More pig uterus, Vicar?
Uncle B had a business appointment in London today. I went with, so we could visit the happiest place on earth — I mean, of course, Wing Yip.
These are the guys who supply all the Chinese restaurants in the UK, pretty much. Here you can buy hundredweight sacks of rice, gallons of soy sauce, great sawn tree-rings to use for chopping blocks, wicked sharp cleavers engraved all down the blade with Chinese characters. There are iron woks from omelette size to great rice boats.
There’s one whole long aisle of nothing but ramen noodles.
Oh, I love Wing Yip. Most of our day-to-day cups, plates and bowls are Wing Yip-ware — if it’s good enough for the chinko on the corner, it’s good enough for mustelids. The staff is friendly, even if we are reduced to communication via squeaks and gestures, and they have everything. Where else are you going to get frozen pig uterus?
We dropped nigh on a hundred quid today — which, let me tell you, is a hell of a lot of pot noodles.
August 3, 2010 — 10:03 pm
Comments: 15
Rose hips!
That’s what those are — the edible fruit of the wild rose. The books say you should harvest in September, after the first frost, but the rose in our hedge ripened this time last year, too. In fact, it caught me off guard last time and I didn’t make anything more interesting than cups of rose hip tea.
This year, I caught them in time and I’ve candied a bunch. Mmmmmm. I love the flavor of rose hips — something between an orange and a tomato.
During the war, my mother-in-law and other young women were sent out to collect rose hips to make syrup. Shipping had been terribly disrupted, citrus fruit was in short supply, and rose hips are incredibly high in vitamin C. Like, forty times an orange or something.
Next year, I think I’ll make syrup. You can crush whole fruit to make syrup. To make anything else, you have to cut them open and empty the seed pod — a highly painintheassical operation. Besides all the fiddly little seeds, the pods are lined with tiny hairs — he only known use for which is making novelty itching powder. No fooling.
You know, I haven’t eaten so much shit out of the yard since I was raised by wild hippies.
UPDATE: oh, right…almost forgot. Tomorrow. Dead Pool. Six p.m. Weasel Blog Time. Be there, or somebody else is going to get Zsa Zsa. And sherlock? If you want your dick, you need to shout out…
July 29, 2010 — 11:07 pm
Comments: 17
Pagans to the left of me! Pagans to the right!
Here we are nearly through the Summer fête season, and I haven’t posted about any of our entertainments. I suppose when you’ve described one brass band and table full of knick knacks, you’ve pretty much told the story.
Here’s something new to me, though — we bought a corn dolly at the last one.
“Corn” here means wheat, oats, rye or barley — whatever your staple carb crop may be — and not just maize. Maize being the thing-on-the-cob we call corn.
Except for tuna and sweetcorn, which is indeed tuna salad with corn kernels in. Which is like…yeah. It’s like that.
God, being a immigrant is confusing.
Anyhoo, a corn dolly is a little sculpture plaited out of straw, either as a love token at harvest time, or a receptacle to hold the spirit of the grain until she can be ploughed back into the earth in Spring.
Children of the Corn. Rosemary’s Baby. Wicker Man. Can I just trust y’all to come up with your own pop culture film reference for the place where I am currently at?
Thank you.
July 26, 2010 — 11:02 pm
Comments: 24
I love weather!
Eh. This scan didn’t come out too good. It’s from one of the local newspapers (that line across the middle is a crease in the paper — photo credit to Chris and Jon Hayes). But I was delighted to see the picture anyway, since I didn’t get one.
I was in the garden when this monster reached inland a few days ago. It was sunny, seventy degrees. The chickens were pecking around and I was reading a book.
Suddenly the wind got up. I stood up and looked in the direction it was coming and saw this thing. The clouds below were ragged and low — just higher than the treetops — churning and boiling. Way up above was a smooth, curved bank of clouds, like a shockwave.
Honestly, my first thought was an industrial accident somewhere blowing a cloud of something nasty.
It moved in faster than a man could walk. Suddenly it was dark, gusty — 60 or 70 mile an hour winds, they said — lightning, violent rain. Wild.
And then, half an hour later, it was sunny and mild again. Must be an English Channel phenomenon. It was a hell of a thing.
Anyhoo — thanks for the booze recommendation, folks. I have checked them all out. Have a good weekend!
