Staying put

The world of the house and home is occupying much of my thought at the moment. For a couple of years now the drama of trying to sell our house has rolled on and on. First we dreamed of a old servant's quarters that had caught our eye further up the valley, but our little cottage languished on the market for a year with no takers. The house we'd been coveting was eventually bought by another family and we took ours off the market. Then out of the blue someone asked if they could buy our home; we looked about but couldn't find another that suited us better. We vowed to stay put and invest in our old weaver's cottage with her rattly windows and woodland at the door but, towards the the end of last year, someone whispered in our ear about a house that might be right for us. Modest and modern, lacking the romance of weather-whipped stone and old floorboards but with a garden brimming with flowers and fruit and some extra room for a growing family. It sits a few doors away, on either side, from beloved friends and would provide gangs of wild and roving children for our boys to join. It is not the little small-holding I hoped that we would one day have but a chance to tend a garden again would certainly have been a gift.

Unfortunately this little house of ours is not ready to release us from our obligations. Although there have been people willing to fall in love with it and its handsome views - problems have been discovered by a string of searching surveys. Men have come into our home with their clipboards and tape measures; she has been probed and prodded , her petticoats lifted and her secrets exposed. Our buyers have drifted away, too daunted by her many needs.

It seems we must stay where we are; the choice has been taken away from us. This feels an odd position to be in; we're told in our modern capitalist world that choice is almost a birthright so when our options are taken away it's hard not to feel frustrated and a little trapped. In working through this situation we find ourselves in, I've been trying to remind myself that choice is a privilege granted only to a small percentage of the globe, that many of the world's families live in one or two meagre rooms. Rather than regretting what cannot be I need to try and embrace what is; cultivate contentment and practice gratefulness.

Eli and Monty do this instinctively, the consumerist mentality having not yet tainted their young lives. They look at us and ask 'why would we live anywhere else? This is our home' And as with so many things, these children of ours show us the way...

Our place

Our house is old. It's walls are made of stone and around the windows this stone is visible like a Henge, the bones of this home. The floor is also stone and there is a groove worn where generations of people have shuffled through the doorway.

I do not keep it neat and tidy although it's the sort of cottage that should be. There are vagrant clothes on the stairs, in the kitchen and on the back of the sofa.This sofa is battered and stained but covered with a crocheted blanket to protect its modesty. Dust heaps often gather in the corners of the stairs.

In a high wind the windows rattle and the house sprouts draughts from every tiny crack. These same cracks let in our little winter visitors, the mice, looking for crumbs and warmth. An old aerial creaks on the chimney.

There isn't a lot of room, it's a bit of a squash if people come to visit. We eat in our living room at a small pine table covered in scratches, pen marks and tiny divets where Monty has banged the tines of his fork into the table with force. Some say it is an impractical house for a family with two growing boys.

And yet...

Morning light comes into the back of the house through a filter of tree canopy.Out of the kitchen window I watch  it dance with the woods, blinking and glinting, switching on and off with the movement of leaves. This is the same sunlight I see touching the tip of the opposite hill and moving down through the landscape as the day progresses. In the afternoon it fills the front rooms, sometimes dazzling but always welcome.

Our view is perhaps the hardest thing to imagine giving up. It's a pastoral cliche - all fields, farmhouses and wooded hills. This house stands on the opposite side of the valley, we look down upon the tops of trees and the flights of birds; we can watch the river rumbling by. There is a big open field which the deer particularly love to visit. Each time I see them, I am moved by their wildness. This year I watched them with their young, springing and sprinting, mad with freedom.

I'm finding it hard to imagine giving up these familiar scenes for somewhere more practical, but I think that the time may have come. We could do with a little more space and I hanker after a garden, a bit of earth to call my own. I had hoped that we might be able to move into another old stone house near some woods with a breathtaking view, but unsurprisingly there aren't many of those about that remain affordable. We have found a house that has been loved, with garden enough for growing and fruit trees in the hedges. In a few days we will hopefully hear from another who seems to love our little cottage, then we'll just need to let go and try and discover the romance in a different sort of house, in a different sort of neighbourhood. And so we wait...

(The woods outside our door)

Healing stitches

Moved to tackle my mending pile by Zero Waste week, I've been reminded of how good it feels to take something broken and make it whole again. Where once there were holes there is now wonky darning or patches, rips and tears have been tended to with healing stitches. This was the work our great grandmothers would have taken for granted but in this age of disposable fashion we are losing the skills we need to exist frugally.

