How do you eat your animals?

 

How do you eat your animals?

                        Chicken of the Woods (Laetiporus sulphureus)

The pig that Tom the piper’s son stole was actually an apple filled pastry and it made me wonder about other possibly misleading food items. I’m mainly thinking about local, British things.

Pigs in blankets, surrounding a roast chicken 

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The first that sprang to mind was ‘Pigs in blankets,’ a favourite accompaniment to roast turkey at Christmas. They are chipolatas wrapped in bacon rashers, very tasty and extremely salty. There are other versions, and I gather in the US that pigs in blankets are sausages wrapped in croissant dough, sometimes with cheese.

Hot dogs originated in Germany and/or Austria and made their way to UK in the early 20^th century via US. Eleanor Roosevelt served them to King George VI in 1939 in New York. Why dogs? They share a passing resemblance to a dachshund, a ‘sausage dog,’ and there was some question around 1880, about where the meat in them was sourced. Some queried whether it was from dogs, or horses. I suppose they might just as well have been called horses, and we might now be eating ‘hot horses.’

                                            Garibaldi biscuits
                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

‘Fly cemeteries,’ more properly known Garibaldi biscuits, are currants or raisins squashed and baked between two strips of sweet pastry. Personally, Garibaldi biscuits are not popular, perhaps because of my older brother’s teasing. Legend has it that the biscuit was named after Guiseppe Garibaldi, after he sat on two biscuits while on a visit to South Shields in England.

                                        Toad-in-the-hole
                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

‘Toad-in-the-hole’ was originally a means of making meat go further in poorer households. It usually consists of sausages baked in Yorkshire pudding batter, though historically other meats have been used. Batter puddings were popular in early 18^th century England.

‘Fish fingers’ are surely confusing to the thoughtful child, though they do have some relation to fish, if not actually digits. 

                                            Langues de chat
                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Almost as horrifying are ‘langues de chat,’ for who would not baulk at the prospect of eating cats’ tongues? These are French-inspired sweet, crunchy biscuits in the shape of a cat’s tongue, and a genteel tea-time treat, or so I’m told.

                                                Welsh rabbit
                                            Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Travelling from France to Wales, we encounter ‘Welsh rabbit.’  No rabbit is hurt in this concoction of melted cheese on toast. It is thought that ‘rabbit’ was an insult, inferring that the Welsh were too poor to provide meat to eat. The name changed to ‘Welsh Rarebit’ in the late 18^th century in a bid to ‘gentrify’ the dish. It often has ale, or mustard, or Worcestershire sauce added to it for extra flavour, and makes a quick, satisfying meal or snack.

In Scotland, ‘Cock-a-leekie-soup’ is a traditional dish. It is made with chicken or chicken stock, and many leeks, and much pepper, and often has barley added to thicken it. Sometimes prunes are an additional ingredient, which give sweetness to complement and counteract the fiery strength of the soup.

Scotch Woodcock is not Scottish, and nor does it have anything to do with the elusive, declining Woodcock (Scolopax Rusticola) It was a popular dish in the mid-19^th century at the House of Commons and the then élite Universities of Cambridge and Oxford. It consists of scrambled eggs and anchovies served on toast, and was recorded in ‘Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management.’

‘Chicken of the Woods’ (Laetiporus sulphureus) is not a bird, either, but an edible mushroom found on the trunks of woodland trees, commonly oak or sweet chestnut, from late spring to autumn. Said to taste of chicken, it has a similar texture to chicken, and is useful in vegetarian stews in lieu of meat. It is also an important food for much wildlife, particularly some beetles which only feed on bracket fungi.

Jiggery pokery

 

Jiggery pokery

Whereas Labradors will do anything for food, wherever it is presented to them, cats can be unpredictable. Jellicoe and Herschel are fed in separate rooms, because Herschel eats more quickly than Jellicoe, and then wants to eat his brother’s fare. In addition, each of them shows a preference for the other’s food, to the extent of walking away from their own bowls, and pretending indifference. Left to their own devices – that is, shut into their rooms - they will return to their dishes and finish their meals.

There has been a change in the last couple of days, with neither of them showing much interest in their own food. I have changed over the bowls and the cats, and that seems to have worked. It appears that they are fooled into thinking they are getting each other’s dishes, simply because they are each eating in the other’s ‘room.’

