Sunday, 6 March 2011

Barking Mad in the Botanics

A  further installment of photos from my recent trip to Edinburgh Botanical Gardens.

Since starting this blog and trying to take more photos, I've been struck by the different scale and perspectives that characterise people's photos. C's photos are often architectural details - carvings, door lintels, high up on buildings (he's tall!). My friend S will produce close-ups of tiny details of flowers or food. I tend to take photos of broad vistas and landscapes. I suspect I could devise some kind of personality theory based on habitual photography style. If I had the energy. It's certainly true that C and S are both detail people, while I am a big picture person, and tend to think in generalisations rather than concrete details.

I remember reading about this notion of habitual scale of perspective in a book on creativity by choreographer Twyla Tharp. She suggested that you should practise changing your scale of perspective - from broad to narrow, from large to small, in order to develop your creative faculties. (You understand that the number of books on creativity I own is in inverse ratio to the amount of actual creative activity I undertake. Same goes for books on time management and dieting!). So I have been trying to focus more on visual details and close-ups when taking photos, just to see what happens.

In the Botanics in February, there isn't much in bloom, and not all that much in leaf in the gardens. Undistracted by pretty flowers, my eye was drawn more to the shapes and textures provided by the trunks and branches of the trees. Once I started looking, it was amazing how much colour and texture tree bark provided in the drab winter garden. So here is my little exhibition of bark! I haven't retouched any of the pictures. These are the real colours of the bark.

This last picture is my favourite. The pattern on the bark makes me think of the indistinct figures in the weathered stone carvings on a medieval church.

Doorway of Notre Dame - Paris, July 2009
 - ironically, my close up of architectural detail, not C's.
Look at these picture of Rosslyn Chapel too.

Friday, 4 March 2011

An Edinburgh oasis

On Sunday, there was a whisper of spring in the air and so we finally made it to Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh - or The Botanics, as everyone in Edinburgh calls it,  to look at the new visitor centre. It's only been open for a mere 18 months. Sigh.

The Botanics is one of those places that makes you want to weep with gratitude for its existence. It is a beautiful space, full of well-thought out distinct gardens: Chinese Hillside; Peat Garden; ; Scottish Heathland; native woodland; arboretum and a giant 165m long herbacious border backed by a two storey high beech hedge. It's a big garden  - 70 acres - but it feels even bigger than that, because the landscaping and planting means you move in and out of different sections, immersed in the immediate environment, and unaware of other areas nearby.  It's backed up by serious scientific credentials and activity. But as far as I'm concerned, it's just a lovely place to hang out. It's also always immaculate.

Inverleith House Gallery and spring crocus in the Botanics
The Botanics frequently hosts - and presumably initiates - imaginative collaborations with artists - exhibitions and installations, either in the Botanics gallery, Inverleith House, or integrated into the planting or glasshouses. There is a whole series of large glass houses - starting with the elegance of the victorian palm house with its palm and orchid display, and moving through different glasshouses, each representing a different regional microclimate - very welcome on a chilly day. The gardens also boast the largest collection of rhododendrons in the world.

We used to visit the gardens regularly. The Botanics were literally on our doorstep when we lived in North Edinburgh. Our flat backed onto them. The Botanics were effectively our back garden. We looked out onto a seemingly endless vista of noble trees.  We would pop in most weeks for a stroll about, and had great pleasure in watching the seasons progress in the succession of budding, flowering and defoliation which marked the passing year. We also fed the very tame, very fat squirrels a lot - spent a fortune on peanuts.

Construction for the new visitor centre started when we were still living next to the Botanics. Infected with the cynicism of disappointed middle age, I confess we watched the progress of the building works with the pessimistic assumption that whatever finally emerged, it would be too large, ugly, a blot on the garden landscape and a basically just a big tacky shop and cafe.

