It is so pleasing to see the roses have reflowered after their severe pruning by the deer. Commenting on this to Mr HG he remarked, "The irises planted along the wall are doing well too. By the way, there are a couple of haunches of venison in the freezer."
Gulp.
Tuesday 29 July 2008
Sunday 27 July 2008
Fire, Fire!
The neighbour's woods have been fired. Fortunately the fire brigade was there promptly and closed off the area, called in the helicopters and had it out in next to no time. They stayed on for a further 8 hours though, to ensure it was well and truly out.
There are two questions being discussed in Monculi: who did it, and what should be done to him when he is caught. Invariably it is a he; indeed it is almost always a young, or very young, man. The land belongs to the Church, and we had noticed roughly woven crosses of twigs and small branches, dotted along the road and on the verges. In ancient times pilgrims walked the route above the marshes from tiny monastery to tiny monastery, and there is a long tradition of reverence for these woods. Might some boy have become distressed by the sale of plots of land, and dachas going up on property given to the Church in perpetuity? Was it just attention-seeking or the thrill of watching all the resources against an ecological disaster being mobilised instead of fainting with boredom in the long, still, hot afternoons?
Fire setting around here is unusual; the criminal associations of the reforestation grants and building permissions have never been able to assert themselves under local, watchful eyes. But as the absolute ban on any building continues, perhaps the line will not be held. There is a need for more understanding of family need for land for housing, and less ecological pretension to untouched woodlands and forest.
The firemen say this was a classic, lone fire setter with personal problems who will doubtless be given up by his relatives and acquaintance if they fail to control him and he does it again (this was the third fire). What is to be done with him ranged from execution through exile, institutionalisation, a beating, to cognitive therapy.
Exile appeals. He could have burnt the village to the ground.
There are two questions being discussed in Monculi: who did it, and what should be done to him when he is caught. Invariably it is a he; indeed it is almost always a young, or very young, man. The land belongs to the Church, and we had noticed roughly woven crosses of twigs and small branches, dotted along the road and on the verges. In ancient times pilgrims walked the route above the marshes from tiny monastery to tiny monastery, and there is a long tradition of reverence for these woods. Might some boy have become distressed by the sale of plots of land, and dachas going up on property given to the Church in perpetuity? Was it just attention-seeking or the thrill of watching all the resources against an ecological disaster being mobilised instead of fainting with boredom in the long, still, hot afternoons?
Fire setting around here is unusual; the criminal associations of the reforestation grants and building permissions have never been able to assert themselves under local, watchful eyes. But as the absolute ban on any building continues, perhaps the line will not be held. There is a need for more understanding of family need for land for housing, and less ecological pretension to untouched woodlands and forest.
The firemen say this was a classic, lone fire setter with personal problems who will doubtless be given up by his relatives and acquaintance if they fail to control him and he does it again (this was the third fire). What is to be done with him ranged from execution through exile, institutionalisation, a beating, to cognitive therapy.
Exile appeals. He could have burnt the village to the ground.
Saturday 26 July 2008
Red and Juicy and Too Much of a Good Thing
Tomatoes are overtaking courgettes in the glut stakes, lettuce having been tamed by Grump Granny's soup recipe. Basil shivers in its pots as yet another tomato and something salad hits the table.
More attention, research, and investment needs to be devoted to (domestic)conservation and storage of foodstuffs. You can't just pile it up in mountains you know, despite EU mythology. And tinning them is outside my technology envelope.
More attention, research, and investment needs to be devoted to (domestic)conservation and storage of foodstuffs. You can't just pile it up in mountains you know, despite EU mythology. And tinning them is outside my technology envelope.
Thursday 24 July 2008
Mrs Robinson
'I have bought myself a present.'
Presents are lovely always, even if not for me; I look eagerly inside large bag.
'Snorkel? Flippers? where are we going?'
'They are for the pool. It's painful to lift my face out of the water; and they are small, go-fast flippers.'
A Graduate figure flippers through the garden and out of sight.
Presents are lovely always, even if not for me; I look eagerly inside large bag.
'Snorkel? Flippers? where are we going?'
'They are for the pool. It's painful to lift my face out of the water; and they are small, go-fast flippers.'
A Graduate figure flippers through the garden and out of sight.
Thursday 17 July 2008
Chop Chop
Chopping boards have become unbearably heavy to scrub and rinse and put up to drain. As I brush away at them and the little iron rings at one end suddenly pull out of the wood and cause multiple splash injury or threaten my feet, I think of all those health and safety warnings about using wooden boards.
These have seen long sevice, they are scarred and grooved in the culinary wars of goodness knows how long. Contemplating their lives in a kitchen that has been overrun by Germans, English, Americans, Partisans, then the same lot in a different order all over again, it is worrying that people ate anything and everything in those times.
