Janus week

This is a Janus week, facing forwards and backwards. We are still dealing with the last of the snow, which cars have impacted into ice on the track. However, the snowdrops are beginning to show their snouts, and there are suddenly green shoots all over the place. I took Miss Dog up to the garden centre today because I’d just about run out of bird food: she has to go on her lead once we’re near the road, and this proved highly hazardous, with the tarmac like a skating rink and Miss Dog providing powerful but erratic traction. I got my bird food, and some fertiliser for the naturalised bulbs on the banks – this is a good time to give them a bit of a boost – and some very splendid dahlias, orange and dark red. The dahlia moment is months and months away, and it’ll be some time before we can even plant them, but they are something to dream over for the time being. This is a Janus week in another respect as well. I’m still up to my ears in exam scripts, but soon that will be over, and then I can say goodbye to undergraduate teaching for a while, which, given the number of other things on the job sheet, is also something to look forward to.

Pulse

Some atavistic wintery impulse has had us both digging packets of dried pulses from the depths of the cupboard. We had a red lentil soup the other day, a green pea soup for the Professor and Olga’s lunch (I was in Aberdeen saying ‘you may now turn over your paper’ at the time), and a more or less Tuscan kale and cannelini beans number this evening. I make a fair bit of dal and so on through the year, but it’s at this late winter season that beans really come into their own. As do onions, and the sort of dish where you peel about three pounds of onions and cook them very slowly into a brown sticky goo. One thing which has added considerably to the general jollity is that the Professor has come to enjoy small quantities of prosciutto and the nicer varieties of bacon: a pea soup with a little bacon in it is a very decided improvement on a pea soup without. The weather is improving. It’s not so cold, and what is falling seems to be more or less rain, so I am hoping we’ll see the last of the snow before too much longer. I have started dreaming over plant catalogues, which, like beans, are a great solace at this time of year: whereas beans answer the needs of the moment, plant catalogues feed the soul, by reminding one that there is such a thing as summer, and that the year is tipping over, little though it may feel like it just at the moment. I’m looking for dark red alstroemeria,  which may take a bit of finding. We had some as cut flowers this Christmas and not only were they lovely, they went on being lovely for just over a month, and since they’re perfectly hardy, I want them in the garden.  Most growers list alstroemeria as ‘mixed’, because like primulas, they are promiscuous, but they come in a range of colours individually nice but collectively revolting. I’m on the track of a specialist alstroemeria dealer, who sounds, from his website, bonkers, but perhaps you have to be a bit bonkers if your life’s work is guarding the chastity of alstroemeria.

Red Lanterns

The daughter of one of our old friends is in hospital and likely to be there for some time yet. Boring and disheartening. When the Prof was down that way before Christmas, he took with him a rather splendid red and gold dragon – about fourteen inches long, a not very cuddly soft toy, very nicely designed, with gold embroidery and sequins on his snaky sides, who was given me by Dr Wu last New Year. I called him Fang; he is a rather cheerful, gung ho looking creature, and we thought he might cheer the aforementioned patient up, which he did. He has proceeded to develop quite a lot of personality, so when the Professor had a chance to nip into the Asian supermarket, he bought a couple of red lanterns for Fang to decorate her room with – we put these up temporarily, partly in order to work out how they worked, and they are really lovely. They went off to Yorkshire today, where we hope they have a cheering effect. There are two great things about Fang: one is that he is a very positive sort of creature, and the other is that he gives everyone something to talk about which isn’t any one of a number of no-go areas, and that is always useful.

Cold

We were both in the works today dealing with our respective exam commitments in one way or another, which also allowed me to stock up on animal food and saline for my contact lenses, both of which were running low. The reliable Gordon, who had taken us in in the morning (we’ve not cared to risk our own car for the lat week) turned up to rescue us. Then, as the poet said, there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold. Gordon’s car is equipped with a temperature gauge, and after we left Aberdeen (where it was +1) it got lower and lower. As we inched up the drive to the house, it was minus six, and it is appreciably colder than that now. The poor little cat wailed and fussed as I carried her up the garden, and was completely silenced by being dropped into the snow, which is up to her chest - I think it took her breath away. Necessary ablutions were thereupon performed in double quick time. I must say, both animals are very good about this sort of thing. They both seem to go into a state of suspended animation: it’s noticeable that neither of them eat, or even more importantly, drink much, when we are out for the day. Our return is followed by a good deal of glad bustle after which both of them head for their respective bowls and start making up for lost time. They are both cleanly by instinct, and practical. I think it's the first time this year that we've had this depth of cold. The Met Office seems to think that the serious winter is nearly over – oh, I do hope so.

