) to be sorted and removed but I can at least move them myself. The Colchester Student lathe was another matter entirely.

 The lathe is one of the more valuable bits of stuff but I had to get everything big out at once, valuable or not, because I at least have some chance of getting it all shifted. The fourteen folk were magnificent. Organised and motivated by the outstanding Luke and Cathy who came up from their farm in the borders to huff and puff with rusty bits of metal. I remain in awe.

Alas my awe for auctioneers remains limited. Having dragged a whole heap o' stuff over the six miles of track it remains where we left it. On the grass outside Drimnin Distillery. Looking out of place and waiting forlornly for the auctioneers (or anyone!) to come and pick it up.

So I'm celebrating what can be celebrated which is that we managed to shift:

* a yanmar tractor (with ridiculously complicated back actor)
* a colchester student lathe
* two 4m fibreglass dinghies
* a 3m aluminium dinghy
* a log splitter for the yanmar
* a 4m trailer (with bust jockey wheel)
* a hydraulic lift
* midge-eater, rotavator, bench saw et al

over six rough miles. There were a few casualties (a couple of flat tyres and the clutch on the series 1 landrover has gone - drat!) and some folk were definitely shocked at the state of the track but everyone made it out in one piece. If anyone happens to be in the neighbourhood with a massive lorry and a desire to shift stuff, do let me know.

The idea was that folk would be rewarded with copious food for their hard work so I had stacks of bread, cheese and casseroles on hand. I also had lots of pots of chocolate mousse having finally tracked down the recipe that my mum used. It's Julia Child's chocolate mousse from 'Mastering the Art of French Cookery' and I've still got some tinkering to do with the details. My mum (and Julia Child) used the egg yolk raw but I find it's got an odd metallic taste so I'm experimenting (see *) with cooking it with the coffee and sugar to produce a custard. The main problem I've got at the minute is the chocolate and butter mixture solidifying in grains rather than smooth chocolateyness. So here's the work in progress.

6 oz dark chocolate (the darker the better)
6 oz unsalted butter
1/4 cup strong coffee (using instant is the easiest)
4 eggs (seperated)
2/3 cup sugar
3 tablespoons whisky
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Mel the chocolate and butter together and leave to cool a bit*
Whisk the coffee, whisky, sugar, vanilla and egg yolks together. Heat gently in a double boiler til the mixture thickens then leave to cool a bit*
Whisk the egg whites 'til they form soft peaks
Fold* the chocolate, custard and egg whites together and refrigerate for a couple of hours or (ideally) overnight.

Serve with whipped cream if you're feeling fancy and just pouring cream if you're feeling impatient.

High Summer Heat

It's the end of July, the weather is sultry, walking through the bracken feels like hacking through forest untouched by human hands, the garden is barely under control and I'm sitting indoors fretting about my academic work and cooking a whole heap o' stuff.

Tomorrow is Drimnin's summer dance and I cook the BBQ stuff. I took over from B because, frankly, nobody in the community could tolerate her complaints any longer. Obviously I complain as well (the standing! the heat! the vegetarians!) but not quite to the same level as B. Also I hold a basic hygiene certificate, having turned up to the course in Strontian where you spend a day being told all the different ways you can kill folk with food.

In order to limit the number of people we kill (and placate the pesky vegetarians) I spend the day before the dance pre-cooking lamb shanks and sausages and roasting vegetables. I'm using this as an excuse not to get down to my academic paper and it's working so far but even I cannot avoid the need to get a synopsis off to my supervisor by the end of today.

Hey ho.

One of the (many) reasons that I'm behind with my research is that the first half of the year has been concerned with: trying and failing to get elected as a councillor and laying a new floor in the fank. They were both much more work than expected but the fank, at least, is finished and ready for eager airbnb renters.

When it comes to the garden, there's no doubt that it's getting a bit out of control and, having successfully chopped down the hated leylandi hedge, both chainsaws have stopped working. Rather than fret too much I ordered a stack of timber from our local timber-supply man (who's also the bus driver and fireman). It's a long trip for him so he tends to come along with his partner L and her grandchildren. L has a fabulous wee garden in Lochaline and keeps chickens so she always comes along with some eggs. This has provided another excuse for avoiding my paper as I've had to come up with recipes to use up the eggs. The one I'm trying out today is Blackcurrant Curd.

600g blackcurrants
juice of 1 lemon
450g sugar
125g butter
5 eggs beaten

Cook the blackcurrants and lemon juice for five minutes then pass through a mouli-legume. Stir the puree, butter and sugar in a bowl over simmering water til the butter has melted. Add the eggs and stir gently til the mixture thickens (about the consistency of soft ice-cream). Pour into sterilised jars and keep in the fridge once cooled. It should keep for about a month but I'm freezing half of mine since it can also be used - mixed half and half with whipped cream - as a quick ice-cream base.