It is a little worrying, because Jellicoe is usually ravenous, but he has been a little spoilt recently with freshly cooked chicken, so he’s always looking around in the expectation of that particular treat.

We shall keep an eye on him. I’m sure he does it to keep us on our toes!

Sleeping dogs

 

Sleeping dogs

        

                                                Puppy Jenna

Everyone knows you should let sleeping dogs lie (lie undisturbed, that is, not tell untruths!)

                                            Old lady Cariadd 

However, only extremely young puppies and particularly old dogs sleep the absorbed sleep of the entirely relaxed. In the intervening years they sleep with one ear and one eye open.

If they haven’t reacted to a human entering the kitchen they may continue to give every appearance of slumbering, but the slightest food-related noise will alert them. The chink of the butter dish, the opening of the fridge door, the clink of a food bowl will awaken them, and they may or may not stir themselves to investigate.

However, a human saying, ‘Whoops!’ will have them instantly in attendance. They know that food has fallen like manna from heaven and it is their task to tidy it away, which they accomplish swiftly and  efficiently.

I wish I could spring into action from a standing sleeping start as they do . . . or ever!                                            

A change in routine

 

A change in routine

Jellicoe

We feed Herschel and Jellicoe in separate rooms, to prevent them stealing from each other. Herschel eats much faster than Jellicoe, and likes to investigate his brother’s bowl to see if there are any morsels left. He is adept at opening the sliding door between conservatory and kitchen, so we make sure it’s locked, otherwise Jellicoe is unceremoniously pushed aside.

Jellicoe also likes to check that there’s nothing left in Herschel’s bowl, and trots into the conservatory as soon as the door is opened. Recently, he has been abandoning his food in his desperation to sample Herschel’s food. They have the same food, in identical dishes, but Jellicoe behaves as though Herschel is receiving gourmet rations.

Yesterday, he would not eat his three o’clock meal and we began worrying that he was becoming ill or senile. He and Herschel are twelve years old and show no obvious signs of ageing, but we are aware that dementia can affect cats as much as any other *living being. We put Jellicoe’s food in the conservatory after Herschel had finished, hoping that would do the trick. Lo and behold, Jellicoe tucked in without further ado.

Jellicoe is known to the vets as ‘One Of A Kind.’ When he has to spend a day with them, they have noticed how attuned he is to food. When it approaches his usual feeding time, he sets up a loud yowling, to remind the feckless humans that the worms are biting, and he needs sustenance immediately. Should other animals in his vicinity receive their rations before him, his voice becomes ever more demanding.

At home, he just edges closer to me as the hour hand moves towards the feeding time.

I think cats do these things just to keep their humans on their toes.

Herschel

*It is not only mammals that develop dementia. Mrs Nesbitt had a pet gander called Jo, who was always very fastidious about preening. When he stopped looking after his feathers, and displayed other worrying behaviours, she took him to the vet, and the conclusion was that poor Jo had dementia. What a sad end for a splendid fellow.

 

 

I Saw Sunday Week 45 Foxy and the Magic Dish

 I have seen other blogs featuring I Saw Sunday and, today being Sunday, I decided to join in.

(Foxy is my eldest daughter’s fox red Labrador. She and Tia are staying with us while their family is on holiday.)

Foxy and the Magic Dish

Every morning Foxy finishes her breakfast and immediately crosses the kitchen to investigate the other dogs’ bowls. This is not unusual – all the dogs check each other’s dishes just to make sure there are no morsels remaining, then return to their own to confirm that there really is nothing left. Some of the more hopeful dogs wait for Winston Ocicat’s bowl to be available for perusal. Foxy is always one of this number.

The same ritual is performed at supper time. Despite the recurring disappointment of never finding any scraps, at various points during the day the humans are eating and there is a slim possibility of crumbs being offered for canine delectation. Again, sadly, the dogs are usually thwarted.

Foxy, however, is the eternal optimist and the kitchen rings to the sound of metal dishes clattering across the floor as she enthusiastically licks, and licks, and licks again, rushing from one bowl to the next, tail wagging, tongue working overtime.

