Homemade halloumi in a horsebox

The first time I made halloumi, over a year ago, it was incredibly easy and the result was a wonderfully textured firm cheese that fried perfectly and squeaked when you chewed it. I even made ricotta from the whey, although the amount that was produced was so little, and it was such a faff, that I haven't bothered again.

This time around though, I messed it all up. I tried twice and both each occasions I got distracted at a crucial point and ended up with an array of dairy products. I made quark, cottage cheese, something white and wobbly and a big old mess. All were edible but not the squeaky cheese I was looking for.

It got me to thinking, quite often my first attempt at making things works out perfectly. Annoyingly perfect. I can show you needle felting/knitting/silver-smithing/whittling projects where my initial efforts are flawless but rarely repeated.

Why?

Because the first time I try something, it's interesting. I holds my attention and my concentration. I don't know how it's going to go so it intrigues me and at every step I am learning something new. Second time around, it's less interesting. I kind of know what's going to happen and I become distracted and forget what I'm supposed to be doing. Then it goes wrong and I'm learning all over again. Learning what not to do.

The great thing about halloumi, apart from the squeakiness, is that you don't need loads of special apparatus to do it. The most technical bit of equipment you need is a thermometer. However, as the critical temperatures required are around body temperature, I just delved into my first aid kit, dug out my thermometer and used that (I've not had a fever in over a decade so I knew it hadn't been anywhere undesirable). The first time I did this, I didn't use one at all, I just judged it using my finger. Add to this a big pile of books and a colander and you're ready to start. As far as cheese making goes, you can definitely wing this one.

An unorthodox, but interesting, cheese press

So, on this, my final attempt, I walked down to the neighbouring badger-friendly farm and bought six pints of milk from the rosy-cheeked famer's wife, chatting about the struggles of small-scale farming and caring for sick livestock. It's great when food-miles become metres.

Here's the recipe:

Ingredients

For the cheese:
3 litres whole milk
3 tsp rennet

For the brine:
Half a litre of water
Half a litre of whey
50g salt

1. Warm the milk to 32°C and remove from heat.
2. Add rennet and leave for an hour.
3. To test the curds, place your finger into them at 45° angle and lift upwards. The curds should lift and break around your finger. If not, you've messed it up.
4. Use a long knife to cut the curds into small cubes and leave for 30 minutes to set.
5. Gently warm the mixture to 38°C.
6. Use a slotted spoon to remove the curds and place into a perforated container (I use a colander). Put a container underneath to collect the whey.
7. Weigh down with big books and leave for 2 hours or overnight.
8. Turn the curd out and cut into slices, 2 inches thick.
9. Warm the whey to 85°C and put the cheese blocks into the hot liquid and gently cook until the cheese rises to the surface.
10. Make the brine by warming the water and dissolving the salt. Add the whey. When both are cool, add the halloumi.


And the result?

After following the recipe to the letter and giving it my bestest concentration... I have a blob of something that looks and tastes nothing like halloumi. I mean, really, how on earth have I managed that? This time was exactly like the first time but with the opposite result. I have more learning to do.

Maybe I'll try to make some brie. I've never made brie before. It'll probably work out perfectly.

Leaves vs Logos: where did we go wrong?

A few weeks ago I was working in the woods with a group of teenage boys. It was our last weekly session before the Christmas holidays and, while collecting firewood, a few of us inadvertently ventured off-piste, ending up taking a short cut through all manner of brambles and bushes.

As we scrambled through the thicket I picked a ‘festive’ leaf and, once safely on the other side, I half-jokingly asked if anyone knew what it was. No one did. Yes, that’s right, they didn’t know a holly leaf when it poked them in the face. At Christmastime.

As they stood around the fire in their Adidas tracksuits and Nike trainers an idea began forming in my mind…


A recent survey by the Woodland Trust showed that an astonishing 83% of people in Britain are unable to identify an ash leaf when shown an image of one, which rises to 90% for 18-24 year olds. And only 57% of adults in Great Britain can identify an oak leaf - the King of British trees.

With these two thoughts nibbling at the back of my mind I created a leaves and logos quiz: 12 common logos and 12 common British leaves from native trees. Over the course of a week, I ambushed friends, family, and people who worked in outdoor learning via social media, my blog and face to face.


Results
The good news is that my friends, family and colleagues fared better than the general public.