Now I've just got 8 lamb shanks, 60 sausages, 50 peppers and one academic synopsis to prepare.

Cake & Ale

My New Year picture of sloe gin with a fruit bowl in the background inspired a friend to make banana bread (more immediate gratification than marinading sloes) so it seemed appropriate to add two of my favourite cake recipes for the New Year. Banana bread is, let's face it, a cake rather than bread and this recipe from Mary Berry admits that by adding chocolate chips. Try as I might I can't stop the chocolate sinking to the bottom of the cake but it still tastes very fine, particularly when warm. I've doubled the ingredients to make a more substantial cake and I just chuck all the ingredients in together which seems to work fine.

Banana & Chocolate Chip Loaf

2 ripe bananas
2 tbsp milk
100g soft butter
150g plain flour
150g caster sugar
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 eggs
...... mix all together til as smooth as possible, then add
100g chocolate chopped into small pieces
....... pour into a large loaf tin lined with baking parchment and bake at 160C/gas mark 3 for 45 minutes or until browned and cooked through

New Year indulgence was tempered with the screening of Ken Loach's film, "I, Daniel Blake" which had me (and everyone else in the audience) sniffling from the start. I paused before heading home to photograph the new moon over Loch Linnhe.

Crunch

Obviously everything I cook is completely yummy but there are some dishes, such as borscht, that provoke spontaneous delight in others: who knew that virtue could taste so good. My granola works like that. It was one of the many things I discovered in Japan thanks to the excellent wholefood cooperative that catered to homesick Americans in far-flung inaka. When I got back to Britain I had sporadic attempts to make some myself but it was the blog by Orangette that kickstarted the crunchiness. It was then the lovely Japanese Kaori who requested this recipe and reminded me how good it is.

Maple & Olive Oil Granola (adapted from Orangette's adaptation of Early Bird Food's version)

300g porridge oats
250g pumpkin & sunflower seeds
50g dessicated coconut
150g flaked almonds
1tsp coarse salt
85g brown sugar
175ml maple syrup
120ml olive oil
chopped dried apricots, prunes, cherries


Stir together the oats, seeds, nuts and salt. Mix the brown sugar, maple syrup and olive oil ... add to the oats and seeds and stir to coat. Spread the mixture in a large baking tray and bake until golden brown for 45 minutes (180C, 350F, gas mark 4) checking and stirring every 15 minutes or so. When the mixture has cooled, add the dried fruit and store in an airtight container

While baking this I was making my first stab at sorting the family photographs that arrived from my dad's flat in some buckets and carrier bags. This was just the first sort of the photographs: dividing them into "Drumbuidhe", "Anywhere Else" and "Rubbish" ... if I didn't recognise the people or place then it got binned. Thankfully my mother had labelled most of the negatives but I've still got a stack to get through. As far as sorting out my dad's estate goes, this isn't one of the arduous tasks but my sister is trying to wring as much drama out of it as she can (even if that means she misses out on the gentle pleasure of revisiting my parents lives through the years). It was she who dumped all the photographs into buckets and bags so that she could A) rent out dad's flat less than a month after his death and B) sell the bureau that they were stored in. As I sorted through the photographs I came across a few where my sister has been cut out of the photograph and then, most bizarrely, the photograph has been returned. Apart from having my sister removed, the photographs have little else in common - they feature me, my mum, the Cambridge academic Pip Gaskell and my sister's Chilean friend Loretta. I don't think there's any grand meaning behind this, I think my sister was just being a bit daft ...

The deeds of dad's flat have recently been passed on to my sister (I'm inheriting my dad's 1/3 share of Drumbuidhe but that takes a wee bit longer to sort out). She was also up from Devon in Glasgow this week without telling me. I'm not upset at this (I very rarely take offence and I'm up in Drumbuidhe anyway) and I assume it's because she's selling my dad's flat and, after making such a fuss about how she was the only one who knew my dad's intentions, she doesn't want to admit that she just really needs the cash. Hey ho.

lentil life

In the classic 1980s sitcom 'The Young Ones' one of hippy Neil's main occupations was the preparation of lentils, lentils and more lentils. As a child I associated lentils with overcooked mush mixed with hated cooked carrots. I didn't like them. Then I lived with the vegetarian Lesley at college and was introduced to her lovely lentil and apple curry. Then the 1990s explosion of ingredients brought green lentils and their nutty yumminess to the UK.

