December
1st December The first day of December ushered in ‘The season to be jolly’ only I think that the usher must have been looking the other way and ogling the pretty usherette with the long legs on the other side of the auditorium, because our Lispe season began like a damp squib, rainy, miserable and not feeling ‘jolly’ at all. The coop turned to slime, doing a passable impression of sticky chocolate pudding without any of the upsides of that scenario. The hens stopped laying eggs, on strike again, this time their manifesto is apparently driven by protestations at ‘action taken against the health and well being of the proletariat due to the separation and incarceration of the male population’……. I must stop lending them my dictionary. The cockerels are getting used to being indoors, although they have now started to appear standing on the floor of the hen house when I open the door to give them their breakfast, instead of remaining fervently clinging to the perches, high up above my head as I bend down with water bowls and wooden scoops of ground corn, waiting to pounce on me at any second. I have always had this thing about birds, or bugs for that matter, in my hair. I think it is rooted in the deep psychological damage that my parents inadvertently inflicted when they allowed me to watch the old 1960’s version of Hitchcock’s film The Birds at the tenderest of ages. I think I was only about 30, a mother and on to my second husband, and should have been protected from such images as seagulls swooping down on the hair sprayed beehive of the lady in the boat. At least that’s how I remember it. Ever since then I have had this revulsion at the thought of winged beasties of any variety being caught in my hair. I think that maybe most people would have a fairly healthy fear of having two large, sex starved cockerels in their hair! Needless to say, I am always grateful for the extra-padded-strong-peaked-rainproof-dangling-padded dog ears protection of my Russian army hat. I just wish I could remember to put it on every time I went down to ‘fiddle’ with the cockerel coop. 2nd December Ah well, at least I remembered to remove the egg from the top pocket of my tartan padded work shirt this morning as it has been resting in the sunlounge all night. It was too warm when I collected it and needed to stagnate forgotten for twelve hours before being transferred to the refrigerator. At least that’s my excuse and I am sticking to it. Many an egg has ‘nested’ overnight in the pockets of my work shirt and it seems that they don’t mind at all. The hens obviously listened to my moaning about their lack of production. Maybe they think that if they give me one egg I might crumble and let them play with Rambo and Zebra. Of course I am a softie at heart, so I will let the boys out to play with the girls for a while this afternoon when I return from todays lesson. I have six lessons in five days this week, which quite frankly is too much, but two of my pupils are having intensive lessons as they have their exams looming, so I have to help them out. Also the money is quite handy. I might earn about £36 this week, the most I have earned since I have been here. I feel a pizza treat coming on. Needless to say I returned too late this afternoon to allow the hens any sexual acrobatics with their men, so yet again no eggs tonight. I hadn’t actually told them I was going to do this but their instincts obviously gave the foresight to know that I was crumbling under the pressure of ‘softiehood’ and they gave me a distinctly indignant and unfriendly look when I put them to bed. 3rd December Getting a bit colder now, although still not the biting frozen air associated with a Hungarian winter, it did reach 2 degrees C at 8 o’clock this morning, which is pretty chilly. I let everyone out of their respective hen houses this morning and I have to say that Zebra was quite keen. He didn’t do the mad sexual frenzied dash that I though he would, but he did manage to be fourth out of the coop after Mrs Duck who is always first and has taken to attempting Duckflight and comes out of the door at about knee height whether I am in the way or not. Closely followed by two hens and then Lilly who always takes a bit of coaxing but is so much bigger than everyone else he creates a blockage to the exodus through the narrowly open door, unless I hold it wide open for him. I think he gets a bit stiff overnight and like me finds it difficult to get moving in the morning until his joints have freed up a bit. Bless him. The hens greeted the return of their men with some playful ‘chase me, chase me’ games, but there seemed to be a somewhat half hearted effort on the part of the Zebra and Rambo was definitely out of shape as he didn’t catch a hen the whole time I was enjoying my voyeuristic role, as usual leaning on the cold metal gate and watching to see what would happen. I left them to their privacy after about fifteen minutes. Maybe they were a bit shy this morning. George and Mildred are definitely showing off each morning and I can stand in the open farther gateway without fear of being goose trampled, as they show me how pretty their wings are and do full circle formation ballroom dancing in front of me whilst honking their loud good mornings to the world at large. Apart from that they have been a bit boring lately, now that I have reduced their field by half with the new fence and they are protected from visitors of the canine kind. Still very beautiful and majestic though. 