25 The sudden fledging of summer, a hügelkultur tumulus & some of the vegan recipes I keep promising...

beans, vegan mayo, athol breizh

One of the robins has been singing very early and quite late – a soothing tune for my heart, which has been quite out of kilter (and because of that latter I’m currently not online very much, so there may be fewer posts here than usual). Alongside the robin a dunnock adds its enthusiastic, if tuneless, notes. The absence of swallows and martins, though, fills me with despair.

Summer appeared, suddenly and without warning, about two weeks ago. It’s disappeared again today – it’s cold and wet once more here now – which gives me a let-out from feeling I ought to garden.

All around until early this week (i.e. before today’s forecast rain) farmers have been mowing and making windrows for hay, or baling silage, during all the hours of daylight. On the ridge with its long views of the Monts d’Arrée and the Montagnes Noires, there are meadows of rusty sheep sorrel and acreages of ox-eye daisies. Mostly, the local commune has left banks and some verges unmown, thank goodness.

The local hills are coated with the greengold of barley, long enough now to run like a pelt over the land before the wind, side by side with the stiff green-blue spears of wheat. (If wheat were a human, it would be besuited; barley would wear bohemian clothes.)

A modern tumulus

To one side of our veg plot by the adjoining orchard TM has created this fabulous tumulus, or properly ‘windrow’. It’s made from the woody stems of vegetation underlaid with a few stickish branches and topped with any weeds too large for the compost heap, and is actually intended as mulch for later in the year. However, I intend to plant it up with the few remaining squash plants as a hügelkultur ‘raised bed’ in the meantime.

In the garden germination has been slow; and it even seems as if we have early blight on our potatoes after the humidity of May. If this spreads to the rest of the potatoes or the tomatoes, it will be a bit devastatiing. Aiming to be as close to self-sufficient as we can be, and organic, means losses are part of the picture. My garlic, planted at the winter solstice, has succumbed to rust; we will still have a harvest, but the bulbs will be smaller. I intercrop carrot with leeks or spring onions to help protect against carrot fly; the leeks are doing wonderfully, but in 10 rows I have just one carrot germinating.

On a positive note, I have elderflower cordial bottled, and elderflower sorbet in the freezer.

Recipes
We’re still in the ‘hungry gap’ in our garden, where we’ve finished eating the crops from last year but have yet to start properly on our new vegetables. Having said that, I’m starting to have a fabulous crop of broad beans, successionally sown from (also) the winter solstice on; I steam these lightly then marinate them in 3 parts olive oil to one part each soy sauce and cider vinegar, with a crushed clove of garlic and an inch of finely-chopped root ginger.

I’ve also just used up the last of our frozen green flageolet beans, podded in a marathon harvest by our friends Christina and Jerry who came to help last year, in my very favourite spring salad.

Here are a couple of recipes for you.

Ballhead Cabbage, Fennel, Orange & White Bean Winter Salad
serves 4 as a side, or 2 served as a main with e.g. baked potatoes

This takes a bit of prep ahead of time, but I consider it well worth it. It’s a good-sized fresh crispy salad that counterbalances carby dishes very well.

Sprouted sunflower seeds are excellent in this, nutritionally speaking, but you can of course use ordinary sunflower seeds.

I use a large plate and pile the individual ingredients on top of each other, starting with beans and ending with the sliced oranges arranged in a ring round the outside.

• half a good-sized firm cabbage)

• 1 small fennel root plus any fronds from the top

• 2 small oranges or 1 large one (blood oranges if you can get them)

• zest of one small or half a large orange

• 1 good handful sunflower seeds (sprouted or not)

• 1 can white beans (haricot, cannellini or butter beans) and/or tofu, the latter marinated if you like, and quickly seared in a little oil first if it’s not fermented

• plant yogurt OR a portion of vegan mayo (or mix both)

• 1 small onion

• 1 tsp caraway seed

• juice of 1 lemon

• splash olive oil

• salt

• green olives (optional)

• fresh herbs if you can: any of chives, parsley, mint, sorrel, a little wild garlic

First, finely slice the cabbage and fennel root. Put into a large-ish bowl with the caraway seeds, a dash of salt, the juice of half a lemon, and a splash of olive oil, and mix well with your hands. leave for an hour.

