What a week we've had here at the Twiggly Hoose. It has rained constantly since Sunday due, in no small part, to me spending some of my hard-earned Child Tax Credits on a garden fork, sieve thing and some cheapy primroses for my hanging basket. The primroses got planted up on the kitchen table, Twiglet transferring most of the compost very successfully to the living-room carpet, walls, paintwork and, I suspect, his stomach judging by the mess on his t-shirt and face. Still, at least it is organic compost. And I always wanted a red and muddy-brown swirled carpet - 70s style is making a come-back, after all.
The garden fork and sieve remain in the boot of Davey the Dilapidated Hyundai from Hell on the grounds that retreiving them means wading through what used to be the garden (but now resembles a Lido, I fully expect to see German beachtowels strewn all over my path very soon) to the chaos that is the World's smallest and fullest garden shed.
My primroses do look very pretty though, I am the envy of the local pensioners.
Stuck in the house all week with a bored, listless toddler does not make for particularly interesting reading. Books have been torn, Fisher Price Little People have been despatched through the letterbox, dinner has been thrown in disgust across the kitchen. The living-room looks as though it has been ram-raided by 200 Haribo-crazed toddlers with ADHD. Fingers have been trapped and hair has been coated in Weetabix. (I have discovered that Weetabix would make an excellent eco-friendly and biodegradable alternative to super-glue).
Favourite Twiglet phrases this week:
'Dooby Dooby Daaaaaaaaaay'
'Baaa Baaaaa BUGGY!' (no idea what this is supposed to mean, but it is, apparently, hilarious).
Still no real, proper, big-boy words. Apart from, when asked by a lady what his name was, he fixed is huge blue eyes on her, smiled his bestest smile and sagely said 'Bugger'.
We did do some cake-making. Well, I say 'we'... I did the work, Twiglet smeared flour across every conceivable surface and consumed so much raw egg that I'm amazed Edwina Curry didn't pop by with the Health Visitor and a contingent from Social Services. Twiglet decided that he preferred the Welshcakes uncooked, obviously. And, after my disasterous attempt at multi-tasking (nattering on phone, using a too-hot and very cheap frying pan and trying to clean a squirming Twiglet), so did I.
Got a very nice email from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall this morning, as I'm sure did around 177,000 other people who have committed to the Chicken Out! Campaign. We have been asked to take a photo of the free-range aisle of our local supermarket to send in to the site. The camera is ready for our soujourn to the delights of Asda Hamilton tonight, the jute bag and ultra-cheapskate shopping list is waiting in the hall....all I need to do is actually locate said free-range aisle, as last week it seemed to have disappeared completely. Does anyone have satnav and a magnifying glass I could borrow? A sherpa hanging around, perchance?
On a good note.....it has been snowing today. Everything is so drenched with rainwater that, of course, it hasn't stuck, but we are due more snowfall tomorrow and Saturday, so the Farmers' Market might have to miss our presence this week.
On a bad note....Saturday is actually Imbolc, the first day of Spring in the Pagan calendar (Christians celebrate it as St Bride's or St Brigit's Day, incidentally). One has a feeling that I will not be skipping happily around a green and pleasant garden praising and thanking the Goddess for the first warm rays of sun. I will be cowering indoors with a mug of hot-chocolate watching Wales get pumped to within an inch of their overpaid lives in the Six Nations.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Sunday, 20 January 2008
A chicken, some cheese and a big hole in my wallet where money used to be.
Farmers' Markets. They're not for the likes of us frugal types.
Yesterday morning, off we set in Davey The Dilapidated Hyundai from Hell to the South Side of Glasgow. Destination - Queen's Park.
I had decided that it was going to be load of rubbish but, wisely, kept these negative thoughts to myself for fear that Richard would dump my cynical self on the side of the M8, somewhere near Easterhouse; and then drive himself and the Twiglet to the nearest McDonalds Drive-Thru for a slap-up breakfast of saturated fat and sugar.
Parking up on a rather exclusive looking street of grand three-storey houses; my first inclination was to grab some nearby leaves in an attempt to camoflauge the car...a rusting, battered, barely road-legal Korean pensioner-wagon stands out like a sore thumb amongst the pristine 4x4s that look as though they have never encountered a puddle, let alone a muddy farm-track.
