Goat Interlude

For the past three months my head has been almost entirely consumed with writing a crown of sonnets about condemned pit bulls, animal hoarders and unconditional love for the final creative writing project part of my degree course. Midway we made a flying visit down to Bristol to surprise my lovely mother-in-law on her birthday. I lived in Bristol during that brief period of my life between dropping out of high school and getting pregnant, and it's a city I like a lot.

Before we all went out to dinner that night, I herded the children across the Downs to show them the suspension bridge. It was starting to rain but I reminded them that we live in Scotland and nothing that doesn't come at you horizontally can be considered rain in our lexicon. I always travel extremely light and didn't bring a change of clothes which is how it came to pass that I was soon scrambling down a vertical gorge in a torrential downpour, wearing knee boots, with my dress tucked in my knickers.

BECAUSE GOATS!

(action shot)

These feral goats have been introduced to help re-establish wildflowers and grasses by keeping down scrub. Tending to such creatures is what my volunteer shepherdess half-sister does on the Pennines and I am very envious.

We arrived back soaked to our underwear and with twigs in our hair, but very happy. Actually, that's a partial lie - the children were quite bitter and muttering furious oaths at me, but I was very happy.

Date with Coconut Butter

Whilst looking for an alternative to the usual Raw Chocolate Ganache Tart for our gluten-free vegan friends, I found the beautiful Gluten-Free Vegan Girl Blog that belongs to Solveig Berg Vollan, an amazing seventeen year old from Norway. Her food and photography are considerably easier on the eye than mine.

What I love about it is her use of whole foods rather than jars and packets of substitute ingredients that look a long way from the tree. I try not to consciously label or restrict my diet in any way, after decades of flipping between being vegan/raw/addicted to junk or in some other way fighting with food in my head instead of just listening to my body, but my true food love is always that which is as close to the earth as possible whilst still tasting like a triple hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and sprinkles.

I was sceptical about G-FVG's instructions for making coconut butter but they worked, even with dessicated coconut (it's hard to buy shredded here): a pound of dessicated coconut in a blender with absolutely nothing else eventually yields a jar and a half of coconut butter. Like witchcraft. It even shimmers.

It's an ingredient in the peanut-butter-stuffed Oreos, the rest of which are pretty much just dates and peanuts with brown rice flour and some cacao, vanilla and salt. Incredible. Why does any other kind of Oreo even exist? Why can't we all eat these, people? And LOVE EACH OTHER? And maybe go back to living in the trees, specifically palm trees because it seems dates and coconuts are the cornerstones of raw, vegan, sweet deliciousness.

Easter Elevenses

Three layer Nigella chocolate fudge cake - with the last Mini Eggs in Edinburgh (seriously, where did they all go?)

Shredded Wheat Nests - Suz and I love these from our childhood

M&S chocolate hot cross buns -

'An abomination', says my husband

Good, Friday

Usually I am a purist and try to avoid overkill (caramelllowpeanutbutterfudgecheesecakebrownies) but I do like hot cross bun and butter pudding. I love bread and butter pudding and I once did an Easter variation with Creme Eggs that was less successful than my Christmas variation with Chocolate Orange slices, but just substituting 'stale' hot cross buns (I know, I don't know how this happens either) for bread, sultanas and spices is both classier and easier.

This had a lot of crust because I used wholemeal buns which soak up more of the custard.

my new favourite way with hot cross buns, though, is to spread them with peanut butter. Trust me on this, try it.

Lockwood Donkey Sanctuary

When I was a kid, growing up in Surrey, my favourite place in the world was Lockwood Donkey Sanctuary. If you asked me where I would like to go for any day out, birthday, special occasion, I would always say Lockwood.

Lockwood still exists but is now run as an equine rescue centre by the RSPCA following the deaths of John and Kay Lockwood. Back then it was a slightly anarchic, increasingly shambolic, but enormously good-hearted independent rescue taking in not only donkeys and horses but numerous farm animals, dogs, cats, wallabies and a beautiful llama called Khan.

What I loved about Lockwood is that visitors were entirely free to go into the fields and pens and cuddle anything they could get their hands on. And I really like to cuddle animals. Feeding was also actively encouraged. God knows how this worked out.

