On a recent early and glorious Saturday morning – it was 4°C outside – I let the complaining chickens out. Chickens never stop complaining. They squawk and grizzle like rusted hinges on an old farm gate. I lead them, squawking and grizzling, to their breakfast plate. They are terribly greedy, so they follow at a sprint. There is no more comedic a sight than a sprinting chicken.
My next appointment is a bun fight in the sheep paddock. The only creature greedier than a chicken is a sheep. Our mob hear me in the garage pouring sheep nuts into the metal bucket and immediately start shouting. Xanthe, Greg’s sheep, is also called Fog Horn. She used to be the loudest sheep in the paddock but has lost that title to Becky, whose bleat can bust your ear drums. Xanthe resents this – actually, because she does not identify as a sheep, she resents all sheep – and butts the hell out of Becky. Sheep have a strict hierarchy. A ewe lamb is in love with Xanthe and trots along after her all day long. She gets the bash all day long.
It is brisk and cool enough on this morning to see the sheep’s breath in the air. There are sparkling cobwebs hanging from the trees and the fences; they are like constellations.
We have 300 pear trees. This autumn, we will not have a single pear. We have had no rain. It is enough to make you weep. We rely on the pears to supplement the sheep fodder through the autumn.
We do have quinces. Even a sheep will not eat a quince. No creature would willingly eat a quince. Bite into a quince and your mouth will feel like the worst sort of visit to the dentist. Yet they are highly fragrant. I put bowls of them around the house.
Quinces smell exotic: like guavas, apples and pears, maybe crab apples and lilacs. They smell of vanilla and honey. The fragrance of quince will fill the whole house. Greg says they smell like sick. Too bad. I am filling the house with bowls of quinces. I sing, tunelessly, “The owl and the pussycat went to sea, in a beautiful pea-green boat … They dined on mince and slices of quince/Which they ate with a runcible spoon … They danced by the light of the moon.”
I am making quince jelly and the Spanish paste, membrillo. The first lot of paste failed but I get stubborn about these things and will have another go. The membrillo bubbles and bubbles and causes trouble – you have to wear elbow-length gloves to stir the stuff – but it is worth it. It is magical with cheese. I always wonder, as I do with all cookery wizardry, such as whisking egg whites into heavenly things, who came up with the idea that such magic might exist.
I awoke this morning to discover a heap of what looked like black fur on the floor beside the bed. These leavings looked as if one of those mental bearskin hats the King’s guards wear had been shaved in the night.
Further investigation revealed that the offerings had been left by the latest kitten. Kittens get up to all sorts of voodoo in the night.
Before kitten-initiated vandalism, my slippers sported splendid pom-poms. They are, or were, very fine slippers. At Lush Places, we are particular about our slippers. Our slippers are from Five Star Slippers, which makes the best and most beautiful slippers in the world. Hey, look at me. I’m an influencer!
I sent an SOS to Five Star Slippers, with a picture of the savaged shoes. “Help,” I wrote, “my pom-poms have been eaten by a kitten.”
“Shut your door at night,” came the reply. “Be very afraid, Michele.” Replacement pom-poms arrived two days later in the mail.