July 16, 2010 — 11:25 pm
Comments: 14
Now *that’s* a funky chicken
It’s a breed called Modern Game and it’s endangered.
There’s an article in this month’s Practical Poultry — or as Uncle B calls it, Chickens and Chickening — about Britain’s vanishing chicken breeds. According to the Rare Breeds Survival Trust, twenty species of British domestic animals went extinct between 1900 and 1970.
I never thought about that before. It’s not like plants; you can’t stockpile seeds in some cryogenic warehouse. It’s even more precarious than wild animals, for whom you can only provide the habitat and hope for the best.
For domestic stock, somebody has to be out there actively keeping the line alive and not letting it get fatally outbred or dangerously inbred.
Funny you never hear of endangered livestock breeds — considering all the howling and handwringing about endangered wildlife, where the number of actual modern extinctions approximates zero.
That’s because the eco nuts think domestic animals aren’t “real” animals somehow. Or, worse, they’re some kind of evil species traitors for cooperating with sinful humans.
Stupid hippies.
I just finished Temple Grandin‘s Animals in Translation — which I can definitely recommend if you find animal behavior interesting. She’s the autistic PhD who designs abattoirs.
When asked how someone who loves animals can build slaughterhouses, she points out — no slaughterhouses, no animals.
Or as someone else put it, if you want to get an animal off the endangered list, convince humans it tastes good.
July 7, 2010 — 11:00 pm
Comments: 14
The Scarlet “L”
Oh, the shame.
The humiliation.
The sheer, uncut pain-in-the-assery.
I have now flunked my driving test THREE TIMES (and boneheadedly showed up on the wrong date a fourth time, forfeiting the fee). At over £100 a pop (£64 for the test and £40 for two hours of instructor time) this is no longer amyooosing.
First time, I cut in front of somebody a bit too sharply. The second time, I stopped when the repeater lights turned red (what are repeater lights? Exactly!!!). The third time, somebody topped the hill behind me as I was pulling away from a parked position, and I kissed the curb at the corner.
It’s probably just bad luck and nerves on test day, but the problem is that I can only get test appointments every couple of months. Between time, I don’t get any practice at all because I’m not insured to drive our cars as a learner. Two months is plenty of time to sink back into teh sux0r, when you haven’t completely mastered a skill.
Coincidentally, it costs £64 to put me on the policy until October. So, what the hell? That’s three one-hour lessons. Or one more flunked test.
But I have to slap these big red magnetic LOSER plates on the car — front and back — whenever I’m driving it. And if you think other drivers go easy on you when they see you’re a beginner, you live in a magical, mystical land where people aren’t assholes.
July 6, 2010 — 9:33 pm
Comments: 30
No better than she should be
Today we took Clan Badger to Smallhythe Place, an early 16th Century half-timbered house in, of all places, Small Hythe in Kent. Small Hythe was once an important port and shipbuilding center, until the sea hiked her skirts and skittered away. It is now miles and miles from the water (making the boat launch look rather silly).
A National Trust membership for two cost us £84 and we’re by-god going to get our money’s worth this year.
The house is in much the same Tudor style as Badger House, but maybe a hundred years older. That room farthest away in the photo was held in place by iron braces, and the floors were so outrageously wobbly and wonky that walking around the room made us all feel a bit ill, like one of those state fair funhouses.
From 1899 until her death in 1928, Smallhythe was home to Ellen Terry — the leading Shakespearean actress of her day. For which read: scenery-munching hambone.
She gave the house to the National Trust on her death, and it doubles as a museum of her life and acting memorabilia. Pretty cool stuff. She was the model for this iconic Sargent painting — the dress is upstairs in the Wonky Room.
Terry had three husbands, a series of lovers and a couple of illegitimate children (the son made eight bastards of his own; the daughter set herself up in the house next door to Smallhythe in a lesbian ménage à trois). Pretty good going for a woman of the High Victorian age.
Mother Badger seemed deeply perturbed by this information, although she mostly viewed it as a schedule management problem. “How did she have time?” she kept asking, shaking her head.
The gardens were lovely. And Uncle Badger was gratified to see they were laid out and planted up very similarly to our own — obviously aiming for a lush Tudor cottage garden effect.
But this sign was his favorite part. He refused to budge until he’d seen the odd stoat.
June 30, 2010 — 10:59 pm
Comments: 25
Field trip!
