When the sun comes back out to play

Blue sky, cloud, tree, vapour trail – and sun.

If there isn’t an adage suggesting that the weather has the power to make life feel an awful lot better (or worse), then there should be.

After what has seemed to be weeks characterised by, at best, greyness, and at worst, by greyness plus rain, the weekend brought with it a massive improvement.

I have no idea whether the weather is cloudier than it was in my youth or whether I’ve simply become more susceptible to the cloud cover, but blue skies and sunshine are a wonderful restorative for subdued spirits.

The clematis is starting to produce leaves and buds. The weekend’s sunshine – strong enough to leave the skin feeling warmth – was enough to see a half dozen satiny, purple crocuses unsheathe their stamens.

One narcissus has opened fully; several dwarf daffs are on the way. And all around the patio, rising from the black compost in a variety of pots, more daffodils and tulips are standing to attention.

As much as last year taught me about the extraordinary capacity for survival of plants, it is still a wonder to see the vine, which has looked so dead since it shed it’s leaves, now starting to show signs of life again as buds swell almost imperceptibly.

A few dryer days had seen soil in my little potager begin to dry out, making it considerably easier to spend further time digging in the compost and manure.

About a spade down and I’m hitting some sand, but since a tree has grown in this spot, there’s more than enough depth for a few crops.

The plethora of worms borrowing through the thick clay is extraordinary: long ones, stubbier ones, thin ones, fat ones, pink ones, blue ones, red ones. Never in my life have I seen so many.

Progress is slow: gnarly roots below the surface, including those left over from the hedge that had been dying slowly before one of neighbours ripped it out late last summer, get in the way.

Although I’ve got rid of many stones, there are still more.

With one barrow load of manure and something like 100 litres of an all-purpose, organic compost now at least partly dug in, more will be needed simply to bring the soil surface up to the top of the concrete edging.

But after an hour of patiently digging away, it was time to turn my hand to sowing.

Nobody ever really seems to lay down absolute instructions on what you need for this, so I have already accumulated a few things. In the end, what was used is a combination of things.

A propagation tray with vented lid, which was lined with capillary matting and then took a 40-cell tray on top of that.

Les had told me to rub the compost between my hands as I part-filled the tray, and getting my hands into the soil again was another of the day’s pleasures.

Once those are part-filled, they’re patted neatly – another tray does the job superbly – and then you’re ready to start putting seeds in.

Because the potager plot is not ready yet, and because I’m concerned about the temperatures, I decided to start some things off under cover rather than straight outside.

The first pea to go in this year is Meteor, a name that hopefully proves indicative of growing speed, and alongside, broad beans (Witkiem Manita) and runner beans (Painted Lady). Aren't these names delightful?

In too went my two varieties of chilli – a sweet baby orange pepper and a cayenne – plus radishes (French breakfast 3) and spring onions (White Lisbon), the latter two on the basis that I could never get them going at all last year, so maybe a bit of extra care will help now.

It’s all rather experimental – but exciting too. There is, after all, something quite amazing, quite mystical, about taking a dried seed – in some cases large and clearly of what it is, and in others, tiny – and knowing that at least one or two should return to life under the soil and produce yet more of their kind.

The lid of the propagation tray went on top, vents closed: the internet provided the answer on that one – leave closed until signs of germination appear and then open.

And sitting as the whole thing is in the growhouse, that should give the seeds a reasonable amount of protection. Now all that is needed on my part is patience – and regular checks to ensure that the compost is moist.

The improved weather went beyond just allowing some gardening: the cats could spend time outside and, as Sunday morning drew to close, the sun having burnt off the early-morning mist, it was warm enough in our sheltered patio to sit outside for a while, and simply to enjoy a sense of wellbeing.

Altogether, it was the sort of weekend that reminded you of how good it is to be alive.

A few of the pains of modern life

Modern life has many things going for it – but also many things that make you want to walk away from it.

For instance – technology is great, isn’t it?

Well, in many ways yes, but …

As the lone member of staff on the till in WH Smith struggled patiently with a customer the other morning, I gave in and opted for one of the self-service tills.