Not trying hard enough

Although we have quite a lot of fluffy white snow outside, the chest in the hall is currently adorned by spring bulbs, because I have been growing them on indoors, or rather, with the aid of the back kitchen where the freezer and the washing machine live, which is near-freezing, and has been that way for some time. There is a pot of paperwhites, one of ‘Tete-à-tête’ daffodils, and a bowl of hyacinths, which are a fine Imperial purple. For once, I have managed to grow paperwhites without their ending up eighteen inches tall and falling over, because it’s been so blasted cold,  but alas, they are insufficiently artless. They are in a celadon pot, and the hyacinths are in plastic, as bought from the good Calum. The Tete-à-têtes were sourced from the bad Tesco, but their plastic pot has been dropped into a well matured clay one of traditional shape. They are therefore, unlike the paperwhites and the hyacinths, artless, because in order to be artless in the right way, a group such as this is supposed to give the impression that Angus McFungus the dear old Scottish gardener has brought them round to the back door of the Old Rectory in a flat-bottomed wicker basket of archaic design. Nipping down to the garden centre to buy hyacinths someone else has started off is horrid premeditation, and made obvious by the horrid plastic bowl - the fact that the little daffodils are also of low origins has been concealed from sensitive visitors in an appropriately casual manner. But the hypothetical Angus McFungus would not use a celadon pot, so our Artlessness Quotient is only 33%, or one out of three, which is simply not good enough. Unfortunately, we are sufficiently without finer feelings that we have not been stricken with shame and rushed off to our artless pal’s website in order to keep the wheels of commerce a-turning.  The paperwhites in any case smell most delicious, and are a welcome distraction from the general horrors of the week. I have spent two days so far collating marks and playing Bingo with spreadsheets. I seem to have mislaid one (smallish) group of essays, and I’m just hoping that they’re in the office. I don’t propose to panic till I find they aren’t.

Harvest amidst the snows

I have made my marmalade, which was very well behaved – it didn’t boil over onto the stove, stick to the bottom of the pot and burn, caramelise, or do anything else it shouldn’t. Despite being officially called Rintinaby Mandarin Orange (yes, I’m afraid so), Miss Kit refrained from attempting to assist, and Miss Dog is asleep upstairs, so the ambient stickiness is reasonably well under control. The Professor bought a copy of Country Life the other day because it turned up at the garage – he buys it from time to time for the contents, I then keep it for making collages because it’s printed on good paper  - and it had an article about artisan marmalade. People have got silly about this, evidently. Chilli marmalade, anyone? A touch of lavender? Or how about not? Actually, my own marmalade had an extra special touch of its own: the Professor appeared in triumph this morning, having watered the greenhouse, bearing an orange! From one of our very own orange trees! It has to be admitted, if one is channelling one’s inner Twisby, that the orange in question was almost completely tasteless, and why it saw fit to ripen in mid-January, with snow on the ground outside, I can’t think. However, the state of advertising being what it is, the addition of this single much-cossetted fruit doubtless permits me to claim that my marmalade is made with fruit individually sourced and lovingly hand-picked. So I will. Fortunately all the other oranges, picked by nasty rough machinery in Seville, were quite characterful, and the resulting marmalade is a zinger.

Thwarted

We’d expected to entertain this weekend: Dr Brennan the Artist and the Huntly Two were going to come – we solemnly exchanged weather data, which revealed a light dusting of snow and otherwise salubrious at both ends of the journey, but alas, they ran into a wall of blizzard between there and here and had to turn back. Problems up here seem to be very localised, at least for the moment. Preparations for their reception, fortunately, were not very far advanced except that I’d made a cherry cake. We had some of it with Olga, who is now fine, and the rest we have frozen. One thing which I had planned to do with child labour in prospect was to make marmalade (there were Seville oranges in the New Deer deli the other day), so I’ll have to make it myself. Marmalade theories are manifold. I like to separate peel and innards, soak the peel to get rid of some of the bitterness, boil up the insides and put them through a sieve, separately boil and shred the peel, then assemble and cook. It’s quite a process, and stickiness is apt to spread far and wide. I could quite have done with a couple of juvenile sous-chefs, but never mind. Phase one has happened, soaking the peel and dealing with the juice, and tomorrow I will boil the peel and make up the marmalade. One thing to be said for the whole marmalade set-out, sticky it may be, but it smells wonderful.

Bad to Worse

I’m happy to say that so far, the Apocalypse Weather Bear has given us no more than a light sifting, rather than dumping whole buckets of the white stuff on us. Long may this continue. We were in Aberdeen yesterday, where we copped all sorts of weather in the course of ten hours or so, a random offering of sun, rain, mist, snow, sleet, and freezing fog, but  we've been able to stay at home today - I've taken a day off exam related bureaucracy in order to work on a paper for Oxford, while the Professor's had an article he's trying to fight to a finish. The temperature today has been oddly fluctuant. It was very cold this morning, but when we took the dog for a walk in the wood (which was perfectly beautiful, each twig carrying a fluffy white coat) it warmed up very appreciably and was really pleasant. Now it’s got cold again. Meanwhile, just to add variety to our otherwise tedious lives, Miss Dog has taken up badness. If the Professor decides he would like  to sit in his own chair, handy for the phone, Miss Dog goes off to our bed, if you please. Also, as is my wont, I bought a couple of packs of chicken thighs, and skinned them before putting them up, separately wrapped, in the freezer. The skins I put on the kitchen windowsill for the rough cat. Some time later, Miss Dog asked to go out. A sudden suspicion flashed across my horrid mind, and I nipped out of the back door. I was not wholly surprised to see that the windowsill was bare. The dear little doggie has mastered the art of standing on her hind legs.  Still, we had better make sure that she’s properly shut in the kitchen tonight. There was a lot of chicken skin, and it’s very high fat compared to what dogs usually eat.

