As a Christmas gift I am flying my Mom out to Australia to stay for a few weeks. When I told her over the phone on Christmas day, I said that she could come out next or next year or she can came out when the plums are ready for picking.
She is officially coming out in March, which is a few weeks after the plums will be picked. Did she time that perfectly or what?
Well, as excited as we are to have her out, it has forced us to 'pull our fingers out' (as they say down here) and finally finish off the projects that we started almost a year ago, but were waiting to finish when the rains stopped. When the rains stopped, we decided to wait until it wasn't so hot.
It is still hot, but now we are under deadline and have been racing around getting everything done.
Last weekend I planted the summer annuals in the few garden beds that were bare, again pruned over 70 maple trees that hang over the driveway, potted up hanging baskets, summer pruned the roses, pulled more weeds.
Stuart fixed all of the retic, bought the extra bits of furniture that we needed and power hosed all of the dirt and redback spider webs off of the veranda.
Then one night before I went to bed, I decided to watch Under the Tuscan Sun. Stuart dreads it when I watch this movie because the next day I always drag him to the home depot type store so that we can renovate something.
This time I wanted to renovate the Cottage. The kitchen in the Cottage, which was all 70s tans, creams and browns, needed updating.
We were planning on renting it out as a holiday stay, so we needed to do it anyhow, just not this week.
So we decided on the colour scheme: black and white.
Rushed off to the homewares store and came back with a bootfull of tiles, grout, paint and E.S.P.
As we started to finish the cottage kitchen, the cottage bathroom (which is off the cottage kitchen) started to look weary so we renovated the cottage bathroom as well.
Then as the cottage bathroom was nearing completion, we realised we had to do something with the main cottage bedroom... which is at the opposite end to the cottage kitchen and the cottage bathroom, but had no furniture except a single bed.
So we rushed out to the furniture store and bought a new bedroom suite for our bedroom and put our old one in the cottage main bedroom.
Now that the cottage main bedroom is done, cottage smaller bedroom is looking a bit like a junk room.
Actually cottage smaller bedroom is a junk room, filled with photos and suitcases and half inflated inflatable punching bag and whatever else we don't want anymore, but don't want to throw away.
I can't bring myself to clean up that junk right now, so we will just keep the door closed and tell people it is where we keep Grandma.
Photos will be posted later on this week, fingers crossed, however plum season is about to begin and we have a newly renovated cottage.... any takers????
Still on the to do list... finish the paddock fencing, paint the main house and pick plums.
Showing posts with label The Farm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Farm. Show all posts
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE
It is 12.30 in the morning and I am baking a pie.
Strawberry rhubarb pie. Not just any strawberry rhubarb pie, but Cindy Crawford's very own recipe.
I must admit that I was exceptionally inspired earlier in the evening to bake this fabulous pie, but then I had a few Hard Lemonades and well, I am am just lucky to still be coherent enough to type this post.
For about an hour I just stared at the kitchen counter as I lounged out on the couch.
What kept me from baking the pie was not so much the cutting of the strawberries or the slicing of the rhubarb, but rolling out that bloody dough!
I hate pie dough. I hate when it falls apart, and when there isn't enough flour on the counter and it adheres there for days or when it appears as an almost perfect circle except when you put it in the pie pan there is one spot that just doesn't quite make it to the edge...
Who needs the stress?
As I started to think about it, the angrier I became.
Was I really defeated by a pie recipe from Cindy Crawford? I mean... Cindy Crawford?
What has my life become if I can out do The Mole in pie baking?
So I did it. I am listening to jazz and baking a pie.
I was even feeling so competitive with Cindy bloomin Crawford that I decided to do my pie top as latticing!
That's right! Top that, Cindy.
Well, actually, it shouldn't be too hard since I could not see straight enough to cut the strips into even remotely reasonably even peices. My pie latticing looked like arts and crafts hour at the methodone clinic.
Latticing scrapped.
So I know what you are thinking, How can I top the bitch now?
Ha! I use the normal pie crust top, but with cut-out hearts scattered on it. Only I don't have a heart shape cutter, so I improvised with my knife by cutting the best little heart shapes I could muster.
So here I am happy in homoland decorating a pie thinking "A heart here, and one over here and another one here and wait a minute, these do not look like hearts.. they look like... OH MY GOD!"
Hearts scrapped.
So what I am left with is a pie that appears just as called for in Cindy's recipe.
But can Cindy say she used strawberries and rhubarb freshly picked from her garden?
No I am sure she cannot... and neither can I.
Outfoxed again by Cindy Crawford.
Strawberry rhubarb pie. Not just any strawberry rhubarb pie, but Cindy Crawford's very own recipe.
I must admit that I was exceptionally inspired earlier in the evening to bake this fabulous pie, but then I had a few Hard Lemonades and well, I am am just lucky to still be coherent enough to type this post.
For about an hour I just stared at the kitchen counter as I lounged out on the couch.
What kept me from baking the pie was not so much the cutting of the strawberries or the slicing of the rhubarb, but rolling out that bloody dough!
I hate pie dough. I hate when it falls apart, and when there isn't enough flour on the counter and it adheres there for days or when it appears as an almost perfect circle except when you put it in the pie pan there is one spot that just doesn't quite make it to the edge...
Who needs the stress?
As I started to think about it, the angrier I became.
Was I really defeated by a pie recipe from Cindy Crawford? I mean... Cindy Crawford?
What has my life become if I can out do The Mole in pie baking?
So I did it. I am listening to jazz and baking a pie.
I was even feeling so competitive with Cindy bloomin Crawford that I decided to do my pie top as latticing!
That's right! Top that, Cindy.
Well, actually, it shouldn't be too hard since I could not see straight enough to cut the strips into even remotely reasonably even peices. My pie latticing looked like arts and crafts hour at the methodone clinic.