I think at some point Foxy must have heard the story of the Magic Porridge Pot and truly believes that if she tries really, really hard, the dishes will magically refill and she will be in seventh Labrador heaven. I fear she is destined to perpetual deflation – which is just as well, since she would otherwise be subject to huge inflation.

Winston’s May 2011 blog

Winston here . . . p’rrrrr, p’rrrrr . . .

I haven’t blogged for five months, don’tcha know. Have you missed me?

Akchalee I don’t know what months is. Is it food? I don’t think it can be ‘cos I don’t usually get no food when I blog, just my usual rations which I might tell you is a bit thin at the moment. That’s ‘cos I went to see Kate-the-Vet and after I’d made a BIG fuss of her and she told me I was gorgeous and had wonderful clean teeth she spoilt it by saying I could do with losing just a little bit of weight. Last year Nadia-the-Vet said the same thing and so Mrs Human put me on short rations. I had to catch spiders and flies to make up the difference, don’tcha know.  Do you remember?

Anyway, after a while, everyone (except Mrs H) forgot all about what Nadia-the-Vet said and went back to giving me treats when I asked for them. I ask very nicely and the Humans (except Mrs H) love it and tell me a little won’t hurt. I like it specially when Gillian comes ‘cos she really can’t resist my winning ways and offers to feed me and then she puts lots of food out for me and my tummy gets really stretched – it’s lovely! After that I just sleep and dream for hours and hours.

 Well, this time, Mrs H told Mr H that *I have got to lose weight (she keeps saying that and Mr H just nods and smiles) But she said, ‘I mean it, he’s got to be rationed,’ and Mr H said, ‘But he asks so nicely in the mornings and he really enjoys his bit of chicken/ham/cheese/shrimp/tuna.’ (That’s not all at the same time, course!) In the end he agreed and I was very disappointed, don’tcha know. I thought I had him proply trained. So now he gives me just one little treat and I have to wait for my breakfast before my tummy feels full again.

I tell you, I got so hungry the other night that I opened the cupboard door and dragged out the tube of shrimp treats and a bag of dog biscuits and I tried and tried to open them but I just couldn’t. Course, just before I went to see Kate-the-Vet, Mrs H cut my claws ‘cos I kept getting hooked on things. The other day I got stuck to a cushion and it followed me everywhere. Gus barked, silly boy and Mrs H laughed when she saw me though she tried not to let me see. So course I couldn’t get a good grip on the bag of biscuits.

I’m trying to work out how to get into the fridge now. The Humans have had fridge-raiding cats before so I’m sure I can find a way. I think if I sit and stare at it long enough it will open. I talk to it, too. Watch this space!

The other thing about having blunt claws is that I slide off things. Usually when I stretch up on Mr H’s legs I can hang on but now I just slip off. Never mind, my claws will grow again.

There’s a funny **red thing that appears now and then and I chase it but I can’t never catch it. It’s odd – it don’t smell or make a noise and I don’t know where it goes when it’s not there – or here. Gus don’t know nothing about it, neither and he can’t catch it, too. Mind you, he don’t move as fast as me.

The Humans know how much I love bird-watching so they very kindly moved the bird feeders closer to the house. I spend many a happy hour watching and chittering at the birds. I think they’d like to come and see me, too, don’tcha know, ‘cos several of them have banged on the patio door.

That’s all I’ve got. Be good!

TTFN

(Mrs H: 

* Winston's not very overweight ; he just needs to slim down a little!

**It’s a laser light)

I'm linking to Misty Dawn's Camera Critters and Bozo and his human at Pet Pride.                                            

ABC Wednesday W is for Wondering and Worrying

Thank you to Denise Nesbitt and her Willing Workers Who organise and host this Weekly meme. To see more Ws please click here.

Since early Monday morning this Scottish racing pigeon has been feeding and drinking several times a day in our garden.

She seems undisturbed by the presence of other birds. This young starling is drinking, lifting its beak to swallow. Pigeons and doves don't need to do this and so they can drink continuously.

One foot in, one foot out! Our dogs do this with their food bowls to stop them slipping. Perhaps she's doing the same thing.

I think Woodpigeons are handsome birds but I have to admit they'd come second in a beauty contest with a homing pigeon.