So on Saturday there will be pristine, approved boards as used in the cleanest of environments. This lot can be hung up to dry, retired with honour above the kitchen dressers.
Those plastic boards weigh next to nothing too.
These have seen long sevice, they are scarred and grooved in the culinary wars of goodness knows how long. Contemplating their lives in a kitchen that has been overrun by Germans, English, Americans, Partisans, then the same lot in a different order all over again, it is worrying that people ate anything and everything in those times.
So on Saturday there will be pristine, approved boards as used in the cleanest of environments. This lot can be hung up to dry, retired with honour above the kitchen dressers.
Those plastic boards weigh next to nothing too.
Friday 11 July 2008
Slugfest
Radicchio - hard to spell but worse to prepare. Which is why it's every man's favourite salad. When it comes from the greengrocer it's tied neatly in bundles, stalks all at the same end and, with care, it can be washed without losing order, and is clean enough to suggest it has been washed quite a lot all ready. So it is just about bearable to spend ages slicing it finely, finely, dark green swirls falling into the bowl, mint and garlic crushed and added, touch of salt, olive oil, shake of wine vinegar and sit back to enjoy the complimenti.
When it arrives freshly torn from the bosom of the kitchen garden it is unbearable. By the time the mud is washed off the entire mess looks as if it has been knitted into a diabolic green mat. Soaked in mud splashes and with gloveless hands the stalk ends have to be lined up together like a bunch of flowers (short intermission while we all sing a little Carly Simon, ha, that'll get a tune on your brains).
Only then can the finely, finely chopping bit start but food preparation patience has long run out, so it's a bit rough and ready, and doesn't do the dark green swirly thing in the bowl, or soak up the oil, etc. Then there is the slug difficulty.
Chopping away, mud-splattered, fingers at risk, good will spent, the eye catches a foreign body already only half its original length; the other half, finely sliced, has joined the greenery in the bowl. This requires an executive decision; what is done is done, the whole half (so to speak) goes in the bin, the other cannot be discerned, hearts don't grieve.
This must be fresh from the garden diners cry, you can always tell; it just tastes so much better, completely different. And it is the best of salads. Are you not having any?
I don't like radicchio.
When it arrives freshly torn from the bosom of the kitchen garden it is unbearable. By the time the mud is washed off the entire mess looks as if it has been knitted into a diabolic green mat. Soaked in mud splashes and with gloveless hands the stalk ends have to be lined up together like a bunch of flowers (short intermission while we all sing a little Carly Simon, ha, that'll get a tune on your brains).
Only then can the finely, finely chopping bit start but food preparation patience has long run out, so it's a bit rough and ready, and doesn't do the dark green swirly thing in the bowl, or soak up the oil, etc. Then there is the slug difficulty.
Chopping away, mud-splattered, fingers at risk, good will spent, the eye catches a foreign body already only half its original length; the other half, finely sliced, has joined the greenery in the bowl. This requires an executive decision; what is done is done, the whole half (so to speak) goes in the bin, the other cannot be discerned, hearts don't grieve.
This must be fresh from the garden diners cry, you can always tell; it just tastes so much better, completely different. And it is the best of salads. Are you not having any?
I don't like radicchio.
Monday 7 July 2008
Found!
They were rewarded with half an apricot each; I could have hugged them had they not been tortoises of the Revolution. Just blinked at me with their back legs stretched out in the sun - typical revolutionaries.
Sunday 6 July 2008
Worried of Monculi
The tortoises, Lenin and Rosa, may have escaped. The double gates to the garden were found open at 4pm having been checked as closed when lunch was ready. Hosing the entire garden may have done wonders for the plants, but no furious tortoises dripped out of the undergrowth.
A close inspection of the piazza, under all the cars, and the nearest open garden yielded no trace of the Revolution. While I do not fear for their safety, I do fear for their souls. They will be Benedict and Maria in the blink of an eye. We must find them.
A close inspection of the piazza, under all the cars, and the nearest open garden yielded no trace of the Revolution. While I do not fear for their safety, I do fear for their souls. They will be Benedict and Maria in the blink of an eye. We must find them.
Tuesday 1 July 2008
Sunny Upside
The water in the cooling (swimming) pool is registering 29 degrees. Soon we shall have to cover the solar panels for part of the day. Why would anyone other than a European Union tax farmer want to build windmills? There isn't any wind, I wish there were, but the Sun could power anything and everything. Why don't we hear about technological research and installation investment in solar energy?
Until a clear case for wind power is made over the ease and relatively unintrusive, silent gathering of power from the sun, it should be assumed that the proposal is dishonest, profiteering and tax-grubbing.
So we all know who is backing massive investment in wind power don't we.
Until a clear case for wind power is made over the ease and relatively unintrusive, silent gathering of power from the sun, it should be assumed that the proposal is dishonest, profiteering and tax-grubbing.
So we all know who is backing massive investment in wind power don't we.
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