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Post by meganl on Aug 3, 2016 6:31:24 GMT
Now food has to be cooked , well it does if you come from Orkney farming stock they gaze very suspiciously at anything remotely salad like. As for the modern raw food movement they would never understand that "Beuy how kin ye eat raw mince and clapshot." It was a friend posting a picture of her "new" second hand propane cooker that sparked the memory. In 1983 we settled into our first home it was an old drystone walled cottage with lime washed walls and tiny rooms. When we arrived the only means of cooking was a Doric coal fired stove from the early 50's ( www.historyworld.co.uk/advert.php?id=1146&offset=100&sort=0&l1=household&l2= )This one had definitely seen better days and eventually blew the door of the oven. There had been a hole in the lining of the oven and the door had been closed and pretty much forgotten since I got tired of sooty smuts covering everything in the kitchen. On the fateful day I had just gone into the outer kitchen where the propane stove and fridge were when I heard an almighty explosion, I ran back into the kitchen to find the heavy door some 10 feet from its original position I was so glad I had not been coming through the door when it landed. Any way back to the propane stove, every stick of furniture we had in our small cottage had come up in a lorry from Glasgow donations from my family to get us started. Being the youngest much of the furniture had wended its way down through several members before reaching us. We were heartily glad of it for money was scarce then one Thursday David spotted and advert in the local paper someone had a gas cooker for sale. Now Orcadians are no awfy keen on putting a price in adverts so he nervously phoned the number, would we be able to afford it, indeed did the person still have it some things sell as soon as the first person gets their paper. On that particular day our luck was in the lady still had the cooker she told us it was older so a lot of folk had been put of. David drove us into Kirkwall to the address he had been given, when the lady heard we were setting up our first home she dropped the price to £30 so we could afford it. The next day David borrowed the van from work and we manhandled it into the van. That 1960's cooker served us well for another 19 years till we moved into a new housing association house for the elderly and disabled in Stromness which was all electric.
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Post by sandrainsydney on Aug 3, 2016 9:07:59 GMT
another lovely memory closer to the book!
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Post by meganl on Aug 6, 2016 16:05:19 GMT
The cottage was a low drystone walled the mottled greys and browns washing it into the surrounding hillside. There wasn't a garden as most folk would know it just a few bits scrabbled earth where tatties and Kale fought to survive. Of to the side buried among the tussocks of grass could if you had a sharp eye be seen stone markers for kist burials. It always looked like it should be fading back into the hillside that birthed it so long ago. The lady who lived there was tall but as sparse and utilitarian as the cottage she occupied for over 80 years.
Miss Hourie was a strange character she had one of the most expensive cameras I have ever seen and was a keen and talented photographer. In Scottish parlance she must hae luked bonny enough as a lass but by the time I first met her this whipcord thin with skin that was almost nut brown from the hard life she had spent working her meagre croft.
Inside the house was as strange to my city born eye as the outside had been for there was no electricity. The one tap in what she called a kitchen was her concession to the modern world, she showed my the spring along a little track where she had gathered her water until 1980 when she felt she was getting a bit old for humping buckets along the slippy path.
As you sat by the fire she would pull over the swee and hang the kettle on to boil. Either her parents or grand parents must have been more modern thinking for the fireplace was Victorian with tiles at the side in a style we would still recognise today as opposed to the stone flagged ingleneuk that would have originally been built with the house. The same person must have been responsible for the square of carpet that sat on the flagstone floor and the totally incongruous but beautiful Victorian circular pedestal table which stood against the wall folded up till it was let down and the cloth placed over it to serve tea. The flat irons stood ready by the hearth with their trivet which must have been made by the local blacksmith to allow them to heat without dirtying the clothes. Miss Hourie although brusk of speech and short of words had a heart that opened to all man or beast and a sparkling eye. Teatime was always a high treat with her making pancakes/drop scones on the griddle and flipping them onto your plate for you to melt some butter onto and try to get the rhubarb jam to keep company with them long enough to reach your mouth. While she speared thick cut slices of loaf onto the toasting fork judging just the perfect distance to hold them from the fire to obtain the golden glow crisp enough to still hold up after they were buttered and layered with generous slices of white squeaky farmhouse cheese.
I saw it recently all gussied up painted white wie a wee porch on the front and a poly tunnel out the back. It never looked like that back when we used to climb the hill to go visiting
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maeve
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Post by maeve on Aug 7, 2016 14:22:11 GMT
And another story is stacked ready for harvest.