Today we went to Scotney Castle (click the pic to embiggen and becolor), which is actually two houses. This one, which is mostly a ruin, is Medieval. And up the hill, the family built a new, modern manse in 1837.
The last residents were childless. He left the house to the National Trust on his death, thirty years ago. His wife decided she was going to live to 99. So the gardens have been open to visitors for years, but the house only for three. Hence there’s an eerie sense of her about the place.
The last survivor is her cat, who was provided for in the will and still skulks about the place (but makes herself scarce during visiting hours).
And I thought Charlotte was spoiled!
June 23, 2010 — 10:47 pm
Comments: 17
My mother smelled of what, now?
There’s an elder by our front door (and two in the drive) that is now in full flower. I wonder how long it’s been there. Elder trees were commonly planted beside English cottage doors to ward off witches (only one of many, many magical beliefs and herbal medicines associated with the elder).
More to our purposes, however, a quick-fermenting sort of champagne can be made from the flowers.
20 elderflower heads
1 kg sugar
2 lemons (juice and zest)
10 liters of water
2 tablespoons of vinegar
Sorry about the liters and kilos — it’s all I get any more, stupid Euro-measurements.
Mix it all together in a bucket. Don’t wash the elderflowers; they have a natural yeast that will begin fermentation (or not. If it’s not bubbling in 24 hours, add some yeast).
Stir occasionally for six days, and then strain it through muslin into bottles. Most recipes recommend plastic bottles, on account of the stuff keeps fermenting (like champagne) and is subject to violent explosion. Even in plastic bottles, watch for bulging and let off some gases if needed. Putting the bottles in a bathtub and covering with an old duvet is another suggestoin, to contain damage in the case of rupture.
Eight days(!) after bottling, it’s ready to drink.
What’s it like? Ask me in two weeks; I’ve just made a batch.
June 14, 2010 — 10:09 pm
Comments: 31
Oh, god — do I have to?
This is so unfair. I get to be depressed by politics in TWO countries!
Okay, here’s what happened: David Cameron’s party won more votes than the others — by a lot — but the next two main parties combined have more seats than he does. And they’re both leftist parties.
There was talk about the two leftist parties joining forces to shut Cameron out of government. Under their system, it might just be possible. Politically, it’s a natural. But, as so often happens with internecine fights, there’s mucho personal and historical animosity between the two. So that fell apart.
Cameron could have just said screw it and formed a government, which is what the righties in his party wanted him to do. Yes, there are still real, honest-to-god righties in the Tory party. The danger is that the other parties, because they outnumber him, could force another election any time they wanted.
Both Labour and the LibDems are likely to do even worse if another election were held soon. I doubt either wants another shot at it until they can do some housecleaning. A bold leader would take that gamble.
But Cameron didn’t.
He decided to form a true majority by making a pact with the further left of the two parties he beat. The one that did really badly. Much worse than expected. Won almost no seats at all.
And by “pact” — well, nobody really knows yet. He has to bring up some of their pet issues. Let some of them onto his cabinet. Maybe even make the leader his Deputy Prime Minister. This from a party whose agenda was just soundly rejected by the electorate.
And all this could’ve been avoided if he had been willing to talk to the party to the right of him. All he had to do was make some noises about immigration and Europe. Analysis of seat-by-seat results show if UKIP’s votes had gone Tory, he would have had 20 to 40 more seats. A comfortable ruling majority.
But no. Years ago, Cameron publicly labeled those nice old biddies a bunch of ‘fruit cakes and loonies and closet racists.’ Now the Tories are really flexed that they didn’t get the fruitcake-loony-racist vote and thinks it should be really, really ashamed of itself.
And if this whole rickety Rube Goldbergian contraption starts to burn oil, there could still be a new election called at any time.
Okay, I think I’m going to have to put this in terms of a really fucked-up alternate reality hypothetical.
Imagine it’s now in the United States, with everybody all wadded up about the collapsing economy and falling jobs and immigration. And by some sadistic twist of fate John McCain — no, Lindsey Graham has just been elected president. But it was a real squeaker because — well, Lindsey Graham. So he takes totally the wrong message from his narrow win and decides to move left and make Nancy Pelosi his Vice President. And give her a veto over anything he proposes. And if he pisses her off, she can throw the election out and make us do it again.
That’s kind of where we be at here.
I have seen the happy place, and this isn’t it.
May 11, 2010 — 10:01 pm
Comments: 35