The maximum score was 12:12 (logos:leaves)
 

Averages

Outdoor educators: 11:11

Friends and family: 11:7

Of which:       Over 40s: 10:9

Under 40s: 11:7

Of which:       Rural Under 40s: 11:11

Urban Under 40s: 11:4

This is where I try and make numbers sound interesting: The average score was 11 logos and 7 leaves, with those over 40 struggling more with the logos but recognising more leaves than those under 40.

People working in outdoor learning still did well with the logos, but their leaf ID skills were higher than for ‘normal’ people, correctly identifying eleven of each on average. Interestingly, for those friends and family who were under forty and living in a rural location, the results were the same as the outdoor educators, suggesting that it may not only be people who choose to work in the outdoors who have good ID skills.

It also suggests that, no matter where you live or how old you are, there is no escape from the logos.

The most notable difference, and potentially the most worrying, was from the under 40s who live in towns of cities. The average was 11:4. 

81% of the British population lives in urban areas and 50% of rural inhabitants are over 45. This means that there are considerably more young people living in urban areas. And they don’t know their ash from their elder.


When I was explaining to my dad this lack of connection to the natural world and the ease with which people seem to bond with corporate branding, he replied, ‘Yes but that’s because you see the logos every day’… 

Well, I see those leaves every day. And now you’re probably thinking ‘Of course you do you silly girl, you live in the middle of nowhere. What about us normal people?’

Ha-haaa!

I deliberately chose leaves that I saw every day when I lived in Montpelier, inner city Bristol.  I could see them all on the hundred-metre-or-so walk from my old flat to the shop.

So there.

If you can’t see them then you’re not looking for them. Which is pretty much my point.


As an interesting aside, while the Soil Association was by far the least recognisable logo (make of that what you will, that’s a whole other blog post) there was no one leaf that people found hard. The general feedback was that people needed to think harder about the leaves, and muddled and confused a few, but the ‘don’t knows’ were fairly evenly spread across all of the foliage, with the exception of oak. I think everyone knew that one. Phew.


Who cares?
What have trees ever done for us? Apart from habitats for wildlife, shade, soil stabilisation, water regulation, medicine, raw materials, fuel, carbon storage, oxygen generation, inspiration for poets and painters, climbing frames for big kids and little kids, folklore and beauty? What have trees ever done for us?

As a species, humans tend value scarcity and cheapen abundance. But is this the way we want to be going with natural resources?


Yeah but, no but, I care about trees. Why do I need to tell the difference between them?
Bear with me for an example involving cars: the original and iconic VW Beetles are no longer being made and those that survive are becoming rarer. One day they will reach the end of their lives and they will no longer exist. They will be extinct. And some people will care. A lot. They will lament the loss of the iconic VW Beetle, while others will say that it was just a car. There are plenty of cars in the world (and don’t we just know it).

Over 10% of the planet’s trees are threatened with extinction. In the UK, juniper, most commonly known as the flavouring for gin, is rapidly disappearing from our lands. But they’re just trees. There are plenty of trees in the world …

And dormice, well they’re just mice, there are lots of mice. And red squirrels, there are loads of squirrels. And skylarks and song thrushes, well, there are still plenty of birds. 


Do you get it yet?


By not knowing, or caring about, the difference between species, not only are we losing the connection to and ownership of our natural world, arguably we care less and are unlikely to notice when species have disappeared or are threatened by disease. How can the public (that means you and me) be expected to report incidences of ash dieback if 83% of us don’t know what an ash tree looks like?

None of us are born knowing how to identify a leaf or a logo. These are skills that we have to learn and spend a lifetime honing. Firms spend obscene amounts of money every year ensuring that you can identify their logo. Nature, on the other hand, doesn’t have a marketing manager, protecting its brand image. Until now. Filmmaker David Bond has appointed himself Marketing Director for Nature, in an attempt to advertise the benefits of nature to the nation in the form of Project Wild Thing.

And let’s get back to those urban Under 40s. Yes, I’m talking to you. You are the most likely people to have young children or reproduce in the near future, or to be part of the educational workforce. How are you expected to educate the next generation if your nature ID skills extend as far as ‘bird’, ‘tree’ and ‘butterfly’? How will your children know what they need to care about if they don’t see it coming from you?

And if, by now, you still think that you don’t care, let me make one thing very clear:  There will come a point in our lifetime where you will have to care. And your children will most definitely be affected by the actions that we take now.


Who’d have thought that not knowing a few leaves could be so serious?


