You can never find a slug when you want one!

Our new chickens arrived 2 days ago. In a package deal fit for the urban chicken of the 21st century they arrived, equipped with ergonomically-designed and fox-proofed accommodation, enough organic food for a month or two and accompanied by Very Nice Man, expert in chicken husbandry to give us a crash-course in hen-holding, wing-clipping and mite-treating: skills I previously had never known I needed.

Peggy and Fabienne took to the their new home like ducks to water, or like chickens to an Eglu, quickly establishing a pecking order (Peggy first) most curious to behold a and engaging in the bizarre habit of dust bathing: this a manoeuvre involving shuffling one’s feathery bottom in the dirt then flapping dry soil into your armpits (wing-pits?). Not a bath that would, to the onlooker, seem to make a chicken feel fresh as a daisy but clearly nonetheless refreshing to our Pegs and Fabby.

We are advised, by the Very Nice Man from Eglu, that chickens like to eat slugs and snails. This a Good Thing……..not only for our garden but for marital harmony. Many the disagreements between Iain and I over the course of our 15-year marriage about whether slug pellets should be used on the garden.

One might think that Iain, as a hosta-lover, would be keen to see the slugs off by means fair or foul, but not so. Iain has a humanitarian (slugitarian) approach to slug control, previously trying the upturned grapefruit method, the death-by-intoxication-beer-in-a-saucer method and his very own picking-them-up-one-by-one-and-moving-them-to-the-rose-patch technique – all of which have less than moderate success compare to the chemical warfare (thick layer of blue pellets) approach favoured by myself.

So, in an attempt to make the chickens feel welcome, we set off on a slug hunt around the garden. On any given day prior to the arrival of our chickens we might have seen a dozen 4”-6” juicy slugs sliming their way across the patio. Not to mention the hoard of them lurking under the hostas and behind the shed. But the arrival of our hens must have been broadcast widely across the local slug community, causing them to flee their usual habitat, for, despite an extensive and probing search, neither slug nor snail was to be found anywhere in a 500-yard radius of chez-nous.

Unable to secure a sluggy snack for our hens, we resort to a can of sweetcorn, upon which they gorged greedily before depositing a grateful blob of guano on our undernourished lawn.

Something Tasty for the Weekend - Roasted Flat Field Mushrooms with Goats' Cheese and Sundried Tomatoes

Another desperately easy recipe from my kitchen and ideal for abundant autumn mushroms.
This dish was conceived following a visit to France a decade ago. Iain had adored, and I had abhorred, the goats' cheese-stuffed tomatoes offered to us. I resolved to find a milder compromise to the overwhelmingly strong taste of goats cheese and came up with the following deliciously easy and tasty little number.

Serves 4 as a starter

8 large flat field mushrooms, washed and stalks removed
125 grams (4 ounces) mild soft goats cheese'
1 jar sundried tomatoes in olive oil (or 100g of sunblush tomatoes)
fresh or dried thyme
salt and pepper

1. Spread the goats cheese into the upturned cups of the mushrooms.
2. Top with 2-3 pieces of sundried tomato to cover mos of the cheese
3. Sprinle with chopped thyme, and season
4. Bake for 25 minutes at 180 degrees centigrade
5. Serve immediately with fresh bread and a salad garnish.

Phew! To awaken from the Disney dream

After a week's absence, a week spent fulfilling the lifelong dreams of my children at Disneyland Paris, I'm back to the blog.

Our few days at Disney have been truly out of this world and into the Wonderful World of Walt Disney. The Disney dream offers a masterpiece of hospitality management set amid a somewhat shocking shopping experience more akin to retail catharsis than retail therapy.

A maelstrom of Mickeyabilia assaults you at every turn; a challenge to the credit card of the emotionally-blackmailed parent faced with the yearnings of a 10-year-old, love-struck for a pair of Pluto slippers. And so it is that I find myself emptying my suitcase of a plethora of logo'd fluffy toys, key rings, phone charms, soaps, Minnie Mouse ears, autograph books (compleat with autographs of a dozen or more cartoon characters, queued for at length) and a Mickey Mouse-shaped baking tin.

That said, the girls and I have had a marvellous time; the reality of daily life left behind, we threw ourselves into the spirit of a primary-coloured world, a smiling, sugary sweet existence where childhood fantasies were brought to life.

Upon return to the grey dullness of a mid-England Saturday we heaved a sigh of blessed relief. A great time had been had by all and a wealth of happy memories gained, but thank goodness for the comfort of autumn colours, for shades of green other than emerald, for grey-blue skies in place of Disney-turquoise, for tomatoes instead of ketchup.

Bonzo the Wonder Dog

It is about time I mention Bonzo. After all, this is The Daily Bonzo and you may have been wondering why.

I had wanted a dog from the age of seven. A mother and sister both allergic to fur meant that I had to content myself with frequently borrowing neighbours' dogs and dragging them on reluctant promenades in the absence of their owners. But, undeterred, each and every Christmas I would hope, and even pray, that I would be given a puppy. A series of variously vile and vicious rodents were provided, but these proved to be poor substitutes for a proper pet, a pooch.

