Apple Crumble and berry thief.

First, find your apple tree and pick apples (shake earwigs off stalks)

then pick some blackberries (those that haven't been picked already)

next look for raspberries.

Discovered that four-legged-friend displays distinctly less finesse over his raspberry stealing behaviour. He is an extremely cautious but effective thief of brambles and gooseberries, gingerly plucking individual fruits with sensitive lips that must have experienced the pricking hurt of thorns. Raspberries are thorn-less, so the technique is brutal:

Sniff out a cluster of ripe berries

grab the whole tip of the plant in your jaw

rip the end off

result! ... mmm

So, gather what Four-legged-friend has left (observed him earlier doing a flanking manoeuvre past the kitchen window, along the hedge and across to the apple tree; it would have been far easier to take the shortest route across the grass, but much more obvious)

Wash and peel. Drizzle with fruit juice.

Put crumble mix (plain flour, porridge oats, cinnamon, weetabix, demerara sugar and white sugar in a bowl)

Add melted butter. Get messy making crumble topping.

And bake for about 20 to 30 minutes at 180degrees.

Serve with vanilla ice cream, cream or custard. Add friends. Enjoy. Don't anticipate there being much left - certainly not enough for Four-legged-friend's midnight feast (he can look at me as long as he likes with big eyes and wagging tail - he's not getting any).

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn...

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and ...

Heaven clearly can't wait. Ranting and screaming inside. Growing old and lecturing ... myself, mostly.

What follows should come with a warning - it is a preachy rant. Stop now if you're not in the mood for a lecture. Or, if you're into procrasti-reading, read on and (hopefully) enjoy my latest piece of procrasti-writing. Apologies too for the reference to elderly leakages. And farts. And now, for being deeply irreverent. Sorry. Heaven can't wait. Meatloaf was wrong. Clearly the 'band of Angels' is impatiently putting together a gig. There's a party happening which we haven't been invited to. Yet. What a terrible year 2016 has been, so far. And we are barely dipping our winter-wrapped toes into Spring. Is it that the roll-call of those summoned to a higher place grows ever more poignant as we age? Prince was but a few years older than me. Victoria Wood, a meaningless number of years older still. Meaningless because what does age mean astride the long plateau of middle age before the eventual slide into decrepitude? A few years here, a few there - we...

Walking The Dog

Search This Blog