Bev Allen's Blog, page 3
January 6, 2013
Stories of my Grandmothers
One of my grandmothers was tiny and round; she had the most beautiful soft skin, blue eyes and silver hair.
The other one was tall and soldid, her eyes were brown and her hair was dyed a determined, unrelenting black.
One smelt of Pond's cold cream and the other of Woodbines untipped cigarettes.
I loved them dearly.
They were around the time the old Queen died, not necessarily welcome aditions to families long on kids and very, very short on money. Later they married into families long on kids, but perhapos not quite as short on money.
The result was, of course, a fund of stories of their own lives and going back to their mothers and grandmothers.
I've taken elements of these stories and writen a series of flash fiction tales from them. Some liberties have been taken with time etc., but there is a nugget of truth in each one.
I'll share some of them over the next few months. Here's the first
Florence Lester 1904 to 1907
On bitter February afternoons in the days before central heating, the only place to be really warm was Gran’s back room where the fire hadn’t been allowed to go out since November.
I’d sit and watch the flames play over the coals and eventually tuck my heat mottled legs up under me. The cat curled up the grate would open one baleful eye and glared at me, but he never moved even though the smell of burning fur sometimes scented the air as a spark landed on him.
As a favoured grandchild my comfort was enhanced by treats like crumpets to toast and lavish butter upon, or hot chocolate steaming in thick pottery mugs or, if all else failed, bags of toffee made pliable and yielding by the heat.
A piece I had dropped on the rug had acquired a generous coat of cat hair, so I’d lobbed it into the back of the fire where it melted on the hot coals, adding the smell of burnt sugar to the ever present tang of Gran’s Woodbines.
After a while she flicked the long tail of grey ash off the end of her cigarette and said,
“It smelled like when Florrie died.”
Turning away from my fire inspired day dreams I smiled up at her, thinking she must be as mazed by the heat as I was
“Florrie isn’t dead,” I said. “You spoke to her on the phone last week.”
She shook her head,
“Not that Florrie. My other sister Florence.”
“You had two sisters called Florence?”
She nodded, lighting another of the untipped cigarettes she would smoke all her long life.
“I remember her lying by the fire wrapped in a blanket. Mam had given her a sugar lollipop and every now and then she’d try and lift it to her mouth.”
Gran smiled, “I never took my eyes off it, just in case. I was about four and that jealous.”
I thought of the little she’d let me know about her childhood in the dirty mill town during the years before The Great War.
“Wasn’t there one for you?”
“No,” Gran said. “I don’t know how Mam found the penny for it, not with my father and the drink.”
She drew on her cigarette.
“It seemed such a waste to me,” she said. “She’d give it a little lick, but she wasn’t enjoying it the way I would’ve. Eventually she dropped it and I was there like a shot, little guts that I was, but Mam shouted “No” before I could get it in my gob and put it on the fire.”
Our eyes met and we both knew in that moment long dead Mam had saved this daughter’s life.
The toffee on the fire charred black.
“I don’t remember what happened after that,” Gran said. “She just wasn’t there anymore. And then, later, another Florrie came along.”
She gazed once more into the flames.
“Poor little soul. I’m the only one left alive who remembers her”
And just for a moment on that cold February afternoon, the small sister whose brief existence had made scarcely a dent in the passage of my Gran’s long life, lived again in the smell of sugar burning on a coal fire.
[c]Bev Allen 2011
The other one was tall and soldid, her eyes were brown and her hair was dyed a determined, unrelenting black.
One smelt of Pond's cold cream and the other of Woodbines untipped cigarettes.
I loved them dearly.
They were around the time the old Queen died, not necessarily welcome aditions to families long on kids and very, very short on money. Later they married into families long on kids, but perhapos not quite as short on money.
The result was, of course, a fund of stories of their own lives and going back to their mothers and grandmothers.
I've taken elements of these stories and writen a series of flash fiction tales from them. Some liberties have been taken with time etc., but there is a nugget of truth in each one.
I'll share some of them over the next few months. Here's the first
Florence Lester 1904 to 1907
On bitter February afternoons in the days before central heating, the only place to be really warm was Gran’s back room where the fire hadn’t been allowed to go out since November.
I’d sit and watch the flames play over the coals and eventually tuck my heat mottled legs up under me. The cat curled up the grate would open one baleful eye and glared at me, but he never moved even though the smell of burning fur sometimes scented the air as a spark landed on him.
As a favoured grandchild my comfort was enhanced by treats like crumpets to toast and lavish butter upon, or hot chocolate steaming in thick pottery mugs or, if all else failed, bags of toffee made pliable and yielding by the heat.
