Littleton of Airlie or a Hebridean Chapel

The Shiant Isles

2011-07-26T16:59:00.004+01:00

We have recently returned from a family (joined by a jolly cleric) holiday on The Shiant Isles. The Shiants are made up of three uninhabited islands. Eilean Tighe (House) and Garbh Eilean (Rough) are connected by beach but you require a boat to reach Eilean Mhuire (Mary); you also need to charter or borrow a boat to cross the Minch from Skye or Lewis to get to The Shiants.It was an amazing, privileged experience and we benefited hugely from that Scottish word 'fineness'. When the children returned home from primary school, their day was usually 'fine'. Fine is such a dull, non descriptive word, it always tempted me to press for 'finer' detail but in the case of Scottish weather, you can do no better.

Read Sea Room by Adam Nicolson to learn more about these uninhabited isles. I cannot begin to compete, he paints a magnificent picture; the challenges of nature and climate and I'm told by a Puffin expert (who spent time on St Kilda) that you will not read a better description of puffins and their lifestyle. Adam has even sighted an orange, beakless creature in the Mediterranean.

For my part, I clambered up steep cliffs, clinging on with sure footed sheep admiration, foraged for the supper table (limited: water mint, limpets, chickweed, sorrel and Scots lovage) and marvelled at the wild flowers.. we left a book in the Bothy for future visitors.The Bothy is home to lots of Black Rats but Coco, the dog seemed to keep them at bay. We stored our provisions in a metal trunk that my Great Grandmother had used at boarding school.We should have taken a padlock,not for protection from the black rats but against thieving, hungry teenage boys. The boys had to be tempted by water mint and boiled well-water tea, not lashings of ginger beer.Number five said that he wouldn't want to visit again because it had been just perfect.One for the Swallows and Amazons memory box. These amazing photographs were taken by the lovely Canon Bill Stuart White who was mad enough to join us.

Pancakes

2011-03-06T16:39:00.013Z

We don't have a minister at the Kirk at the moment. There is much discussion as to whether or not Presbytery will allow Inverarity Kirk (with Glamis) 60% of a minister (he or she would work in another capacity for the other 40%) or if we join the Kirriemuir and Glens churches and share a minister from Newtyle with a floating holiday stand-in. All is up for discussion (and probable disagreement). I suggested to Dr Glenland Father of Six that he attends a few more Elders meetings because it is always easier to accept change, (yep, another cut) if you have an understanding of why it has happened. Beyond Kirk politics we are enjoying wonderful sermons from a retired Aberdonian who was a minister in Kirriemuir. He has a sense of humour and usually adds a good Prestbeterian stir - today it was about John Knox and pancakes. His late wife was an Episcopalian so he allows himself to enjoy the gaiety of Christingles at Christmas and of course pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. He explained the reasoning behind Pancake day: to absolve sins and do penance (the verb to shrive) and the Lenten fast. In preparation for the Fast, there arose a need to use up dairy products.Yep, good frugal advice here. Waste not want not.

Child number six and I made an audioboo during a pancake making session.We used the Easy Peasy Pancake recipe from Kids' Kitchen. You can listen to it here.

Pancakes are delicious but can be tricky with my youth club groups, especially where the floors are carpeted. Over adventurous teens frequently end up tossing soggy pancakes on to the floor not back in the pan.To get over this wee hazard, we make Scottish Pancakes perhaps with citrus zest for extra flavour. Email if you would like the recipe.

Marmalade

2011-01-24T15:18:00.046Z

STOP PRESS: WINNER OF THE MERRY MARMALADE AWARD

The Marmalade Awards have given marmalade making a new lease of life; here is one of the best (of many) marmalade articles that I have read over the last few weeks.Gloria Nicol also sells beautiful French jam jars; quite perfect for the breakfast table or at any other time

A few years ago, I ran a children's cookery demonstration at Dalemain, where I enjoyed meeting Jane Haskell McCosh (the owner of Dalemain and festival organiser). She suggested involving the Mothers' Union in my cooking projects; her idea is still on my to do list. The festival is well worth a visit for marmalade viewing, local produce purchases and cookery demonstrations by amongst others, the the erudite, Food Historian Ivan Day.

I have made marmalade for years, mostly in cold, Scottish kitchens. My memory of Foffarty Marmalade (the house was called FFFForfarty by my father) is of condensation, and pools of water in window sills. Even in my current kitchen which benefits from a four door Aga, the windows soon mist over. I poach the Sevilles overnight in the simmering oven of the Aga, this eliminates some of the steam but all, in all, I'll confess, I love the orange aroma and even the steamy kitchen. It is also a wonderful environment for proving dough - freshly baked bread and Seville Orange Marmalade is delicious, and a fatal, comfort food combination on a cold January day. Sevilles (with the correct orange pronunciation) are also good in curd. Seville orange curd added to lightly whipped cream or yoghurt adds a seasonal touch to meringues and cakes.

And another photo from my kitchen, at marmalade time with my Grandmother's Great Aunt Annie's preserving pan in the background.

The most irritating things about Marmalade making :
Giving jars to firends who don't return them (clean and empty). This goes for any jam and for egg gifts too - please return jars and egg boxes.

My other grievance is the difficulty of removing label adhesive from old jam jars. This received much Twitter advice which is made for sharing, in fact, it prompted this post.

@Victoriark Bit late for this year, but Lakeland do a specialist product called Sticky Stuff Remover @porridgelady suggested this too

@jaynehowarth suggested the dishwasher but I have to say, some adhesive seems to be dishwasher proof.

@marmaladeawards said:a good soak,lighter fluid rubbed on paper, then wash again

Excellent stuff, and if my friends (Mummie excluded) read my plea, all will be well for Summer berry jam making.

