fire and ice

Spring has arrived complete with peacock butterflies and bumble bees.  It's been delayed of course by dry ice-cold weather here on the west coast which led to both frozen ground and a series of hill fires.

The delay in planting wasn't too serious but there's always the danger that early sowings (parsnip, beetroot, carrot, spinach and mixed salad) will never actually manage to germinate.  I'm being philosophical about it but I did hold off with the potatoes 'til the clocks went back.  A new issue is the planting (sowing? spreading?) of the nematodes.  These are minute (12 million per pack) worms that are mixed with water and spread on the ground to kill slugs.  They can be kept for a while hibernating in the fridge but this time I had to keep them for a month and, what with them being minute, there's no way to tell if they're still alive.  I'm not that concerned about nematode welfare but they are fairly pricey and I get grumpy about wasting the money.  Hey ho.

We've just started advertising Drumbuidhe on the workaway website which pairs hosts and volunteers looking for a working holiday.  Our first volunteer was a young Hungarian who coped brilliantly with mud, potatoes, Highland cattle and the isolation.  Thanks to him I got the potato beds cleared, dug with seaweed and planted.  K and friends had visited from Devon over Easter and had spread the collected seaweed all over the vegetable beds (note to visitors, think once, twice and then telephone me when C suggests you do anything in the garden).  It doesn't rot down fast enough and forking it is like wrestling with damp wigs so it all had to be picked up (yes, by hand, truly filthy work) and put in its intended location, under the potatoes.

If everything goes according to plan I should be starting a local authority energy job in the next week or so which meant I had to sprint back from potato planting for a crash course in energy monitoring software.  I'll be heading back next week for some more vegetable fondling but in my time in Glasgow I did manage to squeeze some mezze from the fabulous Ottolenghi.  Since I couldn't find any tahini in the Partick supermarket I had to use my Japanese pestle and mortar for its correct purpose (grinding sesame seeds) for the first time in 20 years.  Definitely worth it.  So for those who have a suribachi hanging around here's my version of roast carrots.

1kg carrots
1tbsp coriander seed
1tsp cumin seed
1tbsp rapeseed oil
1tbsp honey

cut the carrots into thick sticks (I cut them into eight pieces each); toast the coriander and cumin in a pan 'til they just start to smoke then crush in the mortar; stir together the spices, carrots, oil and honey and spread evenly on a baking tray; roast at gas 6 / 200C for roughly 40 minutes 'til browned and smelling lovely

1 cup greek yoghurt
1/2 cup sesame seeds
juice of half a lime
salt

toast the sesame seeds 'til they just start to colour then grind in the mortar 'til you have as fine a powder or paste as you like; add to the yoghurt, lemon and salt; pour over the roasted carrots and serve.

I'm afraid I ate this with my fingers.

down and dirty

'Tis the season to get planting; which means weeding which means grappling with couch grass, dandelions and buttercups.  Evil, pure evil the lot of them.  Last year the garden didn't get a lot of love and it's hard and dirty getting control back.  I've spent hours, days, seems like years up to my elbows in mud and roots to get four beds cleared (four still to go).  The root vegetables have been sown: carrots (I don't have the soil for them but hope, and mishapen roots, spring eternal), beetroot and parsnip.  The five remaining artichoke plants have been wrapped against the cold and surrounded with spinach and salad.  Another five raspberry canes have been planted out.  Lettuce, leeks and tomatoes (see reference to hope above) are sprouting under glass and last year's grobag is planted out with cut price salad from Waitrose keeping the early slugs up to their slime in classy greens.

The spring sunshine is warming up the rest of Drumbuidhe as well: C is back and in residence with new plans and old grumpiness.  We got the diesel generator moving again simultaneously identifying the leak (the diesel return from the cylinders had frayed Lister-Petty fact fans) and so he's back to his carbon-hungry ways.  In December he lost the last of the diesel tank by leaving the tap for filling the landrover switched on; paid £1000 for another tankful and then lost most of that (the tank's now just 1/4 full) running the generator with the return leaking.

