Brushes with Farming

I was the son of a sport-loving farmer. I inherited his love of sport, but was farming in my blood?

After agricultural college my father went to Egypt (then a British Protectorate) to, I believe but not know, to teach how to irrigate the desert with Nile water.

The evidence he left indicated that he spoke and wrote Arabic.

When the 1914-1918 war was about to break out, he returned to England, joined his territorial regiment, became an officer on Salisbury Plain and was sent to India. From there he fought in the very nasty Mesopotamia Campaign, was badly wounded, and returned to England to recover.

He started a chicken farm.

I was born in 1925 and spent, I suppose, an ideal childhood of countrypersuits on that farm.

The great depression descended upon us. Cheap eggs from Poland destroyed the chicken and eggs business. So he abandoned chickens for mushrooms - without success. He was unaware of successful business practice, so times were hard for us. He died through being given the cure-all of the time - radium.

The 1939-1945 war came. I went to America and returned when old enough to join the RAF as a potential pilot. Having been enrolled I had to wait for flying training. So, with the views I could help with food production in that time of rationing and that I wanted experience in farming, I took a job as a farm labourer. The constant worries of weather, dealing with cart-horses, rather primitive machinery, cattle and all the rest, convinced me that a post-war future in farming was not enticing.

I obtained a job as a prop-swinger and gained enough piloting experience to know that I would make a good pilot and a poor farmer.

The war over and, seeing the kind of person applying for permanency in the RAF and some of the bloodiness of returning aircrew from raids over Germany, I chose medicine. But two bouts of TB put an end to that.

Living now in the country, I was befriended by a farmer well known for his skill in making a fortune from hard-nosed farming combined with journalism. We would meet almost weekly to drink red wine and swap ideas. Through his auspices I wrote for a national newspaper and conducted a Gardeners' World programme on my garden and vineyard for the BBC.

The thought of farming never entered my head again, despite watching television programmes of lovely people with lovely farms and friendly animals making a farming life seem so pleasant.

I had not found it to be such, and glad that I never chose it as a career.

Life in a Day (Part two, pm)

My afternoon job (pleasure) is to prepare food for our evening meal. It was interrupted today as I take, as a blood thinner, Warfarin (used also to kill rats - or did). A doctor at my health centre tried to wean me off it and on to a substitute called something like Rivaroxaban. This sent me to two stays in hospital because of constant and unpleasant bleeding. As soon as this new thinner was stopped - so did the bleeding. I have now returned to old-fashioned Warfarin, which unfortunately needs a blood assessment every few weeks. So the doorbell rang and my doctor, standing outside on the pavement, changed into a sort of medical space suit. She then came in doors just to jab my finger and take a little blood sample. She then put the finger-pricking device into our kitchen rubbish bin and returned to the pavement to disrobe and put her protective outer clothing into a plastic bag for disposal. I am no expert, but feel that the operation could have been conducted on the windowsill outside with less cost, trouble and risk of virus infection. But rules are rules, I supposed. And they must be adhered to.
I like to cook beans, and in these times of difficulties they seem to me to be a most important source of nourishment. From my supply of dried red kidney beans a quantity is soaked overnight in water and pressure cooked for 35 minutes. They are then used in such as soups, stews and chilli-con-carne. I make the chilli-con-carne powder by mixing in a bowl the following: 3 measures of powdered cumin, 1 measure of chilli powder, 3 measures of dried oregano, 4 measures of paprika, 1 measure of garlic powder, and 1 measure of salt.
First courses are often made of lettuce, garnished with sardines, tuna, or brined anchovies - for  visitors (in those days) the latter on little slices of bread fried in olive oil. Barely cooked mushrooms "a la Grecque" is a popular dish, as is cucumber or cooked beetroot in chopped shallot, oil and vinegar. One of our constant favourite hors d'oeuvres is tomato salad. This is simply sliced tomato, garnished with chopped shallot, pepper and salt, vinegar and olive oil and topped with (it should be chopped parsley) fresh coriander.
For a large chicken (in non-virus times I buy them from a Halal butcher in the market) my procedure is thus: I cut off the legs with thighs and bag them for the freezer for roasting, curries, and stew type dishes. I do the same with its wings, cut from the carcass with some breast meat. From the remainder I carve off one breast for roasting and the other for frying. The carcass is then broken up and pressure-cooked in water and spices for at least one hour - usually more with a stock cube or two. The stock it makes is strained and used for the start of or topping up of soup.
I had to make space in the rather too small deep freezer part of our drinks refrigerator for a chicken treated as above. For this I removed a box of fish fingers. These we enjoy with home-made mayonnaise. I have made mayonnaise for years and only once has it failed. I find that any temperature of the ingredients work together happily. In a small bowl goes an egg yolk and half its quantity of Dijon mustard. With a wooden spoon and stirring in the same direction I add a steady stream of olive and vegetable oil (I use groundnut - for everything). When the mayonnaise has reached the thickness desired, a little lemon juice is added and a dash of cold water. Job done - with ease and pleasure.
In the kitchen we have a lidded compost bin. When a bit heavy, this is emptied into the larger bin at the bottom of the garden. Compost-making is such a pleasure, with all compostable kitchen waste put to good use. Early each spring I empty the bottom part of this large bin of friable and plant-nourishing compost and distribute it around plants and soil in the garden - and all from unwanted waste.
Then there was the fruit bowl to top up. This bowl is covered with a plate, kept in the refrigerator, and contains any fruit in season, covered in spirit, sherry, vermouth or such. A spoonful of its contents makes a wonderful dessert. And it is a fine way to use up any old spirit that may have been given as a present and seldom used.
Which pretty well brings us to evening drinks time - always welcome and taken by us in the shed if the weather is warm. We like just a little to eat with our first glass of white wine, or Pernod. Most popular are crisp rice crackers with Roquefort beurre on top. This topping was always on café menus in my student days in Paris but now seems to have disappeared. It is simply Roquefort cheese with butter, blended with a fork. It needs to be taken out of the refrigerator well before use, just to soften it.
Other festive drinks are taken in our shed are Champagne cocktails. These are simply put together on a large lump of ice, adding a measure of Cognac, four or five dashes of Angostura bitters and topped with any sparkling wine.
In our shed it is food, drink, radio music, laughter and talk before the routine of retiring, television, pill-taking, reading, ablutions (don't forget the bidet) the undoing of the bra and sleep until the early morning. As usual it has been quite a day.

