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Giant Puffball

Monday, October 16th, 2006

Something white flashed among the tufts of grass and shrivelled brown thistles which grew on patches of horse manure in the field we were driving past. The thing was round, not irregular like a crunched-up plastic bag. I was almost sure—

“Stop the car!”

Bemused, John let his old Vauxhall roll to a stop. I squinted.

“It’s a giant puffball! A little one.”

With these words, I climbed over the gate.

On the far side of the field, two piebald horses looked on curiously as I approached the spot. I was right.

My heart was hammering. Finding a giant puffball is a mushroomer’s dream, but even as I lifted it off the ground, I imagined the sight of the farmer’s air-rifle trained on me, prickling in my neck.

I hurried back to the car and we high-fived and laughed like schoolchildren.

Giant Puffball

The mushroom weighed over 800 grams—considering that giant puffballs can grow up to 20kg, it was indeed a baby. But the younger the better: when I cut it, the flesh was firm and creamy white. It was in perfect condition. Saying that, even though it rates 3 knives-and-forks in my edible mushroom guide, it tasted of—nothing.

Giant Puffball section

According to the guide, coating the thing in spicy or herby breadcrumbs and frying it in butter is a vegetarian delight, but the crumbs have to be flavoured strongly to impact on the mushroom’s bland taste, and cutting the steaks 1 cm thick meant they needed plenty of time to steam. In the end—after a less than stellar result—we cut the remaining steaks into thinner strips and fried them with bacon, majoram and garlic, followed by marinating in an orange and Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

That still left over a pound of mushroom.

I turned to one of my all-time favourites: the White Dog Café Cookbook for inspiration. Among the many pointers there, I adapted the recipe for ‘meaty mushroom’. Uncooked giant puffballs will not absorb liquid, no matter how long you soak them for, so I reduced the quantities as follows:

80ml each of balsamic vinegar, extra virgin olive oil and soy sauce; 1 crushed garlic clove; 1 tsp dried rosemary; 1 minced shallot; salt & pepper.

Cut the mushroom into potato-sized chunks and soak in the liquid for a few hours, turning occasionally to coat all sides evenly.

Stick into a hot oven (with the Sunday roast) for about ½ h.

A delicious dark glaze coats a marshmallow-like interior.

Day 3, and we are about to polish off the last of the mushroom…

Pets in Pubs

Wednesday, October 11th, 2006

Just look what walked into the pub the other night:




I may be a hillbilly, but I have never seen a ferret on a leash before. Saying that, here in Tadley, it doesn’t surprise me at all.

Apparently, ferrets were domesticated around the time of the Romans to protect grain stores and hunt rabbits (in Germany, we have sausage dogs for that, although they go mainly after bigger prey, such as badgers and foxes).




This ferret, the owner assured me, was a working animal, which goes after rabbits. I flinched when I considered its potential ferociousness, but as you can see, it does not inflict any harm on people. It kept looking down at Bramble the dog, who kept sniffing up at our legs, but I wasn’t sure whether the ferret was worried or getting ready for a tussle.

Whatever the case, it was great company.


Shame that I never found out its name.

Ferret at the Bar

Henrietta

Sunday, September 17th, 2006

It’s cranefly season, and this summer, there is an unusual number of them.

Every night, John opens his bedroom window with the lights on (and the doors closed). He feeds the craneflies he catches to the spider that has set up home on the window frame.
Little Henrietta.jpg
He’s called her Henrietta,

Every morning I plead with John to set Henrietta free. I may have a point, because now is the time that the spiders in our garden mate.

“Look at this,” John says. “These two spiders are trying to mate. They are strumming to each other.”

I step up to the bush he kneels in front of.

“Isn’t that sweet?”

“No.” The insignificantly tiny male carefully strumms the thread the female has spun. She in turn rises up, fangs poised, presenting her genitals at the same time. “It’s a game of life and death.”

The dance continues. He strumms; she responds briefly. He advances; she does not move. He bounces back. He strumms…

“If I was her, I’d parceled him up by now,” I say sourly. But then my heart leaps. He’s advanced again. This time, he’s not backing off. He’s almost there…

It’s the last move the male ever makes. The female pounces faster than the eye can see. Even as we watch with bated breath, she’s already encasing the hapless suitor in a silver cocoon of silk. She darts across to her web with the parcel dangling from her abdomen, then returns to the thread, turns it around and starts to feed. The suddeness with which this all happened shocks me. Nature and her ways.

“It’s time to put Henrietta out,” I say. “Do it today while the sun still shines, so she too can feast on men.”

Er…that’s it.

Tuesday, September 12th, 2006

For now at least. Until the end of November, I will focus mainly on fiction writing. I have one story to polish and submit to a professional market, another ditto for an unpaying (but prestigious) website, a third for the writers’ group and finally, a novel to write—based on the first story.

This should keep me busy for a while.

If you feel like it, you can check my occasional progress posts in my lifejournal (I signed up for this as part of the 2005 Worldcon community, and it has become my writer’s blog, off-and-on.)