Although Nigel Slater started as a food stylist, producing mouth-watering photographs for Marie Claire, my favourite book of his is the words-only 'Real Fast Food'. It has this great recipe described as "a life-saverwhen the fridge contains nothing but the cat's milk and an old packet of Japanese soya paste"

Lentils with Tomatoes
for 2
100g lentils
2 tblsp olive oil
1 chopped onion
1 chopped red chilli
1 tin tomatoes

* cook the lentils in boiling, salted water for 15 minutes 'til just tender, drain
* fry the onions in the oil for about 7 minutes, add the chilli and cook for a further minute or two
* add the lentils and tomatoes and simmer for about 10 minutes
* season and serve ... also good served cold as a salad

I'm coming to the end of a 2 week stint at losing some weight. I'm only a wee bit overweight but, with both parents suffering from metabolic issues, I want to halt the trend of increasing weight. So I'm especially thankful for spicey lentil recipes.

There was never going to be an ideal time to follow a carefully restricted diet but it turns out that I'm really, really bad at academic writing whilst half-starving. I'm not sure if I would have been brilliant if I'd been fully caloried up but the major review report I finally submitted was woefully underpowered - and late - which does not bode well for he review meeting in a couple of weeks.

Probably best not to mention (yet) to my, rather annoyed, supervisor that I've put my name down as a labour candidate for the 2017 Highland council elections.

tu veux un aperitif?

For someone who doesn't drink very much (I get a wee bit arsey when drunk and I have absurdly bad hangovers) I have a large amount of the stuff floating around. Campbell left behind a large wine collection (extensive in quantity, rather than quality ... he lost his sense of smell well before his taste for alcohol). This year's crop of berries was outstanding so, after jams and pies, I've got a couple of bottles of cherry gin and a bottle of redcurrant gin. Then there's the birch sap wine (polished off at the festival), dandelion wine and redcurrant wine. The redcurrant wine was made using export-strength gin and it's a bit too strong and the dandelion wine is a bit nondescript in flavour as well as a rather uninspiring cloudy yellow colour.

Inspired by a lovely wee radio programme on aperitifs, I decided to have a go at mixing my own vin maison. Using the key ideas of 'not too strong and not too sweet' I've come up with two rather nice wee drinks ... a dandelion + orange peel and a dandelion + redcurrant. The orange still needs a bit more gin added to stop the fermentation but it tastes lovely and the redcurrant and dandelion is a beautiful pale, rose pink.

I'm now headed down to Durham for a party and I've brought some of my vin du rose as a gift for my hosts. Weight issues mean that I've had to bring it in a plastic water bottle so we will see if the taste can transcend the packaging.

The wild cherry gin (made with Sainsbury's cheapest gin) is quite delicious and needed no further mixing. I used it to make some scrumptious chocolate truffles with some leftover butter. Well worth the tiny risk of cyanide poisoning.


gean truffles

50g unsalted butter
100g plain chocolate
2 tablespoons wild cherry gin

Melt the ingredients together in the microwave, stirring very gently to melt the last of the chocolate. Place in the fridge to set, ideally overnight. When set, scoop into rough balls and roll in cocoa. Keep in the fridge before serving

a confusion of cats

Such is the mouse problem here that every single gnawable item (bed linen, gas supply pipes, soap, sandals, chairs) has been well and truly gnawed; checking crockery for mouse poo is standard and only 2 out of my initial, 48 pea plants made it to maturity. I've been pondering the obvious answer of getting a cat and, after initial concerns about how a cat would stand up to the resident pine marten, fox, wildcat population, was starting to seriously ponder a rehoused farm cat. Events have since overtaken my gentle ponderings.

A week ago I was due to go the Tron Theatre with my friend Peter Hamilton (a dashing, dance-loving sherrif who knew my parents from student days). There was no answer when I arrived at his flat so I called the police who broke down his door and we discovered he had died in his bed. The sad drama was added to by his cat, Findlay who was left orphaned and very scared. So I have unexpectedly adopted a cat. An elderly indoor cat.

It looks like Findlay will be heading to Devon in September to satisfy my nephews' pet cravings but I still have to look after him for July and August ... whilst shuttling between Glasgow, Drumbuidhe, the Edinburgh Festival and with a jaunt to Marseille thrown in for good measure.

Up here in Drumbuidhe the fruit is bursting out all over and, having started dabbling with airbnb, I have my second lot of guests here at the minute with four more to follow. It turns out that none of them have read the description so they have missed the crucial information "boat access only". It's a steep learning curve for them but they are rewarded with one of the best views in Scotland and oodles of fresh cherries.