The Alternative Orange Christmas Pudding

2010-12-02T11:18:00.024Z

I opened today's Times and read Heston's My Hidden Orange Christmas Pudding, sadly because of the pay wall I can't link it. Blanching and cooking an orange several times seems rather a guddle, even to an aged BBC Masterchef Finalist but if you are keen, Rose Prince shows you how to make it on this video

Living in the Scottish outback means that I rarely frequent Waitrose, where you could have purchased Heston's pudding and you can still buy Delia's classic Christmas cake with the ingredients individually packaged for you (wee eco footprint sigh). However, I can buy all of the ingredients for this suet free pudding which I have made for years, in the Co-op of the Glens.We try to make it on Stir Up Sunday (the Sunday before Advent) but now that my children are away at boarding school, we often make it later and it still tastes just as good.

All that my delicious pudding needs is some homemade custard made by the only Bird girl.

Makes one large( 3pint ) and two individuals which are ideal for Grandparents.

What to find:

100g chopped cherries
100g chopped apricots
75g crushed Amaretti biscuits
225g wholemeal breadcrumbs
50g chopped almonds
225g sultanas
225g raisins
100g candied peel
1tsp cinnamon
1tsp ground cloves
1tsp mace
1tsp ground nutmeg
2 tbsps marmalade
4 eggs
juice and grated rind lime
juice and grated rind orange
150ml Cointreau
Butter for greasing

What to do:

1.Ask younger children to chop the cherries and apricots (a cutlery knife and chopping board works well).
2.Put the dry ingredients into a bowl and mix well with washed hands.
3. Put the marmalade, eggs, fruit juices and Cointreau in another bowl and mix together.
4.Pour the wet ingredients over the dry, stir well, cover and leave to stand overnight.
5.Butter the pudding basins and spoon in the mixture (the pudding is flourless so you can fill it to almost the top of the basin). Cover with pleated greaseproof paper and secure with string.
6. Put the basin on a trivet (up turned saucer) in a large pan and half fill the pan with boiling water. Cover and bring to the boil and simmer for 6 hours topping up water as required.
7.Allow to cool completely and then re-warp in greaseproof paper and store in a dry place.

Steam for 2 hours before serving.

CopyrightFionaBird2010

Scottish Berry Pickers

2010-07-30T10:19:00.036+01:00

When our older boys were small, Heather, my babysitter would join folk from Dundee who arrived in battered buses to pick berries. Equipped with a small, brightly coloured plastic basket with a collapsible handle, the berry pickers worked hard; up and down the drills from dawn until dusk on a fair weather day.The gang master would bellow to 'picke'em clean' and Heather saved her earnings (by the basket) to buy her school uniform. Sookin Berries by the traveller, Jessie Smith is a lovely book for junior readers.
Twenty years later, we are told that Scots didnae want to pick berries but in my experience this isn't quite the truth. My boys are willing but not every berry producer is happy to employ them. We suspect that it is cheaper to use the Eastern European migrant workers.... if a caravan that my GP husband visited a sick patient in, is anything to go by, these workers are happy to put up with grim living conditions.

Over to a guest edit by Xavier and Alasdair my sun kissed Berry Boys of 2010

Down at the Berries by Xavier

My brother Alasdair and I are working on a berry field down the lane for a couple of weeks. We are working on a machine which shakes all of the berries from the hedge and our job is to get rid of the green ones and the leaves. At the beginning, the machine was a bit faulty and kept stopping. This enraged our employer, who drives the machine and is called James. He is a really nice guy and he has quite a gentle voice, but that all changes when he swears. His brother Tom would say “Don’t worry, James loves this machine really.” We would then hear James say to himself “I f***in’ hate this machine.”

Now, the machine is working a lot better.

We had a Latvian guy with a shaven head working with us for a few days. He was very useful as, because Alasdair had lost his phone and neither of us ever brought watches, he was the only one who had the time. So when one of us was bored on the machine we could just ask Oscar the time and the response would be “four and six” or something of the sort in a Latvian accent.

However, he could not work on Sunday so we had a Lithuanian guy work for a day. He had scars on his face and smoked whenever we had a minute off. He scared me. Whenever I looked up I would happen to be looking at him. Then he would look at me and I knew that he would be thinking “that weird kid’s f***ing staring at me again.” I can’t put on a Lithuanian accent on when I’m typing and not saying it.
Our job is not difficult, but it is very monotonous. All you need is a good imagination so you can just think away about any random rubbish. However, it seems that whenever I am down there a good imagination always evades me. I end up thinking about the same things and singing the same songs in my head (or out loud) over and over again. When I sing songs out loud, usually I will look up and see James looking back at me strangely from driving the machine and the feeling is really awkward.

Berry Picking by Alasdair

In years gone past, a British past time in the summer was picking berries with events like Wimbledon being famous for strawberries. Nowadays, the berry farms are run as industries and most of the workers are migrants.
For the past few days I have been putting on my boots with my little brother and trudging down to our local fields and working on the back of a berry harvester. The machine was made in 1996 but runs like it was in the 1960 or an old banger. It also has the reliability of a machine made in the 1960s with the machine breaking about 11 times in the first 4 days we worked there.
The machine looks like a fire engine with a big gap in the in the middle. In the gap there are four rolls with long bristles a bit like a tooth brush; these shake the bushes and the raspberries fall off. These are then collected by a conveyer belt with a bucket.The berries then go into another conveyer belt which goes up a pipe and then it goes out on to another conveyer belt which is at the top of the machine. This is where I come in, because the conveyer belt is out in the open I am able to pick off the green berries, leaves and insects.... especially caterpillars. It's Ok berry juice is red...

When you've been working for 10 to 12 hours keeping your mind occupied is a struggle. Three things that popped into my mind were “No I’ve left the bread for yesterday, in the oven.” “I’ve lost my phone.” “How do they make scotch eggs?”

In July, their mother has a one track berry recipe mind. Here is child friendly Pink Lemonade and a delicious yoghurt ice-cream.

