Pressin' Things

Well - been absent for a while, rushing about.
Bathroom's sinking. Everything bought and paid except the very floor to stand it all on; so there's a lovely suite sitting in the van. Oh dear.

Only one thing to do. Ignore it. So, yesterday, all hands turned to the need to crush the mountains of poor defenseless apples that have been gathering since I mentioned to the neighbourhood that I was building a press. And after a couple of trial pressings, a small posse of villagers descended to process the apples into muslin wrapped cheeses, in preparation for squeezing. Barrels of Bramleys from our tree, mixed with eating apples various. Friends sitting in the dining room, cutting out the bad bits, chunk chopping, minced in the Moulinex food processor, Three drums to each cheese. Five cheeses to each pressing and out flows a gallon of tasty, cloudy, golden brown, juice each time.
Lovely. Five gallons flow between the start of the Archers Omnibus and the beginning of the Food Programme. The bulk of which was added to the three gallons pressed last week and already fermenting into cider, the ultimate apple preserve!

After clearance of the worst of the frenzied apple cull, enough space discovered for a lunch of olive bread, apple chutney and brie - all washed down with a little of the morning's liquid produce.

No time to rest for long, clocks changed, early darkness promised. A barrel of dry apple pulp is taken to the allotment for composting and the empty barrel - and barrow - is brim filled with the sweetest of windfall eating apples. And here we go again...

Two and one half gallons of sweet apple juice squeezed out before the light fades. Working up a sweat in the crisp clear early evening. Some more juice added to the cider barrel, some bottled, the rest sacrificed to a pan on the stove for a slightly too warm attempt at pasturising. Still very drinkable although some of the brightness of colour and flavour lost. Lessons learned. More clearing and cleaning, tea cooked, and what a surprise?

Yet more apple juice.

Dodgy poetry

Whilst searching for my Blue Peter badge last night, still un-found which is hardly surprising, I happened across some decidedly dodgy poetry. By way of explanation, I once worked soul destroying weekends collecting eggs in a battery farm. The chickens were the brightest creatures there. As the sole member of the workforce with the requisite number of fingers and toes for decimal calculations, I recorded the egg production rates on little slips. To keep myself amused, I doodled on the back of them.

Here's a couple of these recently found archives...

Wherever I go, so does me go.
I hope you never meet my alter-ego.

and,

Dog chews Dog

It's dog eats dog, and Jane eats Peter,
Pat just sits where Peter fell.
Pat the dog has tasted Peter,
Loves his flavour, loves his smell.
But poor old Pat has none of Peter,
Hungry Jane eats Pat as well.

Probably why I don't write songs very often! Hopefully I won't find anymore when I resume the Blue Peter badge search...

Secrets of Speed on the Suffolk border.

The sun burnt bright this weekend. Shirt off, diggin' my potatoes. And onions. "Bikini girls with Machine guns" playing on the iPod set to Genius mode – finding songs I never knew I had.

Late afternoon, fellow hot-rodder Glen arrives and discusses the dirt a while. Helps drag home the uprooted crop in exchange for a cup of tea. And vegetable crumble with roasties. And a skiffle night out. And crackers, cheese, and home-made pickles washed down with Jim Beam into the small hours. And so to bed. Pickled.

Waking, back aching, more sunshine a-plenty. Sunday morning, off to meet Charlie Yapp at our local early Ford vendors, with fellow modifiers and rebuilders of all things flathead.

The Secrets of Speed Society on the Suffolk border. Enthusiastic fellow, purveyor of Scalded Dog speed equipment, fresh in from the Mid-west, happy to share our obsessions with obsolete engines and valve gear.


All aboard, we motored over for tea and buns with some bloke - name o' Pete. Sitting amongst the apple trees. Let us sit in his racing T's and make like we were going reeee-al fast.

Lovely. Sun sinking and we scatter into the approaching evening. Coupes and roadsters to the south, two lonely Cee-dans chugging northwards. Couldn't resist a hammer down blast past Nick's Vicky - rushing ahead out of sight just to pull over and sit on the luggage rack reading my complimentary copy of "Secrets" magazine.

Blust, 'ow we larfed bor!

Jeremy Vine.

Jeremyvine |'jere'mi-vīn| v. To use shallow, hackneyed inflammatory remarks to extract worthless, ill-informed comments from a tired or lifeless subject.

Oh, how I wish I could listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4 instead of the factory radio...

She's back

Ugly.
Betty.
Friday nights in.
Excellent!

Edit: Actually, every night in is fairly normal, although due to an impromptu Scrabble session and a bubbling pan of Apple n' red tomato chutney that needed bottling, I've yet to see Ugly Betty...
Beginning...


End!