Life in a Day (Part One, am)

Even with people we know well we are unaware of their activities from waking in the morning to sleeping at night. Except for the ablutions part of the day's routine, an old artist's day might be of interest. So I made notes on a day's activity which I will now try and put together.

From the very early hours I lie in bed and think of the present painting and possible writing, waking and possibly rising at around 6 o'clock - nearer 5 in summer. From my bed I have already listened to the local church clock and from its sound and resonance guessed the wind direction and air clarity.

In dressing gown I go to my studio at the top of the house to look at the previous day's painting (actually pastel) and stand by the window for some time looking outside.

I have always been keen on the weather, especially since my days as a pilot when one's life could depend on it. I look at the clouds, condensation trails left by passing aircraft, rain, wind direction, wind speed, the direction in which aircraft and birds are landing, birds sorting out their territories, signs of frost, people's clothing and visibility. I might then do a bit of art or writing (like this). It is a wonderful time for me - no noise, no interruptions, clear thoughts (hopefully) and clear air.

Then it is ablution time. The bidet is a wonderful object. When one has used them one wonders how you could ever have done without them. This particular model came from a near neighbour who thought them to be disgusting and was throwing hers out. I took it and had it plumbed in. 

As I always cut my own hair, I check it, and cut off more in hot weather. Then I dress, take my pills and fix hearing aids - matters that arrive with old age.

Getting breakfast comes next. On my way down I check the water level in the vase in Margreet's shower toom. I aim to always have a flower there in a vase that is narrow at its top, so the water level drops fast.

There is tea to be made in excellent Dutch insulated tumblers, and toast, made with our own bread on to which I try and vary flavours. But Margreet likes Marmite on her toast, or inside Arab bread. I might then fry my toast in olive oil, or fill the pitta bread with marmelade devilled eggs, bacon or sausage. I have just made pancakes out of some leftover flour from coating fried chicken the night before.

Actually it made four pancakes, two of which we had for breakfast and two were wrapped around cheese, later to become lunch. Today there is cooked batter left over from last night's toad-in-the-hole. I heat it up a little in a frying pan and spread some Marmite over it. I like to make a surprise breakfast for Margreet every so often.

Another lovely breakfast surprise is clear tea with slices of our own lemons, harvested from the garden. When cut, a lemon will scent the air all around it. 

As for that toad-in-the-hole, I have, at last mastered it. For two of us the batter should be made at least an hour beforehand and consist of 3 1/2 dessert spoons of plain flour, a pinch of salt, two eggs and 1/4 of a pint of milk. Beat it all together to rid it of any lumps - however small. Then, using the cheapest English type sausages that contain plenty of fat, rusk and some head meat, place them in a baking pan with plenty of oil and give them 20 minutes in the oven set at 200 degrees. Then, after giving the batter another whisk, add it over and around the sausages. After another 20 minutes your toad will be perfect. 

It is time to wake Margreet and we eat in and on the bed, waiting for the paper to be brought to our doorstep, now by another kind neighbour as the first one had to isolate because of her contact with a carrier of the Covid-19 virus. 

I might go into the garden to water it, keeping an eye on all plants and making sure that the large birdbath is full with clean water.

The paper arrives and we read it on the bed, which we have made together now that Margreet's arm is stronger. As she still can't reach it, I have to hook up her bra - and get a kiss for my trouble.

Aside: When I started this blogpost I thought that I could get it all complete in one piece. Now I see that it must be the first part of two.

For some of her relaxing time, Margreet has started a very complicated jigsaw of a map of Greater London. I am delighted if I can fit in a piece when passing by.

I have an interest in this jigsaw, as when finished (if all the pieces are there), I plan to turn it over and paint something on the reverse - as another jigsaw.

To provide a friend with a mother of vinegar, I delved into my red wine vinegar jar (3 litres) and found only a sulking mother at the bottom of it. There were no expected daughters to give away. So I tore off part of my mother and put it in a jam jar for her. I just hope that this gluey/rubbery piece develops into a proper mother and turns wine into vinegar, and that my own mother survives my surgery. The recipient collected her piece later.

I get lunch (normally we have one week each at cooking), but with Margreet's bad arm I am doing most of it. Lunch is always soup, which is kept on the hob and varies depending upon what leftovers go into it. This was Margreet's own make, and is delicious. With it we eat cheese (the Dutch cannot live without it). Today we added a home-made cream cheese, made with curds (from a mistake) mixed with salt and cream. It is a bit bland. Today it was wrapped in a pancake, as mentioned earlier. I have a small beer with lunch to help me snooze in the afternoon.

I will have done the washing up at any time, often singing my little protest song of "Putting away, putting away, dad is always just putting away" to clear away the dried plates and cutlery beforehand. It has been my lot in every household to have to "put away". The actual washing up I don't mind at all, which I do only having soaked everything well in detergenty water well beforehand.

After lunch we retire for a short snooze and I may read some of Hilary Mantell's third and rather overlong book on Cromwell. After Margreet's favourite show on television, I start the second half of my day.