My dad would drive me and a friend there - usually my still best friend, Suz - with the boot of the car packed full of chicken feed, carrots, boxes of sugar lumps (I know), Polo mints (I know) and a large marrow each for the pigs. I also liked to buy that sweet-smelling molasses feed when we arrived. The first thing that happened when you pulled down the muddly potholed lane, chased by a pack of barking mongrels, and parked, was that the car would be beseiged by cats. Cats would swarm over the warm bonnet, under the wheel arches, everywhere. The windscreen would be covered in paw prints. Suz would be in heaven because she was a cat lady denied cats by her parents. I would get down to making out with all the foul-breathed, flea-bitten mutts even though I had a dog of my own at home. 

But you had to watch out and never bend over because within minutes the army of broken winged, one legged, almost Christmas-dinnered geese would appear, honking madly and trying to take lumps out of your arse. I was pretty much the only one of us who loved the geese. They looked so enticingly soft and strokable, yet were so very bitey if you tried. Usually we would have to dump a pile of chicken feed and run to the other side of the nearest gate.

Then began the process of visiting every stable and feeding every goat, every horse, every whatever. My favourite horse was an 18h, bay ex-showjumper called Master of Meldon who was blind in one milky blue eye. I spent far longer kissing his nuzzly muzzle than I did any boys. Maybe this was why my dad was always willing to drive me the hour there; that and the fact it was a lot cheaper than buying me a horse of my own. Of course, from the first time I went to Lockwood, I never wanted a horse at all - I wanted my own sanctuary. I still do.

Our last task was the fields of endless donkeys. I don't know how many donkeys they had there but, as a child, it seemed to me there were more donkeys than could ever possibly have existed in the world. It was a sea of donkeys. Where on earth did all those donkeys come from? The ones that could get close enough would hee-haw wildly for carrots and mints, reaching their velvety lips out in clamouring crowds. They are the loveliest, most terribly neglected of equines.

On the way home we always got veggie burgers from the Happy Eater and I would start pestering my dad about when we could go again. He took me there with my husband and son in 2000 before both he, and Kay Lockwood, died. It was such a special, inspirational, happy place for me.

Egg Plant

I am aware that many people do not approve of food blogging. They think it is weird, wanky or even eating disordered to post photos of your food. Maybe it is.

I like to make a note of food that I love for the times when my heart hurts and I don't feel like eating anything. I like to be reminded of healthy, ethical choices I can make to nourish myself.

I love aubergines. The texture of food is as important to me as the taste and I don't like floury food. (If I had my way we would only ever roast waxy salad potatoes.) Aubergines have an amazing squishy, silky texture. I love them in baba ganoush - always cooked over a chargrill first - or just fried in big slices and stuffed in pitta or in this brinjal bhaji. The baby aubergines work well because you get half in each mouthful, complete with full complement of purple skin. And we all know how I feel about purple vegetables.

House Ferret II

Let's have some more of Badger the house ferret, shall we?

Yes, he's allowed on the beds.

Yes, he's allowed on the sofas.

Yes, he's allowed to lick the bowls.

But he also works hard as an apprentice draught excluder.

And yoga teacher.

His main job is just sitting around looking cute though.

Hot & Creamy

Vegetables are very, very sexy. I don't mean phallic carrots or sucking butter off asparagus; I refer only to the inherent sensuality of growing something in the earth, getting sweaty digging it out and then lavishing time, attention and spices on it over a flame.

Celeriac is an wonderful root vegetable, especially for freaks like me who do not care for potatoes. It makes a lovely crunchy remoulade and is even better cooked. I was first introduced to celeriac and chilli gratin  at my (actual) genius greengrocer friend E's Thanksgivings but it is also perfect for Valentine's Day, being hot and creamy and flecked with red confetti. 

I am often critical of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's veg recipes for simply swapping meat for huge quanities of dairy product and this one calls for a pint of cream and whole milk. If I were you I'd experiment with plant milks/creams and stock prior to V-Day. The lightness would be a big improvement - especially if this is a starter not dessert, if you know what I mean - but, as with other accessories to passion, the last thing you want is for it to split. My husband made this so it was full-fat and I had to lie down afterwards with no-one on top of me for which he only had himself to blame.