Latticing scrapped.
So I know what you are thinking, How can I top the bitch now?
Ha! I use the normal pie crust top, but with cut-out hearts scattered on it. Only I don't have a heart shape cutter, so I improvised with my knife by cutting the best little heart shapes I could muster.
So here I am happy in homoland decorating a pie thinking "A heart here, and one over here and another one here and wait a minute, these do not look like hearts.. they look like... OH MY GOD!"
Hearts scrapped.
So what I am left with is a pie that appears just as called for in Cindy's recipe.
But can Cindy say she used strawberries and rhubarb freshly picked from her garden?
No I am sure she cannot... and neither can I.
Outfoxed again by Cindy Crawford.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
MURDER REDEMPTION
You may remember that I wrote a post a while back about my tedious ability to murder animals with my car.
Whilst I am busy running birds and animals down, Stuart is busy collecting them from the side of the road. Not the dead ones, but the injured ones.
The first bird he brought home was a galah (also called a 'pink and grey' cockatoo), whom we rushed to a avian vet. That bird started bleeding out of his nostrils and did not make it the night.
The second bird was a rainbow lorikeet. This bird was hit by a car. We put him in a cage and kept the conditions safe and warm. Within a few days he was lively and did not have any broken bones or injuries.
Stuart wanted to keep him, but at my insistance, he was released into the wild again.
The third bird was love bird, which was either released or escaped from being a household pet. Stuart was sitting at the outside table on his laptop when this love bird suddenly landed on the keyboard.
Of course love birds cannot survive the wild, so it was placed in a cage to live a happy life with our resident cockatiel (which prompted some concern as every bird that has a shared a cage with this particulat cockatiel has ended up dead within a week).
Now for the fourth bird rescue which just happened last night. Stuart came home from the local farmer's market and walked through the door with this thing clutched to his chest.
I, of course, remained calm. Not recognising it as a bird when I noticed this thing I screamed and jumped back a few feet.
It was a baby pink and grey which was hit by a car.
I got the spare bird cage out of the barn and grabbed a towel to wrap it up in and keep it warm.
The couple minutes it took to get back from the barn, the bird had gotten worse. His head was just hanging there, as if the spine had been severed. In fact, as I walking back up to the house with the cage and caught a glimpse of him, I thought he had passed on.
I made a nest with the towel and gently covered him to keep warm. I figured that when he dies, at least he would be comfortable.
Last night I wrapped the cage with a thick blanket to create a dark warm and quiet space for him.
This morning he was doing a lot better, sitting properly and head movement came back.
Then a few hours later he let out a soft "caw".
Just before, I was out there giving him fresh water in a very small dish and he then climbed on the side of the bowl and went to sleep.
He looks healthy, as in no broken wings, legs or spine. Just seems a little bit subdued and sleepy. Which is expected after such a trauma.
We will see how he is tomorrow and then next couple of days and if all is well then he will be released back into the wild.
Whilst I am busy running birds and animals down, Stuart is busy collecting them from the side of the road. Not the dead ones, but the injured ones.
The first bird he brought home was a galah (also called a 'pink and grey' cockatoo), whom we rushed to a avian vet. That bird started bleeding out of his nostrils and did not make it the night.
The second bird was a rainbow lorikeet. This bird was hit by a car. We put him in a cage and kept the conditions safe and warm. Within a few days he was lively and did not have any broken bones or injuries.
Stuart wanted to keep him, but at my insistance, he was released into the wild again.
The third bird was love bird, which was either released or escaped from being a household pet. Stuart was sitting at the outside table on his laptop when this love bird suddenly landed on the keyboard.
Of course love birds cannot survive the wild, so it was placed in a cage to live a happy life with our resident cockatiel (which prompted some concern as every bird that has a shared a cage with this particulat cockatiel has ended up dead within a week).
Now for the fourth bird rescue which just happened last night. Stuart came home from the local farmer's market and walked through the door with this thing clutched to his chest.
I, of course, remained calm. Not recognising it as a bird when I noticed this thing I screamed and jumped back a few feet.
It was a baby pink and grey which was hit by a car.
I got the spare bird cage out of the barn and grabbed a towel to wrap it up in and keep it warm.
The couple minutes it took to get back from the barn, the bird had gotten worse. His head was just hanging there, as if the spine had been severed. In fact, as I walking back up to the house with the cage and caught a glimpse of him, I thought he had passed on.
I made a nest with the towel and gently covered him to keep warm. I figured that when he dies, at least he would be comfortable.
Last night I wrapped the cage with a thick blanket to create a dark warm and quiet space for him.
This morning he was doing a lot better, sitting properly and head movement came back.
Then a few hours later he let out a soft "caw".
Just before, I was out there giving him fresh water in a very small dish and he then climbed on the side of the bowl and went to sleep.
He looks healthy, as in no broken wings, legs or spine. Just seems a little bit subdued and sleepy. Which is expected after such a trauma.
We will see how he is tomorrow and then next couple of days and if all is well then he will be released back into the wild.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
GOODBYE WINTER, HELLO SPRING
I asked and you voted.
The post you most wanted to see was "Goodbye Winter, Hello Spring - A Photo Essay on the Seasonal Changes at The Farm"... or something.
Technically it was a tie between this and My Day as a Hot Dog, but I thought I would torture Pumpkin Delight by doing that one after this.
When we moved to the Hills I was unaware that it is actually a few degrees colder up here than down on the flats. I was thrilled about this as I do so enjoy cold weather (oh how I wish there was a dry sarcasm font).
After many blizzards with knee deep snow and Medusa-like arctic gusts which immediately froze one in their spot, I vowed that I never wanted to experience any weather colder than 70 degrees.