Rinse and drain the beans (or tofu). Put into another bowl with the finely-chopped onion, some yogurt or mayo, add the rest of the lemon juice, and chop the herbs into the beans. Taste and season, or add more juice/olive oil if needed. Throw in the sunflower seeds and orange zest. Mix well with your hands.

Tip the cabbage bowl’s contents out onto a large plate.

Pile the bean mix on top. (NB You can also simply leave the salads in two separate bowls for serving; in which case mix the orange pieces in with the beans.)

Peel the oranges and remove as much of the white pith as you can. Slice the oranges into rings and then halves, and encircle the cabbage layer with the orange halves. Scatter the the olives on top.

Eat immediately.

Vegan Mayo

Some of the better-known mayonnaise producers have started to introduce a vegan mayo. One or two, the well-known ones, are lovely; some are truly foul (mostly bland and too much sugar. The worst taste like salad cream.) Here in Brittany, I can’t get it at all, locally. So I make it.

This is the only recipe where I would not use cold pressed oils (these are so much better for you) – their taste is simply too strong, and the mayo ends up tasting bitter. Actually, it’s OK with cold-pressed sunflower oil, but works best with a light sunflower oil.

You might need to keep back maybe 25 ml of the 150 ml oil until you see how it’s thickening up. It’ll keep in the fridge in a sealed jar for a week or two (less with parsley or other green herb or veg additions). If it separates a little, stir it.

Serve it with crudités, on chips, on potato salad, on patatas bravas, with purple sprouting broccoli spears, with any salad – or on anything that would be improved with a little indulgence.

• 75 mls plant milk (I’ve only tried soya; make sure it’s unsweetened)

• 125–150 mls light sunflower oil (hold back 25 mls until you see how thick it is)

• 1 tsp lemon juice

• 1 tsp cider vinegar

• 1/2 tsp Dijon or grainy mustard

• salt and pepper to taste

• 1 clove garlic (optional)

• parsley (optional)

You can simply put it all into a measuring jug and use a stick blender. If it’s too thin, add the rest of the oil.

Be careful to stop blending once it’s mixed and thick, or it may revert to thinness again.

And a sweet course (rare in our house)

Rhubarb Athol Breizh or Cranachan
for 2

I wanted to find a new way to use the slender crop of rhubarb in the garden. (What’s in the photo, though, is nectarines as I’d used up the rhubarb before I thought of photographing the dish.)

The first time I had – or even heard of – Athol Brose was many years ago at a guest house in the Scottish Borders, where myself and my daughter stayed overnight en route for my sister’s wedding, after a most exhilarating ride on horseback through those moorland quarters.

Athol Brose was served for breakfast, whisky and all, though the oatmeal component was more like a cold thick creamy porridge, and full of fresh raspberries. It was utterly delicious.

Later I learned that the Athol Brose label was most commonly applied to the liquid, in effect strained cream and whisky, and the dessert – or breakfast – dish was more frequently known as Cranachan.

This is my vegan take, and bears not much resemblance to the authentic dish. (‘Breizh’ is the Breton name for Brittany.)

• 3 stems rhubarb

• 1 dstsp concentrated apple juice or maple syrup

• 30 gms pinhead oats

• 1 dstsp brown sugar

• 200 ml plant cream, whipping or thick

• 1 tbsp conc apple juice or maple syrup

• dash whisky or brandy if liked (I use pommeau, an apple brandy liqueur, if I use anything)

Gently stew the rhubarb with a dash of water and the concentrated apple juice or maple syrup until you have a purée: about 15 minutes.

Meantime toast the pinhead oats and the brown sugar (I use raw) on a medium heat for about 5 minutes, shaking frequently so they don’t burn. They’re ready when they start to colour and smell fragrantly toasty. Tip out to cool.

Whip the plant cream until it’s stiff, then gently fold in the apple juice or maple syrup and any alcohol.

Layer half the rhubarb, half the cream, half the oat mix, half the rhubarb, half the cream in 2 glasses and put in the fridge. Just before serving, top with the rest of the oat mix.

Variations: there are many, depending on the season. In Scotland, they always use raspberries, with whisky. Try with plums, or pears, or even apples. I’ve just used new-season nectarines.

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From beside the woods and the water, till next time, my friends – and if you try any of these, or simply feel like commenting, I’d love you to leave me a note.