Pancake for Caz

My friend Caz - she of the greyhound wooden spoon - requested a pancake day post so here is my offering:

Blood orange pancake - a sort of sober and sugar-free crêpe Suzette for mornings.

Jerusalem Artichokes

Usually I dig the Jerusalem artichokes for Christmas dinner but this year I decided to leave them until  they could shine in their own right.

I am a huge fan of Jerusalem artichokes, evangelical even. They are unrelated to globe artichokes - which I also grow, eat and love with great passion - and not from Jerusalem. The name is probably a corruption of girasole, the Italian for sunflower, because in summer they grow nine-ten feet tall and produce yellow flowers. 

My dad used to grow them on his allotment and I planted them in containers as soon as I had access to my own outdoor space. When I moved here and started an edible forest garden, I gave them a whole bed to rampage in with corn salad underneath. They spread demonically and their eternal presence is annoying to some gardeners, but I adore perennial vegetables and Jerusalem artichokes are incomparably less demanding than the globe artichokes or princessy asparagus. They are no effort whatsoever. Plant them once; throw some green food at them every now and then; eat them forever. I have never had a crop fail, an infestation, a hissy fit, only many lovely artichoke dauphinoise, artichoke soups, roast artichokes, even raw artichoke salads. I am not a potato lover, so they are the perfect alternative having very little starch, good amounts of protein and a sweeter taste. They are almost perfect.

Their only fall from grace is the same inulin that makes them sweet and not starchy. It is very very hard to digest and not sexy. Cook with generous quantities of asafoetida and avoid altogether on dates. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Imbolc

Green and white are the colours I associate with the old Celtic celebration of Imbolc, the halfway point between winter solstice and spring equinox. Maybe because it's snowdrop time, maybe because green shoots are starting to poke through snow or maybe because of the traditional foods: those first green vegetables and the first milk produced (Imbolc from oimelc 'ewe's milk'?) after winter. Some people feel that it's more appropriate to ignore dates and celebrate when the seasons palpably turn, but this is weather-based and I am photosensitive, like the ferrets and quail I have kept. Light! Even if nothing has started growing or lactating on a particular 2nd February, it is still much, much lighter now. It's the time we notice that it's almost light when we arrive at work, almost still light when we leave. The fairy lights/candles can be put away soon.

We had family visiting from London this year and made cream of Jerusalem artichoke soup - a tuber which does not so much herald spring as say goodbye to winter; leek and spinach pancakes with laver and pickled garlic, followed by cheesecake. A lot of green and white and a big fire for St. Brighid, because it is still so cold.

Greens/Reds

One of my favourite things to eat is broccoli tempura. I know. I have no idea why I love it so much except that it is deep-fried and salty but also broccoli and therefore does not require anyone to have a food issue related counselling session afterwards. It's win/win! My husband hates cooking it though. I would cook it myself but I am easily distractable and in the past this has not paired well with large quantities of hot oil.

Even though this is Scotland, we don't possess a deep-fat fryer - one can buy everything from battered haggis and pizza to Mars Bars and Creme Eggs deep-fried on any street after all - and my food snob husband is unsatisfied with his frying pan results. The only time I ever see him angry is when something he has cooked does not meet his Michelin standards. When he finds out I am displaying his sub-optimum broccoli tempura on the internet he will be mortified.

Broccoli, like chard and spinach, is good just plain steamed though. Kale, I can't be bothered with unless it's drowned in Hollandaise or obliterated into delicious ready salted crisps in the oven.

Make sure you match the kale with salt weight for weight, as shown, otherwise you might still be able to taste it. I like red kale because it is my belief that red, blue and purple vegetables are somehow superior to green ones. I am not entirely sure this is backed up by actual science but I'm sticking with it.

I love red cabbage braised for three hours with apples and vinegar, but white is fine in slaw or sauerkraut.

Cauliflower doesn't taste of much but has great texture so I love it in gobi bhaji with brown rice, wholemeal chapatis, lime pickle, mango chutney and pickled chillis, my current favourite dinner.

Cyclists' Balls

Just to hat-trick the raw, vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free snacks, here are some chocolate-coconut-almond-butter-balls that used up a load of nut butter about to go out of date.

Like the ganache tart base and Nakd bars, they also contain the magic sweetening ingredient: dates.