The new plans involve the building of a second wind turbine.  This will be installed in front of the fank and filmed with the film to be used as a promotional video for the selling of the Darrieus concept.  There are a number of potential problems with this (the current turbine doesn't generate net electricity; the plan is to install the second turbine without foundation; previous installations have tipped over dangerously; the new turbine blades are a new, untested, design) and there isn't enough money for another turbine.  Hence the grumpiness.

So far I've been shouted at a number of times for stuttering (the fact that I don't stutter isn't really relevant) and today when I pointed out that I couldn't "make sure" I brought up components for the turbine if A (who has the components) didn't reply to my phone messages, C told me that A wasn't replying because I was "difficult".  Crikey but I do wish he would take up stamp collecting.

seems grim up north

In the depths of February it can seem as if everything is a bit grim.  After the second person in the course of a week had commented that I didn't have to look for troubles I realised that I was maybe talking things down a bit.  Like vistas on the Yorkshire moors, the description (snow! wind! seven effing miles!) can obscure the delight that comes from a sunny day standing on top of the world with good boots on your feet and fine food at the end of the walk.

I've been delaying writing up the blog in the belief that I'd have a sturdy new job to report but, alas, the construction industry has not yet responded to my availability.  I've applied for a fair few jobs but I've either been under-qualified and over-experienced (a graduate trainee programme for the nuclear energy industry where I was surrounded by 20 year old physics undergraduates) or over-qualified and under-experienced (carbon reduction officer for a local authority who were obviously surprised to be interviewing an Oxford graduate). While I would really, really like a salaried job at the minute I'm not yet knocking on Ian Duncan Smith's door and I'm happy enough that when the right one comes I'll be ready for it.

Drumbuidhe is still a bit battered from the winter with standard energy problems (flat battery on the diesel and an unidentified leak) but the solar panels have kicked in as we start to get glimpses of sunshine and the system works well enough to let you see where the problems are.  Also C has cut down his drinking on medical advice which has calmed everything down a bit.  A wee group from Mull is coming out on Wednesday to have a look at the possibility of installing a working wind turbine which could help with the guddle of inputs and outputs from the Darrieus as well as providing both electricity and income (from the feed in tariff which, yes, pays out even if you don't have a grid to feed into).

Even in the darkest part of the year there are delights to be had and Saturday's dinner was one with blood oranges in season and in caramel.  Two ingredients but still delicious.

oranges in caramel

oranges
sugar






peel the oranges by slicing the top and bottom off then cutting peel, pith and all off in a spiral.  The sharper your knife the easier this is and do it over the dish to keep as much of the juice as possible.  Slice the oranges into rounds about the thickness of a pound coin and lay in your dish.  Put the sugar and a dash of water onto heat (the water will all boil away but it's there to stop the sugar sticking to the pan and burning ... use enough to dissolve the sugar) and boil 'til it starts to colour.  Swirl the pan to make sure it colours evenly and, when it's as dark as you want, pour over the oranges.  Leave them for an hour or so or longer for the caramel to dissolve and then eat with ice cream, cream or anything you fancy.

new camera!

A new camera! with fancy shutter delay! the only minor issues with this wonderous new toy are that A) I haven't got a tripod thus requiring slightly odd compositions such as "trailer by starlight" and B) social convention mean that since the new camera was a present to D then with him it must, generally, remain.

It has been two months since I wrote anything here but a fair amount of stuff has been squeezed into those two months (not including the wonderous new camera).  I've been and gone to Marseille; C has changed his will so that I am no longer disinherited; I've been for two interviews for a perfect job down in Newcastle that had, alas, one person who was just that teeny bit more perfect than me and, strangely and sadly, I've had a miscarriage.