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ragdall
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Post by ragdall on Aug 9, 2016 19:43:50 GMT
What a beautiful glimpse into the past.
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Post by meganl on Aug 10, 2016 8:52:59 GMT
Hope no one minds if I drop some bits in here that are not necessarily food related if its not everything can be moved to the general board.
The little world of Orkney is quiet, the wind sighs drowsily through the leaves on the great sycamore. Of course elsewhere it would not be considered such a great tree but here any tree that dares to grow beyond the shelter of the low houses deserves such acclimation.
The clouds such as they are were to lazy to dress in their normal sombre hues. Today they cannot even be bothered to march across the sky, instead they lie about lazily basking in the sun.
For a moment even the sparrows have stopped their squabbling. A seagull glides and pirouettes then settles back to land on the neighbours roof. The sky is denuded of life, those few who pass my window do so at a rush wings crashing furiously against the still air like busy executives who always have people to see and places to be but end up never really seeing anything or getting anywhere.
Such days are rare on my island of ever shifting vistas. People begin to fret when they hear no wind, for the wind in all it's moods is our almost constant companion. In the night we will wake if the wind stops for more than the few minutes it takes to change direction.
In the days before man became greedy for power it moved our ships, and on Orkney farms more often than not it ground our wheat and oats since only those on our scarce burns could enjoy water powered mills. Until fairly recently it even powered our homes for those adventurous souls who could not make do with a peat fire and a Tilley lamp. The early wind tirlly as folk called them were not like your modern monsters just a pole at the end of the garden with a few blades no longer than my arm just enough to put one electric light in every room and maybe a wee bit to spare for the gramophone if you were ultra modern.
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maeve
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Post by maeve on Aug 10, 2016 11:22:03 GMT
Megan, please drop your story bits anywhere you like.
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Post by meganl on Aug 10, 2016 12:57:24 GMT
Thank you Maeve at ma age if ah pit them doon in a safe place there's a risk ah'll never find them again . There used to be a rhyme when I was young.
There she goes there she goes Stiletto heels and pointy toes Look at her feet She thinks she's neat Black stockings and dirty feet.
now you have got me singing
There she goes There she goes dropping aitches and fancy prose She writes in pen She writes wie ink try and stop her she'll mak a stink
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ragdall
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Post by ragdall on Aug 10, 2016 16:12:23 GMT
Hope no one minds if I drop some bits in here that are not necessarily food related if its not everything can be moved to the general board. As you started this topic and titled it, "Food and memories", I'd think that any of your memories would be appropriate here.
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maeve
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Post by maeve on Aug 10, 2016 17:35:26 GMT
Megan- You're younger than I am, Hen! (And how did you know I've come inside with dirty feet?)
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Post by meganl on Aug 11, 2016 10:34:23 GMT
Maeve many I still remember the incident when you went outside in bare feet.
Its that time of year show time.
On an island community indeed any farming community the Show is one of the most important dates in the year. At one time our year would have been punctuated by important dates the feeing markets, the holy market, The day the stallions or bull was brought round the district On islands not every small farm would have their own bull and Clydesdales horses were important on farms without modern tractors and then there were the show.
Each island or parish would have its own small show where farming folk would compete against each other to see who had the best beast. Gradually as mechanisation came in companies would work their way round the shows displaying tractors and other farming implements. It was often said that an Orkney farmers idea of a grand day oot wis tae gang tae the show and luk at the backside o anither mans coo.
Beasts are washed and brushed, hooves oiled and polished and feathers primped and preened till all were looking at their finest. Indeed it is often said that an Orkney farmer would happily spend many hours and an ungrudged fortune on a potential prize winning bull that he would think ill to waste on the wife.
Mind you the wives are not without their own diversions at this time of year since each show has its accompanying Flower Produce and Industrial Show. The title of the show being somewhat misleading to a lass brought up in Glasgow where industry meant the building of steam locomtives and great ships since in the islands it appeared to refer to sewing knitting and other crafts. This show was usually held in a hall near to the showground.
Many a man has come in from the byre only to have to brave that most fearsome of places "THE KITCHEN" to mak his own tea. For most, though not all this would consist of two wobbly cut slices of bread thick enough to crick your jaw if you tried to open your mouth wide enough to bite them. If he was lucky she might have saved him a smattering of butter, but woe betide him if his knife should stray towards the butter which had been carefully weighed for the magical alchemy called baking.
