ENGLISH MUM

Chickenmum.com

So we’ve been away for a few days.  And after disgracing himself by chewing on the house last time we went away, Bert was banished to the kennels (still no luck on the new home front) and Little C from next door was given chicken sitting duties in exchange for a small financial reward.

On our return, Little C looked a little worried: ‘I think I lost one’, he said.  Apparently the poor little sod had been hunting high and low in the torrential rain for Minnie the Moocher, sending the rest of his family out into the field to search for her, but all had returned empty handed. 

‘Meh’, I said, knowing her penchant for roosting in ridiculous places,  ’she’ll be around somewhere’.  Well, dearest reader, we scoured and hunted, searched and… lots of other words that mean ‘to look for’, but she was nowhere to be seen.  I was beginning to worry, I mean, she’s usually in the kitchen hoovering up the crumbs:

… or sitting on the office windowsill giving me a good telling off when I’m late feeding them, and this was unusual.

I did wonder whether she’d been birdnapped by the particularly evil-looking gang of pheasants that are currently inhabiting the field, but no, I spotted them out of #2’s window (sorry about the photo, but they were a long way away), and no Minnie:

And then #2 rushed, breathless, to the back door: ‘Ive found her!’.  Long story short, she’d taken up residence underneath the beech hedge (you can see it in the bottom of the pic above – plenty of places to hide), but – strangely – she wasn’t at all pleased to see him.  In fact, she burbled at him in a rather aggressive manner and looked all squashed flat and peculiar.  We decided to investigate.  And this is what we found:

Poor Minnie is broody.  I feel so sorry for her.  She’d made herself a little nest, and was happily sitting on a large amount of eggs: 17 in fact, although the white ones aren’t even hers, they’re Chilli’s (don’t know how she managed that).

I had to explain to #2 that of course they won’t ever hatch because we don’t have a cockerel to fertilise them, but that Minnie doesn’t understand that and thinks she’s keeping a future generation warm under her feathery bum.

‘Aw, poor Minnie’, said #2 as we took the reluctant Mama back to the coop and picked up all the eggs, ”I almost wish we could get her a boyfriend so she could have some real babies’.

Five minutes later, though, she’d escaped the coop and was back in her little nest, presumably hard at work producing the next 17.  So the question is: who’s going to have the ‘birds and the bees’ chat with her?  Hands up, now…

Some say he isn’t machine washable: all we know is, he’s The Stig

So happily, some semblance of peace has been restored this weekend in the garden here at English Towers.  I have to take most of the credit for this (well, me and several small children) as, finally, the coop has a run.  Oh yes, don’t say I’m not handy with a hammer… well, a couple of electric fence poles (not live, natch), some chicken wire and a few cable ties anyway (one upside of living in a rural farming community – the Co-Op has everything you can possibly imagine and incredibly cheap too – 10m of chicken wire for €8 for instance).  Laydees and gennlespoons, I give you… the run:

And yes, alright, before anyone’s sarcastic (Moon), I appreciate it’s not exactly chicken Central park, but it’s relatively sturdy, easily moveable (when they wreck that bit of lawn, it’s onwards and upwards) and fine for a little tootling, rootling, pecking and clucking before one retires to the coop to lay fabulous eggs (not Stig, natch) and bed down for the night, securely double-locked away from nosey foxes (or should that be  foxy noses).

Happily, now they’ve all got a bit of room, the girls have decided that they do quite like The Stig after all and have decided he can stay.  Now they’ve stopped pecking him, he’s stopped bleeding everywhere and everyone seems a lot calmer.  Bless him, we’ve worked out he’s actually about eleven weeks old – I can’t send him back, I haven’t the heart.  Plus, he makes lovely little chirrupy tweeting noises at me when I’m hanging out the washing, and picks all the peas and sweetcorn out of our leftover veggie rice in the most adorable manner.  Plus, as I was debating with my cousin Bugs over in Canada, when he grows up, he might turn out to be a very fun way to annoy D next door, should the mood take me.  Cockadoodledoo!

Minnie and Chilli, for their part, are making like veritable egg machines and churning out their golden-yolked wonders at a rate of one each a day, although Patrick, the nice man that we got them from, said that due to the trauma of being moved this could stop at any time for any number of weeks.  Dread the thought.  We’d stop being able to have lovely scrambled eggs with home-grown spring onions, little red spikes of chilli and a sprinkle of parsley out of the garden for breakfast:

Get me eh?  I’m practically a farmer.  Ooarr.

