Wool envy

I'm crap at knitting - there, I’ve said it. Phew, sometimes just being honest with the world is wonderfully refreshing.

It's not that I don't like knitting; it's just that there are several key skill sets to be a good at it that I simply don’t possess:

1. Patience
2. Creative flair
3. The ability to keep count

So, it's with great envy that I admire the handiwork of those more competent than I. Take for instance my amazingly talented colleague Rebecca. Now, that's a girl that can knit! Her pièce de résistance is tea cosies. This is extremely fortunate as I have a teapot in desperate need of a jumper. So, over our Departmental Christmas curry we struck up this reciprocal deal - one tea cosy for a supply of River Cottage Croydon eggs. Brilliant, everyone’s a winner.

Like most of these crafts Rebecca's obviously learned this skill from her Mum. I became aware of the full extent of Mrs Glover’s knitting talents when Rebecca sent me the following photos on Friday.

Mrs Glover and her fellow members of the Little Chalfont (evening) Women’s Institute knitted this incredible nativity scene for the children of St George’s school.

Wow – Ladies, I salute you. These are quite simply the most awesome knitted items i have ever seen! I'd like to single out the ginger Archangel Gabriel and the wise men with the wispy beards for a special mention.

I'm so inspired by your efforts I’m going to continue to add to the 3.5 inches of scarf I managed to cobble together back in Winter 2007. Wish me luck.

Dear Delia

Dear Delia,

Let me begin by telling you i'm a lifelong fan. Some of my earliest memories of food are watching you cook on Swap Shop with Noel and Cheggers. I’ve always thought Christmas at your house would be culinary Nirvana. However, having witnessed your televisual nightmare ‘Delia’s Classic Christmas’ on BBC Two this week, I’ve revised that assumption.

Right, let’s start with the Christmas pudding (as indeed you did). I love Christmas pudding Delia, i really do, and i agree wholeheartedly that more people would eat it if it was home-made. Saying that, who on Earth in these recession-hit times can afford to have the hob on for EIGHT HOURS steaming a pudding that contains 95 separate ingredients? Certainly not me; I’m sat here typing this in two jumpers and a scarf to save putting the heating on. Do you have shares in one or all of the four main UK energy providers?

Whilst we’re on the subject of vested interests i also believe you may have a substantial personal portfolio involving the UK spirits industry, because  that was a lot of booze i saw glugging into practically every dish. I’m worried for you and your liver.

I was also deeply troubled by your obsession with that large upright freezer. There was something distinctly eerie about your night-time trips into the garage to visit it. I half expected it to contain your Husband’s dismembered body neatly packaged in date-marked Tupperware boxes.

Ok, now let’s move onto the pinnacle of my disgust, that vegetarian abomination. I think we both know I’m referring to the Roulade, or as I like to call it, cheese and parsnip vomit roll. Who would possibly want that for their Christmas dinner, Delia? Please tell me which of your friends and relatives you think would enjoy seeing that beige, oozing, pus-like mess placed in front of them on Christmas day? I know you don't hate vegetarians because you produced a very lovely recipe book just for us back in 2002, so explain to me why this crime against cookery exists? I’ve been a strict vegetarian for 18 years and I would scoff down a Turkey crown in a New York minute before ever putting that thing near my mouth.

Saying all this, I just can’t bear to leave our relationship on a sour note. There were a couple of redeeming features; the braised red cabbage looked nice.

I still love you Delia, I always will. Please make it all better in time for next year.

Best wishes, Lisa.

This is not a good precedent

Mark my words, this is the thin edge of the wedge. By Christmas they’ll be sat on the sofa watching Morecambe and Wise re-runs.

Bird meets birdbrain

To the untrained eye this may look like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting chicken.

What's actually happened is Eli was minding his own business, pottering around the back of the raised beds, when he discovers to his absolute horror that he's four feet away from Margot – ON THE LOOSE. He's paralysed with fear, the daft animal.

I'll never understand how he’ll happily risk life and limb to chase a huge fox around the field in a Benny Hill-esque fashion but his feathered sisters scare the bejesus out of him.

One of my fellow Omleteers (Eglu owners) put forward the following hypothesis for Eli's behaviour:

I think it's a pride thing. Birds = dinner and dinner should not fight back! Chickens obviously haven't read the rule book and it isn't fair and the cats all go off and sulk. Foxes = competition and therefore they are fair game and expected to fight back.

