Farmer Fred's carrots

WE DIG up some of my carrots for the first time – you know, the ones I've grown from seed in a container in the back yard…

They are to accompany a recipe for guinea-fowl My Good Lady is attempting, a French recipe that we picked up on our last holiday and which we have to translate with the aid of a dictionary.

The bird itself is rather nice, although the recipe doesn’t deserve to be preserved for posterity.

As for the carrots – well, they taste suitably earthy and carroty. I hear a lot about how home-grown veg tastes so much better than shop-bought, and yes, it's okay, but I have to say I think shop-bought ones taste almost as good. Perhaps not quite as fresh, but that’s all…

Still, I suppose there is something satisfying about slipping out into the garden, pulling up some your own vegetables and, after a quick scrub, popping them straight into the pan.

And I do take a certain pride in having succeeded, this time, in growing something edible from scratch.

I’m hoping to have another bash next year, maybe with some other varieties.

Oh yes, yours truly is becoming Farmer Fred in person!

Dopey day

FOR MY experimental cook session today, I use my trusty wok to do us a stir-fry - a Thai red curry with turkey served with rice noodles. Works well, too, especially the noodles - they add a neat touch of lightness to the slightly harsh bite that Thai curries always have.

That aside, it's a day for general dopiness, of busily doing nothing very much. The morning rain doesn't help any, either - in fact there's a distinctly autumnal feel to the day.

We venture out to the Pub for an hour, just to break the day up a bit. I'm in an odd mood today, both restless and weary, itching to do something and yet not being bothered to. My little stir-fry is about the highlight of it - that and the wine, a rather splendid Rioja.

By this evening even My Good Lady is feeling tired. We watch some telly in a rather desultory sort of way, and then she decides to call it a night, and to take her book with her.

A dopey day, then.

Two funerals and a wedding

MY GOOD LADY has already spoken about the second funeral - a rather better affair than the first. At least the minister knew the lady in question, and it showed in his address.

Two funerals in one week, though, is a taxing business, physically and emotionally draining.

On an upbeat note we learn of Gaz's coming plans to get himself wed - "And about time, too!" is my reaction as I shake his hand in congratulation.

But then he informs me that it'll be at least two to three years before they can afford to tie the knot.

"Two to three years?" I say, astonished.

"Maybe a bit less," he admits.

I get the feeling that his father-in-law-to-be is a little impatient at this - and since father-in-law-to-be is also Gaz's business partner and fellow chef - his opinion counts!

But the fun and the general ragging we give him certainly lightens what is otherwise a sombre week.

Ill-served at the service

I'VE COME to the conclusion that when my time comes, it'll be a non-religious send-off.

I simply don't approve of clergymen using a person's funeral to bang their own drums.

That's what happen at Mike's service, today - and to be honest, I think he deserved better.

For nearly the whole of the forty-minute service, this vicar droned on about his church, his ministrations, his devotion to his calling and how his house was always open to visitors.

He had nearly the whole of the full crematorium chapel sitting with bowed heads - it all made for a nice sight, but to what end? What were we supposed to be doing? Praying? Meditating? Communing with nature?

He made a point about letting us know that his leaflet, with his name, address and phone number were available to be picked up at the door.

He admitted that he never knew Mike personally, but surely this vicar could have found out more about Mike the man than just a few bald facts about his career?

The result was we ended up leaving the chapel with a rather unpleasant taste in the mouth.

This was not the way we wanted to say goodbye to our friend; I feel that he, we and the family were all ill-served by this clergyman.

Dying by inches

IT REALLY was a saddening sight, watching a friend dying by inches.

Of course, we all knew that Mike’s motor neurone disease would eventually prove fatal – people rarely last more than five years after diagnosis.

What I hadn’t bargained on, I suppose, is the onset of his incapacity, its speed and its totality.

By the end he couldn’t move his arms or his legs; he needed help to do literally everything. He couldn’t even breathe without the aid of an oxygen mask.

