Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

I just adore fresh, crisp snow - not that we get much of that down here! The first sign of a snowflake and I put boots, gloves, hat and quilted coat on and I am out!

Perhaps it's because of my Scottish roots and the joy I found when playing outside in the winter. I still want to play outside - I want to be the first to walk on a patch of 'virgin' snow, I want to see my footprints, I want to scuff along and make a peculiar trail to follow, I want to look at other prints and muse what kind of creature walked that way?

I moved to the Cairngorm mountain region, to Kingussie, for my first job...my idea of heaven! Walking in the mountains and forests in all weathers, sledging down the slope near my cottage, learning to ski with the school's PE teacher, having an ice rink at nearby Aviemore.....bliss!

Normally I would be out on the Lancashire Fells in weather such as this, more so on clear crisp days when snow and ice is lying, but I am unlikely to encounter really bad conditions. I get my pack 'winter ready', with spare clothing, torch, head torch, emergency food, bivi bag, foil covers...it is heavy before I begin ! This year it remains at the ready, and I checked the dates on the emergency rations that I carry, just two days ago. It looks as if it will remain unused this season.

When I moved back to Scotland from Oxfordshire, where actually we sometimes encountered very hard winters, it was to the Moray Firth coast, which often has a kind climate. However, the winds were terrifically cold and snow did lie on the beach to the tidemark. I would insist on driving to the mountains to 'touch the snow' . We drove to Aviemore once a week to assist the resident skating coach and very often we were lucky to make it there and back in whiteout conditions!

Today's poem was written when I was 15..in 1965...

View from my Window
When I look from my window, I can see
The snow lying on every far away hill and tree;
But the grass peeps through the cold,
And the sky is blue and the sunset gold.

The wispy rain laden clouds fly past
To make room for the night coming fast.
Soon Jack Frost will spread his chilly hand
Over the grass - all over the land!

The men plod wearily homewards,
The birds fly fleetingly downwards
To their nests in the loft.
The chimneys are still smoking.

But here's the rain it's soaking
Everything. And tomorrow when I wake
The snow will all be gone.

Thanks for reading, Kath

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Harvest - The Pumpkin

I wanted to carry a neat arrangement of fresh fruit or vegetables placed in a shallow box on a green bed of scrunched tissue paper. It didn’t happen. Instead, with an air of apology, I would hand over some tinned produce my mother had sacrificed from our kitchen minutes earlier.  The gift was received with kindness, always, and stacked up with the others.  This was the pattern of many Harvest Festivals from my childhood, school and Sunday School alike.  I would forget to say anything at home until the last minute, leaving no time to prepare.

Years later, getting Harvest gifts ready with my children, we shredded green crepe paper, stuffed it into shoe boxes and added apples and pears to one box and root vegetables to another. It was lovely to watch them carefully take their gifts forward to be added to the display, which always looked wonderful in church or school hall.

Times change and we found ourselves preparing Harvest gifts to be passed on to the homeless, the Women’s Refuge, Shelter and many other charities.  Fresh produce wasn’t practical.  Toiletries, packaged food with a long shelf-life, socks, gloves, scarves and other small items of clothing would be more welcome.

Harvest isn’t just about thanks-giving, it’s about sharing and caring, and that is much more important than the careful presentation of the gift.

This autumn, I have had the delight of trying out new recipes for pumpkin.  A work colleague has grown far more then he could use and I was happy to help. Pumpkin pie and pumpkin soup are popular dishes, but I found a recipe for pumpkin bread and discovered it to be very more-ish.  The recipe is American which I did my best to convert and it worked out well.  It’s full of chocolate chips and is cake texture rather than bread, well, mine is. I’ll make it again next year.

 

I found this poem.

 

     The Pumpkin

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,

And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board

The old broken links of affection restored,

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,

Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie! 

John Greenleaf Whittier   1807 - 1892

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Herbs and Spices - Scarborough Fair

Such beautiful, natural, autumnal colours when spices are placed together on the photo I’ve chosen. I confess, I’m not a very adventurous cook. I like to try new recipes and I don’t shy away from herbs and spices if required, but mostly I’m aiming to serve nutritional, healthy food as quickly as possible. It’s that work-life balance thing that I never seem to get right.

In the early 70s, dining out for me was usually at a popular Italian restaurant where I would be wary of eating anything with ‘bits’ on. Little has changed just a different Italian restaurant and I’m fine with herbs now. I no longer think that ground black pepper is the most exotic condiment and if I’m cooking Italian I add plenty of basil, oregano and marjoram. A homemade quiche always has a liberal sprinkling of tarragon.

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. I drove everyone mad with my rendition of ‘Scarborough Fair’ and I think they were relieved when a couple of snapped guitar strings meant I could no longer pick out the chords on the cheap ‘made for tourists’ instrument I bought from a local market in Palma Nova. I was enjoying my first trip to Majorca and musical by nature, I’d picked up on the Spanish guitar sound from the trio of players that provided evening entertainment in our hotel. I soon gave up trying to copy them and instead concentrated on ‘Scarborough Fair’ from the Simon and Garfunkel cassette that was part of my birthday present. My main present was a Sony portable cassette player, before the days of the Walkman and long before CDs. Nearly every Simon and Garfunkel song brings back memories of that first of many holidays and birthdays in Majorca; the fresh, sweet fragrance of the hotel, the tapping of my sandals on the marble effect flooring, the lights along the coast-line seen from our balcony and yes, the unfortunate episode with Bacardi and Coke as mentioned in last week’s blog.  I don’t think I’m responsible for setting a trend. Majorca was becoming a popular holiday island as going abroad was easily accessible in the mid 60s. I haven’t been for decades and probably wouldn’t recognise Palma Nova or Magaluf anymore. ‘Scarborough Fair’ will always be special and I apologise to anyone who had a room close to mine at the time.

 

I found this,

 

John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864)

          And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue,

And balm, and mint, with curl’d-leaf parsley grew,

And double marigolds, and silver thyme,

And pumpkins ‘neath the window climb;

And where I often, when a child, for hours

Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,

As lady’s laces, everlasting peas,

True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease,

And golden rods, and tansy running high,

That o’er the pale-tops smiled on passers-by.

 

Thanks for reading.

I'm off on my travels and will be back in a few weeks. Pam xx

 

 

 

 

 

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