Cheeky cheats chutneys

I was listening to Desert Island Disks with Tony Robinson (Baldric in Black Adder) who said, I can achieve anything as long as i stay relaxed. Who could argue with Baldic?

Well hopefully, having met Shep and Jo a couple of weeks ago - two of the nicest people you could ever wish to meet, and so damn good at what they do - I'm hoping that i can stay relaxed on the radio this afternoon and not sound nervous. 4.30, the Shep and Jo show, BBC Radio Devon. You'd be insane to miss it!

This month we're going to be talking cheeky cheats chutneys.

Now is the season to be thinking about chutney making ready for the winter.

If you've got a glut, or overgrown veggies such as marrows, courgettes or stringy green beans (runner bean chutney is a real west country treat, and absolutely stunning!) then this is what you need to do. If you haven't got a veg garden, nip down to your local farmers' market. Most of us small producers (I sell pork at South Molton farmers' market every Saturday) haven't put our prices up for years, and on the whole we're cheaper than the supermarkets. There are some real bargains to be had, especially for vegetables right now.

Okay, cheats chutney. Now traditionally chutneys are boiled and reduced for hours and hours, which uses stacks of electric (or gas) and you're losing half of what you put in. However, cheats chutneys takes about 30 minutes and you get out what you put in. I'm all for cheating.

Oh, by the way, the runner bean chutney is coloured with Turmeric, so visually it's vibrant and a heart warming colour to cheer you up on gloomy winter days, but also Turmeric is a natural digestive, so it easies digestion.

Runner Bean chutney
You will need:

4-5 onions, peeled and diced
900g/2lb runner beans, diced
68oz/1.5lb granulated sugar
900mls/1.5 pints vinegar of your choice, for example malt or cider
1.5 tbsp turmeric
1.5 tbsp mustard powder
1.5 tbsp cornflour

Put the onions and beans in a stainless-steel pan of salted water and bring to the boil, then reduce and simmer until tender. Strain through a non metalic colander, allowing the mixture to drain well. Tip the mixture into a food processor and mince or pulse until it is chopped and mashed, but not puree. Return to the pan and add the sugar and 720/1.25 pints of vinegar. Bring to the boil and boil for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, mix the turmeric, mustard powder and cornflour in the remaining vinegar and add gradually to the beans over a low heat, stir until mixture has thickened. Return to the boil for another 15 minutes, then leave to cool thoroughly before pouring into cold jars and sealing.

Will keep for about 2 years.

Spicy Marrow Chutney

1.3kg/3lb marrow, peeled, deseeded and cut into 1cm/.5in cubes (about 900/2lb prepared weight)
450/1lb tomatoes, skinned and quartered
450/1lb onions, peeled and chopped
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
50g/2oz sultanas
1tsp ground allspice
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
570ml/1 pint vinegar
680g/1.5 light soft brown sugar

Put the marrow, tomatoes, onions, garlic, sultanas, allspice and seasoning in a large stainless steel pan and stir in 425ml/.75 pint of the vinegar. Bring to the boil, then cover and simmer until the marrow is tender. Remover the lid and continue to simmer to reduce the liquid. Stir in the remaining vinegar and the sugar and return to the boil, then simmer until the chutney is thick. Remover from the heat and cool thoroughly before spooning into cold jars and sealing.

Again, should last about 2 years.

It's all a very cunning plan...

Moving home

All was quiet, tranquil and calm. I reached in and very gently picked up the hen. She had been sitting on eggs in the main chicken house and very cleverly hatched five chicks. Now she was off the nest and unsure where to settle had gathered her babies under her and plonked herself down in the doorway, which was hardly the safest place.

So I needed to move her. So I picked her up.

She screeched. She screeched and screeched and screeched and flapped her wings and went into complete chicken hysterical meltdown. Sometimes language is no barrier. It wasn’t hard to work out what she was screeching. She was calling for help. She was calling for lots of help.

She was calling for the police. She was calling for the army. She was calling for the air force, the navy, the cavalry and the gods of war. She was calling for a swat team and helicopters and napalm. She was calling for Heaven to rain down thunderbolts and Hell to rise up. She was, it’s fair to say, emotional.