I’ll be back here with the occasional Tadley tidbit, or news about preparations for our Australia trip in January. But basically, hanging out here will be an excuse not to write.

Magic Sunday at the Reading Festival

Saturday, September 2nd, 2006

It’s nearly a week ago now, but it feels much longer. Perhaps this is because of the dreamlike quality of he day.

Odd to think that in my 41 years, I’ve never been to a major rock festival before.
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Citizenship pipedreams: again

Saturday, September 2nd, 2006

I got a cold at the Reading festival. This has set me back a few days and I haven’t been able to blog much, even when Tony Blair came up with probably the first of his senile-politician-waiting-to-be-kicked-out-of-office proposals the other day. It signifies that he wants to be pushed, rather than do the honourable thing and resign from his leadership. Alternatively, the guy is serious. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

What the PM wants to do is to target children of supposedly dysfunctional families to prevent them growing up to become troublemakers. Babies and Toddlers with ASBOs, I hear you ask?

“No, I mean before they are born.”

That was a quote from a Newsnight interview. I didn’t hear wrong.


At long last, the application form to become a British citizen is on my desk. Suddenly I begin to doubt that this is such a good move. But I read through the Naturalisation guide anyway. I have to chew on the fact that swearing allegiance to the Queen is a legal requirement—I mean, why not put the Pope in charge? Anyway, I think I may be able to do that with crossed fingers as it is publicly known that I’m not a monarchist. But then, there’s the test.

The website offers people help with using a mouse and keyboard and then asks questions such as ‘What are the public holidays in Britain. What are the four national holidays?’ (Do you even know the four national saints?)

Worse: ‘Do women have equal rights to men? Do they receive equal pay?’ —What do they want to hear from a graduate of St. Hilda’s?

After twenty years of living in this country, I cannot answer these questions. Neither can John. The solution: order the handbook from the home office and learn by rote. There isn’t an online version.

I’m back…

Thursday, August 24th, 2006

…and the Greenland write-up will resume tomorrow. All my photos have now been uploaded to Flickr (much quicker from home) and I’m in the process of sorting them. On a disappointed note: I spoiled the film in the Nokia when I tried to change it (it wasn’t fully spooled back) and some very good pictures of humpback whales off Disko Island have been lost. I carried that brick of a camera and the big, fat tele-lens with me specifically, but got carried away in the heat of the chase.

In other news: Jessie has asked me to become a BNA moderator. I’m thinking about it.

Finally: A hectic weekend lies ahead as I may get my paws on a ticket to the Reading Festival on Sunday. In keeping with the annual tradition, there will be engineering works on the trains. I may have to fix up Rob’s old bicycle (yes, we still have it Rob, if you’re reading this blog…).

Sound-bite from Saturday afternoon in the pub in Ilulissat: “You’re from London? Are you Muslim?” That was a new one, but this is how we’re currently perceived in certain corners of the world….

Untapped talent

Monday, August 7th, 2006

From early morning to early evening, Radio One plays the same songs in a seemingly endless loop. The digital radio selection in Greater Tadley is no better (with the possible exception of One Xtra, but they keep blowing a foghorn and when I’m writing, I can’t do with any theme-sounds; they break my concentration).

Back in the days when I had my laptop, I got around the boredom by listening to NME Radio while compiling my reports, but recently, I have discovered the joy of mp3 downloads.
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Karate-Woe

Thursday, August 3rd, 2006

There is a fair amount of infighting going on the organisation John and I joined last week. However, that is nothing new. Of course we would have liked to stay with our old organisation (and preferably with our old club) but there is not exactly a choice in the wider Tadley area, and what matters is the training.

Nothing else.

It did feel good to move like that again. For two days afterwards, every individual muscle in our upper bodies ached, including tiny, little ones which I never knew existed, around the sternum and armpit. This after a single beginner’s session with just a few basic punches. It means we still have it! However, for training with the hard, full-on school of karate (as ‘Go Kan Ryu’ could be translated) we got off lightly. I have had some hard, full-on training in the past, and I’m not refering to kumite (sparring).
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When the Karateka doesn’t come to the Dojo…

Friday, July 28th, 2006

Note: Closed for comments due to spambot-activity

It’s still hot and sunny outside and for days I found excuses not to work on my rewrite. Yesterday, finally, some phrases popped into my brain, so I ran upstairs and wrote for three hours. It was utter drivel, but that doesn’t matter. At least I was writing again.

I only became aware of the time when I heard voices from the neighbours’ downstairs. Another door salesman? Here, at the affluent end of Tadley Brook, we are popular. Everybody from Jehova’s Witnesses to British Gas people pay us visits and it incenses me because I don’t like to be interrupted. After all, these people would not call at my husband’s office. I frowned and got up to slam the window shut and cut out the noise when I heard the word ‘karate’ mentioned. Leaning forward I spotted a shaven-headed fit-looking guy in a GKR Karate T-shirt making his way to our door. I got there before him and he made an appointment to talk to us later that evening.
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