January is the season for Yorkshire forced rhubarb and our local supermarket had some on the 'reduced for quick sale' counter. I picked up the rhubarb at once - my husband enjoys it, it was a bargain, I love red and coincidentally a soft cardigan I bought a day later in the January sales almost matched it. So I made a crumble at speed using the microwave.
I don't think that I would ever force our own rhubarb which is now beginning its second season in our back garden. Forcing is not recommended for newly established rhubarb and repeated forcings may weaken the plant. Our rhubarb, misled by the mild winter poked a few inches above the surface of the ground and then stopped as hail showers fell as forecast.
In the warm south, my husband brought me great thick stalks from a customer whose rhubarb seemed to thrive on neglect. I used to manhandle the cooking scissors to cut it into thick green chunks. On arrival here we planted ours in as close a position to hers as we could remember, and hope for the same results.
We polished off our crumble pretty quickly. Forced rhubarb is fine for a treat, or for those customers who can pay full price. It is tender, unlike our former customer's, and sweet. It doesn't go very far. I think I shall be waiting until midsummer for ours.
Wednesday 13 January 2016
Tuesday 12 January 2016
Collecting kindling
Yesterday I found myself tidying our church garden, picking up the ash branches that fell on the lawns in the recent storms. They were thick and knobby like fingers and I snapped them to fit into the brown recycling bin.
At home, the birches had shed their fine twigs in the gales. They were carried on the rainwater that comes up and then soaks away from our garden and lay washed up along the edge of the lawn like flotsam and jetsam on a miniature beach.
On the wall in our dining room is an old picture that belonged to my grandparents, depicting a scene close to Roughlee. There must have been watercolours like this in many a municipal gallery. A young woman in a red blouse, black skirt, stout boots, clean but tattered pinafore is dragging a large branch down the grass and sedge of an autumnal hillside. A less distinct male figure behind her hauls an even larger fallen tree. The sky is clouded, it looks as if it will rain
Sitting before a coal fire, safe in a stout terrace, I imagined my grandparents contemplating this portrait of the romantic poverty of earlier generations, as I in turn looked eastwards down the terraced streets to the wooded slopes above the Ribble.
At home, the birches had shed their fine twigs in the gales. They were carried on the rainwater that comes up and then soaks away from our garden and lay washed up along the edge of the lawn like flotsam and jetsam on a miniature beach.
On the wall in our dining room is an old picture that belonged to my grandparents, depicting a scene close to Roughlee. There must have been watercolours like this in many a municipal gallery. A young woman in a red blouse, black skirt, stout boots, clean but tattered pinafore is dragging a large branch down the grass and sedge of an autumnal hillside. A less distinct male figure behind her hauls an even larger fallen tree. The sky is clouded, it looks as if it will rain
Sitting before a coal fire, safe in a stout terrace, I imagined my grandparents contemplating this portrait of the romantic poverty of earlier generations, as I in turn looked eastwards down the terraced streets to the wooded slopes above the Ribble.
Monday 11 January 2016
Sunlight falling on alders
Sunday afternoon winter walks resumed this week to the benefit of my blood sugar levels. Our intention is complete Preston's Guild Wheel in sections, but this time instead of joining it close to home we took the car, parked up and walked for a little way beyond the M6.
Winter walks bring me so much pleasure. The presence of sunlight is paramount, the low rays of the declining sun pierce the clouds and fall like a spotlight on the deep red twigs of alder trees, birches and hazels. There is the sound of running water in the brooks which to my relief in this area have not broken their banks. There is the joy of wearing wellington boots, squelching through mud and detouring up rutted tracks without a map but still with an eye to the landmarks - motorway, farms and the wooded valley on the right.
We splashed on towards some outbuildings, located the Guild Wheel and walked a section to complete our circuit. It then began to rain again as I scrambled over a rivulet to reach the driver's seat. I am a lowland person, not for me the heavy weather gear, the kit, the O/S maps, the compass and mint cake. I like the familiar Sunday afternoon, complete with exercising dogs and cyclists and the prospect of toast and tea.
Winter walks bring me so much pleasure. The presence of sunlight is paramount, the low rays of the declining sun pierce the clouds and fall like a spotlight on the deep red twigs of alder trees, birches and hazels. There is the sound of running water in the brooks which to my relief in this area have not broken their banks. There is the joy of wearing wellington boots, squelching through mud and detouring up rutted tracks without a map but still with an eye to the landmarks - motorway, farms and the wooded valley on the right.
We splashed on towards some outbuildings, located the Guild Wheel and walked a section to complete our circuit. It then began to rain again as I scrambled over a rivulet to reach the driver's seat. I am a lowland person, not for me the heavy weather gear, the kit, the O/S maps, the compass and mint cake. I like the familiar Sunday afternoon, complete with exercising dogs and cyclists and the prospect of toast and tea.
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