Well, we couldn't have been more wrong. It's not just a visitor centre. The John Hope Gateway, as it is called, is apparently a ' biodiversity and information centre'. Whatever it is called, it is a triumph. It is a beautiful building, dressed with wood and grey stone which blends perfectly into its setting. Yes, there is a shop and yes there is a cafe (not sampled yet). There is also a pleasant exhibition space - currently host to a specially commissioned craft and biodiversity exhibition - and an informative collection of quirky, imaginative displays about botany and the scientific and environmental research of the Botanics. It is just stunning. A well-designed, gracious building, which showcases the fantastic work being done by the Botanics staff, in the gardens and across the world.

Arty Tights!
A specially commissioned exhibition of tights made by students at Edinburgh College of Art,
using plant based textiles and dyes.

Oh, and I forgot to mention: it is free to go into the Botanics. Yep. Let me type that again. It is free to go into the gardens. So you can pop in at any time. Or every 18 months in our case.

If you are in Edinburgh and want to make a 'jaunt' to the Botanics, please note that the bric a brac 'shop of dreams', Duncan & Reid, is a mere couple of minutes walk from the East Gate of the Gardens, and the Circle Cafe - gorgeous food, relaxed ambience and friendly staff - is another couple of minutes walk further along the road. 5 minutes on the number 23 or 27 bus from the city centre. Make a day of it!

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Experiments in Sourdough

There are certain types of cooking activity guaranteed to produce a beatific sense of satisfaction in the maker. A row of neatly labelled jars of home made preserves. A well-risen cake. A tray of crisp biscuits. Homely, heart-warming produce, that also points to a certain level of technical skill. Surely, most satisfying of all is the production of a loaf of home-baked bread. Even tipping out one of those square loaves from the bread-machine generates a swelling of pride in the chest. But let me tell you, the self-congratulatory pleasures of these kitchen achievements pale into insignificance compared with the thrill of gazing upon your first loaves of sourdough bread, made with your own home-made sourdough starter.

Is there anything more beautiful, more satisfying than this sight?

I don't know when the concept of sourdough bread entered my consciousness. I think I read something in Dan Lepard's Saturday Guardian column last autumn. Next thing I'm avidly surfing sourdough websites.  Turns out,  there are loads. The world of sourdough is a thriving if somewhat obsessive subculture. Then I found myself impatiently checking my diary for a period when I would be around to deal with the daily 'feeding' of my fledgling sourdough starter. I finally got around to it after Christmas.

For those of you who don't know what the hell I'm talking about, a sourdough starter is the leaven that makes sourdough bread sourdough. Rather than using commerically produced yeast, you create a mixture of flour and water, which if left to ferment, over time starts to cultivate naturally occuring yeasts. You then keep this starter 'alive' i.e. with active yeast, by periodically feeding it with more flour and water. The starter is supposed to create bread with a superior flavour and keeping properties. These starters keep indefinitely, as long as they are fed, and there are accounts of starters which are hundreds of years old. Although there are naturally leavened breads in food cultures across the world, it seems to be in the US where there is a cultish, sourdough community. San Francisco Sourdough is the self-crowned king of sourdoughs, although there are others. There seems to be a culture of swapping and gifting sourdough starters, and traditions such as Amish friendship bread are built on the notion of giving sourdough breads and cakes to friends and those in need. Call me sentimental, but I am a sucker for this kind of thing.

Anyway, my foray into sourdough was motivated by culinary curiosity, rather than any altruistic impulses. After a false start,  I managed to create a sourdough starter that survived its first week, and metamorphosed into a pleasant smelling, yeasty, bubbling mixture (the first one went grey and rank-smelling after a week). Incapable of following a recipe, I bodged together bits and pieces of recipes from here and here and here - and probably other places I've forgotten. I used 1 US measuring cup of wholemeal bread flour, 1 cup of bottled spring water, 1 tablespoon orange juice and 1 dessertspoon of malt extract in the first mix. I then 'fed' it at least daily, and even twice a day sometimes, by discarding half the mixture and adding in 1/2 cup spring water and 1/2 cup wholemeal bread flour. I left it 10 days before I first used it, although after a week, the mixture was doubling its size in about 6 hours, which is supposed to be a sign that it is ready. Once the starter is mature, you can keep it in the fridge, and just feed it once a week.