The Friday photo: clucking chickens, fresh bread, golden yolks…

I suppose I’m a bit odd (well if you’re a regular reader you’ll know that already) in that most of the best moments in my life seem inextricably linked to food.  My very happy childhood full of roast dinners, Christmas Snowballs, rice pudding and jammy dodgers, warm strawberries straight off my Grandad’s garden and plums off the tree (‘oy gerrof them you kids!’).  Then it was puréed baby food (#2 liked banana and courgette – he won’t believe it now), making cupcakes with the boys as toddlers, a pea and prawn risotto when Hubby and I got a rare New Year’s Eve together while Grandma babysat… holiday food… Christmas food… family food… every lovely memory seems to be accompanied by the warm scent of baking, the zing of lemon or the fizz of champagne bubbles up the nose.

The other day was no different.  We met fellow blogger Maxi Cane and his other half, the adorable Jelly Monster to arrange collection of Maxi’s Ma’s unwanted chicken coop, which he’d kindly agreed to give us.  A friend was picking it up, but I needed to meet them anyways, just to say hi and to make payment in the form of chocolate brownies, carrots and spring onions, all freshly picked.  Now if you know Maxi’s blog you’ll know he’s a bit naughty, but in real life he was sweet and funny, and the lovely Jelly – wow.  You know those people who are just so sexy they practically crackle with it?  She’s curvy and gorgeous with the prettiest face – not a single man walked past without sneaking a look, I swear.

Anyhoo, so we got the coop and later on, David, our garden chappy, dropped off its occupants (in a sack!  Only in Ireland).  The first disappointment (well, the second – the first was the sack) was that the coop was condemned as unsatisfactory – no separate nesting box, no perch and too small, so much to Hubby’s disgust, we had to go out and buy a new one.

€180 lighter (it’s a hell of a pad, it’s got an upstairs with removable poo trays, a perch, a separate nestbox…you name it), but very excited nontheless, we got to check out our new arrivals:

We got a bossy little ginger madam who was quickly adopted by #2 and given the name Minnie Dean (named after a serial killer - don’t ask) and a taller, darker red one – adopted by #1 and called Chilli – bit feisty this one – she gave #1 the slip as she was being transferred and sparked a ridiculous 15 minute family chicken chase round the garden (cue the Benny Hill music) where we all hurled ourselves at her, unsuccessfully, shouted at each other, got zapped by the electric fence (#1) and basically made fools of ourselves until she was rugby tackled by Hubby and taken, squawking loudly in protest, to join the others.  Here’s Chilli (top) and Minnie in their new pad (that hangy thing is an apple, by the way):

And as a freebie, we got a cute little black and white cockerel, who got nicknamed The Stig.

Trouble is, Minnie and Chilli don’t like Stig and keep attacking him, so there’s a possibility that if they don’t settle, Stig will have to go back.  The chicken man is coming over later to check on stuff. 

Anyhoo, they’re obviously settling in well, because the next morning we got – an egg!  And then this morning another one!  Well, there was nothing for it, this called for fresh brown bread and a perfectly fried egg.  And so, our first ever chickens will be inextricably linked in my mind to the smell of freshly baked brown bread dipped in a golden, runny yolk:

I am a happy, happy chicken owner and no mistake.

No battery required: well done, Sainsbury’s

Of all the things I really miss about home, it’s being close to a really nice, big supermarket: being able to choose from tons of lovely stuff rather than having to  make do with whatever the smaller shops can squeeze onto their limited shelves.  And although our closest was Tesco, there was a really nice Sainsbury’s not too far away (do you know what, I can’t even remember the name of the town, and I’ve only been gone two years.  It’ll come to me, I’m sure).  I really like Sainsbury’s (and no, it’s not just the Jamie Oliver connection), I like the stuff they sell and their values too (I love Waitrose, too, but seriously – who can afford to shop there?).  And true to form, their latest press release is a sign that they’re way ahead of the competition.

From the 5th February, Sainsbury’s have announced that it will sell only eggs from uncaged birds.  I think, to be fair, that M&S or maybe Waitrose were the first to do this, but still, Sainsbury’s is the first of the big four to ban battery eggs and hopefully it will force the other big hitters to do the same.  Compassion in World Farming have called the  move ‘breathtaking‘ and praised Sainsbury’s ‘genuine commitment to continuously improving life for all farm animals in their supply chain‘.

Still on the subject of welfare, there’s some cracking TV coming up over the next few weeks.  I’m gutted I missed Jay Rayner’s ‘True Cost of Cheap Food’, but Channel 4’s ‘Great British Food Fight’ continues with the return of the chicken’s champion, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, as he continues to badger the hell out of poor Tesco (26 January, 9pm), and Jamie moves from chickens to pigs in Jamie Saves Our Bacon (29th January 9pm).  Bring it on, I say.

Step by step: lemon meringue pie

 I’m still struggling with this photography lark, y’know.  It’s not easy trying to take classy pictures when you’re up to your elbows in egg whites.  I’m going to wreck my camera at this rate.  Still, here we go with another step by step: this time a classic lemon meringue pie.