Now, if only Ron the goldfish put up a tiny shred of resistance he may have a slightly happier retirement.

Seed porn

Mother Nature ensured that any quality time out in the garden today was reduced to zero thanks to the 80mph winds and torrential downpour. So, i remained in my pyjamas all day and resorted to my back-up plan – seed shopping (or as Mr Swift describes it,‘seed pornography’).

While i dispute my husband’s comparison of me to a sweaty loaner addicted to online porn, I will confess to scouring the internet looking for heritage seed providers. I’m determined to grow more unique and endangered varieties in 2010 rather than relying on the trusty Marshalls vegetable garden collection. Thankfully, Seeds of Italy and Thomas Etty have come up trumps. I’ve even gone as far as ordering a few varieties from Hugh himself.

I will admit to being somewhat of a seed snob (if there is such a thing). In my eyes you don’t have the right to call yourself a gardener unless at least one thing in your garden started off as a pack of seeds in your hand, in the same way that bunging a ready meal in the microwave doesn’t really make you Gordon Ramsey. I know not everyone is fortunate enough to have a greenhouse, but that doesn’t stop you chucking a few lettuce seeds in a window box and growing your own salad (sooooo much tastier and cheaper than those atrocious supermarket salad bags). If my argument has convinced any of you to give it a go, this variety is one of my favourites.

Let’s hope the weather eases up tomorrow long enough for me to plant my garlic and let Margot and Jerry out for a spot of free ranging. Otherwise both the hens and i may go a little stir crazy.

Never forget, you'll always be a novice......

One thing I love about gardening is just when you’ve getting a bit full of yourself and starting to feel ever so slightly competent; something comes along and knocks you on your arse. For me this week it was the Hostas. One of my raised beds is in a partially shady position so it became my only non-edible plant collection (saying that, a rhubarb did manage to sneak into the sunniest corner) which includes three lovely Hostas.

Imagine my horror when less than three months after buying them they all start dying! Cue frantic phone call to my Mother (the font of all gardening knowledge) to be told in no uncertain terms that that’s quite normal for this time of year and to stop panicking.

Oh, the shame.

Damn you leaves, when will it ever end?

I’m not going to start this with another apology for how long it’s been between posts. I was planning to blame my hectic schedule during Breast Cancer Awareness Month but seeing as Pamela, our Chief Exec, managed to knock out ten posts in October I really haven’t got a leg to stand on.

So, last time I was here i promised an update on River Cottage Croydon. Well, the world’s tiniest smallholding is looking very sorry for itself as we get ready for the rapid descent into Winter. Getting the plot into this depressing state has involved such fascinating tasks as deadheading and (my least favourite job) raking up leaves. In their defence, leaf mulch is a wonderful conditioner for the garden, but in order to harness it you have to rake up all the bloody leaves and store them for a year in well ventilated spot. The problem with this is leaf collecting is a thankless, never-ending task which would try the patience of the most saintly gardener. When you find yourself screaming at leaves for forever being on the move it’s definitely time to put the rake down and step away from the area.

Margot and Jerry, my lovely hens, have been at RCC for six week now and they’re a delightful addition to the family. They’re currently sitting in a box behind me as the neighbours have decided to turn the street into Sarajevo circa 1995 with a multitude of firework displays. Note to the residents of Addiscome: A – Guy Fawkes Night was FOUR DAYS AGO and B - you had all of yesterday evening to do this so why are we getting a repeat performance tonight? If anyone can point me in the direction of a petition to end the sale of fireworks for domestic use, I’ll happily sign it. Bar Humbug!

Max and Eli, now veterans of three bonfire nights, couldn’t care less. Instead, they’ve spent most of this week perfecting and employing a new (and deeply flawed) squirrel catching technique. This involves hiding up the tree (under the cover of non-existent leaves) ‘till said squirrel runs past, then chasing it round and round the school field until the squirrel’s superior stamina and speed forces the daring duo to retreat back to base and wait for the next target. Repeat ad infinitum. This kept them busy for a good four hours and i can report no squirrels were harmed during the making of this farce. Perhaps next week they’ll graduate to fox hunting with nets and spears.....