Skip to main content

Fat dog and a rhubarb crumble

Four-legged-friend needs to go on a diet. He is perfectly happy with the expanding-waistline-due-to-excess-food situation; oblivious apparently that his lack of enthusiasm for games of chase or fetch is attributable to his heaviness and resulting slow gait; and ready to top up his constant insatiated appetite with the occasional geriatric rabbit. We on the other hand, unfairly compare him with his nephew who is slight of frame and fast and bounces.




Four-legged-friend has never bounced. To be fair he has a huge head and a big barrel chest, but his girth currently resembles a mare heavy with foal.




It is not helped by his recent propensity for discovering unopened sacks of dog food. And ripping them open. And gorging himself.

I guess he could be hypothyroid or have worms. I suspect however that it is simply greed. And a limitless, Labrador lust for food

He eats everything - from rabbit droppings, to potato peelings, to wellington boots, to leather shoes. They make a good team: nimble criminal mastermind, Baggins, steals the bounty and by devious skulking in corners,  and hiding behind the furniture, delivers it to the boss, FLF. Who promptly puts it in a safer place, from where it can't be retrieved without a lot of mess.

I have failed in the eyes of the shoe-protection-league, but my fence around the rhubarb has allowed it to recover from repeated over-zealous canine chewing. With the result that we had our first rhubarb crumble of the year.

Gluten-free rhubarb and strawberry crumble:

Pull, de-leaf, clean and chop rhubarb into 1cm pieces (ignore the pulling and de-leafing bit,  if you bought it). Scatter across base of a deep-sided oven dish.
Clean and chop strawberries. Scatter over rhubarb pieces.
Half an orange and squeeze juice over the fruit.




In a separate bowl, mix equal parts of A and B, where A is gluten free flour, plus gluten free porridge oats, plus ground almonds and B is a mixture of demerara sugar and soft brown sugar. Add a little cinnamon powder.
To this bowl, add melted butter.




You need enough so that the mixture resembles sticky breadcrumbs when fully mixed. You can use your hands to mix, but I prefer a large spoon.




Lightly sprinkle the crumble mix over the fruit. Fork over it gently to break up any large clumps. Don't press down.




Bake uncovered in the oven at 180deg for 20 to 30 minutes. Remove when top is crunchy and golden.

Serve with custard or really good vanilla ice cream and a generous portion of friends.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...