Twenty minutes of trying to rugby-tackle Twiglet into the equally battered (though fortunately not rusting) second-hand McLaren buggy (that DOES look as though it has seen many a muddy farm-track, although the most it has seen is the occassional trip to the Co-Op), we give in and let him walk. This is usually the best option in the long run, as within minutes he is bored of holding our hands and chooses the solitude of the buggy.
Despite my initial reservations, the great and the good of Organic Farming are well represented with around 20 stalls selling everything from very expensive bread to very expensive Ostrich burgers. The place is packed out....and this is serious Birkenstock and Quinny Zap territory. With my ethically-produced multi-coloured scarf and jute shopping bag, I thought we fitted in quite well; until I noticed that other children were called things like Verity and Ruthven and were certainly not dressed head-to-foot in second-hand Cherokee.
Chickens were, oddly, somewhat thin on the ground. We found one stall - a Pig Farmer, strangely enough - with a stash of these most rare of birds. Once I'd fought off a number of ancient shoppers wielding purses crammed with twenty-pound notes and seriously full carrier-bags, I was able to procure a chicken the size of a budgie for £8.10. I asked the farmer whether they had seen an increase in chicken sales since the Chicken Out! campaign had gripped the nation. He smiled at me knowingly......my money was in his (somewhat dirty) paws, and I was suddenly horribly aware that he might have popped into CostCo on his way down, rebagged the lot and would be giggling like a manic all the way to the bank come Monday morning.
Whilst these thoughts were spinning through my addled brain, I found myself parting with a further £4.50 for some apple-smoked mature cheddar (well, the lad on the stall did have a very nice smile) and £3.00 for some wild boar sausages for Richard who had been terribly well-behaved and restrained in the face of such epicurean delights (and with a very empty stomach to boot).
Returning to Twiggly Hoose, we packed Twiglet off to bed for his sanity-sleep (my sanity, not his) and set about hacking the chicken into pieces. And, fair play - the bird does seem to be free-range. No flabby bits, no acres of fat, no hock-burns. The nicest breasts Richard has seen for a very, very long time. Allegedly.
The breasts are frozen for two meals (yes, they are that big). The quarters for another meal. The wings have been saved in the freezer for when we have enough to recreate our favourite Chinese take-away's salt and chilli chicken wings. The carcass has made stock and chicken broth. All in all, I'm feeling pretty impressed with ourselves. Four meals from an £8.00 chicken,that's less than £1.00 per head. So there, it can be done.
Yesterday morning, off we set in Davey The Dilapidated Hyundai from Hell to the South Side of Glasgow. Destination - Queen's Park.
I had decided that it was going to be load of rubbish but, wisely, kept these negative thoughts to myself for fear that Richard would dump my cynical self on the side of the M8, somewhere near Easterhouse; and then drive himself and the Twiglet to the nearest McDonalds Drive-Thru for a slap-up breakfast of saturated fat and sugar.
Parking up on a rather exclusive looking street of grand three-storey houses; my first inclination was to grab some nearby leaves in an attempt to camoflauge the car...a rusting, battered, barely road-legal Korean pensioner-wagon stands out like a sore thumb amongst the pristine 4x4s that look as though they have never encountered a puddle, let alone a muddy farm-track.
Twenty minutes of trying to rugby-tackle Twiglet into the equally battered (though fortunately not rusting) second-hand McLaren buggy (that DOES look as though it has seen many a muddy farm-track, although the most it has seen is the occassional trip to the Co-Op), we give in and let him walk. This is usually the best option in the long run, as within minutes he is bored of holding our hands and chooses the solitude of the buggy.
Despite my initial reservations, the great and the good of Organic Farming are well represented with around 20 stalls selling everything from very expensive bread to very expensive Ostrich burgers. The place is packed out....and this is serious Birkenstock and Quinny Zap territory. With my ethically-produced multi-coloured scarf and jute shopping bag, I thought we fitted in quite well; until I noticed that other children were called things like Verity and Ruthven and were certainly not dressed head-to-foot in second-hand Cherokee.
Chickens were, oddly, somewhat thin on the ground. We found one stall - a Pig Farmer, strangely enough - with a stash of these most rare of birds. Once I'd fought off a number of ancient shoppers wielding purses crammed with twenty-pound notes and seriously full carrier-bags, I was able to procure a chicken the size of a budgie for £8.10. I asked the farmer whether they had seen an increase in chicken sales since the Chicken Out! campaign had gripped the nation. He smiled at me knowingly......my money was in his (somewhat dirty) paws, and I was suddenly horribly aware that he might have popped into CostCo on his way down, rebagged the lot and would be giggling like a manic all the way to the bank come Monday morning.