Midsummer

It's the longest day of the year which means I'm still getting used to going to sleep in the light and, when I wake in the morning, wondering idly whether it's 5am or 10am. I'm up at Drumbuidhe and struggling (as I have been these past 6 months) to get some constructive research work done. I've got plans of course (reading to do, a literature review paper to write, contacts to follow up on, conferences to investigate) but the lushness of summer always takes me aback. The garden is growing like topsy even if I did manage to get the potatoes mixed up. Alas the pests are also growing and the gooseberry bushes are being stripped bare by sawfly.  I picked off all the caterpillars and pupae I could see and then stripped the berries themselves (gooseberry jelly and basil & gooseberry sorbet) before I spray them with bug killer to try and make some dent in next year's sawfly population. I'm also going to give the potatoes a blast of bordeaux mixture which I found in the shed in the hope that we can stave off blight this year. Some fabulous bits of sunshine had dried the garden out so, although the current rain is a bit grey for midsummer's day, it's welcome nonetheless.

While I fail to get on with my research, N is up in the garden chopping down hedges with gay abandon. With both parents gone, I can now go about drastic remodelling of the garden with gay abandon and the much-hated leylandii hedge is the first bit to go. This may be my version of Campbell's continual urge to drill holes in things but, gosh, the garden looks better for it.

Of course cooking is my standard displacement activity and I'm already planning tonight's dinner (smoked mackerel, new potatoes and cavolo nero) followed by trfile using up the last wee bit of a fabulous cake that I made on Sunday.  The recipe is from Carol Kohll via the Guardian's recipe swap and it's moist light and tender as well as beautifully aromatic.  I made some minor changes because of stuff we had to hand (coffee grinder and olive oil).  We had it for pudding with cardamon-scented hot chocolate.



Cardamon Cake

3 eggs
300g sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp seeds from cardamon pods
1/2 tsp cinammon
zest of one orange
zest of 1/2 lemon
350g self-raising flour
180ml olive oil
1tsp vanilla extract
180ml orange juice

* put salt, spices, rind and some of the sugar into a coffee grinder and grind till fine
* whisk remaining sugar with eggs for about 8 minutes
* add everything together and mix til smooth(ish)
* pour into large (lined) cake tin
* bake at gas mark 4 for 45 minutes

The recipe warned that the cake doesn't keep very well (hence the trifle) but that's unlikely to be a problem.

Theatrical Landlady

I seem to have drifted into a landlady-life without any firm planning on my part. There is a whiff of fate about it since caring duties (looking after J from 2005 to 2007 then C from circa 2010 to 2016) have a strong portion of old-fashioned domestic labour underpinning the new 21st century emotional labour. I can now change  bed in about 1 minute and whip up a decent hollandaise in about 5. Both decent landlady skills.

My lovely lodger G is back in residence in Glasgow and is far too polite to comment on the mild chaos in my flat as I struggle to get my kitchen back together. Up in Drumbuidhe I've put the fank on airbnb and had the first ever guests. They were charming although the £100 they paid and the lovely review they wrote did help to confirm their charm. I spent £115 on bed linen for their visit so I haven't hit on a cunning plan for untold riches but, still, it should help offset the running costs.

Of course I've still got multiple personas going on so last week was the Scottish School of Graduate Social Science Summer School (a fair mouthful even before I tried discussing the neoliberal hegemony over  glass of rose). Some great workshops but also a chance meeting with a Newcastle researcher who had a recently installed off-grid electrical system. He uses a propane generator which opened my eyes to the fact that there is an alternative to the diesel-hungry, over-sized, high-maintenance lister petter that we currently have. The genny has both a recurring overspeed fault and an inappropriate battery. I've been dithering about getting a maintenance visit since it's a minimum £500 per visit. Since a propane generator (silent! sits outside in its own box! easily stored fuel!) can be got for about £2000 it looks like that could be big step towards a new Drumbuidhe grid.

One of my other burgeoning personas is film festival curator following the success of the first Drimnin Sheep Film Festival. We demonstrated that extensive social media coverage doesn't make a blind bit of difference to attendance on the west coast after blanket coverage on radio five's film review programme failed to nudge attendance for 'Rams' beyond our standard six. I also proved that gorse flower syrup isn't really worth the effort but makes a pleasant enough cocktail with gin.

Gorse Flower Syrup

250g flowers
250g sugar
500ml water
Juice & rind of 1 lime & 1 orange

Boil the water and sugar together, pour over the flowers, juice and rind and leave to infuse overnight. In the morning, strain and bring, briefly, to the boil again. Bottle - adding a camden tablet if you want to store it unrefrigerated.