So you are telling me that it is colder up here by at least 5 degrees Celsius (which is like 100 degrees in Fahrenheit), frosts, has heavy fog and rains more?
... and hails???
With the winter comes the rains. Perth get absolutely no rain between November and April. However when it rains in the winter, it is heavy.
These heavy rains fill up the dry creek beds and life springs up in otherwise barren land.
Do you see those green plants on the side of the winter creek?
They are called Death Lilies. Another common name is Arum Lily and Canna Lily. Technically, they are a declared weed in Western Australia, however I consider them cut flowers free from the wild.
Every weekend I grab my secateurs, put on my wellies and head into the depths of the creek to cut a few vase full of these flowers.
In case you don't believe I really do go wading in creek here is the proof:
Actually, one of my favourite activities this winter was playing in the creek. Hey don't Tiger snakes love the water and marshy areas like the winter creek?
Why yes, they do. However they hibernate in the winter so it is safe. However now that it is warming up, the snakes will start to come out of hibernation, full of venom, grumpy and desperate for a feed.
Stuart says that my wellies would be enough protection from snake bites. I am not so sure. I asked a country friend of mine if this is true and she took a long pause, pulled in her face and said, "Well, it would definitely help."
So I may just let enjoying the lilies from afar for the rest of the season.
Good thing the lemon tree is bursting with about ten million lemons.
So far I have made many jars of preserved lemons, many many jars of limoncello and have four thousand cubes of frozen lemon juice. The kicker is, there are still nine million lemons left on the tree.
Any one have any good recipes for lemons??
The roses are all pruned sticks in the ground, the maples are barren skeletons lining the driveway and the flame tree has been extinguished. However in all of this barren forest the azaleas took the opportunity to put on a spectacular show.
It's an old lady pink, but still stunning.
However the show stopper of the spring was when the plum trees decided to turn from dark silhouettes into rows of graceful white blossoms.
The post you most wanted to see was "Goodbye Winter, Hello Spring - A Photo Essay on the Seasonal Changes at The Farm"... or something.
Technically it was a tie between this and My Day as a Hot Dog, but I thought I would torture Pumpkin Delight by doing that one after this.
When we moved to the Hills I was unaware that it is actually a few degrees colder up here than down on the flats. I was thrilled about this as I do so enjoy cold weather (oh how I wish there was a dry sarcasm font).
After many blizzards with knee deep snow and Medusa-like arctic gusts which immediately froze one in their spot, I vowed that I never wanted to experience any weather colder than 70 degrees.
So you are telling me that it is colder up here by at least 5 degrees Celsius (which is like 100 degrees in Fahrenheit), frosts, has heavy fog and rains more?
... and hails???
With the winter comes the rains. Perth get absolutely no rain between November and April. However when it rains in the winter, it is heavy.
These heavy rains fill up the dry creek beds and life springs up in otherwise barren land.
Do you see those green plants on the side of the winter creek?
They are called Death Lilies. Another common name is Arum Lily and Canna Lily. Technically, they are a declared weed in Western Australia, however I consider them cut flowers free from the wild.
Every weekend I grab my secateurs, put on my wellies and head into the depths of the creek to cut a few vase full of these flowers.
In case you don't believe I really do go wading in creek here is the proof:
Actually, one of my favourite activities this winter was playing in the creek. Hey don't Tiger snakes love the water and marshy areas like the winter creek?
Why yes, they do. However they hibernate in the winter so it is safe. However now that it is warming up, the snakes will start to come out of hibernation, full of venom, grumpy and desperate for a feed.
Stuart says that my wellies would be enough protection from snake bites. I am not so sure. I asked a country friend of mine if this is true and she took a long pause, pulled in her face and said, "Well, it would definitely help."
So I may just let enjoying the lilies from afar for the rest of the season.
Good thing the lemon tree is bursting with about ten million lemons.
So far I have made many jars of preserved lemons, many many jars of limoncello and have four thousand cubes of frozen lemon juice. The kicker is, there are still nine million lemons left on the tree.
Any one have any good recipes for lemons??
The roses are all pruned sticks in the ground, the maples are barren skeletons lining the driveway and the flame tree has been extinguished. However in all of this barren forest the azaleas took the opportunity to put on a spectacular show.
It's an old lady pink, but still stunning.
However the show stopper of the spring was when the plum trees decided to turn from dark silhouettes into rows of graceful white blossoms.
Friday, September 25, 2009
WHY PETA HATES ME... AND OTHER TALES OF ATTEMPTED MURDER
I live in an area of Perth known simply as “The Hills”
It is a range of hills that surrounds the city not dissimilar to the Hollywood Hills in LA. However my hills are peppered with national forests, water catchment areas, orchards and wineries. All of this nature brings with it an abundance of wildlife at levels not seen down on the suburban “flats”.
One night I was driving home from work and suddenly this big brown speckled mass of feathers flew into my windscreen, creating a gigantic THUD! and then disappeared.
I started to freak out. I turned around to look for any beings lying on the side of the road but there was nothing. My mind started to wonder what it could have been that I hit.
This may come to no surprise to many of you, but I have a bit of supernatural paranoia when it comes to driving through rural forest areas in the dark. I think that ghosts are going to pop out, aliens are going to land and crazed murders with hooks for hands are going bounce my severed head against the car roof.
Naturally my first instinct was one of fear.
“Oh my god, I just hit the Mothman! I just set off a prophecy. I don’t even have a signal on my phone to tell everyone I love them before I die!!!”
When I pulled my self together I deduced that it was not the Mothman, but was in fact a Kookaburra.
Yes, I just killed a Kookaburra. The guilt set in and I wished it was actually the Mothman.
A few days later, Stuart and I were driving home around midnight, going at full speed (90 km/h) I turned a bend and there were three kangaroos lined up across the road. Papa, Mama and Baby, in that order.