I usually refuse to use the damned things on the simple basis that I am not in the business of helping to put people out of work.

And it is equally worth noting that no store has yet suggested deducting the cost of serving oneself from the product that one is buying.

There’s another reason, too. The ‘service’ is crap.

‘Have you got your own bag?’

‘Yes’.

‘Please put it in the bagging area.’

‘Done.’

‘Please wait while someone comes to validate your bag.’

In the end, I waited behind the awkward-squad customer until I could be served, quickly and efficiently, as it happened, by an actual human being.

Not that that is the only example of what makes me grouchy about the modern urban experience.

Less than two months after giving up fags (again) and as the flu finally cleared off to go and torment someone else, my own sense of smell went into overdrive, to the extent that, as never before, I am conscious of the smell of traffic. It’s unhealthy – but it’s also downright repulsive.

But before I was subjected to that, it was a case of a woman at my first bus stop who always arrives when other people are there – and then tries to barge onto the bus ahead of anyone else. And she gets off around the corner! It's so staggeringly rude.

And then there are people like the man who sat next to me on the bus the other day and gabbed for the entire journey to someone on the phone, via his hands-free headphones and mic, all the time twirling his brolly.

Why do some people think that having a phone conversation is something to subject everyone else to? There’s something quite invasive about it – people imposing their concerns (private or business) onto total strangers. Only last month, I had a train journey that was marked by some goon two seats back holding – loudly – a video conference.

How wonderful it is that the French have notices everywhere on their trains saying that, if you wish to make a call, you should do so in the area between carriages.

The mobile phone as megaphone syndrome is little different from people thinking that they can play their choice of music so loudly that everyone else gets to share it.

Indeed, why is it that such music is usually total crap? It’s unfailing something with a simple, repetitive beat. It’s never a piece of Chopin. Or Miles Davis. Or Ella Fitzgerald. Or even Abba.

It’s not Bohemian Rhapsody or Smoke on the Water or Purple Rain or Why Do Fools Fall in Love? – just thump, thump, thump thump.

And because there are so many people living almost in each other’s pockets, we’re compelled to listen to this musical dross, played so loudly sometimes that we can even feel it physically.

Not that the only dumbing down in today's world comes in the form of something that can loosely be described as 'music', the media is on the same path, with so-called newspapers convinced that the really important stories are about whom shagged whom or who tweeted what.

And the sound of music it hardly the only noise intrusion: in the city, there never seems to be silence – not least from the sirens blaring around; traffic on the roads and in the air. It's only when you get away form London that you realise how inured you've become to being under a major route into Heathrow.

On a different note, is the amount of litter around a modern phenomenon? Walk anywhere and you can’t fail to see the mess that people leave behind them – most often in the form of the left-over wrappings or containers from beer or sugar-laden soft drinks or fast food or assorted snacks and crisps. Was it always this messy?

In the planters at the front of our flats, people even consider themselves entirely free to chuck plastic bottles and chocolate wrappers into the ivy.

Damn modern life, because sometimes it feels as though all who sail in her are damned.

There: a rant – and I haven't even mentioned cyclists on pavements.

Getting Lent underway with a great dish

The Fight Between Carnival and Lent

As Wednesday might have started off in bright form, but it was a deception, as almost inevitably the sun disappeared under a thick eiderdown of cloud.

So here we are, in Lent – the second of the year’s giving-up-things seasons, following hot on the heels of New Year’s resolutions and set to be followed, shortly after the Easter binge, with the getting-ready-for-the-beach giving-up-things season.

But be heartened – I do none of these.

Of course, in predictably British fashion, we’re only supposed to mark the time before Lent by using up flour and eggs and sugar with a bit of pancakery.

Other countries get complete blow-outs – or carnival, as it’s know. We toss stuff.

But carnival isn’t limited to those Latin types in Rio or New Orleans or even Venice.

It certainly used to exist rather more in northern Europe, as illustrated by the magnificent painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder that’s shown at the top of this post.

Look how it shows the pub on the left – versus the church on the right.

The Fight between Carnival and Lent was painted in 1559 and echoed a common festival of the time from the southern Netherlands. But doesn’t it say so much – this battle between religiosity and pleasure?