Whilst these thoughts were spinning through my addled brain, I found myself parting with a further £4.50 for some apple-smoked mature cheddar (well, the lad on the stall did have a very nice smile) and £3.00 for some wild boar sausages for Richard who had been terribly well-behaved and restrained in the face of such epicurean delights (and with a very empty stomach to boot).
Returning to Twiggly Hoose, we packed Twiglet off to bed for his sanity-sleep (my sanity, not his) and set about hacking the chicken into pieces. And, fair play - the bird does seem to be free-range. No flabby bits, no acres of fat, no hock-burns. The nicest breasts Richard has seen for a very, very long time. Allegedly.
The breasts are frozen for two meals (yes, they are that big). The quarters for another meal. The wings have been saved in the freezer for when we have enough to recreate our favourite Chinese take-away's salt and chilli chicken wings. The carcass has made stock and chicken broth. All in all, I'm feeling pretty impressed with ourselves. Four meals from an £8.00 chicken,that's less than £1.00 per head. So there, it can be done.
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
Asda - hang your collective heads in SHAME!
So...off we went to Asda (we have a choice of Asda or Tesco, so...well, not much choice at all really) to undertake the hellish endeavour that is the Weekly Shopping Challenge.
The Challenge
- To find a spot in the parent-and-child parking.
- If unsuccessful in this (which is usually the case), to walk through parent-and-child parking area without peering in through car windows making observations regarding lack of car-seat / style of car ('A toddler in a 2-seater Audi TT? One thinks not!') and generally getting into a foul mood before reaching the hallowed (though draughty) entrance hall of the Mecca of Consumerism.
- To head straight for the Whoops counter without looking as though we are desperate.
- To contain angry indignation when Whoops counter is, inevitably, empty bar three sad looking yoghurts and some ham that looks like the pig committed suicide in 1956.
- To procure as many reduced loaves and rolls as we can fit in our woefully small freezer without feeling the need to batter some doddering old person to death with a half-price baguette ('They are ALL 20p, love. ALL of them. And that's 20 of our new pence, y'hear?')
- To fill trolley up with nice, sensible healthy foodstuffs without looking smugly at the people with 18 children and a trolley full of additives
- To get the whole weekly shop (without the evil disposable nappies) in at under £20.00.
Thanks to the lovely Messieurs Fearnley-Whittingstall and Oliver; bare-bummed, hock-burnt and generally depressed chickens are now COMPLETELY off the menu for all three of us. Not just the fresh stuff, we're talking anything with chicken in it unless it is free-range. Same with eggs. No mayonnaise, no cakes, no quiche - unless they can prove that the chicken is free-range.
Considering the media attention and general hysteria the C4 programmes on chickens generated, I skipped happily off to the poultry section eager to see that the business brains of Walmart had bowed to public opinion and, never slow to jump on any passing bandwagon, would have rows upon rows of free-range chickens just bursting with happiness with the memory of their long(ish) and blissful lives.
How wrong I was. There were two sad packets of chicken legs. 'Ahhh' thought I. 'They must have sold out already'. So I scanned the area for where the free-range whole chickens would be, so I could check the (no doubt hugely, though trendily, inflated) prices would be. Then I looked harder. Then Richard started looking. Then even Ellis wondered why my face had gone a peculiar shade of violet, and he started looking....(though I think he just liked looking at his reflection on a piece of well-polished steak, to be fair).
Asda Hamilton do not stock whole free-range chicken. At all. Not one.
I wanted to demand an explanation from the manager. Richard convinced me that my mood was not condusive to an intelligent and well constructed ethical argument, and suggested I write a letter.
I'm afraid, dear reader, that Citizen Twiglet crumbled, and agreed.
On Saturday we are off to the Farmers' Market in Queen's Park to see what they have to offer. Originally, we were only looking to source local free-range poultry and eggs; however we will now also be pricing their fruit and vegetables. Asda have, potentially, lost the majority of our custom. All the tins and dried goods I can buy in Lidl, so a big fat (organic) raspberry to the country's second largest supermarket.