A piece I had dropped on the rug had acquired a generous coat of cat hair, so I’d lobbed it into the back of the fire where it melted on the hot coals, adding the smell of burnt sugar to the ever present tang of Gran’s Woodbines.
After a while she flicked the long tail of grey ash off the end of her cigarette and said,
“It smelled like when Florrie died.”
Turning away from my fire inspired day dreams I smiled up at her, thinking she must be as mazed by the heat as I was
“Florrie isn’t dead,” I said. “You spoke to her on the phone last week.”
She shook her head,
“Not that Florrie. My other sister Florence.”
“You had two sisters called Florence?”
She nodded, lighting another of the untipped cigarettes she would smoke all her long life.
“I remember her lying by the fire wrapped in a blanket. Mam had given her a sugar lollipop and every now and then she’d try and lift it to her mouth.”
Gran smiled, “I never took my eyes off it, just in case. I was about four and that jealous.”
I thought of the little she’d let me know about her childhood in the dirty mill town during the years before The Great War.
“Wasn’t there one for you?”
“No,” Gran said. “I don’t know how Mam found the penny for it, not with my father and the drink.”
She drew on her cigarette.
“It seemed such a waste to me,” she said. “She’d give it a little lick, but she wasn’t enjoying it the way I would’ve. Eventually she dropped it and I was there like a shot, little guts that I was, but Mam shouted “No” before I could get it in my gob and put it on the fire.”
Our eyes met and we both knew in that moment long dead Mam had saved this daughter’s life.
The toffee on the fire charred black.
“I don’t remember what happened after that,” Gran said. “She just wasn’t there anymore. And then, later, another Florrie came along.”
She gazed once more into the flames.
“Poor little soul. I’m the only one left alive who remembers her”
And just for a moment on that cold February afternoon, the small sister whose brief existence had made scarcely a dent in the passage of my Gran’s long life, lived again in the smell of sugar burning on a coal fire.
[c]Bev Allen 2011
December 22, 2012
Not a Winner:-(
First off...as the great wheel of the year turns, I wish each of you peace and joy.
I entered another of these flash fiction duals that Adam keeps talking me into. The genre this time was Crime, not one of my strengths, so this time I was the loser, but here is what I wrote and I hope it will amuse you.
THE INNOCENT CHILD
“William DeMarco Kiernan! Get down here!”
Bill was sorting a pile of comics in the attic, separating the junk from potential sales. He was covered in dust and he knew from experience his mother had little sympathy with dust, so he ignored her in the hope she didn’t know where he was.
“I know you’re up there. Get down here NOW.”
No escape.
He sighed and put his treasures to one side and went to find out what had set her off this time. He mentally reviewed his recent past for criminal activity. Had he forgotten to clear his pockets before putting his jeans out to wash, left the lid off the ketchup bottle or put an empty milk carton back in the fridge?
All were possible; some were probably.
She was standing outside his bedroom and he knew instantly she had been snooping again. Her face was shading towards beetroot and her mouth had bunched itself into the round pucker which reminded Bill of a cat’s behind. She thrust out a hand and he saw she had found the wallet.
When it came to ferreting out stuff she wasn’t supposed to know about, his mother was better than a bloodhound with two noses.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“It’s a wallet, Ma,” Bill replied. “My wallet.”
“Your wallet? There’s over a thousand dollars in here. Where did you get it?”
“It’s mine. I earned it.”
“I don’t believe you,” she replied.
No, he thought, you can never bring yourself to believe anything good about me, can you.
“I earned it,” he repeated, with a shrug.
Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him, her foot tapping as she jumped to conclusions.
“Have you been stealing?” she demanded.
“Jeez, Ma!”
“I think I’ve been short a few times,” she continued. “And I bet if I ask your father he’ll say the same.”
“Yeah, right. I took a grand from you and you never noticed.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young man. I want to know where every penny of this came from.”
“I told you, I earned it. You know how much yard work I do for the neighbours. And I made a fair bit selling stuff online.”
She wasn’t listening and Bill wasn’t surprised, she never listened. He kicked himself for not having hidden the wallet better, but it never occurred to him she would raise the carpet and check every floorboard until she found the one with the clean shiny screws and take the trouble to prise it up.
“If you got this from working, the neighbours will confirm it,” she announced. “Come on, we’re going to ask them.”
“Hell, Ma! Do you want to get me fired?”
“Why would they do that? Apparently you’re doing such a great job; they’re willing to pay you over the odds.”
“Do you think I’ve stolen from them?”
She rounded on him, her face now twisted in contempt.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
He trailed after her, wondering for the hundredth time what he had done to make her distrust him so much. He knew she didn’t like him, he had always known that, but it had only been in the last couple of years he had realised she knew nothing of love.