Yesterday was Shrove Tuesday – shrove being the past form of shrive, which means ‘confess’. In other words, when you seek and gain absolution before the start of Lent.

Don’t worry, though: if you missed out this time, you can be all penitential on Good Friday. And honestly, don’t those Latin countries even manage to make more of a festival of that too!

Anyway, my confession is that yesterday didn’t actually see any pancakes made in Voluptuous Villa – by the time we’d had a main course we felt too full, so I’m saving pancakes for an indulgent lunch at the weekend.

As for tonight, since this is the start of Lent, I thought we could hardly do better than have a dish that combined both meat and fish.

So far at least, God hasn’t struck me dead in anger.

The dish in question was a Portuguese-style fish stew, as m’friend George, who introduced me to it, was wont to describe it. And now, here it is, with my added tweaks.

Two or three days before you’re going to make the dish, take some cod fillet and put it in a container with salt all over it.

Depending on how long the fish is in salt, you need to give it a minimum of 24 hours rinsing in cold water. Rinse off the salt and then replace with cold water. You can leave fish in salt for months, but it will then need at least three days rinsing.

Change the cold water at least twice a day.

Now, to the day of cooking.

Preparing aïoli.

Take some chorizo and thickly slice it.

Heat some ordinary olive oil in a large pan and cook the sausage gently for around 10 minutes, letting the paprika colour the oil and give off a heavenly aroma that will have you salivating almost before you’ve started.

That, incidentally, is but reason why cooking is so wonderful – and on weekdays, a tonic after your hours at work.

Remove the chorizo to a plate and add chopped onion (or shallot), celery and carrot to the infused oil. It doesn’t have to be particularly finely diced – this is a rustic dish – and let this bubble away until softened.

Add plenty of stock – you want to do more than cover – and then peeled, large dice of potato.

Bring to the boil, stick the lid on, turn down the heat and leave for 20 minutes.

In the meantime, peel a couple of cloves of garlic and either finely chop or mince them; blend with a pinch of salt and add to the yolk of an egg.

An electric hand whisk is brilliant here. Once it’s all blended together, slowly – really slowly – drizzle in some virgin olive oil and whisk some more.

Here, ladies and gentlemen, you’re making one version of aïoli – and it’s a joy. But remember, you want it good and think, not runny.

Ready to eat.

The most ‘pure’ version of this Catalan culinary icon doesn’t involve a yolk, but I think that the eggy version works better here.

Now, back to the stew. Add some sliced leek and give it another five minutes, before adding some tinned (rinsed) chick peas.

Pop the lid back on for another 10 minutes. Then make sure you bring it back to the boil and top with your rinsed cod, before lidding once more and leaving for another 10-15 minutes, depending on how firm your fish is.

Serve with the fish atop the vegetable broth, and a generous dollop of aioli on top of the fish.

It’s warming, sustaining, healthy – and, most important of all, very, very tasty.

And it’s a brilliant culinary response to the whole business of Lent.

Farewell Ratzi and thanks for all the bigotry

Thomas Mann – damned by the Pope.

Isn’t identity a funny thing? Okay, let me try to be clearer: isn’t how we choose to identify ourselves a funny thing – what labels we decide fit us; what tribes we decide we belong to?

To be honest, I’m not personally a big fan of identity politics – or, indeed, of labels in general. So often it seems simply to point up what divides us rather than what unites us.

So it was not uppermost in my mind to consider penning something around February being LGBT History Month.

But then something happened that made me change my mind.

The Pope decided to retire.

That’s right: because Joseph Ratzinger has called it a day, I decided to pick up the LGBT baton for a post.

Many of us might prefer that no religious leader have any meaningful power in the 21^st century world, but whether we like it or not, that is not the case, and the office of pope still commands a great deal of clout and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.

Before his own elevation, Ratzinger had previously been grand inquisitor for John Paul II: when Karol Wojtyła was getting a tad past it, it was undoubtedly Ratzi who was really pulling the strings, so he’s had power for rather longer than simply his ascension to the top job in 2005.