There was a slight space in between Papa Roo and Mama Roo, so I slammed on my breaks and aimed for that space, however Mama Roo kept bouncing forward and the space grew smaller and before I could say “Get out of the way”… THUD!!!!
Yes, that is right folks, I am the Australian equivalent to that hunter who killed Bambi’s mother.
For the next week, I felt awful. Those big sweet eyes and that poor orphaned Baby Roo, the widowed Papa Roo. I cried into my martini six times that week.
I cried into my martini so many times that I had to head down to the bottle shop to get a new bottle of vodka.
On the way home from the bottle shop, again at full speed, a wittle bunny wabbit comes wacing out of the woods and wight into my front tyre. I will spare you the details of how the wittle wabbit went flying through the air, but just know that I am still, two weeks on, having nightmares.
When I arrived home (and for the record I was not drunk driving that night. I was picking up the bottle of vodka because I ran out the night before) I asked Stuart,
“How many animals have you killed since we moved here?”
“None.”
So it is just me. I am an animal murderer.
WHICH TALE DO YOU WANT TO READ ABOUT NEXT? VOTE OVER THERE =======>
It is a range of hills that surrounds the city not dissimilar to the Hollywood Hills in LA. However my hills are peppered with national forests, water catchment areas, orchards and wineries. All of this nature brings with it an abundance of wildlife at levels not seen down on the suburban “flats”.
One night I was driving home from work and suddenly this big brown speckled mass of feathers flew into my windscreen, creating a gigantic THUD! and then disappeared.
I started to freak out. I turned around to look for any beings lying on the side of the road but there was nothing. My mind started to wonder what it could have been that I hit.
This may come to no surprise to many of you, but I have a bit of supernatural paranoia when it comes to driving through rural forest areas in the dark. I think that ghosts are going to pop out, aliens are going to land and crazed murders with hooks for hands are going bounce my severed head against the car roof.
Naturally my first instinct was one of fear.
“Oh my god, I just hit the Mothman! I just set off a prophecy. I don’t even have a signal on my phone to tell everyone I love them before I die!!!”
When I pulled my self together I deduced that it was not the Mothman, but was in fact a Kookaburra.
Yes, I just killed a Kookaburra. The guilt set in and I wished it was actually the Mothman.
A few days later, Stuart and I were driving home around midnight, going at full speed (90 km/h) I turned a bend and there were three kangaroos lined up across the road. Papa, Mama and Baby, in that order.
There was a slight space in between Papa Roo and Mama Roo, so I slammed on my breaks and aimed for that space, however Mama Roo kept bouncing forward and the space grew smaller and before I could say “Get out of the way”… THUD!!!!
Yes, that is right folks, I am the Australian equivalent to that hunter who killed Bambi’s mother.
For the next week, I felt awful. Those big sweet eyes and that poor orphaned Baby Roo, the widowed Papa Roo. I cried into my martini six times that week.
I cried into my martini so many times that I had to head down to the bottle shop to get a new bottle of vodka.
On the way home from the bottle shop, again at full speed, a wittle bunny wabbit comes wacing out of the woods and wight into my front tyre. I will spare you the details of how the wittle wabbit went flying through the air, but just know that I am still, two weeks on, having nightmares.
When I arrived home (and for the record I was not drunk driving that night. I was picking up the bottle of vodka because I ran out the night before) I asked Stuart,
“How many animals have you killed since we moved here?”
“None.”
So it is just me. I am an animal murderer.
WHICH TALE DO YOU WANT TO READ ABOUT NEXT? VOTE OVER THERE =======>
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
THE HORSE DID WHAT?
I came home from work to be greeted by two council cars, two more councils cars from the neighbouring council, five FESA (Fire and Emergency Services) three SES (State Emergency Service) trucks, three ranger cars, an RSPCA truck, two unknown SUVs, a big digger tractor, a local news crew and about 50 people standing around the front paddock.
What the hell is going on?
Numerous things passed through my head. They found a dead body! An electical explosion started a fire! The council is here to take away the horse because we haven't yet applied for a permit! The horse caused an electrical explosion and blew open a hole in the ground that exposed dead bodies... on fire, and the council was here to arrest the horse for suspected murder!
I parked my car and raced down to the paddock to find out what was actually going on.
I found Stuart and he explained that the horse got stuck upside down, all four legs in the air, in the currently dried up winter creek ditch.
Noone knows how long he was stuck there, the daughter only found him when she came home from school.
In a panic, she rang Stuart and then some friends who have an orchard right behind us on the other side of the national forest.
Their whole family came rushing over and rang everyone they knew to come and help.
While all of the rescue crew and RSPCA were standing around arguing over who was in charge and what they were going to do, Stuart arrived home and told everyone that the horse needed to be dug out of the ditch.
The friend's father rushed down the street to a farmer, who had the flu and was sick in bed, and asked him to come down with his tractor digger thing.
They dug the horse out, the horse is fine and they lived happily ever after.
The End.
What the hell is going on?
Numerous things passed through my head. They found a dead body! An electical explosion started a fire! The council is here to take away the horse because we haven't yet applied for a permit! The horse caused an electrical explosion and blew open a hole in the ground that exposed dead bodies... on fire, and the council was here to arrest the horse for suspected murder!
I parked my car and raced down to the paddock to find out what was actually going on.
I found Stuart and he explained that the horse got stuck upside down, all four legs in the air, in the currently dried up winter creek ditch.
Noone knows how long he was stuck there, the daughter only found him when she came home from school.
In a panic, she rang Stuart and then some friends who have an orchard right behind us on the other side of the national forest.
Their whole family came rushing over and rang everyone they knew to come and help.
While all of the rescue crew and RSPCA were standing around arguing over who was in charge and what they were going to do, Stuart arrived home and told everyone that the horse needed to be dug out of the ditch.
