Hello, my lovely shedders!
I meant to get back to you sooner, but I have been buzzing around like an unendangered bee. But you, my supporters, are ever in my thoughts. It gives me a glow every time I see a new name in my list and although I haven't got round to thanking you all individually, I promise that you won't regret your pledges.
Enough of that. On to something more entertaining. (Perhaps) When I first moved here I took on a house with no electricity, no running water and no doors or windows. The way in from the road was all humps and bumps and you just had to leave your car in by the hedge and hope for the best. The yard was full of nettles, a swarm of bees was up the chimney and wasps had built a nest in the corner of one window. That didn't bother me in the slightest. I was in full-on honeymoon mode, where all was enchanting. After moving from London, with noisy neighbours to either side of me and low-flying aircraft on their way in to Heathrow passing overhead every few minutes, I couldn't believe the peace.It was dropping slow, all right.
In those early days I would sit looking through the window for an hour or longer, soaking up the sunsets and picturing myself weaving a blanket, or picking apples off the tree, or ambling down a lane on horseback. All the purest fantasy! The brain wasn't engaged at all - I was in a celtic romance of my own devising.
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread. My father came over to give me a hand, and at the age of 87, shinned up a ladder into the roof space, where he joined me in cleaning up. I saw all these unsightly bits of concrete on the back of the slates, so started chipping them off. Only much later did I realise what an eejit I'd been, as these were holding them in place on the roof.
One thing was working, and that was the crane. It was almost my main reason for buying the house in the first place. A giant fireplace dominated one wall of the big kitchen and inside the fireplace, on the left hand side, a long metal arm sat in a hinge and pivoted out over the fire itself. The idea was to hang heavy cast iron pots and pans from the arm by means of hooks and chains. The nearer the turf flames, the greater the heat, so if you wanted to regulate it, you could swing the arm away a little or lift the hook on a higher loop of the chain, or build another, smaller fire elsewhere in the hearth. It was no bother to make several little fires and have a few pots on the go all at once. Skill was needed to gauge what you were doing, but I learned by my mistakes and got quite adept at frying sausages in one pan, boiling spuds in another and keeping a kettle going elsewhere.
If you live in Ireland, a kettle is an essential. There is an unwritten law that you have to offer visitors a cup of tea. And if you do that, it's a poor show not to have a cut of bread or cake or, at the very least, a biscuit to go with it. Irish people are hugely hospitable and generous, on the whole. In my book, I have lots of instances of desperately poor people living in hovels, giving their guests the very food they had set aside for their own meal. Back in time, Christianity held great sway in Ireland and it was felt that the unexpected stranger should be welcomed and honoured. The story of Christ on the road to Emmaus was in their minds and hearts.
So here's a little recipe you might like. I tried this in a bastable (a corruption of Barnstaple, where these heavy lidded pots were made) but you'll get better results from your oven!
Florence Irwin, who travelled around Ireland in the early part of the 20th century giving cookery demonstrations and advice to rural communities, became known as The Cookin’ Woman, and it is from her book of that name that I have adapted this recipe.
Indian Meal Scones
225g Indian or maize meal
225g plain white flour
½ tsp bicarbonate of soda
½ tsp cream of tartar
½ tsp salt
1 tbs brown sugar (muscovado for preference)
60g lard
250 ml buttermilk (or less)
Sieve the maize or corn meal into a bowl, then sieve the other dry ingredients in after it. Rub in the lard and add enough buttermilk to make a dough. Knead it lightly and roll out the dough (not too thin) with a floured rolling pin. Using a scone/biscuit cutter or the lip of a teacup, cut into circles and bake in a hot oven, 220C/425F/Gas 7 for about 15 minutes. The scones should be golden brown and sound hollow when you tap the bottom. These scones are far better eaten hot than cold, preferably with good salty butter or even a blob of clotted cream and a dob of jam.