These slippers belonged to Eli until his toes poked holes through the crochet, now with a little attention they are providing warmth and comfort for Monty whilst he is away from me at Kindergarten.


As a society we're being seduced by newness. We're constantly encouraged to spend and fill our lives with luxuries. If I can take care of our possessions and extend their life where possible I can free us a little from these temptations. We can't afford it and neither can our planet.

Lammas bread

So, today is Lammas or as it's otherwise known, Lughnasadh. This oft forgotten pagan festival is associated with the beginning of the harvest and the twilight of the summer. A time to count our blessings, share our bounty and begin the inner preparations for the darkening of the days. As it's linked with the grain harvest, I've begun to think about it as the 'beer and bread one'.

Grain and the bread that is born of it, have been at the heart of homes across the globe for millenia. It was one of the first foods that we humans made and still endures as a staple of existence for a large chunk of the globe. Our language is laced with references to its central role in our lives from bread as 'the staff of life' to biblical 'daily bread'. It seems appropriate then, on this day, to share my much requested 'method' for making bread.

Homemade bread still seems too time-consuming for most people to contemplate. We're so busy, our time is so precious and when we can just pick up a pre-packed loaf almost anywhere it seems almost churlish not to...I, however, really like to make bread when I can but my relationship with bread-making is up and down. There are times in my life when I just can't squeeze it in and times when I manage to be more consistent  this generally means when I'm not feeling too overwhelmed with the rest of life's little challenges. I like to make it because I know exactly what I'm putting into it - I know it hasn't been driven all over the country in big trucks; it doesn't need packing in a polythene bag and mostly because it's a life-affirming thing to do. The satisfaction is always enormous, no matter how much bread I bake. The warm fragrant kitchen as the loaves bake, the golden glow of the crust on a wooden board, the soft steaminess of that first bite. I also love the process - meditative and slow but not laborious. 

My bread method was given to me by a friend and whole-food genius and it is virtually fool-proof. The dough gets lots of resting and not much kneading and almost always, hateful oven notwithstanding, delivers even crumbed, well textured deliciousness.

See?

Here is my very vague, non-scientific 'recipe':

• Put 250g of white and 25og of brown bread flour into a big bowl with 2tsp of Doves Farm dried yeast and enough hand-hot water ( approx a pint and a bit) to make an almost sloppy, stirrable 'sponge' mixture. Stir it all together well, cover with a wet tea towel and leave for a minimum of three hours but preferably and, more easily, overnight. This is what the sponge should look like:

• Add a further 500g of mixed white and brown flour, a generous couple of pinches of salt, a glug of olive oil and any seeds you might fancy. Mix with a wooden spoon (this is definitely the hardest bit!) adding small amounts of warm water as needed. Cover again and leave for 10 mins. Oil, not flour, your kneading surface and your hands. Take out the dough and knead no more than eight times, then put it back in the bowl for a further 10 minutes. Repeat twice leaving the dough after the third kneading for 30 mins

• For the final kneading and folding you need to flour the board. Then grease your tins and divide the dough evenly between them.

•  Leave to rise a little over the tops of the tins - this will take very little time ( approx 45mins) in humid conditions and considerably longer (maybe 2hrs or so) in a cold house.

• Slash the tops of your loaves before placing in the oven. Some people use razor blades for this, I use my bread knife. Whichever way you do it, they need to be clean cuts.

•  I should point out at this juncture that my oven has a mind of its own. I and it must do a little dance of discovery whenever I bake, therefore, it would be impossible for me to recommend accurate times and temperatures. Having given that disclaimer, the oven will need to be pretty hot when you put the loaves in, about gas mark 9. After 10 mins or so I always turn the heat down a bit. They probably take between 30 and 40 mins to bake. They should be crispy and golden on top and as everyone knows, sound hollow when you tap the bottom.

If you would like a proper recipe and more information about all things bread you will find it all here:
at the home of the real bread campaign.

If you'd like a slightly melancholy song about the grain harvest you'll find one here by the legendary Martin Carthy:

On that note, and after the longest post in history, I think I'll call it a night.

Happy beer drinking and breadmaking!

