Are You Wise to Overweight?

Obesity strikes at an earlier and earlier age now and over-weight smacks of excess. Here comes that phrase again - 'when I was young', we could not afford to eat between meals

and to be blunt, there were few fat people around. I note with incredulity now the amount

of food on many a plate and wonder quite how it can all pack into a stomach that starts out roughly the size of a fist!

In our house, in order to help convince ourselves we have adequate portions, we use smaller size dinner plates which have the effect of making meals appear larger and believe me, we do not go hungry.

Practically all our food is home-prepared and cooked. I say this not as a saint and martyr but as an efficient cook who can turn out a meal in almost as fast a time as resorting to convenience foods or send-outs. It really isn't too hard. After all, we used to have to wash the dirt off potatoes bought at the local shop before we even thought of peeling them. Now we have beautiful, pre-packed clean spuds we can boil or pop in the micro-wave; fresh or frozen ready-prepared veg.

I long ago taught myself to batch-cook and with a freezer that can cough up home-made burgers or ready-cooked chicken, sausages or soup I can have a proper hot meal served up inside twenty minutes.

Undoubtedly there is a place for occasional commercially-produced convenience foods in busy households but if you truly want to know what you are consuming (and save money), make cooking for yourself a priority. It's worth it!

Time for Jelly-Making

Granny's Crabapple Jelly

I have a 'thing' about hedges and bemoaned the fact that when we moved here twenty-five years ago, the field margins were very bare. Many years ago hedgerows had been grubbed out to make larger arable fields, and roadside verges continued to be 'scalped' every winter.

Since then, I'm very happy to say our lovely local farmers have replanted miles of mixed hedging which have matured well. My latest gripe is that they often severely trim them into neat box-shapes with almost more bald stem than top. I sent a plea to them through our local magazine to allow more top-growth and especially to cultivate some full-grown trees from saplings within the hedges. We shall see if that happens.

Meanwhile, since the farmer who owns the fields opposite stopped his radical scalping, the verge has sprouted field maples and several prolific-fruiting crab-apple trees, what's more he has agreed to allow them to grow. Yippee! So not only will we look out on beautiful apple-blossom in the spring but I get to pick the fruit for crab-apple jelly in the autumn too.

Mumpers Dingle

Standing in my kitchen one day when I lived in Sprowston on the outskirts of Norwich, I became aware of a squawking noise in the house, accompanied by heavy banging. On investigation I found it came from our staircase where my Siamese cat Max was struggling to the top dragging a young chicken between his legs. By dint of much praise and coaxing, which meant he opened his mouth to thank me back in Siamese, I managed to grab the chicken and affect a rescue.

The next thing was to secure the fowl, so I emptied and up-ended the laundry basket and penned the bird in the garage with some grain while I tried to find where it had been stolen from. I was unsuccessful and the only place I knew that had chickens was a little old-fashioned bungalow a long way off at the end of the road. It was called Mumpers Dingle.

I had peered over the back fence once or twice before, fascinated to see many fancy chickens of every shape, size and variety scraping away in the unkempt grounds pecking at grain the old lady who lived there sprinkled for them. Some sported great floppy topknots of feathers and others heavily-feathered legs. They were every hue of white, gold or black. Cockerels strutted importantly and flashed iridescent colours of blue and green while the duller hens cackled submissively.

There was only one thing for it. Under cover of darkness I stole up the road with my rescue

bird under my arm and lobbed it over the gate. Perfect!

I like to think my little rescuee went on to have a happy life at Mumpers Dingle and was sad when the scruffy old property was sold, torn down and urbanised, the little estate of houses built over the grounds primly renamed Holly Bank.

I will never forget the charm of its name though, and immortalised it in a song I wrote not surprisingly called - Mumpers Dingle. Of course, the little old lady may or may not have been a spinster called Maisie Green...

Maisie Green was young and keen,

Always fresh and always clean, All the lads gave her the eye, Preened themselves when she went by. Only problem they could see that made them shake and tingle, Was when they came to take her out and called at Mumpers Dingle.

‘Twas when the boys came calling on that luscious Mistress Green, They faced a demon cockerel – the like they’d never seen! Eyes they felt upon them, feathers rustled rough, Spurs held sharp and ready, their kneecaps for to cut. Somewhere laid in ambush a cockerel on attack, Intent on warning suitors that there'd be no coming back!

He’d have their eye, he’d peck their knee He’d fly their head and hair he’d shred - their very hearts did tremble. (x 2)

Maisie did grow desperate; on boys she was so keen, Though Ma always insisted that they met with Mr. Green, Dad was not the problem, so well-disposed was he - ‘Twas crossing the yard from gate to door – Would they make the kitchen floor?!

The yard it was haphazard, with feathers like a blizzard, Chicks and hens of every hue, Around the garden squawked and flew. Plumes on their legs and crests on their heads Beaks of yellow and combs of red, Fancy hens a’scrapin’ at corn and dust and shingle, Running and a’squawkin’ for the pride of Mumpers Dingle.

Would they come to lasting harm? (That gave them cause for deep alarm.) Could they ever spoon with Maisie? Maisie drove ‘em crazy!

Alas! Alack! Each suitor soon threw down his hat And called with voice a-trembling: “Forget our date sweet Maisie Green, I love you dear as you have seen, You may be young, you may be bright, you’re able, lithe and nimble, But while that cock is so cock-sure, I’m leaving Mumpers Dingle”.

That cock he lived for ever, ruled the roost ‘til death – A wizened, old crone now tends his plot, a batty lady time forgot, All suitors gone, her time dragged on Miss Green was destined single – Perhaps by now she’d be a wife but for the cock of Mumper’s Dingle?