Had he loved and respected her, he might have wondered why.
She dragged him to each of the neighbours to ask what they had been paying him. He watched each face as their eyes flickered from his mother to him. Not one of them had any complaint and most had nothing but compliments. Bill saw her getting more and more frustrated and annoyed.
“I told you,” he said.
“What they paid doesn’t come to a quarter of this,” she replied. “And you never made the rest selling your junk.”
She gazed about the street looking for more prey.
“I bet it was Mr and Mrs Samuels,” she said in triumph.
The Samuels had been in their early forties and childless when they moved in; Bill’s mother had approved, but she’d sneered when eighteen months later a baby had appeared.
She was sneering now as Mrs Samuel’s offered her coffee and cake in the kitchen, leaving Bill with the pretty toddler.
Bill watched them go and then bent to steal a kiss from his daughter.
(c) Bev Allen 2012
I entered another of these flash fiction duals that Adam keeps talking me into. The genre this time was Crime, not one of my strengths, so this time I was the loser, but here is what I wrote and I hope it will amuse you.
THE INNOCENT CHILD
“William DeMarco Kiernan! Get down here!”
Bill was sorting a pile of comics in the attic, separating the junk from potential sales. He was covered in dust and he knew from experience his mother had little sympathy with dust, so he ignored her in the hope she didn’t know where he was.
“I know you’re up there. Get down here NOW.”
No escape.
He sighed and put his treasures to one side and went to find out what had set her off this time. He mentally reviewed his recent past for criminal activity. Had he forgotten to clear his pockets before putting his jeans out to wash, left the lid off the ketchup bottle or put an empty milk carton back in the fridge?
All were possible; some were probably.
She was standing outside his bedroom and he knew instantly she had been snooping again. Her face was shading towards beetroot and her mouth had bunched itself into the round pucker which reminded Bill of a cat’s behind. She thrust out a hand and he saw she had found the wallet.
When it came to ferreting out stuff she wasn’t supposed to know about, his mother was better than a bloodhound with two noses.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“It’s a wallet, Ma,” Bill replied. “My wallet.”
“Your wallet? There’s over a thousand dollars in here. Where did you get it?”
“It’s mine. I earned it.”
“I don’t believe you,” she replied.
No, he thought, you can never bring yourself to believe anything good about me, can you.
“I earned it,” he repeated, with a shrug.
Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him, her foot tapping as she jumped to conclusions.
“Have you been stealing?” she demanded.
“Jeez, Ma!”
“I think I’ve been short a few times,” she continued. “And I bet if I ask your father he’ll say the same.”
“Yeah, right. I took a grand from you and you never noticed.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young man. I want to know where every penny of this came from.”
“I told you, I earned it. You know how much yard work I do for the neighbours. And I made a fair bit selling stuff online.”
She wasn’t listening and Bill wasn’t surprised, she never listened. He kicked himself for not having hidden the wallet better, but it never occurred to him she would raise the carpet and check every floorboard until she found the one with the clean shiny screws and take the trouble to prise it up.
“If you got this from working, the neighbours will confirm it,” she announced. “Come on, we’re going to ask them.”
“Hell, Ma! Do you want to get me fired?”
“Why would they do that? Apparently you’re doing such a great job; they’re willing to pay you over the odds.”
“Do you think I’ve stolen from them?”
She rounded on him, her face now twisted in contempt.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
He trailed after her, wondering for the hundredth time what he had done to make her distrust him so much. He knew she didn’t like him, he had always known that, but it had only been in the last couple of years he had realised she knew nothing of love.
Had he loved and respected her, he might have wondered why.
She dragged him to each of the neighbours to ask what they had been paying him. He watched each face as their eyes flickered from his mother to him. Not one of them had any complaint and most had nothing but compliments. Bill saw her getting more and more frustrated and annoyed.
“I told you,” he said.
“What they paid doesn’t come to a quarter of this,” she replied. “And you never made the rest selling your junk.”
She gazed about the street looking for more prey.
“I bet it was Mr and Mrs Samuels,” she said in triumph.
The Samuels had been in their early forties and childless when they moved in; Bill’s mother had approved, but she’d sneered when eighteen months later a baby had appeared.
She was sneering now as Mrs Samuel’s offered her coffee and cake in the kitchen, leaving Bill with the pretty toddler.
Bill watched them go and then bent to steal a kiss from his daughter.
(c) Bev Allen 2012
November 22, 2012
Winner!
I entered a flash fiction competition, one of those "just for fun" ones. And I won. Here it is and I hope you enjoy it.