The cockerel was the first to respond to his damsel in distress. He charged at me talons flying. I ducked and shouted at him. Then the goat joined in and attempting to protect me started trying to head-but the cockerel.

My dog was running round in circles barking, the hen screeching, the cockerel attacking me and at the same time fending off the goat, and the goat trying to head-but the cockerel.

Then the geese joined in. Geese love any excuse for a scrap. Good gander that he is, he stood to one side while his wife did the goose equivalent of taking off her stilettos and shouldering in, wings back, chest out, mouth open and tongue going nineteen to the dozen.

The hen was screeching, the dog barking, the cockerel attacking, the goat head-butting, the geese scrapping… and then the pigs joined in. Luckily they were in their pen to one side and couldn’t actually get over to us, but they showed their solidarity with their brothers and sisters against the evil oppressor, me, by charging up and down the fence line woofing and barking.

The crowd, any duffing of this magnitude always draws a crowd, consisted of the rest of the chickens and the ducks, who screamed and shouted and jumped up and down in excitement.

I kept hold of the hen. If I let go of her now, I’d have no chance of getting her again. I brought her up to my face to protect myself – this isn’t as cowardly as it sounds, using a female as a shield, as trust me nobody was going to mess with her, not even the geese – and stepped back.

It was carnage. Blindly I staggered through it and popped her into the broody-coop. I slammed the door. She went silent. I rushed back, scooped up the five babies and put them in with mum.

She went all mother hen and fussed over them, then settled down, quite happy, babies under her, a nice, new, safe, single-mother apartment around her, and looked out as if to say, I feel better now.

With the focus of the riot taken away, the rest of us shuffled our feet a bit then wandered off in different directions, hands in pockets, whistling. Only the goose remained, her hubby still off to one side while she screeched and strutted around the empty battlefield as though the whole thing had been orchestrated for her, and she wasn’t finished yet.

It’s true what they say, moving home is without doubt a stressful business.

Getting back to London

I've become very bad at updating my blog lately, mainly because I'm desperately trying to write this book and at the same time keep all the magazine, newspaper and radio work going, not to mention the farm!

It is a lot of fun and i wouldn't change it for the world, but it is hard going sometimes.

However, I did manage to get back to London for a sneaky weekend.

“Can we take a pig with us, not one of the big ones, just, you know, one of the small ones?” I said, standing in front of our bed strewn with clothes, a half full suitcase on the floor.

“No.”

“How about Dex, can I take Dex?”

“Simon, shut up.”

Oh. In the twelve years since we left London to live on Exmoor, we’ve only been back together twice, both times for funerals, and the last one of those was seven years ago. Now, Debbie’s sister is getting married and we’re off to London.

I think I’m looking forward to it. I love my animals, but I haven’t had a single day off for eighteen months and I could do with a break. However I’m not sure I want to leave them. What if they forget me while I’m gone? Or I loose my position as leader, a tenuous state of affairs at the best of times? We’ve all read Animal Farm, what if the pigs revolt?

To keep control, I’m going to have to entrust the symbol of my office to another. The orchestral conductor has a baton, the judge a gavel, the train controller a whistle. I have a yellow bucket, and I shall pass it into the safe keeping of the one left in charge. That should cover it.

I rummage through the clothes on the bed for something of mine. I know what I want to wear. I’ve already picked my outfit. Black shoes, black trousers and a smart fitted shirt. Classic but dapper, with just a hint of cool dude.

I know what Debbie’s going to wear because she’s had the dress hanging up on the outside of the wardrobe for the past six months. It’s, er, long. Floor length. Kind of strappy, cut low front and back with muted colours of dark blue, rusty gold and light grey, and she looks beautiful in it.

After a week of solid work typing up the “How to,” and “What happens if,” manual list of instructions, I’m happy with the result. It’s always a worry of what to include and what to leave out. How in depth should I go without terrifying her of the possibilities? In the end I opt to include the chapter on, “What to do in case of a flood,” but leave out, “What to do in case of an attack by zombies,” figuring if the council don’t need to take precautions then neither do I. Besides, the pigs would probably eat them.