I've read that stray racing pigeons Will feed and rest and then resume their journey after a couple of days. This pigeon is Worrying me now. She has been here for three days. She has eaten heartily and drunk the fresh water I put out daily for the birds. I know she can fly and I saw her preening her feathers this afternoon. The advice is to capture strays and put them in a safe container, like a cat carrier, but this bird sits on our roof  and basks in the sun and When she's feeding she's looking around Warily every few seconds, though she seems less Worried With each passing day. What is really Worrying me, though, is that the Woodpigeons are getting bolder. Last evening two of them were tentatively pecking at her as all three gobbled seed. She didn't seem concerned, didn't attempt to retaliate and calmly carried on eating.

If she's still about tomorrow I'll contact the Pigeon Fancy and ask for advice. Maybe she's decided she likes it here - free food and no races!

Christmas approaches . . .

I've just been reading Owlfarmer's post on gifts and it sparked memories of Christmases past.

In the post-war years of the mid to late forties the UK was struggling to recover from years of devastation and hardship. Food was still rationed and people thought carefully about how they used their allowances. Christmas was a time to enjoy something a little different, a treat.

In our house the children would wake to the exciting heaviness of a Christmas stocking at our feet. Packed inside would be all manner of small inexpensive gifts and in the toe of the stocking we would find a tangerine and a handful of nuts.

I recall my mother drawing and plucking a chicken for our Christmas dinner. Chicken was a luxury and we had one at Christmas and perhaps another at Easter. Dinner was roast chicken 'with all the trimmings' which allowed the meat to go a little further. My mother cooked roast potatoes, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, carrots, giblet gravy and bread sauce. To follow there were mince pies and Christmas pudding with brandy butter with the anticipation of finding a silver sixpence in your helping. Christmas crackers were fun and we liked the silly hats and trinkets inside and the groaning jokes.

In the afternoon we would have the gift-giving ceremony. Each child would take it in turn to pick a parcel from beneath the tree and give it to the named recipient. We would all watch and enjoy the pleasure of the unwrapping and the final showing of the gift. Often it would be an item of clothing which would have to be tried on and modelled for our delight. When that present had been thoroughly appreciated by everyone the next package would be selected. So an enjoyable afternoon would be spent giving, receiving and thanking.

Tea followed – Christmas cake with silver ball decorations and a Father Christmas standing on the white icing 'snow'. After that, before bed-time, we would play board games or cards or read. It was a warm, relaxed time in front of a crackling fire. Thinking back now I wonder just how relaxed my mother felt by the end of the day!

On Boxing Day we would have soup, cold meat and bubble and squeak. My parents tried to make the special feeling of Christmas last a while longer by holding back a few little gifts which were always said to be 'from the tree.' Around the room were small boxes of chocolates, dates, figs and bowls of fruit that we could sample. We enjoyed them for their rarity and because it would be another year before such a feast was spread again.

Shopping for food in those days entailed visiting many specialist shops – bread from the baker, dry goods like tea and flour from the grocer, meat from the butcher, fruit and vegetables from the greengrocer, fish from the fishmonger, confectionery from the sweet shop. The shopping list would follow the route to be taken, starting with the greengrocer at the far end of town. Shops were open for a matter of hours, from 8:00 or 9:00 a.m until 5:30 or 6:00 p.m for five or five and a half days. They shut at close of business on Christmas Eve and opened again on the first working day after Boxing Day. If someone had neglected to buy something she needed she would have to go without it until the shops were re-opened. Provided all the necessities were in the larder there was a tremendous feeling of relief once there was no possibility of shopping again until after the holiday.

Now everything is available throughout the year. The seasonal foods no longer hold sway since whatever is desired may be purchased at any time, fresh, frozen, dried, produced locally or thousands of miles away. In the western world we live in a bubble of self-indulgence, able to satisfy our every whim and fancy at any time of day or night. If the local shop is closed there's always an all-night garage or a twenty-four-hour store if we really cannot wait for our fix of whatever we want.