My mother assured me throughout my canine-deprived childhood that, once grown up and 'married' I could have as many dogs as I liked. When Iain proposed, I therefore delighted in the thought that now, at last, I would get myself not only a husband but, logically, a dog.

But Iain was against the idea. A 'cat' man by nature, he refused to heed my pleadings. Time to negotiate, I thought. I agreed with Iain that I could be allowed to have a dog, not immediately, not even soon, but at least by the time I would be forty (that, at the time, being 12 years hence!). Now those of you who dare to call me impatient, can read the above and reconsider your verdict - I could wait for as long as it would take!

So quite reasonable of me then to kick up stink when I was still being denied a canine some 13 years on. A full-on campaign plan, taking on reinforcements to my cause, was required. By very good fortune I had, in the intervening years, managed to give birth to a couple of trusty allies in the shape of Georgia and Margot. Between the three of us, over the Summer of 2004, we ground Iain down. It was a hard-won battle and no gracious surrender from him either; but finally, with a cry of 'what does it matter what I think, just get a dog if want to!!' he gave in.

So I did!

Something tasty for the weekend - Debs' reknowned Chicken Liver Pate

Ingredients
8 oz (225 g) chicken livers
2 tablespoons whisky
4 ounces (125 g) butter, (plus 2 ounces melted butter for sealing the top)
2 teaspoons mustard powder
1 teaspoon dried thyme, or 6 sprigs of fresh
¼ level teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 cloves of garlic
salt and pepper to season

1. melt 4 ounces of butter in a frying pan and fry the chicken livers on medium heat until cooked through (around 10 minutes)
2. Put all ingredients (except the 2 ounces of butter you've kept for sealing) into a food processor and blend til smooth. You can rinse out the frying pan with the whisky to get the tasty bits off the bottom of it.
3. half-fill 6-8 ramekins with the mixture.
4. put spoonfuls of the melted butter onto each ramekin of pate to seal.
5. pretty it up. An ideal garnish is a bayleaf stuck into the mixture, or an olive, or a sprig of thyme - use your imagination.

Ideally eat spread onto good coarse homemade bread, or with toasted brown sliced bread.

Ambitions 3 - Life Begins at Forty

Hitting a dark funk at 39, faced with the prospect of turning 40, envisaging this milestone as less of a new beginning than the beginning of the end, I undertook a stock-take.
Focussing dismally on all those things I hadn't acheived would serve no purpose at all: instead I would turn that list around into a wish-list and set about making things happen.
Unachieved ambition no. 1 was to go to Madagascar.
Why?? The roots of this ambition went far back to the days of my youth, aged 7, and the advent (in our house at least) of colour television. My Dad, aspirant to technology, invested more heavily than he could afford in the best and biggest TV available - a Bang and Olufsen 32" microdot screen beast which took up half our sitting room.
Keen to get best value and make the most of the new 'colour' facility, Dad set the colour, the contrast and the brightness each to their highest setting. I sat, snuggled into the sofa, thumb in my mouth to watch my first colour TV programme.
Up came Richard Attenborough, decked in khaki against a backdrop of grey rock. Not up to much this colour TV, methinks. But then, the subject of the programme, a rare Madagascan chameleon. WOW! The result of my father's diddling with the settings was a screen view that even the wildest hallucinogen could not recreate. The chameleon blazed orange, then vivid green, now violet! Next, a parrot, wild scarlet tail feathers and brilliant turquoise plumage. Fantastic!! I simply longed to go to Madagascar to see these creatures for myself.
And so it was, approaching forty, that I resolved, by hook or by crook (or, as it turned out, by bicycle) that I would visit Madagascar. Signing up with Lepra for a sponsored cycle, 450 miles down through the Madagascan mountain ranges and rainforest regions, changed my whole approach to fortysomethingness.
I could write a book, never mind a blog, on the experience but blogging obliges me to brevity. The experience was life-changing; much of what I saw challenged the way my life had been running its course. And returning to the UK thus proved more of a culture-shock than arriving in Madagascar had been. But plenty of good has come of that.
Those who wish to know more can contact me and I'll gladly ramble on at length, or visit www.Lepra.co.uk for details of how to undertake a similar expedition of your own.

Something Tasty for the Weekend - Saturday's Recipe 1

Debs' Autumn Apple and Cinnamon Cake

A hit with all who taste it, this moist cake is low in sugar, thanks to its high fruit content boosting its sweetness. Heavenly and healthy!

300g (10 ounces) Self-raising Flour
2 teaspoons (10 grams) Ground cinnamon
125g (4 ounces) Demerara or muscovado sugar
75g (3 ounces) Raisins or sultanas
125g (4 ounces) butter
2 large eggs, beaten
170 ml (6 fluid ounces) milk (low fat is fine)
300g apples, peeled, cored and roughly chopped (large bits are gorgeous in the cake)

1. Melt the butter in a pan or, carefully, in a microwave.


2. Put all ingredients, including the melted butter, into a large mixing bowl and stir, making a wish which you must keep secret to avoid disappointment. Alternatively, if you have one available, ask a small child to stir for 10 minutes, make yourself a cup of coffee and relax while they do.