4th December I had to cancel my lesson today. I texted him, the policeman that is, it’s called phonetically an “SH-EM-SH” sms here, but he hasn’t replied. I did tell him I would be able to come on Saturday, but he still hasn’t replied. Oh well, never mind. If he wants a lesson he will contact me. I have a rather embarrassing excess of gaseous emissions today, so being in close quarters with anything human would have untold consequences to my standing in the community as a professional English coach. Best to stay at home with a good book. Had a nice chat with my Canadian internet friend today. She has four small children so I like to live vicariously through her trials and tribulations as my time as wife and mother of small snotty child is now past. She is very nice and has many little dramas on a daily basis with her neighbours, family, husband and of course the children, so it’s very interesting to talk to her. The only problem is the time difference of six hours. It gets very confusing trying to work out when she is free, well to be frank with four small children she is never really free, but anyhow, when she is free enough for a few minutes at a time to chat with me. I can give her the perspective of older woman wisdom and she can give me the perspective of actually living in a large community with shops and take-aways near by. It works splendidly. We have never actually met, but with the wonders of modern computing we have managed on rare occasions to get the video AND sound working occasionally for a live call, so I have heard her deep Canadian-American drawl and she has heard my clipped middle class English tones. We both think that the other one has a funny accent and often giggle at the way something was said rather than what was actually said. We find that the most unlikely things become funny. The word ‘refrigerator’ has actually sent us into apoplectic fits of laughter! She is a good friend, and there is definitely something cathartic about having a friend that neither knows, or is likely to meet ones family or personal friends. Weather report:- Temperature remains steady at about 5 degrees during the day and just above freezing at night. Locals often sniffing the air and telling me that ‘Today, maybe snow, maybe not’. No ice on the animal water bowls yet. Precipitation index and humidity gauges don’t feature much in country weather reporting here. 5th December Went into the big town today to take my lovely 20-something pupil to her exam and to do some Christmas shopping at the big Tesco’s supermarket with my friend Iren. I find that the prospect of going to a huge supermarket with hundreds of people is not as appealing as it used to be. I used to do this once or twice a week for most of my life in the UK and quite often enjoyed it. It is obviously something that is habit forming and I have broken my addiction. I now see many hazards associated with supermarket shopping. For a start it is laborious trying to find a parking spot close to the entrance. Then there is the struggling to find a trolley that will actually accept my 100 Forint coin, whilst simultaneously dodging people with huge directionally challenged trolleys full of unnecessary goods, and not paying attention to where they are going, as hoards of small children skip parabolically like satellites following incalculable orbits around their mothers. Fathers grimly heading in the direction of where they hoped they remembered they had parked the car this week. In addition there are the newly arrived cars turning into the car park at speed. Their drivers arguing with their wives and partners at the inadequate choice of parking aisle and peering through mist encrusted windows trying to find the perfect parking spot with adequate space to actually open ALL the doors. The aim being to simultaneously spew out the entire family in its urgent excitement to reach all the shiny, expensive things awaiting them in the modern day Aladdin’s cave and without getting into a fight with the neighbouring car owners about the large scratch, caused by the corner of the car door jamming into anything in its path, during the children’s hurried exodus, that has just ruined the paintwork of the neighbour’s prized possession. Obviously, also not paying attention to the small, rotund, blonde woman (me) trying to disentangle a suitable trolley without a wobbly screeching wheel from the over stuffed trolley parking bay. Please tell me someone why it is that the trolley gets a nicely cosy covered glass greenhouse to shelter in, whilst the unfortunate shopper has to stand out in all weathers? Does the trolley arrive with purses full of cash with which to pay the managers wages? I don’t think so! The marketing strategies as usual worked and I bought many things I didn’t need, however the problem of what to send my son for his ‘tree present’ was duly resolved by a large velveteen red Christmas