Raspberry and Basil Ice-Cream
Serves 4
What to find:

300g raspberries
75g caster sugar (to taste)
4 tbsps 0% fat Greek yogurt
Tbsp shredded basil leaves

What to do:
1. Put the raspberries and sugar in a bowl and leave for 10 minutes. Blitz in a food processor (and sieve into a bowl, if you want to remove the raspberry seeds.)
2. Add four tablespoons of Greek yogurt (reduced fat) and the shredded basil leaves to the purée and mix together.
3. Put the mixture into an ice-cream maker and churn until frozen.

Alternatively: If you don’t have an ice-cream machine
1. Put the ice-cream into a wide, freezer proof container, cover and place in the coldest part of the freezer. After 45 minutes the sides will have frozen but the middle will still be soft. Mix the ice-cream with a fork and then beat well until it is the same thickness. Return the container to the freezer.
2. After 45 minutes repeat step one.
3. After a further 45 minutes take the container from the freezer and repeat step one for a third time and return to the freezer until frozen – (check after 30 minutes) and enjoy.

It is important to use ripe fruit.
©Fiona Bird

2010-07-19T19:15:00.007+01:00

Yesterday, I ate chanterelles and broad beans lightly cooked in butter. “Are they around already?” I gasped, shoving another chanterelle into my mouth. Our host was quite visceral in his response,” Those wretched migrant berry workers are stealing ‘em from MY woods.” The trolleys of the migrant berry workers in Blairgowrie supermarket do not conjure up gastronomic thoughts: white value bread, tinned peaches, a few Polish sausages and value offers. Suddenly, I viewed these visiting summer workers in a new light – that of a discerning mushroom forager.

Fortunately, (after years of practice) I have discovered my own Chanterelle heaven. Chanterelles are orangey yellow mushrooms and have a lovely almost apricot fragrance. From mid summer through to autumn they can add flavour to risottos and pasta dishes that most children enjoy. Maxim, number six child has built a monument out of sticks and stones, so that we will remember the area of beech trees in our local wood, when we visit again. We have learned Hansel and Gretel’s lesson, all of the woodland will look just the same, when you go searching for that special chanterelle hiding place on another day.

Chanterelle hunting is an addictive game because once you have found one, another will be hiding somewhere. Maxim is easily bored but as soon as he finds a chanterelle he is down on his hands and knees, for just as sure as Christmas comes around, there will be more chanterelles lurking there somewhere.

Here are some of our mushroom foraging hints:
• Never pick mushrooms unless you are with someone who knows which are good to eat and which are not – there is a chanterelle called false chanterelle, no prizes for guessing why.
• Chanterelles like beech trees and can often be found underneath them. They also hide behind bracken on the banks of small streams.
• Pull out moss and see what is hiding underneath.
• Cut the chanterelle stems, don’t tug them out and then, you will leave the chanterelle mycelium (fibres under the soil) to grow again.
• Follow Maxim‘s advice, mark your spot for another week or even next year. Be sure to mark it with something that is natural to the countryside.
• Don't be greedy when you forage. It is tempting to pick more than you need but forage precisely and only gather for your kitchen table.

Yay, almost two months of chanterelle hunting before school begins again.

Zesty Courgette and Chanterelle Couscous

Serves 6

350g wholemeal couscous
700ml hot vegetable stock
600g medium courgettes (4)
Shallot very finely diced
1tbsp olive oil
20g butter
150g small chanerelles wiped cleaned
Handful parsley finely chopped
Zest and juice small lime
25g grated cheese e.g. Cheshire or Anster*

1. Put the couscous in a large serving boil and cover with the boiling stock. (Check manufacturer’s instructions and adjust liquid if necessary.) Cover with a plate or cling-film and leave for 5 minutes.
2. Wash, peel (if required) and chop the courgettes into 1cm slices.
3. Heat the oil and butter in a large frying pan. Add the chopped shallot and courgette slices and cook for 3-4 minutes over a low heat, stirring frequently. Add the chanterelles and cook for a further 2 minutes.
4. Meanwhile remove the cling-film and fluff up the couscous with a fork. Add the parsley and lime zest and mix well. Quickly add the warm vegetable from the frying pan adding as little oil as possible.
5. Squeeze the juice of the lime over the couscous and add the cheese. Stir to melt the cheese. Eat as soon as possible.

Anster cheese is produced in Fife http://www.standrewscheese.co.uk/

©Stirrinstuff

Masterchef

2010-04-10T18:14:00.005+01:00

Rosa Baden Powell Masterchef 2001

Along time ago I entered a cookery competition. My expectations weren't great and my dates for availability for filming were dependent on snow conditions at Glenshee (I have a fax saying: the snow may be good but we need your menus) and children.I didn't expect to get very far and I chose a cook-off date to fit in with a child in a school play in Winchester, in the full knowledge that if successful, I would have to cook again the following day.This is how I came to the final without having practiced one of the courses. Nothing major in my book but when you come across competitors who have scaled on graph paper vegetable placement,perhaps a tad worrying.

The morning after the final of Masterchef 2010 was televised the telephone rang; it was a journalist asking me if I had reached the final or had just been in the Scottish final of Masterchef? She couldn’t be sure from her internet search. I rather suspected that a Scottish round might not have been newsworthy enough, even for a Scottish national newspaper. I could almost hear the sigh of relief in her voice, when I confirmed that yes, it was the BBC not some Scottish wannabe show and yes, I had reached the final. “So, what do you want to know,” I asked.
“Did reaching the final of Masterchef change your life?”

