This is simple home cooking, made from a place of love, not only for the people eating it, but for the land it came from
Winter is the price you pay for living in the countryside. It is a starkly beautiful season, Mother Nature laid bare for all to see. Still and peaceful, yet wild and ruthless. Sharp heavy frosts blanket the land in a quiet fog broken only by the bones of trees. Unrelenting rain and impenetrable clouds steal the sun for weeks. We work outside, battling penetrating wind with rosy cheeks, dragon breath and fingers so stiff with cold they hurt. The long, quiet nights come with iron skies and haunting moons. rosy cheeks, dragon breath and fingers so stiff with cold they hurt. The long, quiet nights come with iron skies and haunting moons.
It is a time for self-reflection and hearty cooking. A time for slowing down and taking stock. Inside, the fire is always crackling and the windows shimmer with mist. Boots live by the warmth of the stove, socks hang from the rail above and bums press against oven doors while we chat away in the peaceful kitchen.
The kitchen has always been the heart of our home, where we talk, argue, discuss and deliberate. Home to dogs, sickly chickens, endless washing drying by the stove, goats that need bottle-feeding and wet lambs in need of warmth. Every corner is piled high with books, plants and