These were made for my giant teenage son who is a sprint cyclist and requires high calorie, high protein recovery food in a small package, as it were.

Raw Vegan GF Chocolate Ganache Tart

This is the best cake ever.

We have made it for gluttonous omnivores and they all loved it and thought it was full of cream and butter and sugar...

...but mostly we make it for our friends who, in addition to being vegan, can't eat gluten or refined sugar. I'm not totally sold on agave but they only eat that or maple syrup and they're both as expensive as each other.

It's also raw if you use raw cacao powder although we mainly use normal cocoa for economic purposes. That's also why we substitute almonds - they're half the price of pecans in the UK.

So the ingredients are only nuts, dates, coconut oil, agave, salt, cocoa and...

...five avocadoes. Nobody ever guesses it contains avocadoes; you can't taste them.

I first saw the recipe on River Cottage Veg and it comes from Laura Coxeter. I understand you are sceptical but just trust me, and make it. It feels like you're eating a rich, heavy chocolate tart but afterwards you don't need a nap. Plus it's very very nutritious. Don't let that put you off though.

Chocolate Avocado Almond Milk Caffé Mocha

So I've gone all January and am off the sugar again. Yes, I understand sugars are in virtually all foods but by 'sugar' I mean 'nutritionless junk that tastes sweet'. Not fruit. I will eat pure dried fruit and nut bars like Nakd that don't contain added sugar but not ones like Eat Natural which do. Since I stopped ingesting drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and caffeine, refined sugar is my hit of choice. I find that if I eschew three meals a day for it I can get myself worked up into such a frenzy of hypomanic nervous energy that I can start six fights, break something, cry and be asleep by 9pm. 

The first couple of days without sugar I enter a kind of torpor and decide life just isn't worth living anymore. This reaction only confirms my suspicion that I have a deeply unhealthy relationship with said substance and so I persevere. By day three or four I develop a wholly uncharacteristic craving for carbs. Yesterday I ordered macaroni cheese with chips, a dish I generally hold up as an example of all that is wrong with the Scottish diet. I had a bread roll on the side. By day five I crack and start freebasing mangoes. Day six I have a retail box of Nakd bars delivered and keep one in the pocket of every item of clothing I own. So do other people. Then they produce them, unwrap them and shove them down my throat when I am sobbing on their shoulders at 3pm. 

After a week I am cured. I have limitless reserves of stable energy, the skin of a twenty year old and people stop looking scared of me. I have a chocolate avocado shake with unsweetened almond milk for breakfast every morning after my run and don't think about sweet things again all day. I am just a little bit smug.

For about six months. Then someone will pick my home-grown fruit to make a preserve or crumble, neither of which I really like anyway so it doesn't feel dangerous to have a little taste... Jam: the gateway drug. Within a week I will be discovered locked in the pantry, making out furiously with a jar of Nutella. My chocolate avocado shakes will start to taste of nothing so I'll have ice-cream for breakfast instead. And cookies for lunch. I'll suddenly have a lot of genius ideas that must all immediately be enacted and any failure to do so will enrage and result in an early bath.

My husband will ask me why I cannot be like him and just have two squares of high quality bitter chocolate after dinner every night and I will tell him BECAUSE I AM BATSHIT CRAZY WHICH IS WHY YOU LOVE ME, YOU BORING BASTARD and he will back away while I swim lengths face-down in a tiramisu. Six months later I will emerge shame-faced and announce I am back off the sugar.

House Ferret

The house ferret likes to ascend and descend the staircase numerous times whilst gleefully hurling down anything anyone has left on the steps. He comes down like a slinky and if he forgets to stick to the outside bend he goes head over paws and lands in a heap at the bottom.

This is very tiring work and so he falls asleep often

because he is quite old now.

Anything with the capacity to make him filthy is of great interest

despite the inevitable consequences being the indignity of a bath.

The bathroom is his favourite room though and he especially loves the bathmat which he uses every morning to remove his collar and bell. He is a free ferret, dammit.

How he envies the cats their ability to jump.

The cats loathe him

because he will not recognise feline fireside cushion ranking

and always claims the best one

to much resentment. They constantly turn their backs on him and flick their tails in annoyance which only sends him into a frenzy of tail-chasing. He likes paddling in their water bowls too.