These events are all related and, in being related, distracting enough that coping with things has superseded writing.  Coping with things also means that it's been over a month since I've been up to Drumbuidhe and autumn planting has gone to the dogs (hopefully the gate over the burn has held) but not yet the deer.  I'm currently heading back down to Newcastle for another job interview so it'll be a few days yet before I head north to do battle with rodents and switch the heating system from C's rather extravagant option.  With all the stuff I've had there's been the minor background hassle of my sister's attempt to find help for C.  She's placed an advert in the job centre in Fort William for a "live-in estate manager" and has been interviewing people by phone.  She's missed out the information that A) She's based 600 miles away from the job location B) It's a holiday home, not an estate and C) C has dementia; been detained by the police for violence; is resident for only half the year at most and - crucially - doesn't have the money to employ someone for more than 1/2 a day a week .... So far there's been a motley collection of people replying to the advert (bloke 1 lasted for an hour and a half before retreating declaring that "I've never been shouted at like that"; bloke 2 lasted a day in which time he cut up the roof ridge reserved for the genny shed to ineffectually repair the garden shed and bloke 3 lasted three days because he had no independent transport but, given his time spent inside and alcohol issues, is probably not the best to spend time with a fragile, volatile alcoholic C in a remote cottage ....).  One month ago I was phone up by a lady asking for further details about the advert since my sister had told her: it could provide full-time employment for a couple; help was needed to take holiday bookings for "the lodge" (I have no idea what this referred to) and it would be suitable for the lady to move to with her 10 year old daughter.  My strongest hope is that this call was actually from the Fort William job centre and they're going to stop running the advert.

All the stuff mentioned means that there's been precious little cooking in either Glasgow or Drumbuidhe but, with thanks to savour fare, and in honour of autumn, France (yes, yes, I know that pain quotidien is a Belgian chain)  and excessive calories, here is a recipe for a praline spread.

* 2 cups hazelnuts
* 1 cup sugar (with a dash of water)
* scant teaspoon salt
* 1 to 2 tblsp rape seed oil

Toast hazelnuts and rub to remove skins; heat sugar with the water 'til it caramelises then tip in the skinned hazlenuts; put praline and salt into blender, whizz 'til broken then add oil 'til you have a spreadable paste.

basics

Tesco helpfully labels its gin as "everyday value" and, whilst I'm not sure if it's a good idea to have gin as one of your daily basics, it's good to find straight up alcohol in the sea of infused gins on the market.

I picked a second lot of sloes on the way out of Drumbuidhe last week (the first lot was picked after cycling for an hour to post a job application and went into sloe jelly along with the slightly grotty fallen apples) for one of the easiest recipes known to woman: put sloes in bottle, add sugar, add gin.

After too much travelling around (Drumbuidhe / Glasgow / Durham / London / Oxford) I was suffering from run-down stores and too many fancy sandwiches so today was also a day for basic breadmaking.  When people find out I make my own bread they often ask if I have a breadmaker.  C bought one for Drumbuidhe but it just seems way too complicated for me: the wee kneading thing keeps getting thrown out into the compost heap; it only seems to work with expensive pre-mixed bread packets; it's another electrical thing in a house with erratic electricity and it takes an age.  The last time C used it we had eight people coming for lunch and quite limited food so the bread was really needed.  The display showed the bread as being ready at just after noon but C had a rush of blood to the head, opened the machine up at eleven, declared it a failure and transferred the whole lot to the oven.  The loaf ended up a bit misshapen but cooked in the end but it's a disturbing pattern of C misinterpreting stuff when he's under a bit of stress.  I've just returned a new £50 heating programmer after the existing one was deemed to be "broken" but now seems to be unbroken.  There's also the £1000 spent on a visit from phone engineers to "fix" the length of time the phone rings before it goes to voicemail (yes, it's set by the network rather than the physical phone).  Since I'm now sceptical about any electrical goods reported broken I don't, personally, buy anything that can't be returned but it does get hard to stay calm as I watch C scattering his funds to the winds.