A Terribly Grand Bed

One thing I neglected to report about the dark of the year is that Godmama announced a project, Overhaul of the Spare Room, Phase II. Phase I occurred during their last prolonged visit, when they repainted the room a soothing shade of grey and moved the furniture, swopping the bookcase and the bureau, which made it seem much bigger and certainly much nicer. This time, the bed was the issue. This is the chunky fourposter the joiner made for David the Werewolf when we were all in Warwickshire. It’s always been just a frame, but these days, we have at our disposal the good Tony, his penchant for bodging, and cold dark days unsuited to outside work. Duly instructed, he put a nice lid on it, of hardboard, and a cornice made of pictureframe moulding. I bought paint, drawing pins, glue, some of the stuff you secure net curtains with, and quilt-stuffing. Ages ago, I bought quite a lot of black on white Toile de Jouy on eBay, so that was already in reserve. The room’s curtains are made out of it. For phase two, Godmama padded the hardboard lid with quilt-lining, and stretched Toile de Jouy over it, securing it with the drawing pins – the padding gave it a nice plump upholstered look which, being only thinnish cotton, it would not otherwise have had. Then the bed was painted (pale grey), the lid was dropped back in and secured with battens. A ferocious argument then followed: should the little figures have their feet pointing North or South? We settled on North: that means that they look right when you’re lying in bed (feet towards you), though wrong from the door; the consensus of those assembled was that the view of the sleeper outweighed the view of the casual interloper. With the aid of the net curtain wire, the space behind the headboard was hung with elegant pleats of more black and white Toile de Jouy. It looks exceedingly smart. It’s nice to have a lid on the bed after all these years (about fifteen of them); it feels very cosy.

Will He or Won't He?

Yesterday saw the opening salvo in the season of hostilities, i.e., exams, stressful, hugely time consuming, and somewhat duller than watching paint dry, which, given the right paint, can be strangely absorbing. But before then, I got a little R&R, the first time I’ve been away from home since last September, when I went down to Edinburgh with the Godparents. Very nice it was too, perched in the Godparental eyrie with its amazing views over the city and the firth. I got a couple of days in the National Library, frustrating institution that it is, and there was a highly civilised dinner party.  Then, alas, shades of the prison house closed; and from now on, it will be essays, bureacracy and scripts till February. The whole set-out is being rendered that bit more problematic by the Apocalypse Weather Bear, who might start chucking down snow in large amounts, or there again, mightn’t. At the moment, we have nothing worse than sleety rain, which is something. I have bought a pair of warm boots. Funny-looking things, but comfortable. I have been trying to take more exercise, which, given the present state of sog and Miss Dog’s preference for walking in the woods, has meant donning wellies. But a few days ago, I found to my horror that I had developed a corn. It’s not painful but I have never had such a thing in my life. The wellingtons are the obvious culprits since otherwise I pootle about in Birkinstocks and nothing can conceivably be rubbing on my toe. So walking boots were indicated. They are very definitely warmer than the wellies, and supposed to be waterproof, so if the AWB drops snow on us, I will doubtless be glad of them.

Happy New Blog

As you see, The Deep North has migrated – from somewhere north of Alpha Centauri to a new home in the environs of Sirius. It’s a bit of a shock to be moving after all this time (the decennial is coming up), but please note new address, and we’ll soon all get used to it.  We welcomed in 2013 with a certain amount of quiet jollity, thanks to the presence of the Godparents. Someone gave us a book written, or at least, styled, by an acquaintance with a design shop/mail order business, as a result of which we have all resolved to become more artless. Not least because you can clearly make quite a good thing out of it. The Godparents, of course, live on Calton Hill, and the thought of the Great Edinburgh Hogmanay Hooley going on around them all night was not a prospect which pleased. The Laird of Northfield sportingly decided to host a musical evening for refugees from central Edinburgh (Brahms and Liszt, we presume), but that did not seem like quite far enough, and then there was still the problem of coming home with the milk, so they withdrew to the quaint rural peace of outer Aberdeenshire. Our own celebrations were rather low key, but yesterday, we did get ourselves to Cromarty, which had plainly been doing things in style. Hardly anything was open. Fortunately, the Queen of Cracked China was up and trading, having had just a wee do, sixty people. And someone had even turned up three days later to return a champagne flute. We want hardly anything, though it’s always fun to see what she’d thought of next. We bought a lovely bone egg spoon (having given the nicest one to some child who liked it), a couple of linen teatowels, and some of the good soap she sells. She’s broken out in lampshades – and good, well designed lampshades are not easy to find: these look like something Artless of Great Ormond Street would sell for three times what they, in fact, cost. We have all the lampshades we personally require, but it looks like an excellent idea.