The friend's father rushed down the street to a farmer, who had the flu and was sick in bed, and asked him to come down with his tractor digger thing.
They dug the horse out, the horse is fine and they lived happily ever after.
The End.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
YOU ASKED FOR IT - APPLE BUTTER RECIPE
Due to the popular demand, I hereby share with you an apple butter recipe you can make at home or during a block party. It is almost summer in the US, so you have plenty of time to plan and gather all the ingredients before October!
If you are in Australia, well, you are too late. The apple harvest has just finished for the season. The good news is that you have an entire year to plant apple trees, find a copper kettle and sew your very own bonnet.
If anyone happens to have a bunch of Pennsylvania Dutch people lying around, here is a traditional recipe from 1839.
“Cider for apple butter must be perfectly new from the press, and the sweeter and mellower the apples are of which it is made, the better will the apple butter be.
Boil the cider till reduced to one half its original quantity, and skim it well.
Do not use for this purpose an iron kettle, or the butter will be very dark, and if you use a brass or copper kettle, it must be scoured as clean and bright as possible, before you put the cider into it, and you must not suffer the butter to remain in it a minute longer than is actually necessary to prepare it, or it will imbibe a copperish taste that will render it not only unpleasant, but really unhealthy.
It is best to prepare it late in the fall, when the apples are quite mellow. Select those that have a fine flavor, and will cook tender; pare and quarter them from the cores, and boil them in the cider till perfectly soft, having plenty of cider to cover them well.
If you wish to make it on a small scale, do not remove the apples from the cider when they get soft, but continue to boil them gently in it till the apples and cider form a thick smooth marmalade, which you must stir almost constantly towards the last.
A few minutes before you take it from the fire, flavor it highly with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves, and when the seasonings are well intermixed, put it up in jars, tie folded paper over them and keep them in a cool place.
If made in a proper manner, it will keep good more than a year, and will be found very convenient, being always in readiness.
Many people who are in the habit of making apple butter, take it from the fire before it is boiled near enough. Both to keep it well and taste well, it should be boiled long after the apples have become soft, and towards the last, simmered over coals till it gets almost thick enough to slice.
If you wish to make it on a large scale, after you have boiled the first kettle full of apples soft, remove them from the cider, draining them with a perforated ladle that the cider may fall again to the kettle, and put them into a clean tub.
Fill up the kettle with fresh apples, having them pared and sliced from the cores, and having ready a kettle of boiling cider, that is reduced to at least half its original quantity; fill up the kettle of apples with it as often as is necessary.
When you have boiled in this manner as many apples as you wish, put the whole of them in a large kettle, or kettles, with the cider, and simmer it over a bed of coals till it is so thick, that it is with some difficulty you can stir it: it should be stirred almost constantly, with a wooden spaddle, or paddle, or it will be certain to scorch at the bottom or sides of the kettle.
Shortly before you take it from the fire, season it as before directed, and then put it up in jars."
If you are without a spaddle or bed of coals, I have altered the above into a 12 Step recipe:
Step 1. Grab your Golden Girls DVD and put into DVD player. If you are looking for more of a pioneer atmosphere when making apple butter try watching Little House on the Prairie.
Step 2. Take two kilos (about 4.5 pounds) of apples, peel two of them and then sigh “Oh my god, there is no way I am peeling all these apples!” Fortunately, peeling the apples is optional.
Step 3. Quarter the apples and dump them in the slow cooker with ½ cup of apple cider, 3 cups sugar and a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg. Then stir to mix. I cannot get apple cider down here, so I used an organic and freshly pressed apple juice, with no added sugar.
Step 4. Put your slow cooker on high and cook apples for three hours.
Step 5. After three hours, turn the slow cooker on low and let cook for another 9 hours or so, stirring occasionally.
Step 6. Now take a small amount of the cooked apples and puree in blender or food processor until smooth. Put the processed apple mixture in a bowl and continue until all of the apples and juice are pureed.
Word of caution: When I made a pineapple panna cotta, I pureed the piping hot pineapple mixture and was rewarded by a blender exploding boiling hot pineapple all over my face (Note to Mr Show, JLo and Pumpkin Delight: No jokes please about hot liquids exploding in one’s face). Avoid this horrific experience by blending only a small amount of apples and lifting the lid every few seconds to let the steam escape.
Step 7. Once all of the cooked apples have been pureed, put back into the slow cooker and add more spices. I really enjoy the spicy bite of cinnamon so basically I dumped in an unspecified amount until I was happy with the taste.
Step 8. After the mixture is perfectly seasoned, cook on low for about 2 or 3 more hours, stirring occasionally.
Step 9. When finished, the apple butter should be extremely thick in texture and a deep brown in colour.
Step 10. At this point, you should realise that you failed to obtain any mason jars. Quickly dump out the commercial pasta sauce and strong pickled onions from their jars, thoroughly wash and dry said jars and fill with apple butter.
Step 11. I set the filled jars upside down for about an hour or two and when I turned them over, the lids miraculously sealed! This may work for you, although I cannot guarantee that this technique seals well enough to store outside of the refrigerator.
Step 12. The final step is to proudly announce your culinary achievement to your ungrateful family, who will then refuse to even take one small taste.
I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by orchards that produce fruit year round. Peaches, Nectarines, Persimmons, Pears, Apples and let us not forget my own orchard’s specialty: Plums.
My intention is to attempt a butter out of each and every one of these fruits as they are harvested.
Do you think I should start a local apple butter festival?
If you are in Australia, well, you are too late. The apple harvest has just finished for the season. The good news is that you have an entire year to plant apple trees, find a copper kettle and sew your very own bonnet.
If anyone happens to have a bunch of Pennsylvania Dutch people lying around, here is a traditional recipe from 1839.