If I am honest, I wouldn’t feel confident enough to enter Masterchef in its 2010 format and would have little interest in winning because I don’t want to run or work in a professional restaurant. However, my Masterchef card is a useful one and has opened doors. Not long after the competition the chef, Nick Nairn, invited me to do a cookery demonstration; even an also-ran finalist with a Scottish Masterchef title thrown in, was of interest to an All Scots show in Glasgow. A fee was offered too. When I was preparing for the show, I quickly realised that the expected Masterchef style wasn’t one that I was comfortable with: yet more complicated recipes that nobody would have any interest in trying to cook at home. I did wonder as I watched this year’s fantastic final if the food was warm when the judges tasted it; presentation is important but taste remains paramount - throw some heat in too. I had watched the gannets at cookery shows (and TV ‘runners’ too) push and shove, to steal a taste but after the plate has been licked clean, on they push in search of the next free sample. After my initial hubristic enthusiasm to sing about my pipped-at-the-post Masterchef status, reality checked in and I timidly asked if it might be possible to do a mother and daughter demonstration. I sold it with the mother-of-six novelty value who could encourage other parents to cook with their kids. The recipe worked, a teacher saw us in action and so Stirrin’Stuff evolved as a direct result of a cookery competition.

Nowadays, I steer away from the title of 2001 Masterchef finalist but still, it is alluded to or mentioned directly as at the 2010 Oxford Literary Festival’s A mediaeval Kitchen Cookery demonstration with Masterchef finalist, mother of six and cookery columnist Fiona Bird, author of Kid's Kitchen: 40 Fun and Healthy Recipes to Make and Share’

My cookery message has little to do with Masterchef and is as applicable to a single mum as a mother of six but who am I to complain? If Masterchef gets ‘em in to a kitchen demonstration, this is excellent but what happens when they are watching is up to me. My recipe is straightforward but still ambitious: simple cooking with real, raw ingredients. I suggest plenty of food variety for a balanced diet with perhaps a soupcon of sugar to make the bridge to palates that are junk food addicted but most important of all it should be fun.

I’ve been watching the Delicious Miss Dahl on BBC2, I simply love it. Sophie Dahl is easy on the eye, prepares food that most folk are capable of cooking and it all takes place in a beautiful kitchen. Even a sneaky tweet that suggested the kitchen is stage managed, hasn’t broken Sophie’s spell over me. Television isn’t the real world: do we really want to see parents and children learning how to peel a carrot? Dull, dull, dull let’s leave that for the classroom. I want to shout ‘Hurrah’ for the pretty Miss Dahl and the perfection of Masterchef dishes….and Carpe Diem contestants if Masterchef offers a platform to rant from .’We need simple nutrition and food skills on the primary school curriculum’

Mumsnet or Netmums there is little difference

2010-03-15T14:23:00.041Z

It all started a few years ago, at a reception in the House of Lords for Salt Awareness week when a Netmums' organiser gave a presentation based on a survey of Netmums users. I felt uncomfortable and made a whispered comment to another guest,"Who are these users? Can we trust these statistics?" He nodded his head in agreement.Without knowing the demographics of the survey participants, we had little idea if the survey was representative. I listened but was unimpressed and clapped half heartedly as the Netmums' representative stood down.

Netmums users have influenced (responded to) the Government's Food Standards Agency on various food related issues but in the run up to the General Election, both Netmums and Netmums have become platforms for the politicians. The websites are celebrating 10th birthdays and increasingly, I feel that their power is not to be rivalled.

The Prime Minister and his wife spoke at Mumsnet's 10th party and less than a week later, Justine Roberts was on the main evening news, discussing the premature sexualisation of girls. It isn't that I don't believe that the views of the users of the websites aren't important; indeed the websites are a source of great support and information to mothers but I'm not so sure the website organisers (unelected to post) should be using their collected data, as a consensus of the views of every mother.

Mumsnet had a well documented sprat with Gina Ford and there were also accusations of bullying amongst its members. However, my real issue is the possible ability of Mumsnetters or Netmums to influence government policy.The websites may be seen as elitist, you can draw your own conclusions from these demographics (from Mumsnet ) but I prefer the word exclusive.I don't think a young single parent will spend her time in an internet cafe, logged onto a website promoting Boden offers or worrying about politicians preferred biscuit choices. I am happy to be corrected on this point and I have asked people, cooking with young mums to ask them if they have internet in the home and therefore access to the websites. If, my own experience is anything to go by, I fear not. Last week a child asked me for a recipe; I offered to email one but was told that there wasn't a computer in the home.I suggest that this child's mother can't participate in either surveys or pose website questions to politicians.

A recent survey by Tate and Lyle in partnership with Mumsnet, produced some incredulous statistics.

"Despite the rise of domestic dads who share childcare duties, 44% of men shun the mixing bowl, sieve and spoon, and only 13% bake with their children each month. Meanwhile 98% of women bake with their children and 67% do so most months." Sorry, I simply cannot believe that Sure Start would feel the need to fund cook start up boxes, if 98% of mums are already baking. Tate and Lyle has replied to my email

"The point you raise is valid however, and in future we will ensure that more details about how a sample group is recruited are included in our press releases."
Sainsbury has also worked with Netmums producing survey results for Mothering Sunday, again unrepresentative.
I was interested to hear the Prime Minister say on Woman's Hour, that child benefit will be dealt with online; I am presuming that the government is serious in its funding for laptops for low income families The internet must in my opinion be accessible to everyone for the views of the users, of either Mumsnet or Netmums to be of value.

Politicians must realise that they have to live in the real not cyber world. Any internet user can post random views in anonymity but if a politician makes rash promises during a website chat he or she will doubtless be held to account for it, in the real world.

Equal To The Next Woman

2010-02-08T17:08:00.014Z

I've listened to Natasha Walter’s (author of the Living Dolls: the Return of Sexism) contribution to Woman’s Hour, twice. On the second occasion, I found myself counting the number of times Ms Walter used the word empowerment, it was at least nine.

It doesn’t really matter how one tries to argue equality, being female is hard work; the basic difference is that women have to do the bearing and usually the nurturing of children.
The idea of the “separatist feminist" - the suggestion that women are not only people, but better than men and men are necessary only for procreation – is of little long-term interest or value. The media remains titillated, implying that feminism is only actively carried out by lesbian women.