During the last twenty years or so Christmas increasingly has developed into a festival of greed and commercialism. From August the Christmas catalogues start to arrive, each charity exhorting expenditure on often tawdry items. Later 'Good causes' beg us to support them and in December Salvation Army and silver bands pluck at our heart and purse strings with their brassy renditions of carols, many of which will be unfamiliar to young school-children. The supermarkets blare out endless repetitions of ghastly versions of seasonal songs old and new and worse still, shoppers find themselves singing along. Houses sprout unlikely decorations – blinking, twinkling, nerve-rending flashing lights in all colours while jolly Santas stride across roof-tops and inflatable reindeer prance behind them. Is it because our winters are so drear that we embrace these gaudy decorations? Sunlight may be scarce but we can make our own brightness – and it all looks so sad when Christmas is over. There's a brief renewal in the lead-up to New Year's Eve, a final flash of brightness of fireworks as the Old Year dies and finally we face cold, dull January and wonder if there will ever be dazzling days again.

Where is the true meaning of Christmas now? Is our anticipation always to be disappointed because we have so much all the time and salve our consciences for those who have nothing by dropping coins in a collection tin? Where is the joy? For me it is in the faces of my family in the moments when they are laughing or day-dreaming or simply enjoying each other's company, in the wonderment of small children as they see something they have never seen before, in the quiet moments when walking alone or waking in the night when everyone else sleeps. These times are present throughout the year but take on special significance at Christmas. Whatever your beliefs or lack of them, this annual holiday affords a time for reflection. Take a moment from the rushing crowds or the press of visitors and look up, maybe (probably!) through the rain at the vastness of the sky and consider your place in the universe. We are insignificant organisms struggling towards the light. We came from stardust and to stardust we will return.

'For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return' Genesis 3:19

The Further Adventures of Frodo the Faller – thief extraordinaire – and his partners-in-crime!

Dominie, Cariadd and Buddy wait hopefully! No chance of pilfering here!

Something has attracted the attention of Cariadd, Dominie and Buddy . . . could it be food?

Buddy, in the days when his hind legs were strong enough, urged on by Dominie into an act of larceny! We've never caught Frodo in the act but he can reach higher and further than any of the others ever could!

Frodo recently had blood tests to determine how well his liver is coping with his anti-epilepsy drugs (AEDs) All readings were in the normal range apart from ALP (Alkaline phosphatase) which was exceptionally high. Therefore he was 'invited' back to the vets to spend the morning as an in-patient for further blood tests and a liver scan.
Initial results indicated that all was well and we brought our boy home and fussed over him. 'Poor boy,' we said, 'He needs a quiet time to recover.' (He had had a light sedative prior to the scan.)

So, feeling sympathetic and kindly towards him we forgot his propensity for high speed thievery – this resulted in a Pyrex dish which had contained food being dashed to the tiled kitchen floor whereupon Greedy Gus, twelve weeks old, dived in and started eating glass fragments. He was delighted to find that he was offered bread – as much as he could take – and we were relieved that he didn't appear to have ingested any glass. Inspecting his 'output' took on a special urgency but so far – several days later – nothing glittery, sharp and light-reflecting has appeared.
Normally Frodo is circumspect in his robbery, waiting until he is alone but the temptation the other day was just too much for him. I had put a leg of pork in my much-loved Le Creuset bean pot ready to add the cure. Buoyed up by my success in curing bacon I had decided to cure a ham for Christmas. Only time will tell if I was well-advised to try it!

