After the lettuce has bolted

One advantage of living in a place that is rarely hot and dry for any length of time is that green leafy crops stand well in the ground. I am still finishing off the first sowing of lettuces made back in early April. Conventional gardening wisdom is to sow a few seeds every couple of weeks, but I find that three (or at most four) outdoor sowings of saladings is usually sufficient for the whole season. And that applied even when there were two of us here to eat them.

But even under my cool, damp conditions they do eventually bolt. My chickens don't appear very interested in them, and I am a little reluctant to give the pigs too much lettuce. I am sure they would happily demolish the lot, but I am not sure the effect it would have on their, admittedly none-too-delicate, digestions while they are still quite young. It is certainly a waste to throw it straight onto the compost heap. So what to do?

Lettuce is not an obvious ingredient for hot dishes, with one or two notable exceptions. I sometimes use a few chopped leaves if I am short of green stuff for noodle soup, and braised peas and lettuce is a lovely way to make use of peas that escaped being picked while young and tender and have turned a little mealy.

Sadly there is no excess of peas, either fresh or mealy, in my garden this year. I have made several sowings - both directly into the ground and in lengths of guttering indoors - using older and freshly-bought seed. In return I have had about half a dozen pea plants. A complete disaster that I am at a loss to explain.

There were some shop-bought peas in the freezer, however, which gave me the idea of making a soupy version of the braised lettuce. I simply softened a couple of chopped shallots in a little butter (and I think it does have to be butter here, rather than oil), and threw in a couple of handfuls of frozen peas, the washed and shredded lettuce and a nice sprig of mint. I then waited for the mountain of lettuce to subside a little before pouring in some vegetable stock (in this case the liquid saved from cooking chick peas, which makes a very serviceable and savoury stock). This was simply simmered for ten minutes or so, seasoned and then attacked with the hand blender until smooth.

I was very pleased with the result. The slight bitterness from the lettuce contrasts beautifully with the sweetness of the peas, while the hint of mint gives the whole soup a satisfying depth of flavour. I did think of adding a little cream, but in the end didn't think it needed it.

All in all a happy end for something that originally looked destined for the compost heap!

Rhiwbob

Rhiwbob is the Welsh spelling of rhubarb. It is pronounced rhee-you-bob and is a word that always makes me smile when I see it.

This weekend I harvested the last few sticks I wanted from the plants. A few sticks were chopped up and frozen as is for making crumbles later on in the year, but most of it was rendered down in the oven with some sugar and crystallised ginger. This I use as a topping for my breakfast oats. It has been a good year so, with any luck, the tubs of frozen rhubarb will last me until the apples come on stream.

I have no idea what variety of rhubarb it is. All I know is that it is robust, flavoursome and prolific. Very prolific!

R was given the original roots by a work colleague. Chris and his family had a 10-acre farm near the coast, and it was a place we loved to visit whenever we could. I think it was there that R realised that smallholding was something ordinary people like us could do, and I often wonder if we would have found our way to Wales and our little place on the hill if it hadn't been for those visits.

The resulting rhubarb plants certainly love it here, helped along with a generous helping of well-rotted stable manure every winter. The received wisdom about growing rhubarb is that you shouldn't let it flower, as that will weaken the plants. I think that is nonsense. I have been letting these plants go to flower and then seed every year for seven years. The massive flower spikes are so dramatic and exotic-looking that I always look forward to them in the Spring. I have certainly not noticed any fall-off in stalk production, fortified as the plants are with their generous top-dressing of manure.

As the oven was on already for stewing most of the stalks, I decided to make a batch of my favourite rhubarb and walnut muffins. Made with wholemeal flour, freshly-laid egg, rhubarb and nuts, these delightfully moist and sticky buns feel almost healthy. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how to make muffins, but the recipe I use is similar to this one by Nigella, although I use about half the quantity of rhubarb, don't use cinnamon and do add chopped walnut pieces.

They also freeze and defrost beautifully, so I don't have to worry about eating up a dozen muffins in the next 24 hours!

Woodland poultry

Weird-looking critter, isn't it?

I have had my eye on this chicken of the woods for a couple of weeks now. I decided not to risk leaving it until I got back from my holiday; it rained here for most of the time I was away and I was a little worried about losing it to slugs. Or worse still, to another mushroom hunter!

