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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In a Stew

Winter has long been my favourite season of the year, bringing as it does, ideally, those cold, crisp, sunny days when it is a pleasure to walk in a healthy atmosphere, hot breath colliding with frosty air to form life-confirming puffs of steam. Winter also brings the enchantment of Christmas, cosy nights in, hatches batoned, cocoa, jumpers, scarves and gloves, sherry, port, football (hmm, maybe not this season), hot toddies, furry boot slippers. And root vegetables – lots of them.

Parsnips, carrots, swedes, turnips, Jerusalem artichokes, celeriac, beetroots, ginger, sweet potatoes – these gnarled and unlovely jewels of the earth add depth and nutrition to our winter diet. Parsnip soup, spiced with cumin, coriander, cardamon and ginger; a melting gratin of layered potatoes, onions, garlic and cream; Jerusalem artichokes sliced into a stew to add an interesting smokiness; beetroots roasted with onions, garlic, cinnamon, allspice, olive oil; buttery celeriac mash; carrots and swedes mashed together with butter and parsley; a simple casserole of all of the above, with herbs and vegetable stock, simmered low and long to bring out the sweetness of the roots; a mellow mixture of roughly cubed vegetables roasted slowly in olive oil, basil, oregano.

I’m romanticising, of course, for we can buy sanitised, scrubbed up versions of these vegetables all the year round at the supermarket. But I hark back to my years as an allotmenteer, when the roots grew in profusion ready for harvesting in the winter months. There was something right and proper about hauling them from the ground in the winter months, ugly and filthy with soil (them and me!), to lug them home for a good scrub and transformation into something delicious.

It is New Year’s Eve and a time when we look back reflectively, as well as forward optimistically. I am thinking today with sadness, affection and gratitude, of all the people who have shaped my life and are no longer with us – my roots, in other words. Our roots are what equip us to go forward in life and I will at least start the new year in a hopeful frame of mind. I wish you all a happy, creative, satisfying year ahead.

To end, here is a poem about vegetables that amused me.

There aren’t many words
To rhyme with ‘vegetable’
That aren’t either laughable
or barely acceptable.
But finding those most suitable
Is fast becoming pretty insurmountable
(and, to be honest, a tad cerebral)
A vegetable
Is honest and dependable
Verging on the comfortable
And incontestably respectable.
Presentable in most receptacles
Never indigestible
But with all the potential to be absolutely delectable.
Its a shame there aren’t any words
To rhyme with ‘vegetable’
As this poem could really be incredible!

V. Robinson

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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Apples are the only fruit ....

They say that if all else fails, write about what you know.  Well, after struggling with the theme of "How many Apples" this week, I thought it best to tell you a little about eating habits of an Autistic Child. Namely, my son's. Sorry if anyone feels I tend to bang on about him.

Autism brings a myriad of challenges when trying to raise a child. Because the condition affects each child differently in varying degree's of severity it can be a steep learning curve at times. Once you've managed to crack it though, get yourself into a routine, it becomes easier bit by bit.

Joe (my son), is on the milder end of the Autistic Spectrum, but that doesn't mean that there are any less challenging situations, just that they are slightly easier in some area's to decipher. One of the frustrating things with Joe, is his diet. It is nigh on impossible to get him to try anything new. He'll try a different food if HE chooses to, and no amount of coaxing, bribing, or shouting will sway him. So, you have to get inventive!

I know it is challenging enough to get kids to eat anything healthy, but Joe will NOT eat any vegetables with the exception of chips for Potato. Full stop. No Pea's, Carrot's, Broccoli, Cauliflower, Cabbage, Green Beans, Sweetcorn, nothing! The only fruit he will eat are Apples.  He likes the taste of some other fruit, but not the texture or look of them.  My head should have a permanent bruise and lump from where I've been banging it on a brick wall.  The seriously annoying thing is that when he was being weaned as a baby, he ate everything!  Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

If you have any inventive ways of getting a child to try new food, especially fruit and veg, please let me know. It must look however, like its their own idea to try it.


How Many Apples?

To my Son, they are THE most important fruit,
No other can even compare,
Their taste and texture are just right,
He won't even eat a Banana or Pear.
You see, eating for him, is sensory,
It must look, smell, feel and taste just right,
Banana's smell and taste really lovely,
But feel slimy when eaten, therefore disliked.
Although Pears may look similar to Apples
Their texture when eaten is grainy,
Another fruit crossed off his edible list,
The look on his face expressing this plainly.
He's tried Strawberries, which smell and taste lovely,
Peaches, Plums and Apricots are much the same,
But the look and texture repulse him,
But now we're starting to play him at his own game.
He'll happily drink pure fruit juices,
Occasionally a Smoothie or two,
It's the only way to get him to consume a variety,
Because Apples are the ONLY fruit for you know who!
Absolutely NO vegetables will cross his lips,
We've even tried hiding them inside other food,
Like Fish Shapes studded with Sweetcorn and Pea's,
But he just spits it all out, oh how rude!
So, how many Apples will my Son eat,
In his lifetime? Who can say?
Although challenging, he eats one thing healthy,
Unknowingly DRINKING others, crafty Mummy hey?