I had a fairly grim first attempt at sourdough baking, which went in the bin after one slice. I then managed to produce an acceptable loaf i.e. edible but nothing special. Having learnt a few lessons along the way and finding a reputedly reliable basic recipe, I created the loaves in the picture of the top of the page. Very satisfying.  But this picture is the clincher:

Look at the 'open crumb' on that (as we bakers say ....).  By open crumb I mean all those lovely holes. It looks like proper sourdough bread - the sort you buy from expensive delis and the farmers market. It tasted like that as well. This type of bread is always going to be dense and chewy, but this bread was also soft, with a mildly sour flavour and a gorgeous crisp crust. It also keeps pretty well and freezes very well.  And it's so damn satisfying, creating this bread effectively out of nothing but flour and water. It's like alchemy - and very addictive.

The recipe I followed for this, my most successful sourdough bread so far is Norwich Sourdough Bread. For once I followed the recipe exactly. Mmmm - is there a lesson to be learned here? Follow recipes? I also think there are a few important factors in the way I approached it:

  •  I used bottled spring water (the first starter I tried to make which died, I made with tap water, whilst the second successful starter was made with spring water. Lots of sourdough recipes suggest you should use spring water).
  • The dough was very wet, and rather than machine or hand-kneading after the first knead, I used the folding technique,  - which is a way of encouraging the gluten to develop and those nice holes. 
  • I baked it using Dan Lepard's technique of cooking it in an oven-proof, lidded casserole dish. You put the dish in while preheating the oven, and then slide the risen loaf into it on parchment paper - a not entirely smooth operation, but the loaf survived. You then spray the loaf generously with water and cook it for the first 20 minutes with the lid on, to create a steamy atmosphere. This means the crust stays soft enough to allow the bread to continue rising during the first part of baking ('oven spring' we bakers call it ...). You then finish baking the loaf with the lid off. I think this would be a good way of baking any hand-shaped loaf, not just sourdough, as it prevents the loaf spreading out while baking.

This loaf wasn't quite as burnt as this picture suggests - but, to be honest, in typical Rosie style, I did manage to let it catch a bit on top. A very crisp crust. Ahem.

I've been a bit sourdough crazy for a few weeks. You have to discard half the starter in order to feed it and if you don't want to bake bread (or if, like me, you decide to make a second white flour starter, and you've already baked 2 large sourdough loaves from the discard from your wholemeal starter, and there are only 2 of you in the household ...) you do look for other things to do with it. It is galling to just chuck it in the bin. So last weekend, as well as our sourdough bread, we had sourdough breakfast pancakes and sourdough pizza. The pancakes were ok - the sour flavour worked well with maple syrup, but if I wasn't trying to use up sourdough starter, I'd probably stick with normal pancakes. The pizza was fab - thin and crispy and tangy. Highly recommended.

The new sourdough fad has also been justification for the purchase of a whole range of new, unnecessary kitchen equipment and cookery books. I obviously needed two new artisan bread books. To be fair, I bought the first one as a present for as friend, and it turned out he already had it, so I kept it for myself. The second was the replacement gift, and it looked so good I bought a copy for myself.  I had to buy a linen lined proving basket - who knew such things existed,  until you get sucked into the world of sourdough, and suddenly this seems vital.  I also thought a special dough whisk would be just the thing. This is actually is very effective - but hardly vital to the process. And I bought some dried San Francisco sourdough starter - just to see if it's better than my home made one, and in case I manage to kill mine (quite likely in the light of my success with plants).  Lastly I bought 2 'special' sourdough pots, to keep the sourdough starters comfortable in the fridge. Clearly, I've done something wrong here .........

Fact is, the initial attraction of sourdough bread was that it was supposed to be simple. All you need is flour, water, salt, a tea towel, a baking sheet or casserole dish and some baking parchment. If you are tempted at the thought of trying it for yourself, whatever you do, don't go to You just know what will happen. You have been warned!