Now, number one point to make: beating Ratzinger up because he was a member of the Hitler Youth is just plain daft. You don’t have a to be a fascist sympathiser to comprehend that children, at that time, would have had little safe choice in the matter.

So that isn’t going to be this blog’s complaint.

The problem with Ratzinger is that he has used his office to push lines that are sexist and homophobic.

Clare Balding – damned by the Pope.

His rhetoric about how those dodgy gays will essentially kill off civilisation cannot simply be taken as the rantings of an elderly person – not least because he/the office has the authority mentioned earlier.

And whether the Pope realised or intended it or not, his pronouncements have lent a veneer of legitimacy to those who would discriminate against LGBT people – and even do violence toward them.

His stand against contraception in general – and, in particular, the use of condoms as a method of safe sex – has been detrimental to the fights against poverty and against HIV/Aids.

He would rather a married couple produce far more brats than they can care for than that they use contraception. He wants every act of sexual intimacy to be heterosexual, monogamous, married and with getting the bird up the duff in mind.

He would rather that people died of Aids-related conditions than that they use condoms.

This is also an individual who has played a role in the protection of child abusers by his organisation.

Jodie Foster – damned by the Pope.

But then again, this he has also headed an organisation that believes that the victim of rape, even if a nine-year-old child, should not be allowed an abortion if made pregnant by her abuser.

It is an organisation that does not value women, but would rather a woman die than have the abortion that could save her life. The realised human being is worth less, in Catholic orthodoxy, than the potential of her producing a (male) child.

These are the attitudes that Herr Ratzinger has chosen to uphold in the name of a belief in something for which there is not a solitary shred of evidence.

Thus his faith cannot be viewed as somehow ‘cute’ or ‘quirky’, but for what it is: a stick with which to beat many, many other human beings whose lives and whose intrinsic being is different to what he wants it to be.

Let's also be quite clear: there really is not much difference between the likes of Ratzinger and the likes of the Taliban: and yet we (rightly) condemn one, but allow the other great respect and clout.

There’s something very wrong with that; very wrong indeed.

Oscar Wilde – damned by the Pope.

And it is worth noting that it is far from certain that the cardinals will elect a new pontiff with more 'liberal' credentials. Ratzinger is not the first 'traditionalist' to occupy the role of pope, and he is highly unlikely to be the last. In other words, his reactionary attitudes are far from unique.

I hope that Ratzinger has a peaceful retirement. There would be something rather pointless and sad about wishing him, as an individual, ill. But he is most certainly NOT some sort of saint. And the organisation that he has spent a lifetime promoting and defending is, frankly, immoral and corrupt and well past its sell-by date.

Now, since I have mentioned LGBT History Month, let's be a little more positive. Here are a few of my own household gods – who just happen to be or have been part of the community of which I myself am also a member. They're not my only "household gods", and they are not "household gods" because of their sexuality, although it is not hindered by the sense of connection that flows from that.

And perhaps, in that, I have just countered my own arguments against identity politics.

Remember: every one of these extraordinary people would be damned by the man who is just about to retire, and by his organisation. And yet he and it would almost certainly applaud Tony Blair.

Alan Turning – damned by the Pope.

Alan Turing – massively instrumental in the defeat of fascism and in the development of modern computer science, but effectively driven to his death afterwards simply because he was gay.

Thomas Mann – one of the greatest authors ever; a principled and humane giant.

Virginia Woolf – wonderful, wonderful writer, and hugely innovative. If you haven't done so already, do read Mrs Dalloway.

Quentin Crisp – England’s real queen.

Oscar Wilde – greatest wit ever? And yet one of my favourite quotes of all time is more poignant than Wilde’s reputation would lead one to expect: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars”.

Stephen Sondheim – what a god of the musical theatre. Forget Andrew Lloyd Whatever He's Called.

The Pope.

Clare Balding – breaks down barriers all over the place, not least by being a ‘posh bird’ introducing Rugby League for the BBC. In line for national treasure status – and it will be utterly deserved.

Alan Bennett – just a wonderful writer; such a great ability to understand human beings and the smallnesses of their lives.