The Alpha and The Omega
“Okay, let’s talk garbage…”
There were nods of agreement; talking garbage went with the sort of alcohol made in the engine room, behind the drive piles where the Captain never goes.
“What happens to your soul if you die out here?”
Cups were refilled and drained.
“You mean if you’ve got one?”
“Yeah. If you die out here, light years away from Earth, where does your soul go?”
The two other men gave this some consideration, they weren’t very drunk, not yet, but they were at the stage where logic remains, but reason has taken a hike.
“If you’ve got one, it would go someplace,” Calver said. “Like heaven.”
“An’ that’s my point,” Hazelrigg replied. “If you’ve got one, then god must have made it. And god made Earth. So, if you die away from Earth, where does your soul go?”
There was a pause while the bottle did another round and the philosophical possibilities of this seeped through the alcohol corrupted synapses.
“Are you saying god only made one Earth and one Heaven?”
“No, that’s dumb, we’ve seen thousands of worlds,” Hazelrigg said with the clear insight of the well-oiled. “But, what if Earth’s god made Earth and Earth’s heaven for the people of Earth. An’ all the other places were made by other gods for their people and they have their own heaven. So if we die out here, would we find heaven?”
“I wouldn’t wanna go to one like that last place we found,” Tiverton muttered, he didn’t have the same tolerance level as the other two. “I’d rather go home.”
“That’s my point, if it happens out here, can you go home? And if you can’t what happens to you?”
This was given careful consideration.
“Perhaps,” Calver said. “It depends on if there’s a bit of you left.”
“What bit?”
“Any bit. Like if you die on board, they take your ashes back home. I bet your soul stays with a bit of you until you get back.”
Tiverton nodded owlishly; then a worried expression crossed his face.
“But,” he said. “What if there isn’t any of you left. Or if what’s left is just floating in space forever and ever and ever.”
“Then you’d never go to heaven,” Hazelrigg told him.
“That’s sad, that’s really, really sad.”
Tears welled up in his eyes and he reached for the bottle.
They all drank a melancholy draft.
“But,” Calver said, suddenly inspired. “We’re all star stuff. So we just get to be that again.”
This cheered them all up, until Hazelrigg said,
“But that would just be the real stuff, you know, the bones an’ stuff. What about the inside your head stuff?”
They debated the question for another hour or so, until Tiverton passed out and it occurred to Hazelrigg that Calver had put forward the same theory at least five times and it was time to find their bunks.
While they slept the still in the engine room had a small malfunction which spread to the drive pile and finally jumped a safety system into the main coil.
Somewhere in the vast black silence of space there was a burst of energy and a million, million fragments of matter spread away in an ever expanding ball.
A tiny piece of this matter wandered through eons of space and time. It was a mix of the organic and the metallic and somewhere deep inside it, was preserved some chemical residue. In the sterile vacuum of deep space it remained uncorrupted.
Eventually the fragment became caught in the gravitational field of a young star, travelling close enough to be warmed, but not burnt up. As it was pushed by the solar wind, it was pulled again, but this time into the orbit of a rocky world circling the star.
This time there was no escape and it was sucked down through the thin atmosphere. Some of it was lost in the heat of entry, but what remained fell hot and flaming into a patch of liquid teaming with bacteria.
Most died as the liquid boiled and evaporated, but not all and what was left changed and began the first steps on the greatest journey of them all.
And Hazelrigg the creator became god and his soul found a new heaven.
(c) Bev Allen 2012
The Alpha and The Omega
“Okay, let’s talk garbage…”
There were nods of agreement; talking garbage went with the sort of alcohol made in the engine room, behind the drive piles where the Captain never goes.
“What happens to your soul if you die out here?”
Cups were refilled and drained.
“You mean if you’ve got one?”
“Yeah. If you die out here, light years away from Earth, where does your soul go?”
The two other men gave this some consideration, they weren’t very drunk, not yet, but they were at the stage where logic remains, but reason has taken a hike.
“If you’ve got one, it would go someplace,” Calver said. “Like heaven.”
“An’ that’s my point,” Hazelrigg replied. “If you’ve got one, then god must have made it. And god made Earth. So, if you die away from Earth, where does your soul go?”
There was a pause while the bottle did another round and the philosophical possibilities of this seeped through the alcohol corrupted synapses.
“Are you saying god only made one Earth and one Heaven?”
“No, that’s dumb, we’ve seen thousands of worlds,” Hazelrigg said with the clear insight of the well-oiled. “But, what if Earth’s god made Earth and Earth’s heaven for the people of Earth. An’ all the other places were made by other gods for their people and they have their own heaven. So if we die out here, would we find heaven?”