stocking topped by an overstuffed grinning reindeer which played ‘Here comes Santa Clause’ and waggled it’s antlers in time to the music when you squeezed it’s left paw. I am a sucker for kitch! My pupil had less fortune. There were only two people taking the exam, so the examiner made sure of his fee by doubling the time of her exam to one hour. Luckily she did have the subject of the environment to discuss in English which we had practiced only two days ago. I asked her if she remembered that CO2 stood for Carbon Dioxide which I had diligently taught her at our last lesson, and she said that she did, but that she had just said CO2 which I thought was a shame. I am sure that the full chemical name would have earned her more points. I did make one little faux pas on the way home. We had been practicing her English by translation of the various conversations with Iren on the way to the exam, so on the way home I assumed that she wouldn’t do that anymore. When Judit asked me what I had bought in the supermarket, I said Christmas presents and food. She then asked me if I cook at Christmas and I jokingly replied “No, I was hoping for an invitation to Iren’s house” at which point she laughed and immediately translated this to Iren, who grinned embarrassedly. Iren did in fact ask me to Christmas lunch over coffee at her house when we got home. But it wasn’t quite the same somehow. Of course I said yes as I have had a wonderful time at the weird Hungarian Christmas Fayre lunch with her and her lovely family for two years running. But it definitely lacked the spontaneous generosity of her usual invitation in the past. I will bring her an extra big Christmas present to make up for my complete lack of tact. Thin ice forming on the chicken/goose water bowls this morning so I will definitely start emptying them at night because I don’t possess a mountain climber’s ice pick with which to break the rink every morning to insert fresh water. 6th December Winter. I am pretty certain it is here now. My Mum bless her, has sent me three lovely parcels for Christmas which include three complete sets of thermal underwear. They arrived yesterday whilst I was out, and unlike the UK they were still sitting on top of my dustbin only an arm’s reach over the front gate. I was telling her on the video call last night that I was tired after my excursion and couldn’t seem to get my back warm, so she generously made me open the smallest package whilst I was online so that I had one pair to wear before Christmas. Why three pairs? Well, one on, one in the cupboard and one in the wash of course. I explained this to Iren when she came round as it is Szent Mikolas (St. Nicolas) day today and she brought me a bag of chocolate. She thought this was great and after much looking up of words in the dictionary, she translated it into proper Hungarian for me which I remembered for precisely 60 seconds. I am really not sure what this Szent Mikolas day is all about. I am not aware of it existing as a marked day in England, other than it happens to fall on the second Sunday of Advent this year, which will of course only happen ever seven years. In Germany my mother and I think that it is on Christmas Eve. They seem to give chocolates here today, but I don’t know if they give presents as well. Why 6th December should be especially marked I am not sure, other than it being exactly one month to 12th Night (I know this because I am unfortunate enough to share my birthday with the arrival of the kings to the manger and the day on which all traces of Christmas decorations should be removed as it is considered bad luck if they are still up at midnight of 6th January in the UK. Again, I don’t know why). Incidentally, I was very amused to find out that Twelfth Night the Shakespeare play is in fact called … and I quote…. “Sixth January” here. Tee hee hee. I am sure the Bard would be amused. Rather less lyrical as a title don’t you think? A bit of excitement today. At 9.15am precisely a small red Fire Engine careened down the High Street with sirens blaring. Actually it is the only street in Lispe, and it is not called The High Street, but you get the picture. A big event by village standards. If I had not been concentrating on my goose dairying, I should have been a good nosy Hungarian and immediately rushed to my gate to see what was up and where it stopped and who was driving etc. so that I could talk about it with my neighbours for the next few weeks. However, I am still in my pyjamas and although I am wearing socks and a poncho, I am still wearing my slippers and it’s below freezing this morning. So I am sure I will catch up with reports later. It is bound to be someone’s brother’s-cousin’s-dentist’s-wife’s-uncle’s old mum who over stuffed her wood stove, caught light to the chimney and burnt the Szent Mikolas potatoes. Thick ice on Lazi’s water bowl outside the front door this morning as I forgot to bring it in. Better do it now because its an old ceramic white fluted thing I found in the shed and it will probably shatter when the ice melts. I lost several bisque plant pots last year