Tales from the kitchen

Last week was a busy one in the kitchen . I'm not really sure what inspired the flurry of activity but I was certainly a little driven by a lack of food in cupboards and fridge. The end of the month often means having to be a little more inventive with the staples; hence, for example, many flatbread/pittas were made out of sheer necessity. These lovely bready ovals are made with only flour, water and a little salt. Rolled out thinly and chucked onto our tava for a couple of minutes each side, they were super quick and easy. You don't need a tava though, a frying pan will do and making the dough is no more complicated than mixing up a few handfuls of flour with enough water to make a kneadable dough. We took some out with a pot of houmous for a simple packed lunch and had another batch rolled up with cheese, carrot, celery and mayo.

I've also been making tons of Soulemama's leftover oatmeal muffins of late and with the arrival of our one precious pot of bilberries they were enhanced further by splotchy blue goodness. These muffins have been a real hit with all of us. The kids obviously love them because they're muffins but I love them for being able to transform a load of unappealing leftover porridge into something considerably more appealing. I've made some with blackcurrants from next door's garden, I've made them with chocolate chips and now they've been bilberried. Again, they're nothing more than flour, butter, sugar, eggs, milk and some leftover porridge.





And so, onto possibly the most luxurious but even more simple bilberry syrup; just bilberries and maple syrup heated in a pan for a little while. I thought it would keep for a little bit and enable me to hold onto those precious berries for longer but it was just too delicious. We ate it with a few humble pancakes and dollops of natural yoghurt for breakfast. It was good. Really really good. Needless to say, there's none left.

I'd love to hear any kitchen tales you have to share...

Fizz

I'm fairly lazy when it comes to Pinterest (the 'virtual pinboard' dontcha know?). It's a great idea - you find things of interest when you're skipping about the web, then 'pin' them for later. Other people can see what you've saved and you can see theirs, it's a veritable feast of inspiration. Great ideas for kids catch on quickly and there's a big mass sharing of wonderfully fun things to do with your children. I'm only an occasional caller to my 'boards' and I'm rubbish at putting things up, but I'm also very grateful when I find a good activity.

This one involves bicarb and vinegar, always a fun combination in mini volcanoes and model rockets. The 'how to' is simple: Mix food colouring and vinegar and drop it onto a layer of bicarbonate of soda. Much fizzing and bubbling ensues which delights and amazes. The aesthetic element to this activity was particularly satisfying; watching the yellow and blue merge into green had me getting all annoyingly educational.

  

Needless to say, the boys absolutely loved it and had we had more bicarb, we could probably have continued playing for some time. I'm looking forward to being able to add more colours next time when I've sourced some more droppers. Truly fun for all the family.

(I couldn't resist putting up a picture of these gorgeous flowers that my friends brought round from their garden...beautiful.)

Buckets!

Warning: there are a lot of pictures of hand-made buckets in this post - if you feel this may be too much utilitarian stitching - look away now!

I've been wanting to make these nesting buckets from Mayamade for ages and ages. But like most things around these parts they've been on a slow burn. Too many ideas/children (two, children that is), too little time.

They are fantastically easy to make and fantastically useful. I know some people like to de-clutter but I prefer to compartmentalise it - so these little clutter carriers have had me happily moving piles of 'stuff' about for days.

The fabric for the lining was bought at our local second-hand market as a pre-loved duvet and the outer fabric was a scrap bought for a song. Their humble origins make them all the more satisfying I think.

And here they are in action...the biggest sized one is great for toys, next biggest for general tat, medium one is just perfect for CDs and the baby one great for keys and wallets. Not that I would want to be prescriptive - I'm pretty sure you could find any number of uses for them!

Ah, creating with purpose - it does the soul good.

After illness...

A little cricket is just what's needed...

 

Howzat?!!

Note Eli's hood up - we are a little despairing at his teenage posturing at the tender age of five. Where does it come from this desire to be 'cool'? We'd hoped to keep the consciousness of image at bay for a few years yet, but it seems our little ones pick it up despite our best efforts. I can cope, I think, as long as he doesn't start asking for a tattoo any time soon...

The Boy in the Starry Pyjamas

 Following these instructions, I made Eli two pairs of pyjama bottoms. Some may consider this vaguely deranged behaviour, but for me, this is soul-nourishing stuff. Let me explain; they weren't made in a third world sweatshop; they're made from super-soft flannel; they keep my boy warm and snuggly, they are an Act of Creation.

The brown ones are particularly jazzy I think. To complete the look, I appliqued a wee star onto a t-shirt with matching fabric. As captured below - Eli is obviously beside himself with delight. A grateful recipient is clearly the best reason for home-made pyjamas.