Another Country Diary

I've picked all the nectarines, even the scrappy, part rotten ones. Covering them with bird net has meant that we've got enough to bottle, but I should have done it earlier in the week (when of course I couldn't because I had 'paying' work to do). There are a lot more moldy patches on them after the rain.

When I was picking up the ones that had dropped and rolled into the reeds beside the pond, I found a 'nest' where some animal (s) had been taking fruit and eating it. It was hidden by overhanging grass and there where a dozen or so nectarine stones eaten clean, and some soft brown droppings that looked wrong/too big for a possum. 

(We get lots of possum droppings on the tops of our cars. The possums sit in the apple tree that overhangs them. You learn not to leave the car windows open or you get a seat covered with possum shit and sticky urine.)

Whatever this is, it's been eating the nectarines that are hanging low to the ground in a manner which I thought were snails. They almost peel the skin off and eat shallow hollows, completely unlike birds. Other than a possum, all I can think of is perhaps a rat (there have been some big fluffy native mice or rats around that have been killed by neighborhood cats). Some of the droppings were suspended high in the grass so whatever it is, it can climb a branch but may have been stopped by the netting.

Nectarines, like peaches and apricots, are all variants of plums. Their botanical name is prunus persican meaning 'Persian plum' but they are thought to have originated in China. I don't know what variety ours are other than being a 'yellow nectarine' as compared to a 'white' fleshed variety.

The mission for tomorrow when it gets cooler, is to preserve them.

This is our Village Pond. Usually it's a vacant block next to the supermarket and opposite the bottom pub,  on the corner of the Ellendon cross street. It's (usually) used as a track to cut off the corner, and there is a line on the hypotenuse that's worn down like a sheep trail on a hillside. It is the preferred route of everyone on foot or on bike. The perfectly serviceable footpath only gets used by (oh, I'm guessing here as I've never seen anyone use it), by skateboarders, wheelchairs and old folks who can't negotiate the bumps and grooves. Even mums with prams and strollers cut across the block. Usually.

When it's been really raining (and it's not every time, just that combination of heavy rain after a long dry spell) it floods into puddles. People stand at the ends of the under water track and look perplexed. Couples talk to each other, and shake their heads.  When forced to walk the footpath however, people never talk to each other and just grunt or nod as you pass. 

As the water recedes, big decisions have to be made about the timing of safe passage. Kids start to ride their bikes through it, or hop across the higher areas. Dusk becomes a particularly testing time, when the soft muddy spots are not obvious to the people who cross, usually to and from the pub. Thankfully, after a few days it dries out enough to walk, at first along the higher edges of the track, and then eventually it's safe to let your feet follow the grooved path again. We all forget about it then and get ready to be surprised the next time it floods.

There's one clue as to when the relief is coming. The frogs stop croaking. Were the frogs come from, or hibernate to between these irregular wet spells I don't know. But with the first puddles, they're there, loud and constant. Enough to draw the attention of weekend day trippers who stand along the concrete footpaths and stare into the water, never guessing the true purpose of the block. An old couple today were staring as I walked past, and I immediately assumed they were considering passage. I said something obvious like "It's a bit damp at the moment', but the woman said, "We're listening to the frogs!".  I agreed that they were great. "They're so loud' they said, 'are they always there?' I gave them the above potted history of the pond and they nodded and smiled a lot and said thank you. They then walked around the sum of the squares on the other two sides, to the store.

If you've never heard frogs in a pond, here's what our village ones sounded like today. Click for 200k Mpg audio or download it, it's smoothest) 

Well, she suggests eating the greens and throwing the beets away, saying "Something spooky can happen to beetroot when it's cooked (and I don't mean just the vinegar that is often added): it's as if the sweetness has a slight putrid edge".

She then waxes lyrical about Stephanie Alexander's recipe for raw grated beetroot with lemon juice and chopped herbs, eaten with yogurt. "Raw" she says, "the sugariness has a spiky-sharpness about it, which stops it from cloying, even in large quantities".

(Nigella has a nice 'line' where she recommends peeling the beetroot "wearing rubber gloves if you don't want to come over all Lady Macbeth later").

I had some trepidation about serving them to the family, but a testing sample, warm and fragrant from the pot, sliced on the chopping board with a some butter, pepper and salt, disappeared quickly. As did the bowl of them later on the table. 

And Nigella, after I photographed them, I threw the greens away.