Nigel Slater – quite simply the best food writer that this country has produced since Elizabeth David. Nobody else, currently writing, has anything close to his sense of food and time and place and memory.

Jodie Foster – a wonderful screen actor, and has managed an amazing career without getting caught into all the crass celeb gossip etc.

Gore Vidal – oh how we miss him; an intellectual giant and iconoclast.

From real food to processed horse lasagne

'A proper tomato,' thinks Monty Don. And he's right.

Last night, as near-freezing rain continued to fall outside, we hit catch-up TV and the second episode of Monty Don’s French Gardens.

This was the episode looking at kitchen gardens – or potagers, as our Gallic friends would say.

In fact, since my little bit of stolen space fits neither the usual understanding of a ‘garden’ or an ‘allotment’, I may just adopt this term to describe it.

Indeed, having realised that the tatty old spade I possessed was woefully inadequate for the job of digging in compost and manure, I wandered down to Columbia Road this morning and bought a new, considerably better one. Tools do make a difference.

As I was paying, the man in the shop asked: ‘Have you got an allotment or a garden?”

Being a tad on the pedantic side, I had to say that I would call it neither – which then, of course, demanded a lengthier explanation.

Later, christening that spade by digging trenches in the grey drizzle – god, I was determined to get outside and do something – I found myself deciding that that French words best fits my little patch.

And it is a patch, I admit, that is sneakily growing. After all, when the boughs of a tree are so low that only a rather small dwarf could stand up under them, there’s no point putting communal decking there, now is there? Which means it must be part of my growing space instead.

The digging-in is going in mixed fashion. Roots and stones are the main things that hamper more rapid progress, although the soil itself – before it has anything dug into it – is incredibly dense. It’s not difficult to dig, but the minute I walk on it in this weather, it is clumping heavily.

Still, we made some more progress, even if not a great deal. And now that the evenings are lightening, I can do a few minutes after work in the next fortnight.

I’ve decided not to sow anything yet – even in the growhouse – because it’s still so cold.

Hopefully, by next weekend, matters will have changed and we’ll be beginning a genuine upswing in temperatures toward spring.

But let’s go back to Monty Don. The programme was a joy.

Just one of things that struck me with force, was the idea that vast numbers of French people try to grow at least something for the kitchen.

And this in a country where, as he pointed out, one in three people still shop regularly at markets, and one in two shop regularly with a sense of the seasonal and the regional.

Try and take those figures in. They're worlds away from the situation in the UK at the moment.

Don explained the concepts of terroir – an idea that I love – aswell as what a paysan means. Just think, we use 'peasant' as a derogatory term.

Yet what we discovered in his explorations of both of these terms were the ideas of a sense of region and soil and climate, and of people who grow for themselves to live off the land.

I’m sure I’m not moving toward some form of Ludditism, because I certainly have no objection to technology or science per se – not remotely – but there are times when I look at programmes like that, and recall also what we’ve seen ourselves in the south of France, and I do really long for something simpler.

And yet here we are, instead, with stories of horsemeat lasagne from Findus.

At this point, it no longer really matters what company is hitting the headlines.

The key point is that big businesses are trying to increase profits at the same time as driving down the prices on the shelves, and apparently without realising that their suppliers/producers also need to make a profit too – or at least break even – or caring.

And in all this, nobody seems to give a damn for what the customer might actually end up eating.

So then you get things like this, from the responses to an Observer editorial today, in direct reply to a point about us (the UK) actually growing our own food:

“… we’d be vastly worse off, in a way that would disproportionately affect the poorest in society by forcing them to buy expensively produced domestic goods, while also diverting people from more value-generating activities back onto the land (which would be the opposite of the history of human progress).”

Someone find me a wall to beat my head against.

It’s actually pretty much at the heart of what is wrong – how can you regard food and food security etc as not having enough value?

Where do we begin to look at the wrongness of those sentiments?

Well, I’m not going to do it right now. But what I am going to post is something a little different.

Here are the ingredients lists for six supermarket-branded, ready-made lasagnas from three supermarkets. Each pair includes a premium one and an ‘economy’ version, plus prices/weights per product.