... 7th December A bit of excitement today. At 9.15am precisely a small red Fire Engine careened down the High Street with sirens blaring. Actually it is the only street in Lispe, and it is not called The High Street, but you get the picture. A big event by village standards. If I had not been concentrating on my goose dairying, I should have been a good nosy Hungarian and immediately rushed to my gate to see what was up and where it stopped and who was driving etc. so that I could talk about it with my neighbours for the next few weeks. However, I am still in my pyjamas and although I am wearing socks and a poncho, I am still wearing my slippers and it’s below freezing this morning. So I am sure I will catch up with reports later. It is bound to be someone’s brother’s-cousin’s-dentist’s-wife’s-uncle’s old mum who over stuffed her wood stove, caught light to the chimney and burnt the Szent Mikolas potatoes. Thick ice has encapsulated the contents of Lazi’s water bowl outside the front door this morning as I forgot to bring it in. Better do it now because it’s an old ceramic white fluted thing I found in the shed and it will probably shatter when the ice melts. I lost several bisque plant pots that way last year. I have succumbed to hen pressure and have let the cockerels out again today. I am not entirely sure how I will separate them again if I need to and will have to look back in this weighty tome to find out how I did it last time. At the moment Rambo has a reprieve, he is just so pretty. He is of course on probation so any shenanigans and he will be back inside for a stretch, or possibly a neck stretch. We shall see how well he behaves. 8th December I had a very amusing conversation with my parents online today. The story goes thus:- My son visited me in November so I asked him to take the Christmas pressy’s back for me, to give to the family when he saw them. When he visited his grandparents he didn’t realise that Granddad's present was missing as it had fallen down the back of his Christmas cupboard and was hiding cosily in his sock draw, so on returning from the visit he diligently looked for it and posted it to them. It arrived while they were out and my father was asking me worriedly during this video call how on earth he was going to follow the instructions on the card left by the post man to “Please call at the sorting office to collect your parcel bringing proof of identity. We have today attempted to deliver a parcel addressed to ‘Granddad’ 14 Prince Albert Street”. As my father pointed out, he is unaware of possessing any suitable forms of proof of identity that state categorically that his name is ‘Granddad’. I laughed till I cried and almost fell off my chair. It transpired that my son had left the side on which I had written ‘To Dad, Granddad David’ untouched. Not re-wrapped the parcel, but kindly attached a ‘thank you for having us’ card to the other side on which he had just written their address. God bless the postal workers at this difficult season. Their powers of interpretation must be stretched to the limit during December. All quiet in the coop although no sign of any egg action as yet. The nesting box nursery straw remains flat and undisturbed. No conical impression of a warm furry chicken bottom to show evidence of attempts to lay. I know I said furry and you think that chickens are actually feathered, but if you watch them in detail they have this big fluffy patch on their backsides that really does look like a large furry pompom has been superglued to their nether regions. I am not, and I state this clearly, a chicken bottom fancier, it is merely that when they peck their food in the fast food row every morning, their fluffy rear ends are in full view with their tails in the air and their heads down concentrating on their breakfast. 9th December “An egg, an egg, Oh my kingdom for an egg!” I cried at the coop this morning. George and Mildred were suitably impressed and answered me with a sympathetic honk and a nice foxtrot around their field, bobbing and weaving and circling one another whilst keeping their eyes on me. Sometimes they remind me of children in a playground. ‘Look at me’ they cry as they dangle upside down, their heads six feet above the concrete. ‘Look what I can do Mum’ they call as they leap into the air with the faith of the unlearned effects of gravity on flesh and bone, grabbing onto the fireman’s pole and sliding down without actually using their hands to slow the decent from warp speed. Ok, stretching the imagination a bit, but the geese have definitely got the ‘Look at me’ part down pat, and seem most indignant if I don’t praise them following a suitably impressive display. Needless to say, the hens ignored me completely. No eggs at bedtime. Que Sera Sera, I will have to be patient. 