However feminism, the self worth of the female, is something that every girl and woman can understand. Using the word ‘empowerment’ simply disenfranchises the less educated from the debate. Women who are capable of financial independence are easily able to achieve liberty within or out with a marriage but the continuing gender pay gap emphasises the gulf for the less affluent woman. It's much harder to be a feminist, if you’re cash-strapped and wondering how to feed your children.

The great failure of contemporary feminism, in my opinion, is that it's essentially a middle-class movement. Addressing inequality requires more than indignation; it also requires commitment. I am passionate about improving the diet of all children but this involves getting out there and cooking with children in schools of the hard to reach areas.

Where women are most unequal and have the least options is down at the bottom of the social heap. A chance ear battering from a mother, at a school in the Scottish Borders drove this point home to me. She was overweight and overwrought. She was struggling to cope and all I was doing was increasing her child’s (dietary) expectations and her (organisational) burdens.

Natasha Walter spoke of surveys (including Cambridge graduates and medical students) but this makes gender politics look indulgent - a study of affluent educated women who are the least in need of help. No one denies that women have always worked hard, either in the home or outside of it, but some ignore their need to be justly rewarded whatever their employment.

Most women work because they have to, they aren't in a position to agonise over whether or not they should work or stay at home full-time with their children. This choice would be good but it isn't available to every women and the Boden set need to understand this. The home can become a concentration camp to poorer women. Who else is there to do the housework and take care of children, the infirm, and the elderly? The well paid woman can afford to pay for others (often women) to do this. Feminists must keep the message simple, one that can be understood by every less fortunate girl on the block. We need to be campaigning for equal pay opportunities rather than becoming preoccupied with glitzy Barbie clothes and pornography.

I promised to obey my husband when we married. This wasn't something that I undertook lightly or felt any need to challenge because I believed, (and still do) that marriage is about teamwork. I was confident that I wouldn’t ever be bullied into anything that I wasn’t comfortable with. I have been a fortunate woman, we battle - but most of the time without too much disagreement; we have ploughed our wobbly furrow together, albeit one of individual compromises.

I am aware of the power of negative female tools such as vanity but the natural female traits of care and gentleness are positive. They are not always promoted and are rarely rewarded. They are important in the raising of and care for a family. It may have been easier for me than for many but for all of us success and even survival need dedication and perseverance.

Common values have changed hugely since my marriage a quarter of a century ago. Children grow up all too quickly. It is with trepidation that I express my belief that the sacrifice, as some would see it, of time spent in the family home is, for them, not thought to be worth it. Financial security versus family cohesion is a tough choice to make, especially for a mother; but what lies at the heart of it?

The mass exodus from the church ensures that some may consider my views to be an intellectual cop out but I know that they have proved a rock for a solid marriage. Personally, I would argue that the generous caring mother, is worthy of as much praise as the successful business woman. It is the daily reality of caring and giving being so severely undervalued that contributes to some women feeling second-class.

John Stuart Mill argued that the inequality of women in the family was incompatible with their equality in the wider social world. Boys growing up in male dominated households were by the mere fact of being born male, superior to an entire half of the human race. He questioned how such boys would grow up into men if they treated women as equals. As the mother of five boys, an important part of my mothering role has been to ensure that they do not show physical or emotional domination over their sister (who has proved a match for any unsuspecting boy) or indeed any girl /woman. I relished in the glitzy pink of Only Girl’s carriage dolls' pram but so did she, and a couple of the younger boys enjoyed her dolls too. Three cheers for Only Girl, without her, the dolls wouldn’t have been in the playroom. We continue to chant "Girls are best" and the boys shrug resignedly; they can point score over triviality but we respond by raising our unfluttering eyelashes to the ceiling and dismiss them.

Many of my female medical friends paid a fee on marriage, to change their name on the General Medical Council list; nowadays I suspect this rarely happens. I was amazed by a friend who decided to keep her (first) husband’s surname even after divorce and remarriage; it made little sense to me but she liked the name and that was that. Over the years, more and more of my friends have not taken up their husband’s name and of course many decide not to marry. During motherhood it mattered little and I cared less, until Kids' Kitchen was published and I realised that my wonderful (nicer) Scottish surname wasn’t on the book. It doesn’t really trouble me because I love my husband but there remains a part of my life that isn’t written on the cover.

I don’t take issue with women keeping their maiden names; perhaps, I am even a little envious: they are having their cake and eating it. When I married, it was the norm to take a husband's identity, full stop. Perhaps this made life easier in many ways. A woman marrying later in life may already have a career identity from which she cannot, or does not wish to, part with, so the workplace name remains unchanged. However when a woman keeps her name simply to identify with her own notable family, there is a subtle undermining of the dynamics in marriage. Keeping one’s own identity is understandable but rejecting a husband’s heritage indicates a lack of commitment to both a family identity and a unity of purpose.

In an ideal world we would all show love and compassion rather than be anxious over who holds power but we have to live in this imperfect society. I find most contentment when I’m with my family; the less stress, the better the family connection and the better I feel. Perhaps there is a ‘feel good factor’ in simply holding everything together. As a woman I would like to improve the overall condition for other women in general but in particular for those who are vulnerable and disadvantaged. I am privileged, my husband is generous and kind but (selfishly) I’m not prepared to share him around..... I prefer lemon, orange and lime flavours - often when I get into the car I find a half finished sweetie pack with only the citrus flavours remaining. I have no ideal if he prefers the other flavours, I suspect not.

Fussy eaters

2010-01-30T23:15:00.027Z

I was asked to go on Fred MacAulay’s Radio Scotland show this week; He is easy to blether with but incredibly sharp and very funny. No1 son (feart of being thought boring) can relax because Fred too, started life as an accountant.
Last time his researchers invited me to participate on the programme, No6 child accompanied me and we cooked up a storm - as far as you can cook on radio. We met Miss Scotland who, at 22, is not only stunning but a fabulous tennis player. She was up for putting an arm around my wee boy but he was rather bashful. His older brothers would have needed no encouragement.