I've had a week in Glasgow (see reference to travel above) and C was hoping to have his cronies up to play with the wind turbine.  This doesn't seem to have worked but, when I travel up on Monday, I'll have no excuse to delay talking to C about transferring his share of Drumbuidhe over to me.  We've talked about this before and it's an excellent idea but, unfortunately mentioning it will bring up the topic of C disinheriting me.  Since this was a shitty and stupid thing for him to do he gets very, very defensive about it.  When C's up at Drumbuidhe with just me he's quite calm but the addition of extra stress (like a wind turbine that doesn't work) and grievances egged on by cronies can be enough to trigger violence.  So, I've been trying to get the timing right to talk about Drumbuidhe's ownership: just before C heads down to Glasgow and with minimal possibility of turbine-crony-stress.

A big part of me thinks that walking away from Drumbuidhe would be great (cheaper, easier and with much less shouting) but being the daughter of mad parents is a lifetime comitment even if I didn't get much choice about it.

Anyway this week in Glasgow was supposed to involve a concerted effort at getting a job.  It hasn't.  I do at least have a nice couple of loaves, the dead easy method for which is:

12oz strong white flour
12oz strong wholemeal flour
2 tsp salt
1 packet fast-acting yeast
15 fl oz warm water

Mix all ingredients together (I use a large measuring jug to limit the washing up required since bread dough does get very messy), knead, divide into two rough loaf shapes, diagonally slash and place into two oiled loaf tins, leave the loaf tins in the oven (switched off and door closed) for a couple of hours or overnight, when the loaves have roughly doubled in size (or when you wake up) switch on the oven to 220C / gas 7 for 45 minutes (tip one of the loaves out of the tin and tap the bottom, if it sounds hollow the loaves are done, if not return them to the oven for another 15 minutes or so).  Remove from the tins to cool.

Cunning bakers will notice that there's none of that proving stuff here.  Modern dried yeasts mix very easily with the flour so I don't think a second kneading is necessary but the longer overnight rising does give a more complex taste.

dirty diesel

As any fool on the west coast knows, this picturesque part of the world runs on rosy-tinted hydrocarbons.  Since C is a key part of the picturesqueness (renowned from Corpach to Ullapool as a character) he goes through red diesel with gay abandon.  The bits and pieces associated with his wind turbine (tv monitors, sound systems, compressed air controls, starter motor ...) use stacks of electricity and the turbine doesn't produce anything useful so when he's up here showing off his turbine to impressionable yachties, the diesel generator comes on most days ... often twice.

So Wednesday was a day for picking up the trailer with the bowser filled with diesel and hauling it across six miles of track.  That went reasonably well but then it all got complicated: C took two pumps to bits in an attempt to get them working and finally succumbed to my suggestions that we just siphon the diesel out.  While I was having a coffee he decided that this process was much too slow and that he hadn't broken anything for a while so he reversed the car and trailer away from the tank.  The bowser was still a third full of diesel and he burnt the clutch on his car out doing it.

Twelve plastic jerry cans of diesel later and the bowser's still not empty but the trailer has now been moved, again, so that it's blocking the track.  Every stitch that I'm wearing stinks of the foul stuff and first thing tomorrow I'm going to have to spend hauling the trailer sideways to get it clear of the posts C erected to prevent unspecified 'people' from driving over the non-functioning internet connection he's rigged up for the wind turbine.  Oh, and I don't think he's going to make it over the track, let alone back to Glasgow with that clutch.

I don't think I'm being that patient, I think I'm just too tired to get angry.  I do, however, go to bed every night hoping that I will wake up to discover that C has decided to take up watercolour painting.

After a ridiculous amount of aerobic exercise, dinner was a very well-deserved roast chicken with chilli-fried cabbage and mashed potato followed by creme caramel.  I made the cremes yesterday but the only disadvantage to that was that I'd already eaten two to keep my strength up through the day.  I tried flavouring the milk with meadowsweet but, apart from making me feel all bucolic, I didn't notice any extra flavour.

