These fluffy chicks, with unusual sticky-out plumage, arrived last week–the gift of our friend and neighbor Flo.

Four of them–five weeks old; a possible cockerel (the little red cockscomb is the give away, it seems) which we’d return if confirmed–and three females. They busied themselves immediately–casing the joint; in and out of the abundant foliage which is growing like mad–there’s been so much rain.

Chuck-chucking round the courtyard they went, checking for bugs and other goodies in this new environment–content to forage and let the morrow look after itself.

Oh dear..!

We had a job herding them into the little hen house for the night–why don’t they know it’s for their own good!

Chased them round and round the courtyard–a comic carousel–until the bright idea of backing them into little hall area of the dependence (side building) occurred.

One by one, we cornered them–me holding out the light long handled fishing net used to catch mice and relocate them! Meredith grabbing them and after much squeaking–poor terrified creatures–folding them gently but firmly through the door of the henhouse–why don’t they know it’s for their own good!

Down went the flap on the last one and we sighed with relief. Safe for the night.

Oh dear..!

An appointment in Toulouse means an early departure the next morning.

Meredith takes out a bowl of food just before we leave.

Silence…

I follow her out to see how the little chickadees are doing.

They’re dead! 

Dead?

All four!

And indeed there they were lying inert in the fresh hay.

We had the whole day in Toulouse to wonder how in the world..!?

Meredith started itching. Little mites had colonized her since she handled the chicks. Could they have done for them? Were they fatally  traumatised by our efforts to coral them into the henhouse? Had they eaten something poisonous in the courtyard? Was the henhouse itself infected with a virus? Seemed unlikely.

By the time we arrived home, Flo’s husband Thierry had come by to take them away.

Flo came up with the more convincing answer the next day.

A fouine (stone marten) attack.

a pretty little stone marten–pretty but lethal!

Our friend Jean-Phillippe–here for seasonal box hedge clipping–confirmed this theory.

Dramatically he held up his pen, saying the little predator is able to get through a hole as small as the circumference of a pen.

The marten then goes for the jugular and turns into Dracula!

This explains the almost unharmed look of the chicks as they lay dead on the floor of their short lived new home.

Oh dear…

A sad tale from the Tarn.

Does it mean perhaps that no more little hens can safely inhabit the courtyard of Saint Martin for fear of the deadly night rambler–the unseen Stone Marten?

Our friend Keith Richmond has a thousand olive trees in the Tuscan hills, south east of Florence.

Keith shows off tomato bruscetta at a local restaurant in Radda in Chianti.

Every November he harvests his olives and wins prizes with the rich green oil they produce.

He recently picked up a gold medal in Los Angeles and another important prize in Germany.

We first met him at an olive oil tasting demo in Florence and were smitten with his passion for this miraculous product and his beguiling way of expressing it.

He knows his subject.

I thought I’d ask him to write a brief note about the tricky task of choosing a good olive oil.

He obliged with this:

It occurs to me that, since you mention extra virgin olive oil so often in your recipes and recently extolled the virtues of the Mediterranean diet in your blog, some of your readers may like to have some pointers on how to select an olive oil of good quality.

The supermarket shelves are loaded with olive oils of questionable quality, many of which may be suitable, I imagine, for frying or cooking in general. Price is certainly an important first indicator: cheap oil is, well, cheap oil – and you get what you pay for!

When taste and flavour are indispensable you have to go to the top of the range. Ideally you should know the grower and how the olives are processed. Obviously that is seldom possible, so the best alternative is to head for the more expensive olive oils on the shelf. You are more likely to find an olive oil of good or even exceptional quality in that way, especially if the label indicates that the olive oil is organic (‘biologico’ in Italian, for example) and that it is (for Italian olive oils at least) IGP or DOP, a sort of appellation controllée. This means that the olive oil has passed rigorous olfactory and chemical tests and is reliable.

Pay attention to the ‘best by’ date. This should never exceed 18-24 months after the year of production. Oils can still taste good after that date but will have gradually lost most of the characteristics beneficial to health. Also, you have no idea how the olive oil has been stored, so keep your distance from ‘old’ olive oils.

Your readers in North America would do well to consult a web site and blog run by Tom Mueller (www.truthinoliveoil.com). He gives a lot of sensible advice on a variety of oils that are available in the US especially.