So that’s it, I’m off to party like it’s 1999. For a whole day and night, I’m going to be a human being, not the stressed out worry-wart dad to an odd crew of animals. It’s exciting. No welly boots, no mud, no screeching pigs desperate for dinner NOW! No driving around on a quad bike with rain pouring down my neck. No stampeding naughty horses. No chickens demanding attention. No goats to milk by hand. No killer geese. No stinky Dex. No flying head butts by the lambs. No aloof sheep.

No cats, no ducks, no great dane on the bed at night taking up all the room. No spending hours outside, no wood to cut for the fire to keep warm, no bread to make by hand. And no meat – away from home we eat vegetarian. Just human beings. Normal, everyday, human beings.

Mm, I wonder if I should lie when anyone I don’t know asks me what I do for a living? I could tell them I’m an estate agent! You’re right, maybe not. No, I’ll probably end up drunk in a corner slurring about how the General, a fifty stone pig, is my “Best friend in all the world.”

Yep, it’s time to go and embarrass the family.

And I promise to blog more.

Microwave crisps and home grown peanuts

Yep, it's the scariest time of the month again, my little slot on BBC Radio Devon at 3.30 this afternoon.

Shep and Jo are allowing me on once again, this time to talk about microwave vegetable crisps and grow your own peanuts.

Microwave vegetable crisps
Take raw vegetables, something like parsnips, beetroot and carrots all work well, wash and then slice them thinly with a potato peeler. Dry them in kitchen paper, put them in a bowl and toss them in a little vegetable oil. Microwave on full power for about 2 minutes, depending on how many crisps you're doing. Season and eat - how simple is that?

Peanuts
Possibly the most confused plant out there is the peanut plant. It's the Platypus of the plant world. Technically peanuts (also known as monkey nuts) are not nuts at all, but part of the bean family, or Legumes, but they grow in a similar way to potatoes with the nuts forming under the surface amongst the roots. Confused? - you're not alone, so are they!

Growing them is really easy and lots of fun. Go to a health food shop and buy a monkey nut (a peanut with the shell on). Carefully peel away the shell to reveal the nut, and plant it in a wide pot about an inch under the surface. Pop it in a warm place, on a windowsill or in a green house, water well but allow good drainage.

The plant will grow, and flower, and little runners come back off the plant down to the soil surface again, where they burrow down and on the end of each one a new peanut will grow. It takes about 6 months, and when the bush looks to be dieing back and goes yellow, then the nuts are ready to harvest.

Lemonade and Ginger Beer

I’m back on BBC Radio Devon http://www.bbc.co.uk/devon/programmes again this afternoon between 16.30 & 17.00, chatting to the wonderful Shep and Jo, this time about traditional lemonade and ginger beer.

There’s nothing quite as refreshing as homemade drinks. They cost pennies, they’re natural without any additives or preservatives so they’re better for you, and they’re so simple and quick to make:


Traditional Lemonade

Juice of 5-6 lemons
3 tbsp granulated sugar

Put 1½ litres/2½ pints of water in a 2-litre/3½-pint bottle and add the lemon juice. Carefully tip in the sugar, then secure the lid and shake vigorously. Top up with water to the neck and shake again. Adjust the sugar and lemon to taste, if necessary. Chill and drink or pour over ice.


Ginger Beer/Ginger Ale

½lb fresh ginger
4oz Demerara sugar

Take the ginger and zap it in a food processor or grate finely. Place 2lts of water into a pan and add the ginger. Bring to the boil and simmer for 2 minutes. Transfer to a bowl, cover and leave for 24 hours. Strain into a clean drinks bottle and add 4oz Demerara sugar. Shake vigorously to dissolve the sugar. Adjust the sugar to taste, if necessary. Chill and serve or pour over ice.

For the alcoholic version with a fizzy kick:
Take the ginger and zap it in a food processor or grate finely. Place 2lts of water into a pan and add the ginger. Bring to the boil and simmer for 2 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and cool to blood heat. Add yeast and sugar and stir. Store somewhere warm, adding a teaspoon of sugar and mixing everyday for a week. Strain into a clean drinks bottle with a screw-top lid and top up with water. Warning – this is VERY fizzy! Store outside (in case it explodes!) for 2-3 weeks and open with care. Chill and serve or pour over ice.