“Cider for apple butter must be perfectly new from the press, and the sweeter and mellower the apples are of which it is made, the better will the apple butter be.
Boil the cider till reduced to one half its original quantity, and skim it well.
Do not use for this purpose an iron kettle, or the butter will be very dark, and if you use a brass or copper kettle, it must be scoured as clean and bright as possible, before you put the cider into it, and you must not suffer the butter to remain in it a minute longer than is actually necessary to prepare it, or it will imbibe a copperish taste that will render it not only unpleasant, but really unhealthy.
It is best to prepare it late in the fall, when the apples are quite mellow. Select those that have a fine flavor, and will cook tender; pare and quarter them from the cores, and boil them in the cider till perfectly soft, having plenty of cider to cover them well.
If you wish to make it on a small scale, do not remove the apples from the cider when they get soft, but continue to boil them gently in it till the apples and cider form a thick smooth marmalade, which you must stir almost constantly towards the last.
A few minutes before you take it from the fire, flavor it highly with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves, and when the seasonings are well intermixed, put it up in jars, tie folded paper over them and keep them in a cool place.
If made in a proper manner, it will keep good more than a year, and will be found very convenient, being always in readiness.
Many people who are in the habit of making apple butter, take it from the fire before it is boiled near enough. Both to keep it well and taste well, it should be boiled long after the apples have become soft, and towards the last, simmered over coals till it gets almost thick enough to slice.
If you wish to make it on a large scale, after you have boiled the first kettle full of apples soft, remove them from the cider, draining them with a perforated ladle that the cider may fall again to the kettle, and put them into a clean tub.
Fill up the kettle with fresh apples, having them pared and sliced from the cores, and having ready a kettle of boiling cider, that is reduced to at least half its original quantity; fill up the kettle of apples with it as often as is necessary.
When you have boiled in this manner as many apples as you wish, put the whole of them in a large kettle, or kettles, with the cider, and simmer it over a bed of coals till it is so thick, that it is with some difficulty you can stir it: it should be stirred almost constantly, with a wooden spaddle, or paddle, or it will be certain to scorch at the bottom or sides of the kettle.
Shortly before you take it from the fire, season it as before directed, and then put it up in jars."
If you are without a spaddle or bed of coals, I have altered the above into a 12 Step recipe:
Step 1. Grab your Golden Girls DVD and put into DVD player. If you are looking for more of a pioneer atmosphere when making apple butter try watching Little House on the Prairie.
Step 2. Take two kilos (about 4.5 pounds) of apples, peel two of them and then sigh “Oh my god, there is no way I am peeling all these apples!” Fortunately, peeling the apples is optional.
Step 3. Quarter the apples and dump them in the slow cooker with ½ cup of apple cider, 3 cups sugar and a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg. Then stir to mix. I cannot get apple cider down here, so I used an organic and freshly pressed apple juice, with no added sugar.
Step 4. Put your slow cooker on high and cook apples for three hours.
Step 5. After three hours, turn the slow cooker on low and let cook for another 9 hours or so, stirring occasionally.
Step 6. Now take a small amount of the cooked apples and puree in blender or food processor until smooth. Put the processed apple mixture in a bowl and continue until all of the apples and juice are pureed.
Word of caution: When I made a pineapple panna cotta, I pureed the piping hot pineapple mixture and was rewarded by a blender exploding boiling hot pineapple all over my face (Note to Mr Show, JLo and Pumpkin Delight: No jokes please about hot liquids exploding in one’s face). Avoid this horrific experience by blending only a small amount of apples and lifting the lid every few seconds to let the steam escape.
Step 7. Once all of the cooked apples have been pureed, put back into the slow cooker and add more spices. I really enjoy the spicy bite of cinnamon so basically I dumped in an unspecified amount until I was happy with the taste.
Step 8. After the mixture is perfectly seasoned, cook on low for about 2 or 3 more hours, stirring occasionally.
Step 9. When finished, the apple butter should be extremely thick in texture and a deep brown in colour.
Step 10. At this point, you should realise that you failed to obtain any mason jars. Quickly dump out the commercial pasta sauce and strong pickled onions from their jars, thoroughly wash and dry said jars and fill with apple butter.
Step 11. I set the filled jars upside down for about an hour or two and when I turned them over, the lids miraculously sealed! This may work for you, although I cannot guarantee that this technique seals well enough to store outside of the refrigerator.
Step 12. The final step is to proudly announce your culinary achievement to your ungrateful family, who will then refuse to even take one small taste.
I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by orchards that produce fruit year round. Peaches, Nectarines, Persimmons, Pears, Apples and let us not forget my own orchard’s specialty: Plums.
My intention is to attempt a butter out of each and every one of these fruits as they are harvested.
Do you think I should start a local apple butter festival?
Monday, June 15, 2009
THE COMPLETE HISTORY OF APPLE BUTTER
…or least a slightly-plagiarized-from-the-disappointing-Wikipedia-version-of the complete history of apple butter.
“Apple butter was a popular way of using apples in colonial America.” – Wikipedia
That’s it! That is the total history of apple butter according to Wikipedia.
Further research has led me to discover a few more details. Whilst apple butter is generally accredited to New England, many historians actually believe it was brought over by the Pennsylvania Dutch (you know, the Amish folks) and then further rose to popularity in the Appalachia (you know, the Hillbillies).
Wikipedia goes on to describe apple butter as a “highly concentrated form of apple sauce.” I suppose that yes, whilst apple sauce and apple butter have the same beginnings it is far too simplistic to use such a description. It is like saying a ‘red wine jus’ is just a highly concentrated form of your favourite merlot.
Apple sauce is lumpy and runny and falls off your spoon if you check your watch whilst eating it.