Chicken of the woods is a wonderfully dense, solid mushroom. It doesn't take on a slimy texture when heated, and really shines in situations that call for diced or sliced chicken, particularly when cooked gently in a sauce.

I may be looking in all the wrong places, but it doesn't seem to do well here. There have been a few down in the valley, but those have been growing on trees in fields I have driven past and don't have permission to forage in. More's the pity.

Ironically I saw a beautiful one on a tree this week as I was walking along the bank of the Spree in Berlin. But it was quite high up and I was wearing my respectable clothes... And sadly the rest of the party probably wouldn't have understood my excitement either!

It has been warm today, so I wasn't looking for a heavy pasta and sauce sort of supper, nor a substantial stew. But I did buy a couple of nice big aubergines at the greengrocer this morning with a view to making moutabal, and they suggested the perfect solution.

Pizza!

Cut the aubergine into slices roughly 1 cm thick. Brush them lightly with oil and grill under quite a high heat on both sides until browned and softened.
Meanwhile chop and soften a shallot and some chopped garlic in a little oil. Throw in some chopped pepper as well perhaps, then add the diced mushroom along with some fresh marjoram or oregano. When the mushroom cubes have softened a little, pour in some of the now-dwindling stock of passata from the freezer and simmer until the liquid has reduced and thickened.

Ladle generously onto the aubergine slices, top with olives, sliced tomatoes or whatever else takes your fancy and add a little grated cheese (in my case parmesan, as that was all there was in the fridge).

Grill until the cheese is bubbling, then allow to cool just a little before eating.

This week we shall mainly be eating...

... leeks!

I couldn't wait any longer. They were still occupying the bed that I have earmarked for the beans this year, so they had to come out this weekend. The biggest ones are probably only fit for making stock, but there are still enough for several meals there. I'm not sure yet what to do with the middling leeks, but the babies need to be enjoyed quickly.

Way back when, in the days when my garden was the tiny back yard of a terraced house in Manchester, and I could only dream of a proper veg patch rather than a couple of dozen pots, a South-facing windowsill and a cold frame, I had a book entitled, "The Weekend Gardener", or something like that. It gave fortnightly lists of jobs to do in the garden, most of which didn't apply to me due to lack of garden. But the entry I liked most over the Summer months was "Eat at least one meal a week outside", and it is something R and I always tried to do whenever the sun was out.

The window of opportunity for doing that here is very short, so it is even more important to make the most of the sunshine.
R's parents gave us the table when we moved here. During the Summer it lives under the big sycamore tree in the rather grandly-titled "orchard". This was where we would shell peas and beans together, share a glass of wine when he arrived back after a week away and, after a weekend of work outside, would just sit with our tired bodies and watch the sun go down over the hill, kept company by the ever-busy swallows and house martens, while we waited for the bats to make their entrance, signalling a change in temperature and time to go indoors.

I firmly believe in the principle that the better the food, the less you need to do with it.
A handful of peas picked, shelled and eaten in the vegetable garden tastes better than just about any dish that can be cooked with them. A perfectly-ripe strawberry picked with the early morning sun on it just cannot be imitated by any supermarket's Finest range. And a new-laid egg still warm from the nest box makes a poached egg that most top chefs would be hard-placed to beat.

So, for a Summer lunch take a bunch of asparagus from the farm shop, the final few broad beans from the freezer (after removing their dull grey coats to reveal the vivid green kernels) and some just-picked baby leeks. Steam until just tender. Perhaps add a little freshly-ground salt and pepper, and just enough butter to make everything pleasingly glossy. Poach the eggs discovered in the nest box this morning and attempt to place them attractively on top. Carry outside and eat in the warm sunshine.
The shop-bought apple and tomatoes add a sour note of commercial realism to the picture, but perhaps the home-made elderflower cordial mitigates this a little.

The remains of the day

My ongoing quest to eat the freezer contents continues.

Lamb isn't a problem as such. I think I could eat it every day without ever becoming bored. Sadly both my doctor and my waistline would prefer it that I don't.

A leg roast once in a while is a Sunday treat, though, particularly after I have earned it by working outside in the garden all day. Cooked hard and fast, the joints from my little Hebridean sheep are as good as they come and are ready in about an hour. That's just long enough to walk Moose and get back in time to put the potatoes on.