For the pastry, you’ll need:

115g butter, melted

100g caster sugar

175g plain flour

Pinch of salt

Firstly, preheat the oven to 180/gas 4.  Pour the melted butter into the sugar and stir.  Then add the flour and teeny pinch of salt and mix it around until it becomes a thick paste.  Press the mixture into your flan dish or baking tin  (about 24cm should do it), then bake it blind (scrunch up a bit of greaseproof paper, then smooth it over the pastry and pour in the baking beans) for about 15 minutes.  Then take it out of the oven, remove the baking beans and put it back in to cook the bottom (ooer) for about another 5 minutes, then take it out and leave to cool.  Turn the oven down to gas 2/150 degrees.

Meanwhile, make the lemon curd:

100g butter

2 lemons, zested then juiced

150g caster sugar

2 eggs plus 1 extra yolk (keep the white for the meringue)

Take a saucepan and bung in the butter, lemon juice and zest and caster sugar.  Melt it all together slowly until the sugar is all dissolved.  In a bowl, whisk the eggs and yolk until well combined.  Now, take your warm, lemony, butter mixture and gently pour a little bit into the egg, whisking all the time, then a bit more, then a bit more, until you’ve combined about half of it with the eggs.  Now bung that lot back into the saucepan and keep whisking and simmering until the mixture thickens.  Turn off the heat and leave to cool.  Remember to just stir it occasionally to keep it from getting a skin on.  When it’s about room temperature, pour it into the pastry case.

Finally, for the meringue:

4 egg whites

225g caster sugar

Whisk the eggs in a very clean bowl until they form stiff peaks, then keep whisking while you add the sugar, spoon by spoon, until it’s all incorporated and the meringue is thick and glossy.  At this point, it’s best to keep passing children from all trying to nab fingerfulls of the meringue mixture.  I find something pointy helps here.  Pile it all on top of the lemon curd and fluff it up a bit.  Bake in the very low oven (gas 2/150 degrees) for about 40 to 50 minutes, depending on how squelchy you like your meringue.  Guard the pie with your pointy implement until it’s at room temperature, then quickly take it into the bathroom, lock the door, and stuff into face.

Sausage and egg pie

Seeing as, thanks to King Jamie of Oliver, I’m now a whiz with a bit of pastry, I decided to whip up dinner last night in the shape of a kind of sausage and egg pie/quiche effort. Poor B the greyhound was sent wild by the smell of sausages, her little nose twitching and wiggling as she sat in her usual ‘helping with the cooking’ spot, bang in front of the sink. No matter how many times she gets cracked on the head by the dishwasher door, as far as she’s concerned this is her spot and she’s sticking to it.

Anyway, seeing as I’ve been banging on about dogs recently, I thought I’d give you a little bakery interlude to get you busy in the kitchen. Here goes:

8 oz plain flour
5 oz butter
1 egg yolk (bung the extra white in with the others if you can’t bear to waste it)
Couple tablespoons cold water
½ tsp salt
Pack of nice sausages (not those horrid cheap supermarket ones – I think it was my Dad that used to say they’re ‘made with lips and *rseholes’ – oops sorry, I’ll put you off your dinner)
3 eggs
Splash milk
2 or 3 oz Cheese (grated) MUST be Irish. Oh okay not really but Wexford cheddar is particularly yummy

That’s it!

So..whiz the flour and butter together until it kind of looks breadcrummy, or rub it in if you don’t have the benefit of wondrous shiny stainless steel machine that I might have mentioned a couple of times before in a show-offy kind of way. Don’t worry too much. I like it when you roll it out and there’s yellow splodges of butter in the pastry. Add your egg yolk and enough water so it’s just coming together. I rolled it straight out then but I think if you put it in the fridge for a while it’s a bit easier to work with. Line your quiche tin or whatever you’re using (there’s actually enough pastry for two, or for you to put a lid on if you really want to) with the pastry, push it into the corners and cut round the edges with a blunt knife. Then stick that in the fridge while you grill your sausages. Trip over large skinny dog, slithering around your feet looking for stray sausages, then arrange your sausages in a jaunty, star shape in the pastry case (reserving one or two for salivating greyhound at your feet). Whisk up the eggs with a large splosh of milk, mix in the grated cheese, then pour it over the sausages. Bake in the oven at 180 degrees (you know I don’t do gas marks) for about 15 – 20 mins. Remember the sausages are cooked so you’re only setting the eggy mixture. And hey presto! I think this is a really good recipe once you’ve mastered the pastry. My brother’s wife, L, just one of my two particularly wondrous and lovely sisters in law, does a yummy version with cooked prawns and salmon, and adds tomato puree to the eggy mixture so it’s a fetching pink colour. Very nice. I thought afterwards that I should have fried some onions with the sausages too..yummy.

Have noticed recently that I’m getting a bit lardy. Me and the pocket rocket are going to have to start taking longer walks. Either that, or I’m going to have to stop with the experimental cookie making…