“I wouldn’t wanna go to one like that last place we found,” Tiverton muttered, he didn’t have the same tolerance level as the other two. “I’d rather go home.”
“That’s my point, if it happens out here, can you go home? And if you can’t what happens to you?”
This was given careful consideration.
“Perhaps,” Calver said. “It depends on if there’s a bit of you left.”
“What bit?”
“Any bit. Like if you die on board, they take your ashes back home. I bet your soul stays with a bit of you until you get back.”
Tiverton nodded owlishly; then a worried expression crossed his face.
“But,” he said. “What if there isn’t any of you left. Or if what’s left is just floating in space forever and ever and ever.”
“Then you’d never go to heaven,” Hazelrigg told him.
“That’s sad, that’s really, really sad.”
Tears welled up in his eyes and he reached for the bottle.
They all drank a melancholy draft.
“But,” Calver said, suddenly inspired. “We’re all star stuff. So we just get to be that again.”
This cheered them all up, until Hazelrigg said,
“But that would just be the real stuff, you know, the bones an’ stuff. What about the inside your head stuff?”
They debated the question for another hour or so, until Tiverton passed out and it occurred to Hazelrigg that Calver had put forward the same theory at least five times and it was time to find their bunks.
While they slept the still in the engine room had a small malfunction which spread to the drive pile and finally jumped a safety system into the main coil.
Somewhere in the vast black silence of space there was a burst of energy and a million, million fragments of matter spread away in an ever expanding ball.
A tiny piece of this matter wandered through eons of space and time. It was a mix of the organic and the metallic and somewhere deep inside it, was preserved some chemical residue. In the sterile vacuum of deep space it remained uncorrupted.
Eventually the fragment became caught in the gravitational field of a young star, travelling close enough to be warmed, but not burnt up. As it was pushed by the solar wind, it was pulled again, but this time into the orbit of a rocky world circling the star.
This time there was no escape and it was sucked down through the thin atmosphere. Some of it was lost in the heat of entry, but what remained fell hot and flaming into a patch of liquid teaming with bacteria.
Most died as the liquid boiled and evaporated, but not all and what was left changed and began the first steps on the greatest journey of them all.
And Hazelrigg the creator became god and his soul found a new heaven.
(c) Bev Allen 2012
November 16, 2012
Three Girls
They met on the school playing field when they were 14. They knew each other by sight, because they had shared classes, but on that summer's day sometime in the early 1970s, they became friends.
Three is a difficult number, but they never found it so, slotting together like the sides of a triangle, not always an equilateral one, but always a perfect fit.
The school didn't really understand them, their odd sense of humour, their taste in music (traditional folk), their love of books and their need to write.
And, oh boy, did they write!
Long rambling sagas of what would now be called fantasy, but then was not really understood. Teachers who should have known better mocked them, school fellows followed their lead, but the three didn't give a damn.
They loved their tales and the characters they created and dreamed of perhaps, one day, maybe, showing them to the world.
But the world is not an easy place and time and circumstances meant they never did manage to share those stories with anyone other than themselves.
In the years that followed the friendship didn't end, it deepened. They married, two had children, one divorced, another was widowed, but still they wrote a little when they could.
They each saw the spectre of cancer,to a lesser or greater degree, looked it in the eye and decided they weren't ready to give in just yet.
Each decided to take a chance on what they had written, first one, then another and finally all three.
So, today, we are three middle aged ladies, who still laugh at the same jokes, love the same music and we are all published authors.
Me and Sue and Jill.
Still friends and always will be.
My dear sisters. I love you both.
Three is a difficult number, but they never found it so, slotting together like the sides of a triangle, not always an equilateral one, but always a perfect fit.
The school didn't really understand them, their odd sense of humour, their taste in music (traditional folk), their love of books and their need to write.
And, oh boy, did they write!
Long rambling sagas of what would now be called fantasy, but then was not really understood. Teachers who should have known better mocked them, school fellows followed their lead, but the three didn't give a damn.
They loved their tales and the characters they created and dreamed of perhaps, one day, maybe, showing them to the world.
But the world is not an easy place and time and circumstances meant they never did manage to share those stories with anyone other than themselves.
In the years that followed the friendship didn't end, it deepened. They married, two had children, one divorced, another was widowed, but still they wrote a little when they could.
They each saw the spectre of cancer,to a lesser or greater degree, looked it in the eye and decided they weren't ready to give in just yet.
Each decided to take a chance on what they had written, first one, then another and finally all three.
So, today, we are three middle aged ladies, who still laugh at the same jokes, love the same music and we are all published authors.
Me and Sue and Jill.
Still friends and always will be.