I’ll be happy to answer any queries. Keep cookin’, best, Keith

This is meant as an introduction to his excellent site–which is worth a visit.

http://www.boggioli.com/

Keith and Helen Richmond also offer excellent holiday accommodation on the farm.

http://www.boggioli.com/the-farm/hospitality/

Consulting the oracle…

This goes by a number of names and several shapes–socca, farinata di ceci, foccacia di ceci–depending where you eat it.

It’s street food eaten on the move.

There’s a recipe for it in my book, Delicious Dishes for Diabetics.

But here is a slightly different version–I’ll call it chickpea bread.

I’m going to buy some spring onions in the market tomorrow–well it is Spring though it’s difficult to credit–grill them as in A lovely mess of spring onions and spread them over the bread.

The sun is forecast tomorrow and we’ll eat it sitting down!

Joy!

1 pint/580ml sparkling water

8oz chickpea flour–(aka gram, garbonzo flour and gluten and wheat free)

1 tsp baking powder

2 tbsp olive oil

half a small red onion–sliced fine

1 tbsp rosemary spears or more

salt and pepper

• Pour the water into a large glass bowl.
• Shake the flour and baking powder into the bowl through a sieve and stir it in.
• Add the salt.
• Add the olive oil and stir thoroughly.

• Cover the bowl and leave it to settle for a couple of hours.
• When you are ready to bake the “bread”, stir in the onion and the rosemary.

• Heat the oven to 200C/400F.
• Oil an oven tray and pour in the contents of the bowl, taking care it doesn’t slop over the sides.

• Gingerly lift it onto the top shelf of the oven and let it cook for 35 to 40 minutes.
• It should have browned some.

Ease it out of the tray onto a serving board for easier slicing

and grind some pepper over it.

(Good sautéed in olive oil the next day and eaten with a simple salad or try it topped with a fried or poached egg.)

Meredith just checked the diary and this day last year–the 12th of May– she and our neighbor Alice collected the first honey from our hive. The bees enjoyed a couple of days working the Judas tree last week–but they’ve retreated again and who knows when they’ll be honey again for tea!

Sunday is pasta night and I feel in need of strong flavours.

Anchovy and tomato–an old favorite comes to mind.

This was first published in October 2011–but it doesn’t feel inappropriate to rerun it this May evening!

Meredith and I have eaten this a thousand times.

It is from the matchless Marcella Hazan and is probably my favourite pasta dish of all time–comfort food par excellence!

What makes it so delicious is the anchovies–controversial little fish–not to everyone’s taste.

Here they deepen the taste without dominating.

Those preserved in salt are best–they dissolve more readily than those preserved in oil–but it’s a business preparing them for cooking.

Since I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes we have eaten wholewheat pasta and now we prefer it. It’s available on the shelves of most supermarkets these days.

How al dente it’s cooked is a matter of taste.

In Italy you’d think it was an arrestable offence to overcook pasta–they cook it very al dente and it makes for agreeably slower eating.

for 4

2 medium cloves garlic–chopped

6 tablespoons olive oil

4 anchovy fillets–chopped fine and pounded into a paste (with a mortar with a pestle if you have one)

2 good tablespoons parsley–chopped

400gm tin [can] of tomatoes–chopped with their juice

salt & pepper 

400gms wholewheat spaghettini

• Lightly sauté the garlic in small saucepan until it colours.
• Take the pan off the heat and add the anchovies and parsley– stirring well to dissolve them into the oil.
• Add the tomatoes, salt and pepper.
• Cook at a steady simmer for about 25 minutes, stirring regularly.
• When ready, the sauce will have an unctious consistency and a little pool of oil on top.

Cook the spaghettini in plenty of well-salted boiling water.

• Test for your preferred “doneness”.
• Drain, put in a heated bowl and add the sauce.
• Mix well and serve.

With fond memories of the late Angharad Rees

The BBC announced yesterday that Poldark is to be remade and will hit the screens in 2015–the 40th anniversary of the original showing.

Amazing news for everyone who loves a good story, for fans of the original, for Cornwall and for a whole new generation who are unaware of the rich pickin’s in Winston Graham’s saga.

His stories and characters are still being enjoyed 70 years after he wrote the first book in 1945. They still stand up–as many who contribute to this blog bear witness.

Our Winston was a master storyteller and we, the original cast, were lucky to be involved.

Mammoth Screen is the company producing the new version.

They have recently been responsible for Parade’s End and Endeavour (the prequel to Morse). Both period pieces done with a care and attention to detail that bodes well for the remake of Poldark.