Creme Caramel

7oz sugar
400ml cream and milk
4 eggs
3 oz sugar
vanilla

* caramelise the 7oz sugar and pour into six wee dishes
* beat the eggs and 3oz sugar together
* heat the cream and milk mixture to boiling point then pour into the eggs and sugar and mix well
* divide the custard betwenn the six wee (caramelised) dishes
* place in a large dish in the oven then fill (the large dish) with boiling (or as hot as you can) water
* set the oven to gas mk 3 and start testing the custards after 30 minutes - they're ready when set but wobbly

death and taxes

The freakish sunny weather has broken but the cloud and showers here in Glasgow are more fitting to the grim situation I'm in which has no happy solution in sight.

The first strand is, as ever, C's volatility (actually both strands involve C).  He had Brian Cooper (who gets his full name mentioned for being a nasty wee tit) up last weekend to Drumbuidhe to try and commission the new control system for the wind turbine.  The system is sophisticated, expensive, potentially dangerous and uninsured.  Setting it up is far, far beyond C's capabilities and Brian is also working well beyond his knowledge and experience.  Had I known Brian was visiting I would have delayed my travel up to Drumbuidhe but, apart from saying he was looking forward to me coming, C didn't mention this.  I arrived to find a fair bit of mess (three days of dirty dishes and half-eaten meals and, as he always does, Brian had slept in his bed without putting any sheets on ...).  On Sunday morning I was lying down inside waiting for my midge bites to die down (I'd been tying up the peas in the garden) when Brian decided to come in and demand to know if I had a problem with him because I hadn't said I was pleased to see him.  I decided not to mention his casual racism and sexism but did say that no, I didn't like him, because he never made up his bed, gave no help with food or washing up and was taking money from a vulnerable old man to help install an illegal and dangerous electrical system (the plans for the current system is that it will allow the wind turbine to be switched on, from Glasgow, over the internet ... since 19 previous turbines have collapsed and it stands, unprotected, next to a public footpath, the danger is obvious).  Brian responded that Drumbuidhe was a "rough and ready" place where you didn't need sheets and that it would "kill" C if he wasn't able to install this new system.  Hey ho.

Brian left a couple of hours later having failed to set up the system and, I suspect, having told C that I was being rude and obstructive.  I went off to the village hall committee meeting and when I returned C was in bed.  The next morning C had started hard drinking again and, on the back of a couple of strong whiskies, he lost his temper when I said I was going to make up the beds in the fank for guests arriving next week.  I'd suspected this might happen and, for my own safety, I had my bags packed in the car, so I said would head back to Glasgow.  C responded that I should "fuck off" because I had "ruined his life".

So I'm back in Glasgow waiting for C to calm down and, please God, stop drinking so much.

The second strand is that, two weeks ago, I was checking my dad's papers in his flat in Glasgow (we have a problem with our broadband supply and he'd told me to look there) when I found his will which he'd changed in 2010, just after he was detained by the police for assaulting me.  He had disinherited me.  K was to inherit his Glasgow flat and his 1/3 share of Drumbuidhe was left to his (six and four year old) grandsons, to be managed by K 'til they reach majority.  Although he has a generous pension C has no other assets (all my mum's savings have disappeared into the wind turbine) and he's currently paying K about £1,000 a month since she's got money problems at the minute.  If this will stands, K will sell Drumbuidhe in the blink of an eye.

I asked C about the will and we are making slow steps to have him change it again but he is furious at having been found out doing something both stupid and nasty.  His fury is currently directed towards me and the "betrayal of trust" I've shown by going through his personal papers.  All friends and neighbours are appalled by C's action but powerless in the face of his raging pride and crappy judgement.

My current diet is mixture of chips, cigarettes and stress so recipes will have to wait for future blogs.