My dear sisters. I love you both.
October 25, 2012
Turning Japanese
As some of you know, I'm a quilter and like a lot of quilters I have a fabric habit which makes a crack addict look balanced and moderate.
I can't help it...well I can, but choose not too...I need to buy fabric. I tell myself I will eventually use it all, but the truth is I am just as happy to own it and stroke it.
My aboslute favourite stuff is from Japan. The colours and the designs are to die for.
Here, look and drool
http://catalogues.spotlight.co.nz/Dan...
http://www.shutterstock.com/pic-54672...
And that is just the tip of the iceberg.
There is something so beautiful about the elegance of Japan, from cherry blossom, to bento box, to furoshiki.
It is both alien to Western taste, but also so accessible.
More and more I am seeing Western authors taking the elements of Japanese story telling and reworking them. The results are pleasing on so many levels, making a culture easier to understand and adding a new dimension to the Western approach to yarn spinning.
I can't help it...well I can, but choose not too...I need to buy fabric. I tell myself I will eventually use it all, but the truth is I am just as happy to own it and stroke it.
My aboslute favourite stuff is from Japan. The colours and the designs are to die for.
Here, look and drool
http://catalogues.spotlight.co.nz/Dan...
http://www.shutterstock.com/pic-54672...
And that is just the tip of the iceberg.
There is something so beautiful about the elegance of Japan, from cherry blossom, to bento box, to furoshiki.
It is both alien to Western taste, but also so accessible.
More and more I am seeing Western authors taking the elements of Japanese story telling and reworking them. The results are pleasing on so many levels, making a culture easier to understand and adding a new dimension to the Western approach to yarn spinning.
September 25, 2012
Horace.
I've had a go at cheese making. I have never tried before, so it is all a bit of an adventure.
Goat's milk was heated and then buttermilk and rennet added and the result left over night.
This morning there was a suprisingly small amount of white solid swimming in an equally surprisingly large amount of whey.
The curd was very soft when I cut it, too soft imo, next time I will either heat the milk more or add more rennet.
However, I managed to transfer the whole lot to a muslin lined colander and drained it for a few hours.
I was left with a very thick white cream which I have mixed with salt and packed into a cheese mould.
More whey is now draining from it and it is really firming up.
Later I will put it in the fridge to mature for five days.
I have no idea what it will taste like and I keep wanting to call it Horace.
For none Pratchett readers Horace is...um, perhaps its best you don't know:-)
Goat's milk was heated and then buttermilk and rennet added and the result left over night.
This morning there was a suprisingly small amount of white solid swimming in an equally surprisingly large amount of whey.
The curd was very soft when I cut it, too soft imo, next time I will either heat the milk more or add more rennet.
However, I managed to transfer the whole lot to a muslin lined colander and drained it for a few hours.
I was left with a very thick white cream which I have mixed with salt and packed into a cheese mould.
More whey is now draining from it and it is really firming up.
Later I will put it in the fridge to mature for five days.
I have no idea what it will taste like and I keep wanting to call it Horace.
For none Pratchett readers Horace is...um, perhaps its best you don't know:-)
September 21, 2012
Ooops.
Near disastor this week. A friend thought they would do me a favour by recommending my book on a forum somewhere.
It was a kind thought, but OMG! They told everyone their 9 year old had loved it.
Okay the kid is SUPER mature, he reads stuff I have trouble with ( btw I'm rather smug that he likes mine), but he is far from being a typical 9.
As soon as I saw what she had done I was nearly sick. I had visions of being screamed at by the parents forced to explain stuff they would prefer their kid not to know for a few years.
What I write is for the older YA audience. No-one under 14 imo.
I deal with sex trafficking, drugs and child abuse and there's some violence. One of my reviews said it wasn't for the feint hearted:-)
Fortunately they have removed the post and I can stop worrying.
If you are one of my regulars...junket is delicious. A sort of very soft panna cotta. Two problems, despite what the normally very reliable Jane Grigson said, it does not need the clotted cream spread on the top and...I should only have made a small bowl full as I couldn't eat it all:-((
Now I've got the rennet, I am going to buy some goat's milk and have a go at making some soft cheese.
It was a kind thought, but OMG! They told everyone their 9 year old had loved it.
Okay the kid is SUPER mature, he reads stuff I have trouble with ( btw I'm rather smug that he likes mine), but he is far from being a typical 9.
As soon as I saw what she had done I was nearly sick. I had visions of being screamed at by the parents forced to explain stuff they would prefer their kid not to know for a few years.
What I write is for the older YA audience. No-one under 14 imo.