10th December I popped in to see my friend Iren on my way to the next village this morning. She is attempting to slowly move into my house by constantly leaving plates, bowls and saucepans piled high with delicious cakes, pancakes, soups and stews in my kitchen. I put up with it as I am a good friend! So I returned all the ones I could see this morning. She asked me if I would like a coffee and I replied that I would only be half an hour and I would have a coffee and a proper visit on my return. Of course the Hungarian generosity with food is I think legendary with those foreigners who have ever been to a Hungarian woman’s house. So naturally on my return the coffee had turned into a two course lunch with her best china. The soup with pickled cabbage, sour yoghurt, milk, paprika and some sort of meat was a little strange. But it was followed by a more familiar mixture of potatoes, spicy sausage, hard boiled eggs, cream cheese and mushrooms baked in the oven. This, although rather dry, was quite tasty. It is a very traditional dish apparently. The soup turned out to be called something that involved ‘cheesy cabbage’ which is rather odd. They also describe certain pieces of meat as ‘cheesy pork’. I did get the coffee after the meal. An EGG! In fact TWO eggs tonight. Well done girls. I am very proud of you. At last we have production beginning again. OK the cockerels can stay out. 11th December Headline:- Big Trouble in Chicken town! It was reported today that Rambo has ‘cooked his goose’ so to speak by attacking his Stalag 19 prison guard at lock up time. Already on a thin line of probation and with his amnesty hearing due later this week following good behaviour at the chicken sex work group, he has now violated his parole and behaved in a most aggressive manor. The guard had gently but firmly encouraged the rest of the prison population into their cell for the night and was reaching for the lock when Rambo burst out of the door, almost knocking the guard’s night stick (the YTB) to the ground and displaying his crop in a most ungentlemanly manner. He then repeatedly leapt at the Goose Keeper with much ferocity, gambolling over various buckets and bowls containing the remnants of the inmate’s supper. The consistent attacks caused the extensive use of the YTB to become necessary as he was forcibly ‘encouraged’ back into the cell. The Governor will review his case overnight and come to a decision. The guard when interviewed stated ‘Good grief! I wasn’t expecting that, I need a cuppa tea’. 12th December Rambo is now on Death Row. The date has been set for Tuesday by the professional cockerel executioners hired especially for the event. (Iren plus I am not sure who but definitely not me!) This may be the third time that a date has been pushed back at the last possible opportunity, a reprieve having been called in at the last minute by the governor of ChickenWorld on two previous occasions. I fear this last attack may bode the end of ‘The rein of King Rambo’. A memorial dinner will be held shortly after the execution. Invitation only. 13th December The best Christmas present ever arrived today. I received a small, slightly scruffy white envelope. Emblazoned across the front in neat handwriting was my address, carefully calligraphied in printed letters, topped by the rather unusual moniker ‘Mrs Tania Pleaseopenthisbeforexmas Jupp’. I duly obeyed the command and to my delighted astonishment found the confirmation printed email from EasyJet that my son was visiting me again in January. I telephoned him immediately and as usual had a short but excited discourse with his mobile phone answering service. I am very happy that he is coming again, determined as he is to be here at some point near our birthdays which are only two days apart. When he rang me back later, he also told me that he has a suitcase full of presents from the family for me. So I am officially delaying my English Christmas until around the 11th January. I am not sure if he is coming alone or with girlfriend in tow again, but I am just happy to be able to see him whenever I can. We have a rather odd but I think fairly normal relationship. We enjoy missing each other. In other words, he has definitely expressed the certainty that actually living together would be problematic. However, I am positive that if I was to live nearby he could be secure in the knowledge that I was right there, when he didn’t visit or call me from one week to the next. I similarly feel that living together with a son in his twenties is rather difficult and that although I miss him very much and occasionally feel the guilt of a parent who maybe found it very hard to let go, I also would rather be fifteen hundred miles away and joyously missing him, than just around the corner and constantly upset that his busy lifestyle precluded time to call or visit me. I prefer in fact to be distant and treasured than close by and ignored. It takes rather more effort to call or visit me in Hungary. I think it is similar to the well known fact that if you live a considerable distance from work, school etc. you are almost certain to be early every morning, whereas if you live within five minutes door to door of the same institution, you are invariably late on frequent occasions. The determination of effort is just not required! I am sure that many of you will cry out in horror at my lack of fortitude towards the task of parenting. For that I am sorry. And to be frank, all things in life, I have learned, are temporary and subject to change without notice at any given time. Therefore my protestations at the unsatisfactory nature of contemporary British societal attitude to the elderly may change without prior planning. At any moment I may decide to pack up my animals, crate my belongings and return to the UK with determination to be paid attention to at any given time I choose! On the chicken coop front, no eggs today, but it is getting rather cold and there are none of the beautiful midnight blue backed, pin prick bright stars out tonight. Hmm, I think a trip to the town is called for in the morning for emergency stock up supplies. 