This week, when the call came, I was running short on energy, the tax return had been done but we still hadn’t had the results of Only Girl’s MRI; the worry continues to blight possible moments of perfect happiness.
I’m always chuffed when a researcher calls, but I dream of joining the ranks of feather plumpers and remain firmly with the self-depreciating squad. Fred’s live show, is produced in Glasgow and involves my getting up at 5.00a.m and driving, or rather sitting in traffic, in the central belt for hours. However, a Woman’s Hour experience, prompted me to suggest that I could participate from my local BBC studio, in the capital of the three Js (Jam, Jute and Journalism); the idea was a winner.

The programme brief was on fussy eaters (children) and having twittered about it, I thought that I’d share some thoughts, that didn’t reach the Scottish nation. If you’d like to listen to my 7 minutes on Fred’s show the audioboo link is here.

Many parents don’t have the opportunity to relax into parenting (the joy of having six children) but confrontation over food is often more a parent than child problem. A toddler may not need as much food as a baby; growth isn’t as rapid and, as I mentioned on the show, snacking breaks food routine. It often starts when a toddler is gaining independence. Food can be used by them as a means to push the boundaries. Often, a toddler has snacked at playschool unbeknown to the worrying mother; small wonder lunch is pushed aside. What about the child that enjoys peanut butter sandwiches and little else? One can hope that boredom will set in but unfortunately, this is rarely the case. My solution is to ring the changes, initially, with small variations to the preferred food: in this case half white and brown bread and then, a move to eggy bread with peanut butter spread. If a child will eat raw carrots but nothing else, slowly change the way you serve and then cook carrots, eventually a honey roasted carrot - yippee.

An effective test of fussy eating in children is to check what they eat when away from home - at nursery or school, at granny’s or with friends. You might be surprised by the answer.
Picnics are a good opportunity to introduce new foods; a break in the normal routine with bite sized samples and a general spirit of adventure – a child might well try new foods. Research says that a child may taste a food 10 times or more before eventually accepting it, so be patient. (That’s a lot of picnics.)
I don’t believe that making smiley faces with food is time well spent, but encouraging a child in the whole food experience from garden, shopping, cooking to eating around the table is a good habit. Play using food – e.g. food noughts and crosses on a highchair table or allowing an older child to help prepare foods e.g. sprinkling cheese, worked for us. Food stories are useful too, although the adventures of Peter Rabbit in Mr McGregor’s garden may take a few sittings to re-enact. Cinderella’s pumpkin is a good alternative – quite sweet but not everyone is guaranteed to live happily ever after. Well sealed spices make good rattles and pots and pans excellent drums if you can bear the noise.

My G.P. husband says, no healthy child voluntarily dies of starvation – a reassuring starting point but then, parents must lead by example. If parents are picky about their own food they will have an uphill battle encouraging their children to eat everything on the plate. Food mustn’t become a battlefield and sometimes, as adults, we forget how distressing the fear of an unknown taste can be. When presented with a sheep’s eye for the first time, would an adult open his or her mouth wide? The agendas are different too: a parent is anxious over time, cost, waste and perhaps noise; the child worries over interrupted play, hunger and parent mood. It can be hard work but if, a parent can establish some routine to persistent food tantrums, it is helpful. (Parental tantrums aren’t very pretty either.)

My advice is to say little, and avoid food crabbiness by removing the child from the table, and persevering at another, less stressful time. A child will eat when he or she is hungry. Directing the choice helps to develop familiarity with ‘better’ options.
Tip of the day: keep fruit in reach but the biscuit tin, out of reach.

Tasted Better Than Normal Meat

2010-01-22T18:36:00.018Z

It is almost the end of the pheasant season but during the Christmas holidays some of my boys and their father were invited to join a shooting party in Kincardineshire.They enjoyed a day of trampling in beautiful Scottish countryside, in the snow; a privileged experience.They handed me a gun card with their names printed amongst the guns and talked of ‘winging a pheasant’ and in spite of their minimal input to the bag, it was decent, comprising: 125 pheasants, 11 woodcock, 8 woodpigeon and a jay giving a total of 145 birds. The boys and father returned home physically quite exhausted but happy and with a brace of pheasants each.

We hung the pheasants for a few days and insisted that the boys helped with the plucking and gutting. I wasn’t sure how they were going to react to this task; would they, excuse the pun, pluck up the courage and get on with the messy task?

Our only girl had already told tales of earning extra loot, at a shooting lodge last August by ‘dealing with’ the game. Grouse, of course, are smaller and she gave a blow by blow account of the smell and difficulty of burning those annoying, fine, tiny hairs off the plucked skin. The boys did the plucking outside, in the snow (to placate a mother who hates housework here) and only one pheasant ended up being skinned. Sometimes, it is in fact, easier to skin a pheasant but we encouraged them to pluck and not tear the skin.

Coco, the black labrador is rather good at catching rabbits and the older boys are happy to skin and joint her rabbit offerings - if they are Myxomatosis free. Rabbit, like most game, is a low fat meat. Indeed, the promotion of game as a healthy option is now being encouraged in Scottish schools by the Scottish Deer Management, in partnership with, The Cairngorms National Parks. It is now a project with Scottish Government funding. Children learn about deer in the wild, their tracks and signs and stalking on the hill. Then they visit a game larder to see how venison is processed. I have been involved in the final, hands-on classroom cookery sessions. Although, to date, the projects have been in rural schools this project has huge potential. The children left with a clearer understanding of Scotland’s natural environment and the need for deer management. The cooking of the venison introduces it as a low fat, healthy product. We made a couple of dishes; one simple meatball recipe uses an adapted tomato sauce recipe from Kids’ Kitchen. The verdict on the meatballs as aired by a child, to the nation on Radio Scotland: “Great, better than normal meat”.
Send me at email, if you would like the recipe.

Flashman the loathsome, bully.