Waitrose own brand:

Minced Beef (18%), Cooked Free Range Egg Pasta (15%), Chopped Tomato, Water, Milk, Onion, Mushroom, Tomato Puree, Single Cream, Grana Padano Cheese (2%), Cornflour, Red Wine, Beef Stock, Butter, Wheat Flour, Garlic Puree, Basil, Salt, Olive Oil.

£2.39 for 400g (£6 per kilo). 400g  the same weight as a tin of soup, so in essence, this is a single portion.

Waitrose Essential:

Minced Beef (19%), Chopped Tomato, Cooked Free Range Egg Pasta, Water, Milk, Passata, Onion, Tomato Puree, Single Cream, Mushroom, Mature Cheddar Cheese, Cornflour, Wheat Flour, Butter, Rapeseed Oil, Red Wine Vinegar, Garlic Puree, Olive Oil, Demerara Sugar, Salt, Basil, Caramelised Sugar Powder, Oregano, Black Pepper, Ground Bay Leaf, Nutmeg.

£1.79 for 350g (£5.10 per kilo)

Tesco Finest:

Milk, British Beef (17%), Tomato Passata, Free Range Egg Pasta, Pork (10%), Carrot, Onion, Tomato, Celery, Italian Merlot Red Wine, Tomato Purée, Parmigiano Reggiano Cheese, Mature Cheddar Cheese, Vegetable Oil, Sundried Tomato Paste, Wheat Flour, Beef Stock, Sugar, Basil, Garlic Purée, Salt, Thyme, Oregano, Black Pepper, Cornflour, Bay Leaf, Nutmeg, White Pepper, Mustard Powder, Free Range Egg Pasta contains: Durum Wheat Semolina, Egg, Water, Sundried Tomato Paste contains: Rehydrated Sundried Tomato, Vegetable Oil, White Wine Vinegar, Garlic Powder, Salt, Black Pepper, Rosemary, Basil, Beef Stock contains: Beef, Water, Cornflour, Sugar, Salt, Beef Fat, Onion, Tomato

400g for £3.50 (£8.75 per kilo)

Tesco Everyday Value:

Cooked Egg Pasta, Beef (20%), Tomato, Water, Tomato Purée, Tomato Juice, Onion, Milk, Cornflour, Mature Cheddar Cheese, Wheat Flour, Single Cream, Salt, Beef Stock, Butter, Garlic Purée, Oregano, Black Pepper, White Pepper, Cooked Egg Pasta contains: Durum Wheat Semolina, Water, Pasteurised Egg, Beef Stock contains: Beef, Yeast Extract, Salt

1.5Kg for £2.98 (£1.99 per kilo, so cheaper than the Everyday smaller size)

Asda:

Minced Beef, Tomato, Mushroom and Herb Filling (43%) [Minced Beef (51%), Water, Tomatoes (8.5%) [contain Acidity Regulator (Citric Acid)], Tomato Purée (5.0%), Mushrooms (4.9%), Onions, Cornflour, Garlic Purée, Vegetable Bouillon [Sugar, Concentrated Vegetable Juices [Carrots, Onions, Leek, Celery, Garlic], Salt, Corn Starch, Sunflower Oil, Nutmeg Oil], Beef Bouillon [Beef Stock, Corn Starch, Salt, Concentrated Onion Juice, Tomato Paste, Sugar], Salt, Basil, Oregano, Sugar, Black Pepper], Béchamel Sauce (25%) [Water, Single Cream (11%), Vegetarian Cheddar Cheese (5.4%), Cornflour, Mascarpone Cheese, Skimmed Milk Powder, Wheat Flour, Salt, Nutmeg], Napolatana Sauce (16%) [Tomatoes (42%) [contain Acidity Regulator (Citric Acid)], Water, Onions, Olive Oil, Cornflour, Garlic, Basil, Salt, Black Pepper] , Cooked Egg Pasta Sheets (14%) [Durum Wheat Semolina, Water, Whole Egg Powder, Egg White Powder], Vegetarian Cheddar Cheese (2.0%).

