newsetter jan 08

good cateress newsletter, Jan 08


It is always quite hard for me to write about food in January. We are done with the gluttony of Christmas and New Year; in the northern hemisphere our growing season has come to an end. Although, I do love to look at plant and seed catalogues, that arrive daily with the mail. Last week when it was in the high 50’s I wanted to be outside digging compost into the soil in preparation for the new years growth. But I do know that some kind of winter will make its mark.

There is something bleakly beautiful about the winter months; particularly on the Isle of Wight. Growing up, it was the time of year when there were few if any visitors; the roads were quiet and the islanders had the place to themselves.

British winters are mild in comparison to New York, but the constant grey and drizzle can really get to me. I am heading to York a little later this week, Simon joked to me a couple of days ago, that they are getting six hours of grey daylight, I shuddered as I looked out at the bitter cold outside. But the sun is shining, and that always makes me feel good..

Rain or shine we still walked the dogs across the fields every day. Wellies on, the winter ground was always sodden and muddy, we frequently sank into the mud up and over our ankles. The footpath along the river could be treacherous; in some places bike riders and walkers had tried putting drift wood down in the mud to use as a stepping stone.

Mostly the rain was a damp drizzle and you could get away with a heavy Guernsey sweater, gloves and scarf. Then there were the gale force wind days, when I was almost bent double walking into the wind. The rain and rain soaked hair lashing your face. A walk that we Brits would refer to as invigorating, once we were sat back beside the fire with a cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake.

One January morning, shortly before coming to the US, I woke up at the Folly and all was silence, we were shrouded in freezing mist. I could barely see to the end of the roof. After breakfast I called the dogs and we set off. I knew the path really well, so I was not concerned about having an accident, I just wanted to walk in the pure silence and have a sense of being alone.

We walked through the copse where it came down to the river, the tide was going out. An Oyster catcher screeched as it rose in the mist, having heard the dogs, I stopped in my tracks momentarily startled by its screech. We crossed the bridge across the creek and now we were in the open. The cows must have been at the top of the field, as I could hear the occasional muffled moo; at least that meant I was unlikely to be startled by one coming out of the mist. A few gulls and rooks were sitting in the field, as long as the dogs stayed by the water, they just ignored us. Bilbo disappeared into the mist, heading for the water, I heard the water part around him as he swam and then the sound of him shaking and wet footsteps as he came back to me.

Was it possible the mist was getting thicker here? It certainly felt so and I was a little less sure of myself. As we came to the stile between the two fields; Merry growled and stood firm beside me. A man came out of the mist on the other side of the fence. It was hard to tell who was more surprised to see another person. A fisherman, we passed the time of day and talked of the beauty and mystery of the mist. We went on our way. By the time we came back he was gone.

Our first winter here in Harlem I started to feed the bird in our back garden our old stale bread; mostly sparrows and starlings; although in the summer I had seen the flash of red as a cardinal flew past. As the birds got used to us, and saw the food, we had more visitors, including the cardinals. Two summers ago the cardinals had chicks and the young male made our garden his terrain. We grew to know his call, at dusk he was the last bird in the garden. The parents would still come but the youngster we watched change from his dull brown crest and feathers of winter. By early spring his feathers were a bright orange. At some point in the Spring he was bright red and started to bring his mate. In late summer there was another young male with his parents. The older pair did not visit as much. but we would still occasionally see them.

Our bird collection had grown to include Jays, Robins, Mockingbird, Juncos, Turtle doves. All of which gave us great joy. They seemed to call to us, and if they thought I was late throwing their seed they would fly by the office window, calling to me and sit on the bar to make sure I would remember them. I love to see one sparrow on each post of the fence.

Last winter, in the playlot one of the wild cats gave birth to a litter of kittens. Cute kittens, certainly the motley crew of addicts, sellers, low life's and general human flotsam that hang on the corner, thought so; they were buying cat food and feeding them. By summer the kittens had grown into full fledged healthy wild cats, who soon discovered our bird sanctuary. We chased them away the few times they appeared in the garden. Then one morning we awoke to a pile of feathers in the garden. A cat had got one of the doves. For a while we were loosing a bird a week. Our birds had lost their sanctuary. The cardinals stopped coming as much. It was devastating to us, but the regular birds still came. I have looked out on more than one occasion, the cats are eating bread at the top of that garden, squirrels and starlings in the middle, sparrows and juncos close to the house.

In December one sunday morning there at the end of the garden on the fence was a red tailed hawk. Was this Pale Male? A beautiful hawk; he and Hammy our crack addict type A squirrel were jumping around each other, but the hawk looked as though it had caught a mouse.

Then yesterday while talking to Simon on the phone, I saw the hawk swoop down into the garden behind ours and then fly up into the tree outside my office window. I watched excitedly for a minute and realized he had a dove held in his left talon on the branch. I went and got Num to come and see, by which time the hawk was tearing the feathers from the dove, shaking them into the breeze, they floated away. We watched him tearing the flesh and swallowing as he took about twenty minutes to eat his meal. A magnificent and terrible sight.

During this time there was not a peak from the other birds. No one flew by. No squirrels. No cats. The Hawk, top of his food chain, ruled supreme.

I wanted to mention two winter salads that we enjoy.

The first is simply: savoy cabbage, sliced; celery chopped and granny smith apple chopped with blue cheese dressing.
Second: Napa cabbage sliced; julienne on a mandolin carrot, cucumber, daikon, chopped green onions and a little mint. I also sprinkle flax seeds on this and serve with a basic favourite oil and vinegar.

stay warm and healthy