Far Lands

. . . the turkey was resting, the veg was about to go on. The table was set, the fire blazing, and Sarah (and our guests) wanted a drink. I was about to go and shower but thought I would just empty a kitchen bin into the dustbin. I went outside; the dustbin is close to a bird table and as I approached I noticed a squirrel clinging to the bag of nuts on the bird table. It was a golden opportunity and I popped back into the house. I had never hit anything with my gun, and I did not think I would be more than momentarily delayed. I returned outside; the squirrel was still nibbling. I cracked the gun, and loaded a pellet; the squirrel did not move. I took aim. And fired. Still, the squirrel did not move. Then, as if in slow motion, the squirrel peeled off backwards and dropped to the floor. I could not believe it. Head shot. But now I was in trouble. No way was the squirrel going in the dustbin; this was free food. So, I did a speedy skinning and gutting, washed the meat we...

. . . is to name your turkey. Best name this year was Farage followed by Loki Bottomface . Of course, plucking and gutting are only half the story. Still to come are trussing, stuffing, and cooking. And then eating! Bon Appetit and Happy Christmas! J&Sx

There are really only two options. Either get drunk at the office Xmas party (either yours or someone else's; probably about the only time when gate-crashers are welcomed), or . . . . . . get digging.  And as I don't have an office to have an Xmas party, the decision is made. Traditionally, the digging jobs at this time of year are unpacking the goodies in the compost heap, and spreading those goodies into and digging over the vegetable beds. I am currently burrowing around in two different heaps; one the result of our garden waste and the other the horse manure pile. Both are dark black, and stuffed with wire worms. We steam together. I am also digging a new cordon bed - removing the rocks and roots, then inverting the turfs about a foot down and back-filling with a soil / compost mix - which is a messy affair in all this rain. But the thought of a succulent Katy , or the Beauty of Bath or even a Belle de Boskoop is spurring me on.

. . . well a dusting anyway. If only the chickens could speak! It did not seem to phase them too much. They are beginning to lay properly now, the eggs not so small and with less double-yokers which apparently is very usual when hens first start laying. Two more are still to start laying and we know which two they are. It's very obvious - they are still pristine white. The reason is that Flash (our sole remaining rooster) has his wicked way with the rest (including a poor bantam) and in the process puts his muddy claws  over their backs and squashes them down into the mud. I think that when the hens start laying, their hormones have changed and their smell changes and Flash gets interested. Up until then he leaves them alone, and they stay very white.

. . . the taste of medlar fruit? This year we had 2 fruit on our tree (2 more than last year so that is progress). The advice is not to pick them until they have suffered a frost and their decay has started! So, we picked them after the first frost, and then waited a further ten days for the fruit to blett - ie rot further. This way they transform from hard, inedible fruit into something . . . well, at least edible. The rotting fruit look fairly disgusting but Sarah was game, so I opened one up and scooped out some of the flesh with a teaspoon. It was brown and gooey, like well-rotten apple or pureed baby food. I went first - obviously, the court jester to the Queen - and took a mouthful. Quite tasty, sweet. The Queen tried some. 'Tastes like baked apple, but sweeter.' She'd nailed it; that's why she's the Queen.