14th December It is looking decidedly icy this morning with a heavy white ochre and dove grey cloudy sky. It definitely looks like we are going to get a sprinkling of the white today. Iren and I managed to escape man-less to Letenye this morning. I spun the wheels getting across the short patch of verge in front of the cob cottage where I park my car whilst attempting to travel the short distance onto the road. Quite exciting, but not something I am generally happy about when it happens as I have an unfortunate gap in my driver training and did not attend the International James Bond Chase, Advance Spy driving course, which in the 1980’s was not widely available in sleepy Devonshire. Although I am sure I would not have such an abject fear of skidding if I had attended. Happily we made it to Letenye and did our impression of busy worker bees, scurrying from shop to shop in an effort to beat the weather and get back before the heavens shed their crystals on us. Unfortunately I was badly in need of a sit down a toilet and a drink so we decided to go into the fake-Formica clad, slightly scruffy, wood panelled café for a little lunch. I was mortified to find that Iren would not order any food and that the cheap and cheerful burger menu was off. So I ordered a coffee and a plate of chips as it seemed rude not to order some type of food having asked for the menu. Iren was, before retirement, a professional cook and made many tight lipped expressions of displeasure at the lack of quality and speed of service in this establishment. So much so that I attempted to leave before the said chips arrived, which she also would not hear of. They were, of course, of sub standard quality and she tasted the quarter centimetre (yes, I am trying to turn metric occasionally) of one end of a chip and proclaimed it not as good as hers. I do believe that the Hungarian psyche actually requires a degree of dissatisfaction and distain to enable it to work. Although extremely dubious about the place, Iren would not leave until she had PROVEN just how bad the service would be. Needless to say it also began to snow rather heavily while we sat there waiting for the potatoes to achieve ripeness before they could be harvested, chopped and fried into chips and I was panicking somewhat in my eagerness to end this debacle of so called ‘treat’ and get home as soon as possible. The sharp curves and big hills becoming Olympic sized obstacles in my imagination all covered in wheel spinning ice, and reduced visibility scaring my confidence into a small dusty corner of my determination. When we finally left, I tentatively told Iren that I had in fact defected to the Pizza place down the road in recent months and she replied “Oh yes, I like that place, the Pizza’s are very good”. I can never get it right! Tomorrow is Rambo funeral day. I am not looking forward to it. Depending on the weather of course. 15th December R.I.P. Rambo. He is no more, has shuffled off the mortal coil as the Monty Pythons famously put it. He has gone to the great chicken pen in the sky, ably assisted by Iren, and my neighbour Karchi who thankfully was not completely blotto this morning at 8.30 am when Iren arrived without her husband. I asked where he was and she told me that despite his macho thinks-nothing-of-going-into-a-small-shed-with-three-200-Kilo-pigs attitude to animals, he is in fact frightened of Rambo ever since he went for him that day. I feel rather proud to be a foreigner who can rear a cockerel so butch that it frightens an experienced Hungarian agronomist. Despite putting on my oldest work clothes and considering the use of a gas mask, the task was undertaken by four people in all, all of whom made me help and all of whom ignored my gagging sounds, sneezing, coughing and wheezing as we killed, dunked, cleaned, dunked, plucked, washed, dunked, gutted and generally butchered my once proud King of the Coop. My clothes were wet, covered in I’m not sure what? And I’m not sure I want to know! and stank by the end of the three hours of work required to convert one bad tempered chicken into chunks of meat suitable for stew, soup or dog food. If you add on to that time required for the preparing and cooking of the actual edible concoction, the scrubbing and de-perfuming of all layers of clothing and body parts worn for the event and subsequent spinning and drying of same. (By the way, all the work was done outside or in a garage with the door open at a temperature of no more than 3 degrees centigrade). Home farming is most definitely labour intensive and not particularly economical. To my disgust I am being forced to go to Iren’s to lunch tomorrow to sample the Rambo stew she is making, despite my best efforts to give her and her neighbour Maria, who also helped, every scrap of meat obtained from this extremely unpleasant work. The rest of the chickens look a little confused, but not unduly upset. However, they did all rush to the spot where Karchi and Iren allowed Rambo to bleed out when we had left the chicken coop. I hesitate to tell you that the birds savour fresh blood. YEEEEUCCCK! I washed it away as soon as the native’s backs were turned. I lit a memorial votive in honour of the proud and macho spirit of Rambo this evening. He will not be forgotten any time soon by the village. 