Time to take action
Luckily, you don’t need to live in the middle of nowhere in order to connect with nature (remember my walk to the shop?). Parks, gardens and public spaces are often filled with wildlife, you just have to take the time to notice it.

And once you’ve started noticing it and become a little curious, there are plenty of resources available online, such as the educational part of the Woodland Trust’s website. If you fancy a bit of printing, cutting and sticking, the Woodland Trust’s Nature Detectives resources are brilliant. From a spinning leaf ID wheel and fruit and seed finding to garden bird spotting and bug hunts, they may be aimed at children but these resources are fun to look at and easy to use. I for one will be investigating the twig ID sheet as I’d like to improve my tree identification skills when there are no leaves on the trees. There is always something more to learn.

There are also a number of events and courses available. Cue a shameless plug for my Nature Awareness Day in the Forest of Dean. There are loads of organisations, such as the Wildlife Trusts, RSPB and (for Bristolians) the Avon Gorge and Downs Wildlife Project that offer plenty of opportunities to get outside and learn something new wherever you live. Or you could simply get yourself a decent book of your chosen subject and just go for a walk, see what you can find and give it a go. And for the technophiles among you, yes you’ve guessed it, there’s an app for that. 
 
So as this year draws to a close and our thoughts turn to the future, perhaps each of us should make a resolution to learn something new and reconnect with nature in 2014.

Secret Family Recipe (sorry Mum)

The first eighteen months of my life were spent in America. Along with a batch of sunny baby photos and dual nationality, one of the things that came back with us from the West Coast was a recipe for 'Sandies' - melt in the mouth shortbread cookies rolled in icing sugar. These tempting treats are synonymous with Christmas in our house. They are never made at any other time of the year and, to our family, they are more festive than mince pies (and disappear in half the time). The recipe never varies (one year Mum added chocolate chips instead of walnuts and there was almost a mutiny) although the Americans seem to favour pecans over walnuts.

I'm rubbish at taking photos of food so I've borrowed this one from t'interweb

This year, a lot of my Christmas gifts have included a batch of Sandies and I have been asked repeatedly for the recipe. If you didn't get any for Christmas, I apologise, but at least now you can make your own:

Ingredients: (makes about 40)

225g butter

75g sugar

2 tsp water

2 tsp vanilla essence

250g sifted plain flour

120g chopped walnuts

Icing sugar

1. Put the oven on at 180.

2. Cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy.

3. Add the liquids and mix.

4. Add the flour and nuts and mix to form a dough.

5. Chill in the fridge for 3 hours if you can wait that long. I never can.

6. Roll into small balls (about the size of the big marbles that you always wanted to win when you were a kid) and place on the baking tray.

7. Bake for about 20 minutes.

8. When the Sandies have cooled but are still warm, roll them in icing sugar so that it coats each biscuit and melts a little.

9. Hide them or they will disappear in no time.






I'd also like to point out that I did actually ask permission from my mum before I posted this.

A tiny hut on chicken legs?

In Russian folklore, Baba Yaga (pronounced ee-ga) is a sorceress who lives in a tiny hut on chicken legs. She lives deep in the forest and whizzes around in a flying pestle and mortar. Sometimes she acts benevolently. More often she roasts children over the fire and has them for supper.

Baba Yaga's hut is so small that she can lie on her stove (Russian stoves are encased in huge brick chimneys) and reach any part of her hut without moving. It is for this reason that I occasionally chuckle and remind myself of Baba Yaga. Not because I ever fancy roast children for tea.

Baba Yaga by the Hermitage

Although not elevated on chicken legs, Princess Pea is tiny. I can reach most of what I want from my bed and one log too many on the stove sends the temperature soaring. I have to be organised. Boots come off at the door religiously, otherwise I find grit in the bed. I have to be very tidy, not something that comes naturally to me, otherwise I can't find anything at all. And I am constantly losing things. All the time. It takes so little to create clutter, and the storage spaces are so small, that it becomes impossible to find anything.

 The space inside Princess Pea

But the good news is - I'm moving. Imminently!

I'll still be at Hillcrest though. I'm only moving a few metres across the yard. I won't be living in a caravan anymore. I won't be living in a house.  I'm not going to tell you where I'm going to be living until I get there (some of you know already!) but suffice to say, I'm very excited!

It won't be a tiny hut on chicken legs either. Although I did buy a pestle and mortar the other day...