Apple butter is smooth and spreads thick over toast. When you take that first bite, one should taste crisp autumn mornings and hay rides through the changing trees.
Traditionally, the preparation of apple butter was a weekend long community event. It all started early in the morning when the men would harvest several bushels of apples and then, as far as I could find, their work was done.
The boys would gather firewood to heat the large copper kettles and then, as far as I could find, their work was done.
The mothers peeled and sliced the apples. These were still the days when knives were used instead of peelers. My mother used to peel apples this way and told me that whatever letter the discarded apple peel most resembled was the first initial of the person whom you will marry.
I reckon that when the women were busy cutting off their fingers from peeling the apples while the men were lounging in hammocks, the women were secretly checking out the letters made by the peels to see who they should have actually married.
The cut apples were then thrown into the heated copper kettles while the girls took turns stirring with large wooden paddles and gossiping about Helga’s new bonnet.
It was important that the apples be stirred constantly or else they would burn and the whole town would take the girl in charge and put her in a stock and throw cream pies at her face.
The women would then spice the mixture with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. Requiring to be stewed all day, I imagine the aroma filled the town air with sweet incense comforting the souls.
When the sky was overcome by the colours of the setting sun, the apple butter was done and all the men got off their hammocks to come down to the copper pot for the first taste.
In October, many “historic” towns around the US have apple butter festivals where they roll out the copper kettles and throw a party. There was a big festival in a country town close to where I grew up.
They had two big events a year, one when the maple syrup was harvested and the other when it was time to make apple butter. My memories of apple butter come from when my family attended this festival. Memories so strong that, despite not having apple butter for at least twenty years, I still fantasize about it.
A few weeks ago when the kids came home from a walk through the bush loaded with apples they had picked from the neighbouring orchard, apple butter nostalgia took the best of me.
I pulled out my copper kettle (a.k.a. the slow cooker) and set out to peeling the apples with a knife (a.k.a. the peeler) and gossiping about Helga’s new bonnet (a.k.a. watching Golden Girls).
Sixteen hours later, the apples morphed into a deep golden brown butter with a slight hint of red. It was so thick it could be cut with a knife and the smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen.
I was so excited and proud to share this memory with those I love, however the three jars still sit unopened in the refrigerator because those I love are too afraid to try it. Those I love that smother bread with the foul Aussie tradition that is Vegemite won’t spread their toast with the sweet memories of my childhood.
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I used jars labeled “Strong Pickled Onions”?
“Apple butter was a popular way of using apples in colonial America.” – Wikipedia
That’s it! That is the total history of apple butter according to Wikipedia.
Further research has led me to discover a few more details. Whilst apple butter is generally accredited to New England, many historians actually believe it was brought over by the Pennsylvania Dutch (you know, the Amish folks) and then further rose to popularity in the Appalachia (you know, the Hillbillies).
Wikipedia goes on to describe apple butter as a “highly concentrated form of apple sauce.” I suppose that yes, whilst apple sauce and apple butter have the same beginnings it is far too simplistic to use such a description. It is like saying a ‘red wine jus’ is just a highly concentrated form of your favourite merlot.
Apple sauce is lumpy and runny and falls off your spoon if you check your watch whilst eating it.
Apple butter is smooth and spreads thick over toast. When you take that first bite, one should taste crisp autumn mornings and hay rides through the changing trees.
Traditionally, the preparation of apple butter was a weekend long community event. It all started early in the morning when the men would harvest several bushels of apples and then, as far as I could find, their work was done.
The boys would gather firewood to heat the large copper kettles and then, as far as I could find, their work was done.
The mothers peeled and sliced the apples. These were still the days when knives were used instead of peelers. My mother used to peel apples this way and told me that whatever letter the discarded apple peel most resembled was the first initial of the person whom you will marry.
I reckon that when the women were busy cutting off their fingers from peeling the apples while the men were lounging in hammocks, the women were secretly checking out the letters made by the peels to see who they should have actually married.
The cut apples were then thrown into the heated copper kettles while the girls took turns stirring with large wooden paddles and gossiping about Helga’s new bonnet.
It was important that the apples be stirred constantly or else they would burn and the whole town would take the girl in charge and put her in a stock and throw cream pies at her face.
The women would then spice the mixture with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. Requiring to be stewed all day, I imagine the aroma filled the town air with sweet incense comforting the souls.
When the sky was overcome by the colours of the setting sun, the apple butter was done and all the men got off their hammocks to come down to the copper pot for the first taste.
In October, many “historic” towns around the US have apple butter festivals where they roll out the copper kettles and throw a party. There was a big festival in a country town close to where I grew up.
They had two big events a year, one when the maple syrup was harvested and the other when it was time to make apple butter. My memories of apple butter come from when my family attended this festival. Memories so strong that, despite not having apple butter for at least twenty years, I still fantasize about it.
A few weeks ago when the kids came home from a walk through the bush loaded with apples they had picked from the neighbouring orchard, apple butter nostalgia took the best of me.
I pulled out my copper kettle (a.k.a. the slow cooker) and set out to peeling the apples with a knife (a.k.a. the peeler) and gossiping about Helga’s new bonnet (a.k.a. watching Golden Girls).
Sixteen hours later, the apples morphed into a deep golden brown butter with a slight hint of red. It was so thick it could be cut with a knife and the smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen.
I was so excited and proud to share this memory with those I love, however the three jars still sit unopened in the refrigerator because those I love are too afraid to try it. Those I love that smother bread with the foul Aussie tradition that is Vegemite won’t spread their toast with the sweet memories of my childhood.
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I used jars labeled “Strong Pickled Onions”?
Sunday, June 7, 2009
MEET MR AND MRS RUFUS...
...As in Macropus Rufus, or as their friends call them Mr & Mrs Red Kangaroo.