I deal with sex trafficking, drugs and child abuse and there's some violence. One of my reviews said it wasn't for the feint hearted:-)
Fortunately they have removed the post and I can stop worrying.
If you are one of my regulars...junket is delicious. A sort of very soft panna cotta. Two problems, despite what the normally very reliable Jane Grigson said, it does not need the clotted cream spread on the top and...I should only have made a small bowl full as I couldn't eat it all:-((
Now I've got the rennet, I am going to buy some goat's milk and have a go at making some soft cheese.
September 5, 2012
Food
Yes, I know, two posts on the same day. Think of it like buses, never one when you want it, then along come two together.
The trouble is, I feel the need to reflect on things just now. I was wandering around Waitrose, hoping to be inspired with a dinner idea, when it occurred to me, what I really wanted was nostalgia food, things that reminded me of childhood, things I hadn't eaten in years.
Memories came rushing back. My grandmother's bread pudding for one. I have never managed to quite capture that perfect combination of fruit, spice, crunchy topping and soft, but solid texture. Nor have I ever reproduced her veal and ham pie, with its glorious savoury jelly.
Some of the things I loved as a child make my kids shudder, like winkles served with malt vinegar and thin slices of brown bread and butter. They have no idea of the pleasure of spearing your winkle with a darning needle stuck in a cork and slowly and caefully unwinding it from its shell. The triumph of getting out whole and then having to decide whether to eat it straight away or to unshell half a dozen for the pleasure of popping them quickly into your mouth one after the other.
Other things came back to me, steamed sponge puddings, custard ice cream from the dear old Italian man, beef dripping on hot toast and navel oranges, pregnant with a perfect little baby orange. Mother used to cut the baby out and stuff the hole with sugar lumps, the sheer joy of sucking the juice through the sugar and then crunching the cubes when they were sodden.
I remember one dessert which was far more refined, Devonshire junket. I haven't tasted it in years and maybe I won't like it now, I have developed an aversion to foods which slip easily down the throat, but I have such a yearning to try it again.
I used to love the way the smooth sweet creamy curds sperated from the clear whey, the flavour of nutmeg and the contrast between the mild elegance of the junket against the rich decadence of the clotted cream spread on the top.
There was rennet in Waitrose and full cream Jersey milk and I have found the recipe in Jane Grigson's "English Food", I may hate the result, but I think this weekend I may have to take a trip down a culinary memory lane.
The trouble is, I feel the need to reflect on things just now. I was wandering around Waitrose, hoping to be inspired with a dinner idea, when it occurred to me, what I really wanted was nostalgia food, things that reminded me of childhood, things I hadn't eaten in years.
Memories came rushing back. My grandmother's bread pudding for one. I have never managed to quite capture that perfect combination of fruit, spice, crunchy topping and soft, but solid texture. Nor have I ever reproduced her veal and ham pie, with its glorious savoury jelly.
Some of the things I loved as a child make my kids shudder, like winkles served with malt vinegar and thin slices of brown bread and butter. They have no idea of the pleasure of spearing your winkle with a darning needle stuck in a cork and slowly and caefully unwinding it from its shell. The triumph of getting out whole and then having to decide whether to eat it straight away or to unshell half a dozen for the pleasure of popping them quickly into your mouth one after the other.
Other things came back to me, steamed sponge puddings, custard ice cream from the dear old Italian man, beef dripping on hot toast and navel oranges, pregnant with a perfect little baby orange. Mother used to cut the baby out and stuff the hole with sugar lumps, the sheer joy of sucking the juice through the sugar and then crunching the cubes when they were sodden.
I remember one dessert which was far more refined, Devonshire junket. I haven't tasted it in years and maybe I won't like it now, I have developed an aversion to foods which slip easily down the throat, but I have such a yearning to try it again.
I used to love the way the smooth sweet creamy curds sperated from the clear whey, the flavour of nutmeg and the contrast between the mild elegance of the junket against the rich decadence of the clotted cream spread on the top.
There was rennet in Waitrose and full cream Jersey milk and I have found the recipe in Jane Grigson's "English Food", I may hate the result, but I think this weekend I may have to take a trip down a culinary memory lane.
Re-Discovery
Now father-in-law has gone and his room is completely clear, I have been able to get to books I've not seen in months and months. Some I've not seen in years.
Amongst them were Jeanine McMullen's "A Small Country Living", "A Small Country Living Goes on" and "The Wind in the Ash Tree".
I first discovered this lovely author from her broadcasts on the BBC. The programme with the same name as the book "A Small Contry Living" was a regular and much looked for pleasure.
Jeanine McMullen was an ex-pat Aussie who bought a small and remote Welsh small holding where she kept a variety of live stock, mainly goats and chickens.