Thanks for reading my waffle. x

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Anaemia schmemia...VEGANS

I have to say I think vegans are very healthy people. We eat far too much food, particularly meat here in the west and much of it we don't need. My ex was a coiliac, which is a severe gluten allergy which erodes the gut lining causing a multitude of health issues, so I've had to check packaging pretty carefully over the years in supermarkets. Our food has a multitude of hidden additives and bizarre chemicals added to it. Even the meat. Fresh meat in supermarkets is injected with salt, water and sugar to increase its weight and therefore they can charge more per kilogram. I have even found frozen meat in major supermarket to have gluten added. Yes theyve injected wheat in there to stodge it up. Now I know most food is likely to be tampered with, but the meat really does concern me. What on earth do they think they are doing to our food? What right do they have to inject stuff into meat and sell it sneakily like this? It's fraud. Profit over health. But the supermarkets get away with it because they know many people neither understand nor care. Theyve worked a 12 hour shift or are juggling 3 children around or are STANDING DAYDREAMING IN FRONT OF ME WITH THEIR TROLLEY BLOCKING THE AISLE WHEN i JUST WENT IN FOR SOME MILK. Ahem.

I can take meat or leave it. I can't stomach processed meat and if chicken is frozen it has a funny aftertaste to me so I'm happy to avoid it. You know when you're cooking meat and loads of foam comes out of it? That's all the crap they've added to it being released. That's why baon sometimes shrinks by half under the grill. Many ready meals contain chicken reared in thailand where the regulations are far more lax and then processed into meals when the meat is shipped here so they bypass regulations. Check the labels, it states that some of the produce is from Thailand, even the thieving robdog supermarkets like Sainsbuggers do it. Yuck.

Cooking from scratch is the best option but if the meat has been tampered with before it's cooked, what then? The veggies probably have pesticides on them but there is the option of organic veg. But the meat? It may be organic but I'll guess the supermarkets can still claim that it is 'happy' meat if they are just injecting stuff afterwards can't they? Unless you have a local butcher you're stuck with it.

With more intolerances and allergies to foods being discovered nowadays I do think we have to be more aware of what we are eating, surely it does have an impact on our health in more than a physical sense? How about emotional and mental health? If you put crap in...

So, vegans. I'll bet they cook most things from scratch, avoid processed foods like a dose of chlamidia and study packaging carefully for added nasties. So they are on to something I think. I may have no opinion on the animal cruelty aspect but I do think vegans are more careful with what they put into their bodies, which is no bad thing. S'a temple innit?

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The Mystery Beds

I used to worry what was under my bed.

As a child I kept monsters there, which were useful for imaginative writing even if I never actually got around to it. I turned fourteen, stopped caring about those things and then kept porno mags, cigarettes and for some reason, a particularly dark bottle of piss I'd put there one day. I had no idea that the piss could charge my phone and the porn would stop Cameron denying my human rights to view writhing women. Nope, I grew out and threw out those things before I fully got to grips with their concepts. I'm not even going to think about the amount of hugely interesting stuff currently piled under our shared bed- just awaiting a moment to be binned before it gets useful- but you can probably imagine there is a lot.

No, these days I spend much more of my time thinking about what is going on under the garden beds. They bring with them a sense of wonder, overgrown with life and teaming with critters. They may not be the racy, fantasy-like beds I chased a few years back but there is definitely less to catch and they bring a gratifying amount of post-sweat satisfaction, so I'm happy with that.

Of course, this all revolves around the concept I now have people in my life to share these things with. I've swapped chasing the women in skirts for being chased by a woman with a hoover. I'm not so much dodging my parents on the way in drunk but arranging to meet them for a picking session. The things in life change, and somehow a constant has become the garden- which happens to be a useful escape.

Yesterday, in attempt to teach our eldest nephew that chips don't grow in freezers and that tomatoes don't start out in tins, we took him with us to the allotment. There, in the sunshine, he wandered around eating raspberries, red currants, black currants and tomatoes fresh from the bush. He took wheelbarrow rides around the site just like I did when I was 4. He helped with the weeding, took delight in having dirty hands for a change and wondered at how the spiral on his little galaxy viewer was the same as the spiral on the snail crawling on his arm.

For me, the defining moment came after everyone else had gone and there was just Lara, Little J and myself left. We trundled over to the top of the garden, fork in hand, and I turned just two potato plants over. Cue excitement. Four year old hands quickly launched in- fumbling through the freshly loosened soil, spotting and plucking warm spuds from the ground- each one delivered with a "Look, there's another!".

J went home with a handful of potatoes for his tea, a belly full of fruit and a mind filled with wonder. It may sound wet but in weather like this, all the poetry you need is outside. Go grow those metaphors.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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