The garden reconstruction project is becoming very complicated.
The problem is that we have got to find places to store things whilst we recreate the place where they were.
Mark’s new shed, which is pictured above, currently contains the window frames for the conservatory, some assorted bricks and a ton bag of plant mix.
We will need to take that lot out and put it somewhere whilst we dig the drains up, concrete the floor and add a roof.
Once we have done that then we will be able to move Mark’s tools into there.
We can’t start building the conservatory until we have moved Mark’s tools, because they are all in the place at the house end of the garden, where we would like to put it.
I don’t quite know what we are going to do with the window frames, the bricks and the plant mix in the mean time. It is an exciting challenge.
I left Mark to wonder about this whilst I did things in the kitchen. I had got the last lot of grapes to process, and I wanted very much to do it in order that my relationship with grapes would be over for another year, apart from the eating, which is the happy bit.
As you might recall, I had a small challenge of my own to be overcome, because of having no jars left.
You cannot put jam into plastic things. I think this is because hot jam releases some chemical in the plastic, but I might easily be making that up, because I have actually got no idea at all why you can’t. It would not be a nice thing to do anyway, there is no pride in a row of takeaway tubs full of sticky stuff.
I decided that the answer to this was to make the grapes into the filling which would go in the Christmas sweets. This does not need to go in a jar, but can be poured into a large tray to set, and then cut into squares and frozen.
I was already a long way into this job, because all of the fruit had been de-stalked, and the apples cored and chopped, and I had boiled it yesterday.
Today I puréed it all and then shoved it through a sieve to get rid of the pips. Even then I put the pips and the last of the pulp that clung to them into a muslin cloth and squeezed the last of the juice out.
This left some pips for the compost and a large pan of thick juice.
I added some sugar to this and boiled it.
You can not take your eyes off the pan whilst you are doing this, which makes it a tedious sort of job. The moment your attention wanders for the smallest moment, it all fizzes over the top and you will be spending the next couple of hours scrubbing the top of your cooker, which will be covered in a hardened black crust.
You have got to stir it and hold it at the right temperature for ages and ages, until finally it stops frothing and subsides into a thick, bubbling glue at the bottom of the pan. You boil this for a while and then pour it into the tray. When it cools you can cut it up.
It is excellent encased in salted chocolate, but I won’t be doing this bit until nearer to Christmas. It can all sit in the freezer until then.
I am hoping that I have not boiled it for too long. There is a moment after which it becomes toffee. This tastes all right but is impossible to get out of the tray without a great deal of difficulty.
I will not know about this until tomorrow. I have just got my fingers crossed in the meantime. I don’t care anyway. I have finished with grapes.
Number Two Daughter rang whilst I was at work. She had buzzed off to play rugby today, tiptoeing out to go and play against Chester whilst we were still in bed this morning. She was very pleased with herself because they had won, and wondered if I would come and collect her from Kendal when she had finished getting drunk later.
I was so pleased to have some success in the family that I agreed, and then Number One Daughter rang to say that her team had come second in their weekend long competition in Newquay. This involved doing hundreds of press-ups and running in the sea and heaving concrete balls over the tops of things.
It sounded horrible.
However, it is another thing to be pleased about.
Perhaps we are not doing too badly after all.
You might notice the addition of some bottles to the cement. They are to admit beautiful patches of mottled light. He has been dying to try this for ages, but has been prohibited by a mistrustful wife who likes walls to be opaque and not translucent. His shed, however, is his own affair, and he has been raiding people’s recycling bins.