Brown and deeply savoury on the outside, pink and succulent inside, and with enough fat (but not too much) to stop them drying out in the hot oven, I really don't think they can be beaten. For this little beauty I had a few left-over anchovies, so I studded the meat with them and some slices of garlic for added umami, but they weren't essential. On the other hand, a good ten-minute rest was.

Meal 1 was straightforward. Roast lamb, mash made with some of the last spuds from store, lots of spring cabbage and gravy made from the meat juices and a dollop of rosemary jelly. No problem. The hard part is to stop going back to the joint for just one more little slice!

Then, if it's Monday, it must be hash. Lots of onions, cubed potatoes and meat, all slowly pan-fried with the remaining gravy. Patience is a virtue here. It takes time to achieve the right amount of crispy edge, and of course a big handful of chopped parsley is needed just before that moment is reached. You could add a fried egg if feeling very greedy, but that would be painting the lily.

And so to the very last remains. The bone and the last few scraps of meat clinging to it.
Soup, of course, but where in the world shall we go?

One of the advantages of a longer than normal winter is that it gives plenty of opportunity to try out a few things in the kitchen. As citrus fruits were plentiful and cheap at the same time, and as R wasn't here to nag me to make Seville orange marmalade, I spent a couple of pleasant afternoons making lime pickle and preserved lemons.

With this in mind, it was destination North Africa!

After I had removed any decent-looking scraps of meat from the bone, it went into the stock pot with the usual aromatics. I wasn't looking for a thick, unctuous sort of stock; just some lightly-flavoured liquid for my soup.

To make the soup, I sweated the usual suspects (onion, carrot, a little garlic and a stick of celery) until softened, then added a good teaspoon each of cinnamon, ginger and cumin. Boy, does that make the room smell nice! These were followed some precooked chickpeas from the freezer, the end of a yellow pepper, a squeeze of sundried tomato paste and the chopped preserved lemon rind.

Simmer gently on the stove until all the vegetables are soft, then throw in the meat scraps to heat through and serve.
Light, warming and absolutely delicious!

Eating those weeds

Here on my hilltop I am blessed with rich, free-draining soil and, being Wales, there is always plenty of moisture to go around as well. It means that I can grow pretty well anything - provided, of course, that it doesn't mind constant winds, snow, late frosts and a shortage of sun throughout the summer months.

One thing that grows very well is the nettle.

Some weeds like buttercups and dandelions are attractive enough that it is difficult not to admire their beauty when flowering en masse in my pasture. On the other hand, there is not a lot to be said for nettles from the aesthetic viewpoint. Oh, I suppose they have a certain stature and presence, and the colourwash effect from bright acid to dark sagey green works as an effective counterfoil to more showy plantings, but I dislike them intensely.

There, I said it.
I know that as a yoghurt-weaving self-sufficiency type I am supposed to love them. But I don't. They are nasty, invasive, stingy weeds and the world would be a better place without them.

When R was here to do the mowing, it left me with enough time to keep the nettles and docks under control. Now I have to do both, the nettles have won most of the recent skirmishes, and if I am not careful will win the war as well. I am very reluctant to do it, but napalm death may be required (or at least a bit of glyphosate).

In the meantime, however, I have been doing my bit to stem the advancing tide by eating them. Nettle soup is always a favourite, provided there is some good chicken stock available. I have a friend who makes a fantastic nettle champagne, and last year I discovered that saag made with nettles is truly delicious.

I was recently sent a recipe for nettle pesto, and wanted to try it out.
As usual, I didn't follow it exactly, but pesto is a forgiving dish so it didn't seem to matter.
So, with a trug full of freshly-plucked nettle tops (which barely made a dent in the forest out there), I put a pan of water on to boil. Blanching is, of course, an essential step if you don't want your pesto to have a unique, tongue-swelling piquancy that isn't a usual feature of the dish.

A minute in boiling water is enough to kill the stings. Then you simply put the now bright green nettle tops in the blender with some garlic. The recipe also called for pine nuts which I did not have, but a goodly handful of walnuts took their place. Press the button to whizz it all up together, add some salt and start pouring in a mixture of sunflower and olive oil. Parmesan is traditional here, but I like to make pesto in large batches and freeze it for later use, and I prefer my cheese added at the point of consumption.