I made up cocktails with gin + syrup + lemon juice, lengthened with soda water and enjoyed over ice. They were very nice but more citrus than gorse.

Spring and stuff

C's celebration went well: the daffodils bloomed on time; the stories were short and sweet; the grandsons read poems from Ogden Nash & Spike Milligan and 200 folk turned up to join the party. The organisation had inevitable messy bits, as one of my friends pointed out, organising a funeral is lime organising a wedding but you have to do it in two weeks. I thought that he grandsons, aged 7 and 9, were too young to speak at a large event (I was wrong, they were excellent) and my sister accused me of spoiling her memory of our mother by preventing her partner from playing his guitar at her memorial (I didn't). My mother's brother turned up from New Zealand and sulked a bit when he wasn't hailed as the family patriarch. I left for London after the party and picked up some evil southern flu which has left me poorly for a couple of weeks. I confirmed to the executor that my sister was going to take C's car before the party but she forgot to collect it (it's sitting at the Honda garage) and accused me of witholding it to make her life difficult (I didn't ... there's a bit of a theme going on here). As a sweet coda to the celebration, at least two of the guests got in touch with Galgael, which I'd mentioned in my euology, which provides training in traditional wooden boat building.

I'm now back to research with a long day at Heriot Watt where I went to the post-graduate research showcase and finally got round to setting up country by country data on energy assessment. Sorting out the estate winds its slow way along. The executors have managed to track down the deeds for C's Glasgow flat which, it turns out was owned jointly by my parents, this means my mother's estate will have to be adjusted before C's can be sorted. Hey ho.

Life at Drumbuidhe continues and, although I'm still coming across stuff that C has cut holes in (propagator trays, walls, windows, expensive machines ...) there is growing optimism that I will, eventually, manage to limit the amount of time I spend looking mournfully at machines that don't work. I'm starting small with the two chainsaws which I've brought down to Glasgow to see if they can be saved. I'm giving myself two years to tidy things (since Drumbuidhe has at least 7 vehicles, none of which work properly, this is not a trivial task) and sort out where and how I'm going to be based. I'm thinking seriously about selling my Glasgow flat and moving permanently to Drumbuidhe, renting a property in the central belt for work. Obviously, while this pondering goes on, the potatoes still have to get planted.

While I've been poorly and distracted, my kitchen renovation has been halted but I've dismantled enough of it to make cooking awkward so adventures in cuisine are limited to toast and yoghurt at the minute. When I got back from London, and while I was still poorly, I went to the Gardeners Cottage in Edinburgh with two of C's colleagues. Outstanding food even if I did throw up when I got home. One of the seven courses was wild garlic soup with ham hock and hazelnuts. To echo this I picked a stack of garlic from Casteal nan Con while heading south after potato planting. The quickest and easiest option is undoubtedly pesto. For this I used what I had in my depleted kitchen (sunflower seeds) and a present of pumpkin seed oil from C's Austrian colleague.

wild garlic pesto
* garlic leaves
* parmesan
* sunflower seeds
* pumpkin seed oil

Pulse everything together in a food processor (inherited from C) and use the fabulous green paste wherever a taste of spring is needed.

There is a bit of a sad memory attached to this since C became a bit obsessed with makig this in in final years. Last year the first workaway volunteer we had visiting told me that C had grabbed and shaken them when they didn't respond fast enough to his demands to help him make it. This meant that I couldn't leave C alone with the volunteers.

death & taxes

On the morning of Friday 16th January C died in his sleep. He was getting increasingly frail so I was going round to see him twice a day. I arrived at his flat just after he'd died.

C is survived by his brother and his two daughters. There was a private cremation the week after his death but I'm now in the throes of organising a great big party at Oran Mor to celebrate his life. Oh, and there's his obituary and cards to all his friends and sorting his estate. I'm tired and sad but doing OK.

My sister is another matter. She's very upset and, after a quick five days in Glasgow (the cremation was timed to fit in with her plans) she's back down in England, not taking my phone calls and seems to be teetering on the edge of a breakdown. I started off thinking that she had money problems since she keeps trying to get access to C's cash before probate but she's so out of control that I'm worried something else might be going on. It doesn't help that I listen to the Archers regularly and spend most of my time shouting at the radio for Tom, Kirsty, Fallon, Iain ... anyone! to see that Helen is drowning not waving.

In an appropriate twist, this week was also the deadline for tax returns. I did manage to get something approximating a return in with 4 days to go.

In less grim news there was a fine Burns Supper at Drimnin with music, recitation, a quiz and many fine words from friends of C. Sad stuff for those of us left but, oh, what a life!

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.