Richard Morant, the first Dr. Enys, who died too young at 65 in 2011 was asked in a TV programme what made Poldark a success. He replied:

‘It’s about love—it’s about betrayal—the things that hurt us– the things that give us joy….Where people you know are going through their emotions, expressing their feelings of love, life and death–it evokes strong attachments, strong passion–and you love it! You love them, you love the people, you cherish them, you honour them, you respect them!”

Winston would have liked this explanation and I’m sure would have joined me in wishing Good luck to everyone involved in the new project.

We are about to sit down to a well deserved final meal (prepared by us of course).

Lunch, al fresco, overlooking the historic parterre–newly-clipped and  immaculate.

Suddenly we hear a ruckus from inside the house. The sound of a voice that has a familiar and unwelcome ring to me–is of a particular timbre.

Loud, angry and Scots! 

It triggers unpleasant memories and I find my overall sense of well being and satisfaction at completing a second workshop is swiftly turning into a feeling of anxiety–as I realise I am about to be nabbed!

Like the dour Scot he was back in the days of Poldark, dear old Captain McNeil never gave up the chase, it appears! His persistence (some would say his obsession) has finally paid off for him and I am cornered by a red faced redcoat on horseback!

Donald Douglas as Capt. McNeil

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IevZBj6Yisw

Happily for all concerned, the redoubtable Captain (aka Donald Douglas), after agreeing to hang up his musket–sits down, at the head of the table and charms us all with his highland banter.

Old enemies bury the past.

After a longer than usual pause because of the contents of the email, we heard the familiar whoosh and off it went to Judith Mitchell my editor at Constable & Robinson in London.

The cookbook was sent and delivered simultaneously–a miracle we now take for granted.

An hour later when I returned from the market I checked for emails and Judith had replied, already downloaded the whole book and even glanced at the introduction–I feel breathless recounting this!

Title: Healthy Eating for Life

Publication date: January 2014.

Out of Spring–back into Winter–snowing when we arrived!

Our friend Tari–the carefree cook from Delicious Dishes–is cooking lunch and I’ve just watched him stir fry some cabbage for lunch to go with spatchcocked poussin.

1 medium cabbage–outer leaves removed, quartered, de-stemmed and sliced fine

a swirl of  olive oil in the pan

1tsp cumin seeds,

1tsp turmeric

a pinch of red chili flakes

a couple of bay leaves

salt and pepper

a couple of handfuls of frozen green peas

• He heats the oil in a large sauté pan.
• Adds the cumin seeds and fries them briefly until  they color a little.
• Adds the cabbage and turns it over thoroughly in the oil.
• Adds the spices and seasons it all with salt and pepper.
• Stir-fries over a highish heat for about five minutes–(the cabbage wilts but retains a bit of a bite!)
• Tari says that if the heat is too low it will steam the cabbage and taste like hospital food!–and won’t pick up the little flecks of brown that add to its deliciousness–don’t burn it though!.
• Then he adds the peas and turns them in and over with the cabbage.

• He likes to cook this a little ahead of time to let the flavours meld–then reheat it just before eating.
• It looking beautifully green and I can hardly wait!

…to a new life an hour north of here.

They left in their “limo”, after lunch, each in his own cat box covered with a blanket to lessen their anxiety.

They were quiet all the way–well I would have been, not knowing where I was heading.

We were sad to see them go, of course; especially Chickpea, who the French would call un peu special (a little odd).

He approached all new arrivals with a sideways shuffle movement, which managed to signal “very pleased to see you” and  ”watch out!” at the same time.

To us towering humans it was amusing but might have been more worrying to your average hen!

The problem was the dawn to dusk chorus of cock-a- doodle-doos which woke us up and wore us down.

Chickpea being the bolder of the two would fly up onto the courtyard wall and proceed to the back of the house to start a conversation with Claude over the rooftops.

And so on.

A bowl or two of corn & oats with crushed madelines and walnuts only stopped them for five minutes.

If we’d understood the language we would have joined in.

All I could do was issue unveiled threats like muttering, “two for the pot” or “coq au vin” as I passed by–which fell on deaf ears, usually provoking an even louder “cock-a-doodle-doo” meaning “GET LOST–SEE IF I CARE!” as a rude rejoinder.

They had to go–sadly.

Here they are in their new quarters–much grander than we could offer chez nous!

Plus a harem of hens awaiting them and beautiful open air runs.

We think they’ve “fallen into the butter dish”.

“Altogether better–don’t you agree Claude?”

–and first reports seem to confirm this!