Friday, 25 February 2011

Shock news: Shakespeare is funny

If I am absolutely honest, Shakespeare is not my first preference when it comes to theatre. I realise this confession has destroyed any chance of  maintaining the illusion that I'm remotely 'cultured', but it's the truth. I enjoyed studying and reading his plays at school but there's something about that reverential vocal style often used in theatre productions of Shakespeare that turns me off. Or productions are so self consciously 'alternative' - set in lunatic asylums, or Nazi Germany - that this gets in the way of the drama itself. I certainly have never enjoyed Shakespeare's comedies. At least with his tragedies you can enjoy the dramatic tension of the remorseless turning of the wheel of fate towards the final reckoning.  In his comedies, as far as I could see, there were just lots of mistaken identity plot devices and sometimes some fairies. And the jokes aren't funny.
Well. I was wrong. We went to see a production of the Comedy of Errors by Propellor last night - and frequently laughed out loud. It was definitely not a reverential approach. Set in a South American version of Corinth, complete with mariachi band in sombreros, it was Shakespeare meets panto meets a Ray Cooney farce. The comedy was broad and often physical, but it was smart and imaginative and knowing. All the slapstick - accompanied by the requisite live sound effects - was delivered with perfect timing. 

Propellor is an all male company, which meant the female characters were drag turns.  There was quite a lot of knowing humour drawn from that - not least in the appearance of the Mother Abbess in fishnets and boots, to the strains of Madonna's Like A Prayer - but it didn't undermine the power of the characters. And let's not forget, when Shakespeare wrote his plays, he was writing for all male companies.

As a bonus, the mariachi band played raucous versions of Eurythmics hits in the interval.

Photo by Manuel Har / Propellor
I hope I haven't made this sound naff or dumbed down. Because in amongst all the cross-dressing and running gags, the language was Shakespeare's and was brought to life in such a way that not only did the plot and narrative tension come through, but the verbal humour made sense. It is a production that embraces and celebrates the original play and injects it with new theatrical energy.

Propellor are touring this in the UK and the US until July. If you would prefer something with a bit of gravitas, they are performing Comedy of Errors in rep with Richard III. Both productions have had rave reviews, and if I didn't have other commitments, I would be going to see Richard III this weekend. They were that good.

Sunday, 20 February 2011

Hello Old Fruit

I'm just recovering from a lengthy bout of laryngitis. What should I make of the gales of laughter that greets this news when any of my friends hear about it? As if they cannot conceive of my existence without the power of speech. I know I talk a lot but ..... Actually, they have a point. However, it's been surprisingly peaceful, resisting speech. I've discovered it's possible to have a thought, without immediately vocalising it. Who knew. I suspect my other half has been having a peaceful time of it as well.

Clearly, I've been suffering from an even longer bout of virtual laryngitis. So my sincere thanks to Isabelle for her well-timed comment on my last post, which happened to coincide with my own stirrings of interest in trying to pick up this blogging lark again.  I also finally managed to install and operate the software for my new camera. Only taken me 3 months.

Last weekend, we were lucky enough to be invited to share the birthday celebrations of our dear friend R. A 'biggie'. There's no bus pass involved, but he may find himself on the SAGA mailing lists.

We spent the weekend in what is probably the most unusual holiday cottage in the UK.

This is The Pineapple - a Landmark Trust property near Falkirk. It was built in 1761, as part of an elaborate summerhouse, along one side of a walled garden. It is flanked by gardeners' cottages which have now been converted into a 2 bedroom  holiday property.

No one really knows the reason for Lord Dunmore deciding to build a massive pineapple shaped folly in central Scotland, an area not renowned for its tropical fruit harvest. Pineapples were something of a status symbol in the 18th century, imported by the wealthy from the Caribbean. I remember seeing special pineapple growing glasshouses at Chatsworth House.  So I suppose he was just showing off.