I made this with no great expectations of culinary excellence. In fact I expected it to simply taste "green". That isn't a bad thing in itself, but hardly a basis for an enthusiastic recommendation. But I am not ashamed to admit that I was very pleasantly surprised. The nettles have a sharp freshness and slight bite that I wasn't expecting, and the vivid green makes it particularly attractive.
Pesto alla genovese it is not, but a tasty use for an ever-present resource it certainly is. I fully intended to freeze half of this batch, but I found that it also went rather well on crackers!
(I have a sneaking suspicion that it would be nice mixed half and half with coriander too).

Jammin'

It has taken two and a half years, but last week I finally used up the last of the jam that we made the Autumn before R died. It is probably a good thing that home-produced food doesn't come with a Use by label!

The fact that it has taken so long to use it up is a sign of the way I have almost entirely stopped eating bread. These days I make a few loaves when I have people to stay, and there is normally a bag of rolls in the freezer for defrosting individually to have with soup. But that's it. No toast for breakfast, jam butties or anything like that. A spoonful in my daily yoghurt is a very slow way to use up a shelf full of jam.

A quick examination of the freezer contents found several bags of fruit. I didn't fancy gooseberry or rhubarb, but there were quite a lot of blackcurrants and raspberries, and a single bag of damsons. So mixed-fruit jam it was then!

The raspberries were R's favourite.
The canes were the first thing we put in the new vegetable garden way back in our first winter here. I always intended to set up a system of posts and wires, and to train the canes along them neatly, but like so many things it never quite happened. Yet the raspberries keep coming in abundance, even with competition from the local blackbird population. It pleases my sense of order to line up serried ranks of berries on trays for freezing, but the greater delight is taking out a couple of handfuls in the middle of winter for a smoothie or pavlova, giving a little flash of summer on a dull day.

Then there are the blackcurrant bushes. When we built the fruit bed, I bought a couple of bushes from the garden centre at great expense. Shortly afterwards I was offered some cuttings from a friend's garden - at the time I didn't realise how easily they root. And naturally the nameless freebies are consistently bigger, sweeter and more flavoursome than the bought variety. The blackcurrant harvest is one of my biggest garden pleasures. Rather than picking berries from the bushes, I always combine harvesting with pruning and simply lop off the currant-laden branches, take them to the table beneath the sycamore tree and strip the branches there, usually accompanied by a glass of wine.

And the damson tree deserves a mention too.
When we moved here, it was in such a sorry state. The previous owner's sheep had practically ring-barked the poor thing, and there was a huge foot-long scar in the trunk. It was spindly and top-heavy, and I was all for chopping it down there and then. R persuaded me to give it one year and then decide on its fate. So I gave it a good feed of manure, kept the grass down around it - and it rewarded us with a harvest of damsons that far exceeded all expectations. They aren't very large or particularly attractive, but they are sweet and delicious. The season is all too short as the wasps eat them if they are left on the tree too long, but for a glorious fortnight it is good to gorge on the little purple plums, and to freeze a couple of bags for moments like this.

I can't give a recipe because I didn't really use one. But all three fruits are fairly high in pectin, so setting isn't a problem. You just have to remember to boil them for twenty minutes or so before adding the sugar, otherwise the skins of the blackcurrants and damsons can be a bit tough. It is also a good idea to remove the stones from the damsons unless you like playing Russian roulette with your teeth and breakfast confiture!

My preference in jam is for as little sugar as I can get away with. 1 pound of sugar to 1 pound of fruit is nicest, but often isn't enough to keep the mould at bay, so I normally plump for a ratio of 1.25 : 1 which is still low enough that the flavour of the fruit isn't overpowered by the sugar. Then just dissolve the sugar in the fruit and boil furiously until a blob of jam on your cold plate passes the wrinkle test. It won't take too long because of the high-pectin fruit, remember.

That's it. Ladle into sterilised jars and seal. You can mess around with wax discs or water baths if you like, but none of it is necessary - clean jars and hot jam are all you need, and put the lids on before the mould spores have a chance to get in there too. And once you have opened the jar, always use a clean spoon to remove the jam and not the crumb-covered knife that you have just used to spread butter on your toast. Follow this little rule and your jam will remain pristine from the day you open the jar to the day you sadly scrape out the last dregs for your breakfast.