400g for £2.05 (£5.12 per kilo)

Asda Smart Price:

Minced Beef Filling (53%) [Chopped Tomatoes, Water, Beef (22%), Diced Onions, Concentrated Tomato Purée, British Beef Stock [British Beef, Salt, Flavouring, Molasses, Tomato Paste, Dried Onions, Cornflour, Concentrated Lemon Juice, Carob Powder, Black Pepper], Red Wine [contains Preservative (Sulphur Dioxide)], Whipping Cream, Cornflour, Salt, Sugar, Garlic Purée, Dried Basil, Dried Oregano, Ground Black Pepper] , Béchamel Sauce (35%) [Water, Whipping Cream, Mature Cheddar Cheese (7.6%), Cornflour, Skimmed Milk Powder, Wheat Flour, Salt] , Lasagne Sheets (10%) [Durum Wheat Semolina, Water, Pasteurised Whole Egg] , Mature Cheddar Cheese (1.0%) .

72p for 300g (£2.40 per kilo)

Did you spot it?

Setting aside the over-complexity of a dish that we all know needs nowhere near as many individual ingredients, did you notice that the cheapest product is the one that claims to have the highest percentage of beef in it?

And that the most expensive product is the one that claims to have the smallest percentage of beef in it?

And similarly, that the most expensive is the one with the least individual ingredients in it.

Now, what do you think all that might tell us?

A load of shit

Ah. Me. With manure.

It comes to something when a couple of hours spent with a load of shit leaves you with a grin on your face.

But sure enough, this afternoon’s endeavours have left the warm glow of satisfaction, as well as the slight, but not unpleasant, ache of muscles that have never hefted manure – or a wheelbarrow – before.

As mentioned a few days ago, Hackney City Farm, which is only a five-minute walk through the park at the back of us, had said that I was welcome to a load of manure – and they’d even let me use one of their barrows to wheel it home.

Indeed, I got the manure free, as I’m “community”, which chuffed me rather a lot. Actually, I gave them a donation, but they were reluctant to take it initially, since they didn’t want me to think that I had to do that.

Very nice people and a really friendly environment.

And a big ‘hello’ to Larry the Donkey and all the other residents, plus all the carers, at the farm.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve toddled down occasionally on weekends when The Other Half is away.

It’s easy to assume that such a place is for young families with tots, but I find it has something to ofer the likes of me too.

I have real, concrete memories of staying on farms for holidays as a child. And they are valued, loved memories.

And discovering that I can wander just a short distance from my middle-of-a-bleedin-big-city home, and smell the same smells that I remember fondly from farms, is not – how shall I put it – unwelcome.

And after all, we only think it’s a ‘bad’ smell, if we don’t remember what it means and how incredibly productive and life-promoting what makes that smell can be.

But anyway, if you’re up this way, Hackney City Farm is very well worth a visit. There’s a nice café, with fresh food, too, plus the opportunity to buy such things as fresh eggs.

Anyway, let’s go back a bit. It’s probably a bit early to say that today has been ‘a job well done’, since the job isn’t finished yet, but it’s certainly a case of ‘a job well started’.

Before any digging in.

Although it wasn’t the only soil-improving arrival today,

Les from Halifax – or more pertinently, from a shop just off Columbia Road – brought me up two 60l bags of organic all-purpose compost.

The majority is going on the same bed, but some will be used for sowing the first batch of seeds that will sit in the new growhouse.

God, I love discovering real, local, independent businesses! And is it any coincidence that the service is almost always so much better?!

I have to say, I was also absolutely thrilled when Les, having driven into the car park and pulled up right next to my precious bed, looked at it and praised what I’d done.

I was elated – really.

Now because of the lack of readily-available hot water this week, much of my intended cooking and preserving has been put on hold, so it’s been rather easy to see the week as a failure – or at least a part-failure.

But what I’ve managed to do in terms of the garden is pretty good – I’m on track for everything I wanted to achieve. And that can’t possibly be bad.

What remains is more digging in, plus a lot of sowing. And, err, that’s it.

To add, I’ve just joined the RHS and I feel all sort of frizzy and excited. I hope you understand.

And finally – a big shout out to Larry the Donkey, and all the other residents (and helpers) at Hackney City Farm. You really do rock, guys and guyettes.