The cottage is quite bijoux - and you have to go outside to get between the living area and the bedrooms, and more to the point, the toilet. So take a kaghoul. It was fine for a weekend though. And you get to sit in the Pineapple itself, which is like a very glamorous conservatory. It must be marvellous in the summer. Even in the chill and drizzle of a Scottish February, we managed to brave it for about half an hour, to drink birthday champagne by candlelight.

And we saw our first snowdrops of the year.

Best of all, I got to enjoy all the pleasure of birthday cake and champagne, without being the one turning 50 - yet. 

Monday, 22 November 2010

Brace yourself!

Hello. I'm back. I make no promises about how long for, based on my 'half-finished' attempts in the last few months. However, I had to share this little snippet of Edinburgh New Town life, spotted last weekend.

A Saturday stroll through Edinburgh's New Town, on the way to lunch back at Leo's Beanery, enjoying the restrained elegance of the Georgian townhouses. But what's that hanging from the top left balcony?

Ah yes, living in a city centre flat can be so restrictive. Where do you dry your laundry? Where do you store your bicycle? But most of all, where on earth do you hang your brace of pheasants?

Tuesday, 14 September 2010

At last .....

I'm running a personal development course at the end of October. I'm really excited about it. However, it strikes me that its stumbling genesis is typical of my way of going about getting anything done. It also illustrates perfectly how those of us not blessed with the 'planning and organisation' gene, lurch into action.

First step is to nurture an idea which just remains wishful thinking for ages and ages (about 2 years in this case). Then I start mentioning it as a possibility to friends. Saying it outloud to people somehow makes it feel a bit more real. Then I start prefacing any mention of the idea with half-hearted attempts at commitment - e.g. 'I really must ..' or 'I am determined to ...'. Eventually there's a kind of internal commitment to the project with a vague timetable, e.g. 'I'm going to run a personal development course in the autumn'. This is followed by a hiatus borne out of an illusion of momentum, because I've decided to go ahead with the project. It's as if I believe that, by making the decision I've started the ball rolling and everything will magically come to pass, without me having to do anything. It's like the relief that comes after creating a neat 'to do' list, before you've tried to do anything on it.

Then comes the panic-inducing reality check, usually instigated by looking at my diary. In this case, it dawned on me towards the end of August that if I wanted to run something in 'the autumn' and I needed to get off my backside and organise it.

Even then, I need to engineer some unavoidable imperative to get me into full action mode. In this case it was booking the venue for a certain set of dates. Finally, a deadline, which is the only thing that gets me moving. After that,  it's extraordinary just how much I can get done. After two years of thinking about it, in the space of two weeks, I've designed a 6 week personal development course, arranged the venue, designed and produced a leaflet and poster, started advertising the event, and even created a website. Phew.

12 years ago, when I was studying for my counselling diploma, I came across a wonderful illustration of the planning vs 'emergent' approach to things. It was based on the Myers-Briggs personality types, and in particular the Judging/Perceiving dimension: the 'judging' types, being those who prefer life to be planned, stable and organised; the 'perceiving' types being those who  tend to go with the flow, prefer flexibility and are happy to respond to things as they arise. I've long since lost the reference, but the illustration of the differences between the judging and perceiving approaches to a task was so apt and so vivid,  it's stayed with me.

Judging vs Perceiving approach to tasks

Those of you who are 'judging' types will be baffled by the representation on the right. For those of you who, like me, are more 'perceiving' than 'judging', it will be all too painfully familiar. It is informally known amongst my 'perceiving' friends as the 'squiggle', recognisable from school essays, university assignments, work projects, PhD theses and even the housework (when we have visitors coming).  The question is, despite the apparent inefficiency and chaos (and the discomfort of going through this fraught process) is it any less effective than the nice linear version? The answer is probably irrelevant, as I seem unable to circumvent squiggle mode, however many personal development courses I run!

 On this occasion, my squiggle has produced this:

More information here (result of another squiggle!)