2010-01-16T14:44:00.042Z

Yesterday, at a dinner table, I was asked where I went to school. My immediate thought was; please let the Old Etonian, David Cameron continue to educate his children in the state sector and bring an end to such social inquisitions. The supper party was hosted by the gentlest of Etonians and his lovely wife, and yes, they do send their children to the local primary school.
I remain ambivalent over private education; I disapprove of it and yet, will not compromise the educational and sporting opportunities of my own children. The state should provide an equal choice, for every child but it doesn’t. Our local Glen secondary school, offers, two sciences at standard grade, not three, and only one foreign language.At the risk of being labelled pushy parents, we merely sought the same opportunites for our tribe of six, that we had been offered at school: three sciences, as many languages as could be timetabled and that dead language, Latin. In the pursuit of academic excellence, we have scrimped, saved and borrowed to pay school fees. We have the freedom to make this choice but the cost and resulting sacrifices are high.

I choose to educate children about food, in state not private, primary schools. Food is a huge social divide and in the pursuit of social justice, my time is better spent in these schools. I took this photograph of peeling walls (the windows had bars over them) in an inner city Glasgow school. I would not be happy to educate a child in this school, for weatherproof and aesthetic, rather than academic reasons. This photograph should shame the Scottish Government into action. Sadly, their learning curve is gradual, they are still rebuilding Scottish primary schools without proper kitchens. I’ve written about this for The Spectator’s Scoff

Education, education, education droned Tony Blair but he did little. I am advised that his Turkey Twizzler conversations with Jamie Oliver were opportune because the white paper was already in place; the wheels of the policy machine turn slowly. This musing blog certainly won’t influence the Scottish Curriculum for Excellence; however, parents can campaign for better.The Children's Food Camapiagn (Sustain)is one such crusade aiming to improve school food and ban product marketing to kids.

This is a somewhat long, preamble into the subject of my latest sleep disturbed night - worrying about school bullying of a few years ago. The anxiety was prompted by a direct mail on Twitter and a 13 year old boy not sleeping. My thoughts raced and ghastly memories came flooding back.One of my most zealous requirements for a school is for zero tolerance of bullying. A decent education, kind children and eventually law abiding and happy (ish) citizens.
The mother of a day school child can roar at the school gate and stroke her child’s furrowed brow of an evening but for the boarding school child, a telephone must suffice. A mother listens and learns to read, what isn’t, as much as what is, being said, in the proverbial,” I’m fine,” response. Fine, is such a meaningless, indifferent word.
A bullying child may reside in a castle, but no fortress can protect a child or his parents from the shame that they have brought upon themselves. Bullys need to be stopped but mostly,I blame the Scottish government for not providing an equally decent, local school for every child.http://www.bullying.co.uk/

Jewellery, no thanks pass me the worry beads.

2010-01-14T15:43:00.011Z

My husband has a very sensible attitude to illness: no worries allowed until we have the diagnosis and then we’ll deal with it, rather apt for a doctor. It may be indulgent, but I’m a worrier and yes, Bob Marley, I still try to be happy.
A few years ago, I was driving back to Scotland when a friend called to inform me that No2Son had had a skiing accident; no, he wasn’t OK, he was being airlifted from Klosters. My torment didn’t stop until we were in a taxi, leaving the hospital in Chur for Zurich airport. Friends were generous and tried to make light of the boy’s injuries, yes, of course a skiing accident in Switzerland is preferable to one on heather and rock at our local resort,Glenshee but I am a mother. Reason, where my children are concerned is like adding oil to water, I just can’t seem to get the mix right.

You only need to have two children to be tugged in different directions; today, No 6 Son and OnlyGirl both needed me. No6 needed to be driven to Edinburgh, to catch a previously, snow cancelled plane, and OnlyGirl, wanted me to accompany her to an MRI scan. One of the increasing joys, of being the mother of the tribe of six is the ability of senior members to help with younger siblings; on this occasion No1 Son provided me with a solution. This left me with just one priority, OnlyGirl. For an hour or so, she too, could be an only child. As it worked out, I wasn’t physically with her for very long at all, for over thirty minutes of the time, OnlyGirl was in a tube listening to the sound track of Sex in the City. “No point in worrying hen”, said the mother of the next teen to go down the tube, as she waved her daughter down the corridor. I smiled weakly and returned blankly to my book, re-reading the page for the sixth time. “Was it OK?” I bleated at OnlyGirl, when she finally emerged. She smiled sympathetically, “For goodness sake mum, I have to wait ten days for the results, let’s go”.

I’ve got plenty of happy and frown lines and yet I seem determined to give myself more. Over and above my humdrum and more stirring fears, there’s global warming and world famine and today, Haiti. This one I can salvage my ragged conscience over, by donating money to: here is the Haiti link: http://www.oxfam.org.uk/oxfam_in_action/emergencies/haiti-earthquake.html
With a campaigning action hat on, I can do my utter best with more worldly matters but the treasures, which Mary kept close to her heart, are more difficult.

She doesn’t love me like my real mother, was the cry of a stepdaughter,I met. I looked at the girl and thought, you’re wrong, often it’s the mundane, day to day trivialities that burden a Mum. Is she or he back, did he take his lunch, wear a coat, or take yesterday’s forgotten homework; this is the stuff that makes me grab for the worry beads. The MRI scan and putting No6 on a non stop train to London are not my daily run of the mill occurrences. No6 left grinning and his only significant comment, alluded to Harry Potter and the school train to Hogwarts. “He’ll be fine, mum,” whispered OnlyGirl and so will I.
Mothers infuriate their children, especially teenagers but we’re always here and yep, some worry beads would make an excellent birthday present. My husband has offered to buy me some diamond ones but how? - that would be a worry.

Why Thank You, From The Tribe of Six

2010-01-11T20:18:00.015Z

Long after the wrapping paper has been discarded, lists of givers of gifts, loiter around my kitchen until the Thank You letters begin to roll off the Tribe of Six press. It’s a long process and it is usually precipitated by the looming new school term. Some of the tribe of six relish the task, others detest it. Eventually, we cram half a dozen letters into an envelope; I heave a sigh of relief and they are in the post to the generous present givers.

