Midwinter

I'd forgotten how much I love it when it snows. All of a sudden it all goes quiet. All the mundane stuff in your typical streetscape disappears and gets replaced by works of art. There's a kind of odd glow, even before you open the curtains, because the reflected light is coming from a different angle than usual. And it's blue instead of grey.

It started yesterday afternoon, and carried on through the evening. The Sustainability Committee were treated to mulled wine, roast chestnuts and mince pies. We lit the stove. Sadly though, Lunchista fils let it go out, even after an explanation about how the privilege of lighting it leads to the responsibility for keeping it going. And I thought I was good at delegating...

It turns out that of the six of us on the Committee, two other than Chateau Lunchista have got woodburning stoves. Which made Lunchista glad that she had put "Treeplanting" on the agenda for our meeting. It transpires that the City Council are willing and able to supply trees at next-to-no cost. Now all we have to do is find some land whose owner doesn't mind the arrival of something as pleasing and useful as trees (especially when immortalised by Ansel Adams) You'd think that wasn't too difficult. Wouldn't you?

For mulled wine, pour two bottles of cheap red wine, the cheaper and redder the better, into a large (non-Aluminium) pan and put on a low heat. Add about half as much again of water, an orange studded with cloves, six tablespoons of sugar or honey and a few tablespoons of liquer. Slice up two more oranges and two lemons and add them in. Ready after 20 minutes on a low heat. Make sure it doesn't boil, or you start to lose the alcohol.

Value Engineering 2: Hallowe'en

Sometime last week it occurred to Lunchista that Hallowe'en was going to fall on a Saturday. Great, I thought, the smaller Lunchistas are going to have a whole day to put together costumes for Trick-or-Treating.

Or perhaps not.

On the Friday evening Lunchista fille came back from football practice and announced that there was going to be a match the following morning, half-term notwithstanding. It also transpired that everybody (everybody small, that is) wanted to go to Underwater Hockey, which has now become a semi-regular feature of our Saturday afternoons.

So at ten in the morning we arrived at the local footie-pitch and I spent the next ninety minutes cheering on the Lunchista fille squad and drinking large amounts of tea while talking about other people's holidays (there seems to be some kind of friendly rivalry about who can go the furthest: well we've been to Pluto so there). The weather was perfect: no wind, hazy sun, cool enough to play but mild enough to stand still and watch. To crown it all, it was a home win.

Meanwhile the men of the household had done the weekly food run, and as an extra bonus had found by experiment that this is possible by bike. Lunch was swifter than usual because there was "dead-easy chicken soup" already made. This gave us just enough time to hook up the bike trailer, load up the "implements of destruction" and head off to a convenient dead tree.

We'd never noticed this particular dead tree until it blew down in a gale, right across the cycle-path that leads to The Planets. Mr Lunchista had had to cycle into somebody's field to get round it. Next time he passed by, it was (and I quote) "chopped into handy bite-sized chunks" which, bit by bit, and with smiles from the odd passer-by as we go, have been making their way to our garage and then onto the woodburner. It's absolutely-dry Beech, too, one of the best for burning.

We sawed and loaded up about 30 kilos of it (works out as about a week's worth if it's not too cold), before heading back, just in time to load up the cozzies and towels, and the weekend Yorkshire Post for my edification and delight: Underwater Hockey isn't exactly a spectator sport. And so I've no idea how the game went, except everybody seemed happy with their performance, and not too exhausted to...

...make a pumpkin-lantern and put the finishing touches to that Vampire and Grim-Reaper ensemble (witches are apparently So Last Year). The Grim Reaper went out before dinner with the other assorted death-heads, whereas the Vampire was doing the after-dinner shift with her equally pale-and-interesting companion. After all you really don't want hungry vampires roaming the streets: the effect on the economy would be catastrophic.

The whole day had worked out so well: maximum entertainment, minimum hassle, no wasted time and practically no cost.

But it all relies on so much: food in the shops, petrol in the car, water to spare for the pool (though I'm reliably informed that Underwater Hockey's big in Australia). And nobody cold or desperate enough to fight us over that dead tree.

At about this time last year, two major banks came within hours of failing: failure which would have brought the usually smooth-running, and value-engineered-to-perfection, system that supplies us with all the basics, juddering to a halt.

If that, or anything like it, happens again, and we're not as lucky, are we ready for the Nightmare Scenario Value Engineering 2 - Hallowe'en ?


Dead-easy chicken soup (not for the squeamish): take the carcass, bones and all, from yesterday's roast and put in a pan, then cover with water, add a bit of salt, bring to the boil, turn down and simmer for as long as you like. The longer it's done for, the more gelatin comes out of the bones, which means that when the soup cools again it kind of "sets" and you can spread it on toast. It's also full of minerals that everybody is short of. When the soup's luke-warm, spread sheets of newspaper next to it, lift out the bones and any gristle, and wrap them in the newspaper (if your dusties are on strike this can actually go on the woodburner!). If you don't need the calories then you can take the fat off the top once the soup's completely cold. It will keep in the fridge for ages, and practically any vegetables, especially winter ones, will go well in it.

Light my fire

People seem to bear a serious grudge against this time of year. They complain that "the clocks are going back" and then invariably start a campaign to stop the change to Greenwich Mean Time, as if that would somehow prevent winter, or by extension, old age or that tough deadline at work. Elaborate plots are spun to avoid the worst of the cold and the dark: many of these involve flying off long distances and spending unfeasably large amounts of money. Lunchista has never done this and wonders what it would be like: on returning to an airport submerged in the general dreich-ness of a Northern Temperate Maritime (translation: dark, cold and damp) winter, would I feel worse than if I'd stayed put and got used to it, or would I somehow feel "recharged" by the extra hours of sunlight?

Sadly, unless you happen to be Goldman Sachs, "winter sun" holidays create the sort of holes in the budget that aren't exactly enablers for year-long lunch-breaks. Lunchista would therefore offer an alternative strategy: do as we have done. Instead of running away from autumn, by chance we've done something that improves it: we got a woodburner in. Lighting up has become something of an autumn ritual: a landmark which, unlike Hallowe'en, the clocks going back or the leaves dropping off the trees, is warm and cheerful.

We did it when speculation surfaced about the Gulf Stream packing up. It turns out that reports of its death were somewhat exaggerated, but we're glad we took the plunge. There are two- to three-week stretches on either side of the heating season when a stove is about right but firing up the entire central heating system (and the bills that come with it) would be a little OTT.

We started to notice how many lumps of dead tree people left lying about. In fact a combination of landscaped workplaces, other people's gardens, council tree-felling, and DIY projects has meant that in the six years since we first lit up we have never had to pay for any wood. It generally starts to appear about this time of year, and we quietly ask if people mind, and if they don't, we load it up and bring it home, where it has to dry out for a few months. Then it gets sawed up and stacked in the garage.

So, since last week, every evening when the darkness closes in, instead of mourning it we have something to look forward to. It's funny how much of a difference it makes, being able to look into the flames. I mean, you couldn't tell ghost stories in front of a radiator, could you?