the bread knife issue

We called in to friends before lunchtime, on the way to foot our turf in the bog. We lingered and were asked to stay, we had brought a picnic intending to eat in the open but we shared it happily instead—home bread, tinned sardined from brittany, home soft goat’s cheese—, and left the bread knife behind. We missed it for breakfast, dinner and tea, every day. Without this enforced separation which lasted a good few weeks would we really have noticed how much we loved our daily bread knife ? The ones we flirted with in its absence, acquired like most things in this house from charity shops, were too sharp, too efficient, too threatening, compared with the gentle efficient bonhomie of our own. When L on a subsequent visit remembered to pick it up, the hosts displayed a near ignorance of its presence, and were surprised to find it in their cutlery drawer. It had gone into the dishwasher and its handle looked almost bleached. Not everyone, we realized, imbued their relationship with their kitchen implements with as strong feelings as we do. And we do. How we do.

 

mea culpa

All week I have been feeling bad about the fact that last week’s wholemeal spelt bread was too sour, it was a little sourer than usual as I tasted it for breakfast before going out to market (and on to The Harvest fair in Drumshambo) last saturday but over the week it just got worse. Apologies, all, mine. As I feel that my ability to make the bread I make is something of a magic thing I have to be able to also allow myself to humanly fail sometimes.

We were very tired but satisfied. We travelled to Poland, for a wonderful wedding, four of us packed into the tiniest car available, 3956 km excluding what the boat travelled for us, applied geography and assorted tastings of local goods. Now we are back to home schooling, making hay while the sun shines, if we manage some hay cocks, and on monday we are joining the AVAAZ.org global climate wake up call in dublin, dressed in red at 12.18 pm on O’Connell street, at the junction with North Earl street. There are hundreds and hundreds of similar events organized around the world, perhaps you can join one, too. We are all together in this, the people who had to eat sourer bread and the ones who did not.

 

smallholding

Don’t even think of keeping animals (goats, sheep, chickens, cows, horses) without this book.

 

convenience food

On Thursdays I am alone, trying to finish ordinary tasks in order to get to the studio. Last week, although I could have gone into the garden and picked enough for a wonderful lunch I chose convenience food instead. Polish smoked pigs ears from the lithuanian supermarket and frozen peas (we do have peas growing but only a minute crop, so I could not feast on my own). Each ingredient had no doubt been produced with plenty of nasty substances but nothing since harvest so no E figured on the label, so as convenience food goes it did not feel too bad and it tasted delicious. I can live in hope that the Polish don’t keep their pigs in batteries but there is little chance of that, industrial farming is industrial farming. At least they are turning their ears into tasty morsels (ingredients : meat, salt). As for frozen peas they are probably evil, but I do love them.

 

action

Last week was the first week of baking after a long and delightful holiday in brittany while all animals, plants and walls were looked after adroitly by LMS. How lucky.

Last friday was too hot in the kitchen for sourdough despite my freshly hung blinds and the resulting bread was a little flat as I hurried off to the train on saturday with N to Dublin to an artists book fair leaving the rest of the family to bring freshly baked goods to market, new cakes, flatter bread. This friday I won’t have to worry about packing books and rushing to Dublin and the weather is given rather wet I am told, I just need a little more breeze but
I know all will be well and I am greatly looking forward to take my weekly stand and talk to the good people who will come to knockvicar this saturday. I do love this job I invented for myself.

 

look at the blue eggs

The hen is white, her eggs are blue. We do not give names to poultry anymore. We do not eat eggs until they are a couple of days old.

Sometimes when I eat a soft boiled egg I realize there might be no finer food, with bread and butter. The simplest food often serves to reconcile you with your life in particular and the world at large.

 

organic food

I bought a jar of organic peanut butter as a bait for the mice in my humane trap. How do you justify this ? How do you justify eating organic whenever possible ? I do not want chemicals to be used on the soil on my behalf. I do not want animals to be mistreated on my behalf. Simple. How do you justify the extra spending ? Eat better and less. Pretty simple.

 

contemporary food practice [discussions in]

Here therefore downloadable invitations to the forthcoming exhibition at the Dock in carrick, Discussions in Contemporary Sculpture (curated by Oliver Dowling, featuring Maud Cotter, Dorothy Cross, John Gibbons, Paul Gregg, Fergus Martin, Kathy Prendergast, Grace Weir, Alistair Wilson) and my opening night guerilla-art-style food performance, Contemporary Food Practice [discussions in], all welcome, come and enjoy, discuss.

discussion in contemporary sculpture

contemporary food practice [discussions in]

 

protest song : a work in progress

 

I like odd numbers particularly

This morning, as I started milking goat number two, Biscotte, I thought I’d count how many times I needed to press the udders until I had emptied them. I am milking one udder at a time because one hand has to hold the awkward vessel I am currently using which makes the counting exercise easier. (I can milk with both hands, I am proud to add, which means that the loss of one arm would not stop me.) This morning I needed to press 373 times for almost 1.5 litres of milk, I could press harder and thus reduce the number but I like to go at it gently, I empathize greatly with my goats, especially in the instance of production and extraction of milk as I too have produced milk for my children. I am not necessarily a neurotic counter but I often like counting—sometimes as relic of a childish comforting thing but also, as this morning, in the name of science. I now know roughly how many times I have to press udders every morning for my milk and I feel cleverer for it. Milkers must have interesting muscle development in their hands, I wonder what other use they can be put to. I also brushed the donkey, Alaska, to try and get his dreadlocks away but I was not counting the strokes.

Today I am experimenting with a Hungarian farm cheese recipe Lazslo (thank you) gave me last saturday. Leave raw milk to sour at room temperature. Remove sour cream and heat to near boiling point until good curds form. Drain and salt lightly. So the souring is happening as I write. How many hours, days, curds, salt grains ? The drained whey is great for cleaning linoleum and slate floors, and also the hens love it.