OnlyGirl is efficiency personified; letters without a template and a large stamped address envelope into which, other grateful siblings can pop a neatly folded note. No3 Son tries to emulate his witty, older brothers but the writing paper is mostly curled at the edges and is always well endowed with ink blots. His letters are jam-packed full of the sweat and tears of a dyslexic child. In bygone days, I attempted to make him copy a drafted outline of perfection but we were doomed to failure, even with a mother peering over his shoulder. No3 Son’s letters bring a tear to my eye and nowadays, they are usually posted without alteration because he really has, tried his level best. Fortunately, most of the lucky letter recipients are aware of the toil and effort involved in his letter writing. No4 Son hates the task, it’s a bore and he doesn’t try to convince anyone otherwise. His face is blank, with an odd flicker of unenthusiastic attitude, we can only hope none of it escapes into the neatly written word.He isn’t given a model format but the reader of a collection of his letters might think otherwise. This child is often tasked with the random tribe of six group letter; this requires suitably polite, but not necessarily inspiring correspondence. Such a task will be completed before No3Son has collected a few writing thoughts together. The older, wittier boys have made the task more joyous, often by writing about anything but Christmas; their letters make me smile and others too. Once upon a time No2 Son wrote of a girl called Vagina. Virginia’s mother related his error with hilarity but sadly, in the company of another. At that point, I vowed to do better than a skim read of Thank You letters.
Over the years we have acquired a few in-house Thank You letter writing rules. Some things are just not acceptable; in fact if, I am honest, not writing a letter at all may be preferable.

• Anyone over the age of seven should not use a ready made tick box (let’s try to be funny) thank you letter or a homemade version with fill in the gaps. It just about ticks the: I’ve done my Thank You letter box, but little more. Recipients will often wonder why you’ve categorised them in a ‘needs to be done’ group
• One size never fits all; grown ups can read between the lines very well.
• Be sincere although on occasion this may be tricky. Last Christmas, OnlyGirl received a Bunty Annual; she was eighteen years of age.
• Check for grammatical errors and use a dictionary or the more evil parent will tear the letter up and ask you to start again.
• More than 3 crossings out or ink blots is not acceptable
• If the present was particularly dull or inappropriate be concise and focus on a few random Christmas events.
• We don’t think that an email can replace a letter, although it is better than nothing if you are really pushed for time or have run out of cartridges.
• Write your Thank You letters as soon as possible. The longer that you leave letters, the more difficult they are to write, and this isn’t just because you may have forgotten what the present was.
Cheques:
The tribe of six may not cash a gift cheque until the Thank You letter is in the post.
Money banked without personal acknowledgement is just not right. One year, a godson cashed and didn’t thank; the next year we wrote a card saying that he would receive a cheque, if he thanked us for the one he had cashed the previous year. Belated thanks are quite acceptable, it worked a treat and he got his cheque before Christmas. Lack of thanks for an unwanted, easily discarded gift is understandable (if not acceptable) but to walk or run to a bank and grab the cash without a murmur should not be tolerated.

This year we designated the dining room as letter writing room. We lit the wood burner to ensure that frozen fingers didn’t hamper writing style and anticipated peace, perfect peace with televisions and computers far away. The children may have benefited from additional warmth as they fed blemished and less than perfect letters to the wood burner (bringing a whole new meaning to recycling, recycled paper) but the letters took a long, long time. The Twelve Days of Christmas have now past and there is only one person who isn’t up to speed with her Christmas Thank You letters; I am considering a blog one, write one approach.

The last of the Fyfe Jamieson kids are growing up.

2010-01-09T12:32:00.013Z

It’s impressive when teenagers roll out of bed before lunchtime but it can happen. Today, at 7.30 a.m. on the dot, on a still but snowy day, a wee purple car pulled up and picked up OnlyGirl. The driver was not only punctual but he’d remembered to bring some ski poles and the courteous, younger brother hopped straight into the back of the car on arrival.
Nineteen years ago, OnlyGirl was born in an Angus maternity home, the good looking lad who drove the car was there too. The mothers enjoyed their short sojourn in Forfar’s Fyfe Jamieson where the patients were treated like royalty. Carriage prams and floral, china teacups were in good supply; none of your NHS white elephant china and if you paid a tenner a day, a room of you own. Virginia was right, some money and a room of your own but she forgot the baby. Perhaps, ladies were given a dull, white cup and saucer, if they chose not to top up NHS funding but OnlyGirl and I didn’t stay long enough to find out. Longer stay patients might be able to comment, on white and floral cup rivalry and also, whether they too, were force fed full fat milk at every opportunity.For us, a speedy departure was necessary, OnlyGirl was baby number three, we had boys to get home to.

The good looking, dark haired driver was an earlier arrival, via Dundee and his stay at the Fyfie was somewhat longer. The mothers met a few weeks later; Forfar’s Victorian swimming baths provided the postpartum mums with a rendez vous. The boy’s mother was fitter but both exercised fiercely, as the swaddled, fortunate babes nested in carriage prams, to protect them from icy Angus winds. My next baby, who arrived just before Hogmanay three years later, can claim fame, he was the last baby born in the Fyfe Jamieson holiday camp. He has a cup for posterity. The Fyfe Jamieson is no longer but if you are rich enough, you can still buy into the name and they’ll throw a number in too. I’ve often wondered, if the occupants on the Fyfe Jamieson housing estate, are disturbed in the still of the night, by ghostly childbirth moans.

In a society where folk are always on the move, drinking global coffee from throw away cups, as the light changes from red to orange; it is smugly satisfying to watch a couple of growing up children add to their childhood collection of memories.

2010-01-09T08:15:00.000Z

Welcome to the background: 25 years of marriage and life in Angus Glenland. I’m a fortunate woman who has a delicious husband and six children. They are mostly boys and one has flown away from the ladybird and her doctor chum.