On a plus side - a few excellent advances to the frugal / sandal-wearing hippy cause......
- Have swapped the George Foreman Lean, Mean, Dust-Gathering-In-The-Cupboard-Because-It's-A-Bastard-To-Wash machine for a huge bag of really nice clothes for Ellis, courtesy of Freecycle. The lass in East Kilbride was lovely, and even threw a potty in for us. (Ellis now has a very funky item of headgear, it seems).
- The composter (now known as Davros) turned up this afternoon. He is settling in well into his new surroundings, squashed between the rusting barbeque and the fuschia bush. Richard's company are kindly donating their shredded paper to the cause, and Ellis's on-off relationship with fruit and vegetables means that plenty of green matter will be added on a regular basis.
- The shopping came in at.....(drum roll please....) £20.10. That's enough for a week, easily...and thanks to my obsessive compulsion to write detailed menus for the week, there will be very little - if nothing - to be thrown away.
Little steps, little steps.....
The Challenge
- To find a spot in the parent-and-child parking.
- If unsuccessful in this (which is usually the case), to walk through parent-and-child parking area without peering in through car windows making observations regarding lack of car-seat / style of car ('A toddler in a 2-seater Audi TT? One thinks not!') and generally getting into a foul mood before reaching the hallowed (though draughty) entrance hall of the Mecca of Consumerism.
- To head straight for the Whoops counter without looking as though we are desperate.
- To contain angry indignation when Whoops counter is, inevitably, empty bar three sad looking yoghurts and some ham that looks like the pig committed suicide in 1956.
- To procure as many reduced loaves and rolls as we can fit in our woefully small freezer without feeling the need to batter some doddering old person to death with a half-price baguette ('They are ALL 20p, love. ALL of them. And that's 20 of our new pence, y'hear?')
- To fill trolley up with nice, sensible healthy foodstuffs without looking smugly at the people with 18 children and a trolley full of additives
- To get the whole weekly shop (without the evil disposable nappies) in at under £20.00.
Thanks to the lovely Messieurs Fearnley-Whittingstall and Oliver; bare-bummed, hock-burnt and generally depressed chickens are now COMPLETELY off the menu for all three of us. Not just the fresh stuff, we're talking anything with chicken in it unless it is free-range. Same with eggs. No mayonnaise, no cakes, no quiche - unless they can prove that the chicken is free-range.
Considering the media attention and general hysteria the C4 programmes on chickens generated, I skipped happily off to the poultry section eager to see that the business brains of Walmart had bowed to public opinion and, never slow to jump on any passing bandwagon, would have rows upon rows of free-range chickens just bursting with happiness with the memory of their long(ish) and blissful lives.
How wrong I was. There were two sad packets of chicken legs. 'Ahhh' thought I. 'They must have sold out already'. So I scanned the area for where the free-range whole chickens would be, so I could check the (no doubt hugely, though trendily, inflated) prices would be. Then I looked harder. Then Richard started looking. Then even Ellis wondered why my face had gone a peculiar shade of violet, and he started looking....(though I think he just liked looking at his reflection on a piece of well-polished steak, to be fair).
Asda Hamilton do not stock whole free-range chicken. At all. Not one.
I wanted to demand an explanation from the manager. Richard convinced me that my mood was not condusive to an intelligent and well constructed ethical argument, and suggested I write a letter.
I'm afraid, dear reader, that Citizen Twiglet crumbled, and agreed.
On Saturday we are off to the Farmers' Market in Queen's Park to see what they have to offer. Originally, we were only looking to source local free-range poultry and eggs; however we will now also be pricing their fruit and vegetables. Asda have, potentially, lost the majority of our custom. All the tins and dried goods I can buy in Lidl, so a big fat (organic) raspberry to the country's second largest supermarket.
On a plus side - a few excellent advances to the frugal / sandal-wearing hippy cause......
- Have swapped the George Foreman Lean, Mean, Dust-Gathering-In-The-Cupboard-Because-It's-A-Bastard-To-Wash machine for a huge bag of really nice clothes for Ellis, courtesy of Freecycle. The lass in East Kilbride was lovely, and even threw a potty in for us. (Ellis now has a very funky item of headgear, it seems).
- The composter (now known as Davros) turned up this afternoon. He is settling in well into his new surroundings, squashed between the rusting barbeque and the fuschia bush. Richard's company are kindly donating their shredded paper to the cause, and Ellis's on-off relationship with fruit and vegetables means that plenty of green matter will be added on a regular basis.