Red Kangaroos are, as I am sure you are already aware, native to most of Australia with the exception of the rain forest and certain places in the south. Their cousins Grey Kangaroo (Eastern and Western) and Antilopine Kangaroo take up residency in those areas.
As wikipedia describes, their legs work like snapping rubber bands allowing them to travel over 30 ft in one bounce. I have never been able to find out how high they can jump, most people just say "really high."
Every night a mob of Red Kangaroos emerge from the national forest, breaking through our boundary fence and come to graze in our paddocks.
The darkness of the night does allow for easy viewing. Often you will suddenly hear a "thud... thud... thud" and you know it is a kangaroo bouncing along its way... or it's an alien looking to make a fresh abduction.
A couple times we grabbed a bright torch (flashlight) and quietly walked down the driveway listening for any thump or rustle when we switch on the torch and the kangaroo takes the spotlight.
I can hear what you are saying, won't Mr & Mrs Kangaroo get scared and punch us with boxing gloves?
Well technically they rest on their tails and then kick out, but I have not yet seen a pair of boxing gloves... maybe they keep them in their pouch next to their baby?
Now I must make a disclaimer, I don't really know if the evening visitors are actually Red Kangaroos or Western Grey Kangaroos. Maybe I should have worked that out before telling you all about them?
Red Kangaroos are, as I am sure you are already aware, native to most of Australia with the exception of the rain forest and certain places in the south. Their cousins Grey Kangaroo (Eastern and Western) and Antilopine Kangaroo take up residency in those areas.
As wikipedia describes, their legs work like snapping rubber bands allowing them to travel over 30 ft in one bounce. I have never been able to find out how high they can jump, most people just say "really high."
Every night a mob of Red Kangaroos emerge from the national forest, breaking through our boundary fence and come to graze in our paddocks.
The darkness of the night does allow for easy viewing. Often you will suddenly hear a "thud... thud... thud" and you know it is a kangaroo bouncing along its way... or it's an alien looking to make a fresh abduction.
A couple times we grabbed a bright torch (flashlight) and quietly walked down the driveway listening for any thump or rustle when we switch on the torch and the kangaroo takes the spotlight.
I can hear what you are saying, won't Mr & Mrs Kangaroo get scared and punch us with boxing gloves?
Well technically they rest on their tails and then kick out, but I have not yet seen a pair of boxing gloves... maybe they keep them in their pouch next to their baby?
Now I must make a disclaimer, I don't really know if the evening visitors are actually Red Kangaroos or Western Grey Kangaroos. Maybe I should have worked that out before telling you all about them?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
MEET MR AND MRS ADDER
Living surrounded by thousands of acres of national forest brings many wonderful visitors into our parcel of land.
Black cockatoos, Kookaburras, Finches and Butterflies all flutter over to say hello and of course it is always a blessing when the Kangaroos drop by for a cup of tea.
Some visitors, no matter how infrequent are never welcome.
This would be one of them:
The Death Adder.
Last week, this little guy's long lost cousin stopped by to check out the stables.
Let me tell you about Mr D. Adder's family. The Death Adder by most accounts is the ninth most venomous snake in the world. Personally I don't really know what difference it makes how deadly a lethal venom is, but there you go.
Death Adders are slow moving snakes that have a tendency to remain still and motionless. A person can walk with in centimeters of this snake and not even know it, or even be attacked.
Despite the fact that they move slowly, they posses a lightening fast strike, one of the fastest and most accurate in fact.
Another interesting tid bit is that Mrs D. Adder actually gives birth to live young and not eggs.
As interesting as the Adders sound, I will not be inviting them over for a martini anytime soon but what should one do when they are faced with these unexpected visitors.
According to the snake guy we met at the local agricultural show, get a shovel and... nope, not chop their heads off (that is an offence attached to a $10,000 fine).. get a shovel and put them in a bucket that is deeper then Mr Adder is long and call a snake removalist.
I don't think I will be attempting that method and fortunately, there is one other option.
Grab your garden hose and turn the water on Mr Adder. Spraying directly Mr Adder will only piss him off, however by pointing the hose in the air, the falling water will simulate natural rains. Mr Adder hates to cool down and will slither off back home.
This method also proves highly effective for other unwanted guests of the human variety.
Black cockatoos, Kookaburras, Finches and Butterflies all flutter over to say hello and of course it is always a blessing when the Kangaroos drop by for a cup of tea.
Some visitors, no matter how infrequent are never welcome.
This would be one of them:
The Death Adder.
Last week, this little guy's long lost cousin stopped by to check out the stables.
Let me tell you about Mr D. Adder's family. The Death Adder by most accounts is the ninth most venomous snake in the world. Personally I don't really know what difference it makes how deadly a lethal venom is, but there you go.
Death Adders are slow moving snakes that have a tendency to remain still and motionless. A person can walk with in centimeters of this snake and not even know it, or even be attacked.
Despite the fact that they move slowly, they posses a lightening fast strike, one of the fastest and most accurate in fact.
Another interesting tid bit is that Mrs D. Adder actually gives birth to live young and not eggs.
As interesting as the Adders sound, I will not be inviting them over for a martini anytime soon but what should one do when they are faced with these unexpected visitors.
According to the snake guy we met at the local agricultural show, get a shovel and... nope, not chop their heads off (that is an offence attached to a $10,000 fine).. get a shovel and put them in a bucket that is deeper then Mr Adder is long and call a snake removalist.
I don't think I will be attempting that method and fortunately, there is one other option.
Grab your garden hose and turn the water on Mr Adder. Spraying directly Mr Adder will only piss him off, however by pointing the hose in the air, the falling water will simulate natural rains. Mr Adder hates to cool down and will slither off back home.
This method also proves highly effective for other unwanted guests of the human variety.
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