I turned away to rinse out the packaging before binning it – I wash all food packets and containers to make them less alluring to the animals and then the rubbish is deposited in a bag hung up supposedly - though sadly not always - out of their reach. The cats stealthily approach from the work tops and stretch their paws and claws to capture the enticing waste within the garbage while the bigger dogs stand on their hind legs. Buddy's legs, though adequate for walking and running, are not strong enough to allow him to do this now so he has to rely on Frodo to purloin exciting titbits. Even Jenna who is a working Labrador and not particularly tall can reach extraordinary heights when required. Standing on tiptoe and extending her remarkably long and agile tongue she can pilfer almost as many things as Frodo the Faller. Conventional bins are useless in our house – the cats and dogs are in cahoots with each other and work as a razor-sharp team for each other's mutual benefit. Many years ago the predecessors of our current menagerie found a way of breaking into the fridge we then had and enjoying the contents therein. Now we ensure that any fridge or cupboard we have closes too securely for even the most determined of noses, paws or claws to succeed in burgling forays. Buddy Liver Spots has one of the strongest and most muscular noses known to the canine world and can slide open heavy patio doors. Throughout our house there can be seen evidence of the BNL – Buddy Nose Line but we have foiled him. So – alles läuft gut! Everything is safe – but my precious bean pot was not!
As I made the packaging safe there came unto my ears an hideous crash. (Please forgive the archaic phrasing – there's something about this time of year – Advent - that causes my brain to work in mysterious ways – there I go again! It's the result of many years working with children on Nativity plays and tableaux and encouraging them to appreciate the beauty of the English language while at the same time finding sense and meaning in it! Yes, I miss it . . . )
I looked spun round to see my pretty pot in pieces (nice alliteration, that!) Buddy, not quite believing his good fortune (Gee, thanks Frodo – I owe you!) had his teeth jaws round the joint and was preparing to enjoy his prize. Frodo was looking pleased, proud, amazed, sheepish (he's my Velcro dog and likes me to think he wants only and always to please me) Gus was demonstrating his impersonation of Tigger which he always does when excited by the presence of food, Jenna was looking worried and indicating that she was not the guilty party, just an innocent by-stander, and the cats were waiting, as cats do, for the opportunity to claim the trophy for their own.
I grabbed the meat from Buddy's mouth – it wasn't even punctured (the meat, that is) and ran it under the tap. (What a strange expression that is! I didn't run anywhere with it, it didn't run anywhere, all that ran was the water!) The dogs were relegated to the sitting room and I shut the kitchen door to clear up the sharp shards of the smithereens of my pot. I found another receptacle – the curing mixture only slops over the sides a little – and now the meat slumbers in the fridge metamorphosing from pork to ham.
Christmas, fast approaching, requires special vigilance. More people equals more food equates to more opportunities for surreptitious sampling of forbidden fruit (under which umbrella term lurk turkey, bacon, ham, pâté, sausages, cheeses, cheesecakes, cream, mince pies, Christmas pudding, tortes, biscuits sweet and savoury . . . ) Gillian's children from early childhood have memorised the many and various places in which plates of food may be found. They will never forget Buddy and the chocolate cake. In his youth he swiftly devoured a complete cake offering 8 to 10 servings; we worried for his health as chocolate is toxic to dogs but though rather portly for a time he was not otherwise adversely affected.
Serving Christmas lunch is an obstacle course. Doors, particularly the kitchen door, must not be left open and animals other than humans are not allowed in the dining room. How we have not turned ourselves into a profitable circus act I cannot fathom as we balance trays and plates of hot food while standing on one leg and shooing animals and opening and closing doors at high speed, taking care not to trap paws, tails, heads or fingers. Nonetheless it is frequently the case that we sit down with a corporate sigh of relief only to discover that somehow Frodo and Buddy have managed to sidle unnoticed into the room and are lying obediently and innocently under the table.

I can't wait . . . ! *wink*

Cling – to hold tightly, be emotionally over-dependent, refuse to let go

I'm a reasonably independent woman, not often prone to temperamental outbursts. I love the members of my family and I think they love me. We embrace affectionately, support each other emotionally and respect each other's privacy. Why then, given these parameters, can I not cope with clingfilm?
Other people efficiently manage to encase widely differing objects; jugs of stock are staunchly refused permission to spill, cakes are neatly parcelled and hermetically sealed, the onions of winter salads resolutely try but fail to send their fumes beyond the plastic. Portions of fruit and slices of vegetables, roast chicken carcasses and too-generous casseroles all consign themselves to the constraints of this thin clear self-adhering plastic material.
They do all this until I try to marshal them. To be more precise it is not the contents that prove problematic but the clingfilm. Does it recognise in me a person who secretly longs to be enfolded in strong arms and held close till, breathless with passion, I beg for release? Well, of course not, but I have to distract myself with idle thoughts as I wrestle with the wretched wrapping that clings to itself and to me as if scared to let go. I mutter and curse as the film tightens and thickens and eventually manage to reduce it to a sulky pellet which I would love to hurl into the rubbish bin but cannot as it still seems loath to leave me.
Thus, the contents of my fridge are left unwrapped, tainted with onion and curry, the chicken carcasses dry out to firewood consistency, the lemon halves shrink to husks, the cabbages wilt and everything that was once fresh and crisp limps into unappetising decrepitude.
Ah me, such is life!