Her royal personage grants him just enough time to stick slabs of cheese into his sandwich (although it more closely resembles a dryestane dyke) and mak a pot of tea before he is ejected to the sitting room with the admonition not to get crumbs on her clean carpet - a task which might be considered impossible given the size of the piece and the fact he never thinks to grab a side plate.
The competitions in the hall are as fiercely fought as any military campaign. Ten A.M. sharp the doors open for the two hours allowed for setting oot the entries. At one end of the hall vegetables and fruit were displayed with many a questing glance at the show schedule. Five berries on a plate! what size of plate did they mean , could it be patterned or coloured and did the five berries refer to individual berries, fine for brambles but very stingy looking if it wis fur currants oh the stress, at least wie the baking and sweeties they gave you the recipe.
Then came tables filled with potted plants and three in a vase flowers before you reached the floral arrangements. Tables of jams and chutneys led into cakes and sweeties wid Jean o Gutteryqouy win the fruitcake section again this year its the sixth year in a row she has. Please tell me Mrs McBain isn't putting in her beetroot cake again this year last year the judge wis taken tae the Balfour after she tried to eat a piece, you can see her shudder as someone whispers the news as she waits in a small room of to one side.
Finally comes the industrial section at one time it would hiv bin row upon row o fair isle jumpers but we hae tae move wie the times ye ken. Now you have to choose between Annie o Biggins felt wall hanging (her granny wid be fair affronted that any grand bairn o hers couldny knit) or Massie Corse's cut work dressing table set. The variety maks judging something o a floating science.
Finally comes the tables o bairns crafts divided by age mak something frae a sock, writing (first five letters of the alphabet for the youngest up to a copy of a poem or song for the oldest). They have their own food section as well from decorating a digestive biscuit to cupcakes, LEGO models and paintings, enough to drive already busy mothers to screaming point should a hungry farmer make the mistake of bemoaning the salad placed before him.
Who says island life is quiet! its no wonder we basically shut down for winter after the County show is by.
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Post by meganl on Aug 11, 2016 16:43:06 GMT
an addendum to the shows
Hip Hip Hooray Megan and Alex the twins now six years old entered their first show we went along to the prize giving today. Megan got a second for her Lego model and third for her animal on a paper plate, Alex got a second for his article made from a sock and a third for his original picture of a bird in a tree. We are now wondering if they should enter the county but they wouldn't settle to anything this morning ah well at least I can give them back at the end of the visit
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ragdall
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Post by ragdall on Aug 12, 2016 5:13:02 GMT
Congratulations to Megan and Alex! Was there prize money, ribbons? What did Alex make from the sock? Please tell more about Megan's plate animal?
We have similar events in Canada, anywhere there are agricultural communities. My 12 year old granddaughter, (the quilter), joined her local 4-H club this year. She will be entering in the 4-H Photography category at the Fall Fair in the next town over from theirs which is the agricultural center of that area.
I'm sad that we won't be able to be there to cheer her on. We'll be far away, attending my husband's annual university lunch. It was 59 years in January, since he was one of about 250 students, faculty and faculty families, who arrived as refugees to begin a new life in Canada, starting at UBC in Vancouver.
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Post by meganl on Aug 12, 2016 6:36:08 GMT
Alex made an octopus from a pink sock probably one of Megan's how they persuaded her to donate it I must ask since she is very aware of what is hers. Megan is going through a pink phase so it had to be a pig on the plate. Doreen said they won about £3 so both happy but I think they were happier with their prize cards.
I hope your grand daughter does really well with her photography have you put up pictures of her quilting? Your husbands life sounds like it would be interesting has it been written down we are never that interested in our parents and grand parents lives when young, unfortunately they are often gone by the time we are so I now advise everyone to write their story so the next generation have a starting point when they want to find out about their family.
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ragdall
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Post by ragdall on Aug 12, 2016 9:27:02 GMT
Aw, the socktopus must have been cute! What a great idea! Was the pig painted on the plate, or modeled from some modeling compound? £3 is a nice sum for a six year old to receive. Thank you for the good wishes for my granddaughter. This is the link to the post with her quilt: cupofkindness.proboards.com/post/3705/threadI think my husband's life is very interesting. He's written about some of it, but not in English, so none of us here can read it. I've been begging him to write about it in English for his grandchildren and great grandchildren to read.
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