We
live on a hilliside in Co Cork between the valleys of the Bride and the
Blackwater and from our kitchen window there’s a panoramic view stretching
from, on one side, a great deal of West Waterford and, on the other, a vista
that extends towards Mallow and the Ballyhouras.
It’s
not just the view that makes it a lovely place in which to live; we also have
our own few acres of woodland, a mixture of ash, sycamore, beech and the odd
Scots pine and occasional birch. The wood takes more maintenance than I’ve given
in recent years: you need to keep ivy under control or trees become top-heavy
and can snap in a high wind and the paths become overgrown with brambles very
quickly if you don’t spend quite a lot of time out with the brushcutter. I also
need to take out quite a few trees which are growing too close together or
which lean the wrong way. If I get around to it we’ll have free firewood for
several years,
There’s
something rather wonderful about having your own firewood. Fallen branches
provide about 50% of the fuel we need to keep our two stoves burning during the
colder, wetter months. All we have to do is saw them into suitable lengths and
let them dry out a bit.
In
the centrally heated and poorly ventilated environment in which so many of us
live these days, we often forget what winter is like. Last Sunday I spent in
the wood dragging branches down towards the yard; hands numb, mud-spattered but
happy.
After
a few hours of such activity it was wonderful to come back to the kitchen, the
heart of which is the Aga (oil-fired and hence an expensive luxury); to thaw
out in that domestic glow as the smell of cooking – winter cooking – filled the
room.
Thanks
to the Aga which not just heats the kitchen and our hot water but also takes
the chill off the rest of the house, and our stoves, and plenty of insulation
we’re usually warm enough to want to eat salads in Winter but we keep returning
to proper Winter food: casseroles and stews, slowly cooked, transforming the
tougher parts of animals into something sublime.
It’s
a time of year which I associate with flavours like thyme and garlic which
might join together with some cheap red wine or a bottle of beer to accompany
shin of beef on its slow journey to delicious, melting tenderness. It’s the
season when Irish stew (with carrots and pearl barley) cooked with the spuds on
top, all in one, comes into its own. It’s when fluffy mashed potato, enriched
with plenty of butter and a little hot milk (never cold or even tepid) is an
essential for moping up richly flavoured gravies.
It’s
also a time when we return to our roots, as in carrots, beetroot, celeriac and
the like. Plus, of course, tubers like maincrop potatoes and Jerusalem
artichokes. Yes, by the time Spring comes around again we are gagging for fresh
green things from the garden (or even from polytunnels in Spain) but for a
while the heavier produce of Winter seems very apt.
Winter
is also the season of spices. Not those new-fangled ones which we have all
embraced so wholeheartedly in recent years: chilli, ginger, coriander and their
ilk. But the ones with which many of us grew up: cloves and cinnamon, nutmeg
and allspice. Put those together with raisins and sultanas and some candied
peel and you have the aroma of Christmas.
When
there’s frost outside there will be hot whiskey (with cloves and lemon and
brown sugar) and hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. There will be
slow-cookers working their simple magic while their owners go out to work, and
an urgent, nururing need to pour hot soup tenderly into frozen children just
returned from school.
Yes,
it’s Winter in the kitchen and I’ll be thinking of this as I saw the next batch
of logs. (ends)