Cappuccino milk for the lambs

And this week’s favourite animals are… (drum roll please)… The orphan lambs!

Yep, the orphans have arrived. Three very noisy, very pretty, very noisy, two day old girl lambs. Noisy girl lambs. Little orphan Annie’s (were there any girls in Fagin’s gang in Oliver? Other than Nancy, but she was more to do with Bill Sykes—

—There’s a lovely true story about that. At the time Charles Dickens was writing Oliver Twist he had a friend who was working at the Houses of Parliament as an artist. Anyway a squabble broke out between the artist and one of the MPs over a woman, and the MP got the artist sacked. When the artist relayed this to Dickens, Dickens said he would immortalise the scoundrel by naming a nasty character after him in the latest book he was writing. The MP’s name was Bill Sykes.)

Noisy orphan lambs…

The danger with bottle feeding lambs five times a day is it could send a man off balance for good. They’re far too cute, and the urge to talk in baby speak whilst leaning over them with both hands on knees, screeching “Iccle baby lamber-lambers!” is always there. A lesser man than me might succumb, and certainly all the females.

No, leave all that silly stuff to the girls. Silly stuff. Never catch me doing it. Of course I do have to speak to them, but I do it in a manly way, matter of fact, “Here is your breakfast, please do not slurp.”

Breakfast is a manic headlong rush. The lambs are in the stable next to the goats. I have to dash past the lambs into the goats, get Amber up onto the milking platform and milk her into a bucket. I have a jug and three bottles ready, and I milk her in three separate stages because the milk froths on top like a cappuccino and each bottle has to be the same. Besides, it’s how the lambs like it.

All the while there is utter bedlam from the lambs next door.

Now for the tricky bit.

I’ve a rack in their stable set at the right height from which the lambs feed. All I have to do is fix the bottles in there without trapping a lambs head, or leg, or ear in the bar that secures the bottles in place. Once the bottles are in place, then the bundle can begin.

They all scrum for the same bottle. I’m pulling lambs off and poking their mouths at a spare bottles, and they look like they’re going to go for it… and then they charge back so they can all fight over the same one again.

Eventually I get them all plugged in.

They are little sucking machines, and don’t stop for boring things like breath. Their tails wag, their little tongues poke out from beneath the teat and their tummies swell like a balloon being blown up.

The goats, now milked and free to wander out and about for the day, come over to investigate, and nudge them a bit with their nose. The lambs pay them no attention. The geese go by, the chickens pop in, the dog nips in and out and the sheep stand outside and stare. The lambs ignore the lot of them.

Breakfast is a very serious business you know.

When they’re done, they spend a pleasant minute head butting me affectionately on the leg, before cuddling up together in a corner where the sun pools in the mornings.

That’s how we do breakfast. And in a few hours, we’ll do the same again for lunch. And then the same again in the afternoon. In total, it’s five times a day.

One Year On

A year ago this week my first book came out. I can say first because I've just signed a contract to write a second *jumping up and down like Lewis Hamilton on the podium, and looking pathetically happy!*. A lot has changed in that year. I feel like I've learnt so much, and i think I've changed a lot as a person too. Certainly all those years of wondering and worrying if it's worth pursuing the dream of getting published have been worth it, and just that in itself has a huge impact. The thing is, when you sign a contract to write a first book, from that second on you're fumbling in the dark. There's no president. The writing process, putting the manuscript together, send it off, the publicity, promotions, it's all new and you're just doing your best moment by moment. It's pretty scary because if you muck it up, that's it baby, you've blown your chance and there's no way back. I loved writing the Self Sufficiency Bible, but now i know a little more, I'm going to love writing this next one a whole lot more. The first chapter is already written (that's what the publisher bought), so I've eleven more to write, and i can't wait to get started. I feel like... you know the night before you start a new job, when you're anxious and worried, but excited at the same time? Well that's how i feel right now. I'll have a bath on Sunday night, iron some clothes, and on Monday morning, I'll start. At least i know the coffee will be okay.