Since returning from my travels I feel I have rather neglected Ma Spratticus. She took the trouble to bring me into this world, teach me right from wrong and the art of fencing with a car aerial amongst other essential lessons. She fed me strange offal based food stuffs and has insisted in latter years in calling me everything but my actual christian name, so I figured it was high time she was paid a visit. So it was back to the Shires for a few days last week.
And just to maintain all the stereotypes about retired teachers who live in small Shire county market towns, belong to book clubs, drive roller-skates with a motor and who are stalwarts of the local Women's Institute: we went collecting sloes and blackberries with which to make all sorts of fine home produced fayre; namely sloe gin, bramble brandy, bramble tart and apple & blackberry pie. Happy days.
Sloe bushes live up to their name. They are not fast so 'catching' the berries is really quite simple, even for someone like me. It's amazing they've lasted so long in the evolutionary stampede.
Here's Ma Spratticus rounding up a handful of blackberries. Very few berries are quick enough to escape her hawk like reactions.
Bramble picking. Displaying my blushing case of black-finger.
The fruits of our labours...oh dear. [I have realised quite how baking orientated the BligBlagBlog has become in the last couple of months. I really can't account for it.]
Before committing the sloes to their boozy fate, I made an art installation called Sloe Down III. I sent this snap to Sheena Wagstaff, Chief Curator of the Tate Modern but she didn't share my vision so fortunately we got to make sloe gin after all. Phew.
And here it is: Ma Spratticus' Sloe Gin. For the record: 700ml gin, 1.5kg sloes (pricked...that is run through with a skewer to help release the juice) and 800g of fine caster sugar. Store in a cool dark place and shake vigorously weekly. Try to resist sampling daily. Gestation period three months plus.
Bramble brandy recipe is same as above but you don't need to skewer the blackberries. They squeal of their own accord without the violence.
Coming soon, the gripping tale of my lemon curd hunting expedition to Burkina Faso.
1 comment:
crikey! the grit family may have some competition scrumping down the orchard.
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