And yet just a few months ago we were still managing to go to the pub together – he needed some help, it’s true, but nevertheless… We even had Christmas Day lunch together at a restaurant.

Our love and respect goes out to poor Helen, his wife, who looked after him with such complete devotion as to make herself almost ill with exhaustion.

But what strikes me, above all, is the fine line between the quality of life, of deriving some satisfaction, some pleasure, some hope and the point where there is no quality left at all.

When we last saw him, about three weeks ago, he was tiring badly, but still holding on, still able to talk, still able to share a joke.

He was our friend and we will miss him dearly.

Whacking the coconut

IT'S ONE OF those convoluted recipes which entails making the stuffing for some fish - sea bass - as well as a salsa using a fresh coconut.

Have you ever used a fresh coconut?

We ask the chefs at the Pub about how to open one of these strange fruits. "Easy," they say, "just put a cloth in your hand, rest the coconut in it, and then just hit it with a sharp knife."

Sounds pretty idiot proof, doesn't it, put like that?

I do as they suggest. I put some kitchen towels in my hand, rest the fruit on it, and I whack it with our heaviest knife.

I peer at the hairy nut with eagerness.

Nothing.

Try again. Whack!

And again. Whack!

Whack!... Whack!... Whack!...

(I reflect, at this point, that I once had to use a screwdriver to open an oyster - but that's another story...)

Whack!... Whack!...

Then I feel something oozing over my hand - yes, it's the coconut milk pouring out. Luckily we have no need of it for this recipe - only the flesh of the beast.

Another whack or two, and success! - the nut lies there, in my hand, split fairly cleanly in half.

The only trouble is, the recipe calls for the flesh of the coconut to be cut into thin shavings using a potato peeler. (I told you it was convoluted!)

So somehow we have to remove the flesh from the inside of the shell.

My Good Lady and I (for by now it's become a joint effort) first try to gouge it out with a sharp knife - but that way it only comes out in small lumps, quite unsuitable for shaving.

No, clearly the only way to do it is to whack it some more.

And by this time, I'm in no mood to mess around.

I take it outside onto a low wall we have near the kitchen, then I go and rummage around in the garden shed to find my rusty old hatchet.

And like the walls of Jericho, the shell falls apart with one last mighty whack!

We get our shavings for the salsa, mix it with some chilli and lime juice - and somewhat nervously, taste it.

And I just spit mine out! It's horrible, truly horrible! I'm usually very fond of spicy Caribbean food, but this is just plain disgusting!

We've only used half the coconut, too. I certainly don't want the rest. Maybe I could sell it?

If you see an advert for a "Well-whacked exotic fruit" on ebay you'll know what it is!

Fillet of pork

OUR LAST-Monday-of-the-month dinner goes well last night, with much good fellowship and conviviality.

My meal, unfortunately, wasn’t quite up to expectations, though: a fried fillet of pork served on a bed of sweet potato.

Part of the trouble is that I’m not that keen on sweet potato, but mainly it’s to do with the fact that my mother used to do fillet of pork – and so good was it, I once told her that this dish alone could have got her a job in any restaurant in Europe! And I still believe that to be true.

It was simply enough done; medallions of pork coated in seasoned breadcrumbs and then partly fried and partly baked until nicely browned. She had the knack of cooking it just right – they were tender, moist and utterly delicious, with just a nice touch of crispness from their coating.

The trouble was, we’d have them regularly, every week, and in those pre-freezer days, we’d have to eat them until they were all gone. So for two or maybe three days we’d be chewing through tenderloin of pork and complaining about it! Can you imagine? Complaining about this caviar of meat cuts because we had too much of it?

But it was the same with a lot of things in those days. Mum’s pea and ham soup, for example – so good, it was to die for. A main course soup with great chunks of vegetables and mouth-filling lumps of ham. But each day my brother and I would come home from school and guess what was for tea! That’s right, still more soup!

So I learned early that you can have too much of a good thing.

Looking back, though, I suppose I know that for some things I was spoiled forever. Soups of one sort or another, roasts – and above all, fillet of pork.