First catch your hare
Rural People and Issues : First catch your hare - rural recipes
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The story goes it was an 18th century food writer, Hannah Glasse, who began a recipe with the words "First, catch your hare."
Here's the thing - invite friends for dinner and when they arrive, surprise them with the fact they have to provide it.
One of the best things of travelling abroad is trying out new experiences, especially if those experiences involve food.
This is plain, no-nonsense country-style tucker: easy to make, sustaining, delicious, but Baked Alaska it is not. It resembles, depending on how you make it, a bit of a hill, with little bunnies dotted around.
I'm so over winter. I've splashed out on extra warm gear and wear my new fingerless gloves under my old fingered gloves and still get frozen.
There's nothing like the aroma of baking bread - especially if someone else is making it. I found myself at the skull lady's house a few weekends ago, and she was keen to try a sticky bun recipe that had popped into her head.
Food - I am so over it. This unusual state of affairs came about as a result of over indulgence during the festive season.
I am proud. I have baked my Christmas cake. It is sitting in the larder, and when I remember, I give it a feed of brandy.
There's no question, food always tastes better when someone else cooks it for you.
Normally I’m quite fond of rabbits, and enjoy seeing them hopping about in that rabbit way of theirs.
I always know it's time to make a huge pot of Boston baked beans when the cat glues herself to the chair by the fire.
Vera Lynn got it all wrong. She sang that bluebirds would be flying over the white cliffs of Dover and in fact there’s not a one to be found - bluebirds live in America.
Two in the morning is not my favourite time. But we’d just been woken by terrible sounds coming from the hen house and had to investigate.
We had a fine old time the other night. On the spur of the moment we decided to hunt tadpoles, which is really a big excuse for a picnic.
It gave me a glow of satisfaction to order my free-range, home cured ham extra early this year.
My old hand-written cooking book is falling apart, and the ink fading. It’s still the first place I look for certain recipes, despite its battered appearance.
I can still remember the shock, years later. Casually I had enquired what David – who was turning older in a few weeks - would like as a special birthday meal.
Mother-in-law knew the importance of putting on a good spread. The first time I met her I think she pinched my cheek and muttered something about fattening me up.
Does anyone want a magnificent rooster? Actually, I’ve got two I want homes for.
‘Tis time. Second Christmas is upon us.
Sharon said this can be made with just about any fruit but I don’t believe her.
They are waiting for me outside. Every time I go into the garden I know they’re there, lurking.
I’m glad the summer is almost over. As the days start getting chill I think about all those blood sucking insects who won’t be dining on me. And it’s me they always go for.
I didn’t think she would believe me. I truly didn’t. There are some things my teenage daughter needs to learn about life.
Ah, Christmas. The sparkle, the glitter, the food. It was all set to turn to custard this year, however.
Good things take time, I recall Mariano telling me many years ago.
Daddy has come home to live with me.
Spring is a tricky time of year. There’s new life bursting out all over the place, lambs, calves and weeds. And it’s too windy.
We’d made a date. Actually, it was more of a dinner engagement.
It all starts innocently enough. A quick phone call from my former workmates at the local paper, asking a few innocent questions.
It’s not often that one gets called a Mighty Goddess of the Kitchen but it’s just happened to me.
It has begun. Early in the morning, the first hesitant oodle noise.