- The shopping came in at.....(drum roll please....) £20.10. That's enough for a week, easily...and thanks to my obsessive compulsion to write detailed menus for the week, there will be very little - if nothing - to be thrown away.
Little steps, little steps.....
Monday, 14 January 2008
Saturday, 12 January 2008
Introducing Twiglet.....
The reason he is known as Twiglet will become apparent later, if I can be bothered....
Watch out, watch out...there's a Hoodie about.....
Watch out, watch out...there's a Hoodie about.....
Here's the Boy Wonder in his new Yule pyjamas as bought for him by his Nanny and Gok in Wales....(the smile is probably because he'd just hidden three slices of toast in the DVD player...)
Friday, 11 January 2008
Well, erm, here we are then. The Family Twiglet. Richard, Jacs and Ellis (and a couple of hundred house-spiders the size of large cats, and a pot-plant called Alan).
2008 is a new start for us and, hopefully, a step towards the life we really, really want to live. We can't afford to run away to the Highlands and buy a wee croft just yet (although I am seriously considering communal life, shame I lack any kind of transferable life skill) but we CAN be more frugal and think more seriously about what we buy, and why we buy it.
This whole thing started way back in Summer 2007 when we went camping in Dumfries and Galloway with only £4.00 per day to spend. Rather than throwing my toys out of the pram, I decided to look at it as a challenge, and see how far our money could stretch. Further than we thought, it transpired. I have very fond memories of Stilton and Broccoli packet-soup from a flask on a windy beach, of discovering a lot of wonderful (and free) Neolithic sites, and just relaxing outside the tent of an evening playing cards and watching the stars come out.
So...yes...2008 is all about...
- Reducing food waste by getting a composter, and planning menus each week to ensure we are only buying what we need.
- Looking for local suppliers wherever possible (although easier said than done, despite living in the apparent 'Garden of Scotland') to reduce plastics and food miles.
- Growing our own - we're planning more herbs, tomatoes, spring onions and possibly some dwarf beans.
- Going free-range. Completely.
- Mending and Making-Do, scrabbling around charity shops and being best friends with Freecycle.
- Asking 'Do I need it, or do I just want it?' whenever the evil,sweaty paws of rampant consumerism threatens to drag my wallet kicking and screaming into daylight.
So, all that remains is to wish you all a very happy, healthy and peaceful 2008 and ask you to keep watching this blog and sending us good vibes for success in our frugal endeavours!
Brightest Blessings from all at Casa Twiglet, somewhere on a badly designed council estate uncomfortably close to Glasgow.
2008 is a new start for us and, hopefully, a step towards the life we really, really want to live. We can't afford to run away to the Highlands and buy a wee croft just yet (although I am seriously considering communal life, shame I lack any kind of transferable life skill) but we CAN be more frugal and think more seriously about what we buy, and why we buy it.
This whole thing started way back in Summer 2007 when we went camping in Dumfries and Galloway with only £4.00 per day to spend. Rather than throwing my toys out of the pram, I decided to look at it as a challenge, and see how far our money could stretch. Further than we thought, it transpired. I have very fond memories of Stilton and Broccoli packet-soup from a flask on a windy beach, of discovering a lot of wonderful (and free) Neolithic sites, and just relaxing outside the tent of an evening playing cards and watching the stars come out.
So...yes...2008 is all about...
- Reducing food waste by getting a composter, and planning menus each week to ensure we are only buying what we need.
- Looking for local suppliers wherever possible (although easier said than done, despite living in the apparent 'Garden of Scotland') to reduce plastics and food miles.
- Growing our own - we're planning more herbs, tomatoes, spring onions and possibly some dwarf beans.
- Going free-range. Completely.
- Mending and Making-Do, scrabbling around charity shops and being best friends with Freecycle.
- Asking 'Do I need it, or do I just want it?' whenever the evil,sweaty paws of rampant consumerism threatens to drag my wallet kicking and screaming into daylight.
So, all that remains is to wish you all a very happy, healthy and peaceful 2008 and ask you to keep watching this blog and sending us good vibes for success in our frugal endeavours!
Brightest Blessings from all at Casa Twiglet, somewhere on a badly designed council estate uncomfortably close to Glasgow.
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