3. Put the mixture into a 20cm (8 inch) square, or 23cm (9 inch) circular greased tin.


4. Bake at 180 degrees centigrade (350 fahrenheit) for an hour or so, until smelling delicious.


5. Try not to devour on the day you bake it, as this cake firms up beautifully overnight. Keeps moist for at least a week, if you can avoid eating it for that long!

Comments welcomed, do let me know any favourite recipes so that I can share them with my family and co-bloggers.

Ambitions 2

Today's blog continues in the theme of my life's ambitions. Ambitions come in many guises and are subject to change as life progresses. As a girl, it was my ambition when I grew up to become either a nun or a ballerina. I envisaged hovering serenely round the abbey gardens collecting honey. sporting my monochrome garb most elegantly. Or dancing the light fantastic clad with feathers and sequins and being whisked into the air by a strong and handsome male lead.
At the age of twelve, acne rearing its purulent head on my adolescent skin, I looked in the bedroom mirror during one of my 'wondering what I'd look like as Mother Theresa' episodes and realised that my makeshift whimple, a white bath towel pinned at the nape with a bulldog clip, was simply not becoming garb; and with that realisation the knowledge that I could never make it as a nun. In my taut towelling whimple I resembled Eamonn Andrews more than I did Julie Andrews, I couldn't sing, and what's more I hadn't been to church since the age of 8. And to this day the prospect of spending a day without lipstick is unthinkable!
But still the prospect of becoming a ballerina remained a distinct possibility...except for the fact that I'd left Betty Blackmore's Ballet School at the age of 6 after one lesson, disgusted at having to wear navy blue school pants with a pink tutu leotard. And quite right too. I resolved to alter my game plan a little, retain the aspirations to feathers and glitter but aim instead towards a career as a Magician's Assistant.

It was at the age of forty, having long ago left behind this wistful ambition that my dream so nearly came true. Having volunteered to help out at the children's school fair I almost fell over with delight when asked to assist the magician on that Saturday afternoon. Oh joy of joys! But my joy was to be short lived; I turned up, keen to don my ostrich feather headdress, only to find out that my role was not to prance precariously in pink stilettoes, but to show 5-year-olds to the toilet with the minimum of fuss so the show could go on uninterrupted.
Hey ho! And so it is that here I sit, at the age of 43, still wondering whatI might be when I am grown. Time will surely tell.

Ambition 1 - Bridesmaid

My father being a church bellringer meant that I misspent many a Saturday lurking in the parish church graveyard with my friend Joanne waiting for beautiful blushing brides to emerge freshly-wed from church. Joanne and I would wait until the wedding party had departed then gather up a skirtful of soggy confetti to play 'here comes the bride'.
From this childhood past-time was borne my earliest ambition; that of being a bridemaid. Blessed with 13 older cousins, I didn't have too long to wait.
Cousin Rosalyn obliged and selected an utterly divine emerald green satin, empire line, puffed sleeve ankle length frock to be run up by Mum on the Singer - it was every little girl's dream dress. Matched with satin shoes, dyed green to match my dress, at every trial fitting I felt the bees knees.
Oh ho, all looking good so far. But not until the wedding day was the headdress I was to wear revealed to me, and no wonder they'd kept it a secret! My sister Sara, Chief Bridesmaid, spent hours in the hairdresser to acheive a gloriously glamorous beehive hairdo speckled with tiny delicate flowers. Meanwhile, my hair was tugged into heated curlers, scorching my ears, the tresses were then teased out and a hideous cover-all bonnet of nylon scratchy blossoms tugged over my ears and tied taut under my chin. My disdain is apparent in photo.

A day in the life of a novice blogger

Spent five minutes setting up blogspot.
Another hour spent itself attempting to select photo that would reflect my personality without looking too haggard, ugly or ravaged by the storms of time whilst, at the time, not causing embarassment to my children; they being acutely aware of the potential public eye on a blog and not wanting to be infamous for having a ridiculous mother. Such awareness must be the conscious concern of a mother of two girls, one of whom verging on teenhood, the other aged ten-going-on-thirty.
Having chosen the picture of me with a dead mackerel in each hand, whiled away another 30 minutes reflecting on whether this photo truly fitted the bill (as outlined above), then a further 2 seconds debating whether I cared.
And so it is that you see a merry picture of me, sporting bilateral mackerels in stiff rigor mortis, on what must have been a Bad Hair Day, heading my very first blog.
Those mackerel, though, are significant of one a number of ambitions achieved since I turned 40, some two and a half years ago. To refer to 'ambitions' implies that I am ambitious: yet my ambitions are disassociated from getting a career and centred more on getting a life. This much is perhaps already apparent to you, having gathered that one of my life's more lofty ambitions was to catch a fish with a rod and line.
Enough for today. I shall continue this virtual conversation anon. Debra

Welcome all readers

Welcome to The Daily Bonzo, the content of which will be variable in style and, me being new to the blogging lark, perhaps sporadic. But welcome,
Debra