Her stories and the stories she recorded of other people making a living from the land and from traditional crafts are both a delight and an inspiration.
They were also highly realistic, she had no illusions about how hard it was and she never disgusied the heartbreaks and the toll such a way of life can bring.
She died in 2010 and the world lost her distinctive voice and her joy in the life of all things.
No more stories of the wonderful whippet Merlin, the only hooking dog. Or Doli the bloody minded shire horse, Dolores the goat with nymphomania or Blossom the sow.
Even if this way of life holds no appeal (and I will be honest, although the craft side does for me,you can keep the argicultural side of it) do try her books and experience someone for whom all life, both animal, vegetable and human, was a source of inspiration and hope.
Amongst them were Jeanine McMullen's "A Small Country Living", "A Small Country Living Goes on" and "The Wind in the Ash Tree".
I first discovered this lovely author from her broadcasts on the BBC. The programme with the same name as the book "A Small Contry Living" was a regular and much looked for pleasure.
Jeanine McMullen was an ex-pat Aussie who bought a small and remote Welsh small holding where she kept a variety of live stock, mainly goats and chickens.
Her stories and the stories she recorded of other people making a living from the land and from traditional crafts are both a delight and an inspiration.
They were also highly realistic, she had no illusions about how hard it was and she never disgusied the heartbreaks and the toll such a way of life can bring.
She died in 2010 and the world lost her distinctive voice and her joy in the life of all things.
No more stories of the wonderful whippet Merlin, the only hooking dog. Or Doli the bloody minded shire horse, Dolores the goat with nymphomania or Blossom the sow.
Even if this way of life holds no appeal (and I will be honest, although the craft side does for me,you can keep the argicultural side of it) do try her books and experience someone for whom all life, both animal, vegetable and human, was a source of inspiration and hope.
August 28, 2012
Killing Time
Due to circumstances I won't bore any of you with, today has been a "hanging around" day. There has been loads of stuff which needs doing, but none of it can be done until people I have no control over have forfilled their alloted tasks.
I should probably have either got on with transcribing The Diary or done some work on my third book, which is currently languishing unattended in my computer.
What I did instead was indulge in some brain rotting Day Time Television.
This is not something I normally do, but on occasions, like today, when I just can't be asked to do real life, there is something deliciously decadent about a small wallow.
I adore sneering at "Bargain Hunt". For a few years I traded in antiques, buying privately and at auction and then selling at fairs or from an antiques centre.
Nothing is quite as much fun as watching these people buying retail and then trying to sell it wholesale. Do none of them realise the reason they have got such a "good" buy is because the dealer made a big mistake when he bought it and has been looking for a sucker like you for months.
When they do make a "profit", its usually because the commission hasn't been taken into account. When I was dealing between 10 and 12% was added to the hammer price, plus VAT.
I would love to see this in reverse, let the punters view an auction with their "expert", bid for three items with out blowing their budget and then sell the result.
Perhaps they would have the luck I had sometimes, like the beautiful Wedgewood Parian Ware bust of a lady I bought for £25 at a small country auction and was valued at £350 by big London House.
She would have been pure profit if I'd sold her, but she is so beautiful I couldn't part with her, so she lives on the shelf in front of me, were I can enjoy looking at her every day.
This post has been sheer indulgence as well. I will try to be more interesting next time.
I should probably have either got on with transcribing The Diary or done some work on my third book, which is currently languishing unattended in my computer.
What I did instead was indulge in some brain rotting Day Time Television.
This is not something I normally do, but on occasions, like today, when I just can't be asked to do real life, there is something deliciously decadent about a small wallow.
I adore sneering at "Bargain Hunt". For a few years I traded in antiques, buying privately and at auction and then selling at fairs or from an antiques centre.
Nothing is quite as much fun as watching these people buying retail and then trying to sell it wholesale. Do none of them realise the reason they have got such a "good" buy is because the dealer made a big mistake when he bought it and has been looking for a sucker like you for months.
When they do make a "profit", its usually because the commission hasn't been taken into account. When I was dealing between 10 and 12% was added to the hammer price, plus VAT.
I would love to see this in reverse, let the punters view an auction with their "expert", bid for three items with out blowing their budget and then sell the result.
Perhaps they would have the luck I had sometimes, like the beautiful Wedgewood Parian Ware bust of a lady I bought for £25 at a small country auction and was valued at £350 by big London House.
She would have been pure profit if I'd sold her, but she is so beautiful I couldn't part with her, so she lives on the shelf in front of me, were I can enjoy looking at her every day.
This post has been sheer indulgence as well. I will try to be more interesting next time.