16th December Rambo Stew at Iren’s house Day. I could not help feeling that the chickens and ducks came out of their house a little subdued this morning. They were ‘milling’ around instead of the usual dash to the fodder tray. Chickens are not known for ‘milling’ and tend to fill their days with business personified. Flopsy came over to the gate and cocked her head at me in a friendly sort of way, but I couldn’t help wondering if she was maybe just asking me where her erstwhile husband had disappeared to. Zebra, always vain, spent a lot of time just sitting on the log gym crowing. Or just followed the chickens around without a particular purpose in mind. It was quite sad. I hope that he does not decide to grow testosterone fuelled aggression in the absence of his ‘number two’. I actually went into the chicken pen without the YTB today. I kept myself busy all morning in the hope of distracting myself from my lunch date. Corn ground, paths swept, snow cleared, water turned off at Cob Cottage with Feri’s help. It was a long morning, but eventually I had to follow Feri and his various pipes, pumps, implements and handy pieces of Hungarian wire to their house for lunch. . Being persuaded by your parents to eat sprouts at Christmas lunch with your grandma when you are a child, has nothing on persuading yourself to eat the stew of an animal you have brought up, named, befriended, observed, written about, discussed, warred with and generally become fond of over a six month period. The huge pot of left over’s that Iren insisted I take home, will I am sad to say, become dog food with rapid gratefulness on my part and Lazi’s. It is also completely incongruous but I have to say he was delicious! Iren is keeping the wings, edible parts of the intestines, stomach (Feri’s favourite treat) and feet for the special Christmas lunch menu. Oh yummy! 17th December As pay back for all her work with his highness over the last two days, I tried to die Iren’s hair again. Normally skilled at colouring I have a big problem with Hungarian hair. The women here like the ‘tiger’ look, with many shades of dark brown, through reds and into blonde all over the head in a kaleidoscope of layered streaks. Unfortunately I went against my own advice and had died her whole head red last time her roots were showing, including the blonde highlights she had previously paid lots for in a salon. Returning these blonde flashes to any shade lighter than deep orange was just impossible. I used all the right methods. Little bits of tin foil carefully wrapped around each section. Plastic shower cap and then wrapped in a towel to promote heat and chemical reaction. Nothing worked. Her hair, like the rest of a Hungarian is as strong and steadfast as a mule. I am loathed to try industrial bleach on her, so she is going to have to go back to the expensive salon, for which I am sorry. But I did try.
The sun is shining brightly and beautifully today. One pleasant aspect to my task this morning was the walk to Iren’s house through the village. The snow is melting rapidly and glows golden white in the sun, little mounds of it determinedly staying in depressions marking a diminutive landscape of hills, valleys, deltas and features. It will all be gone by this afternoon which is very unusual. The blanket of snow, once laid, generally stays throughout the winter in various forms of solidity. A non-white Christmas is virtually unheard of here in southern Hungary. The ducks are enjoying the melting, rivulets of run off forming a kaleidoscopic land of miniature river ways in their small world. The sun bouncing off the viscous melted snow and mud mixture revealing the inevitable presence of a small amount of oil as a world of 1970’s multicoloured patterns constantly appears and disappears on the moving water. It is extremely pretty and I have small inklings of what delight it must be to be a duck. They are covered from head to toe in mud, no longer thick fluffy creamy white and constantly paddle, dip and wash themselves. They look happily content. Zebra looks on with contempt and prefers to go to the water bowl to delicately sip a little mud and straw strewn water. Raising his head, he parts his beak slightly so that you can see the tip of his red tongue which he waggles from side to side as his neck works rapidly to swallow the water. It is quite odd, being as he gulps down considerable amounts of sweet corn to have such a palaver of activity for one small beak-full of water!.
18th December
It is very cold today. The thermometer on my door crouched desolately in the recesses of the wood panels this morning showing a bone chilling minus eleven degrees at 8 a.m. Iren came over at about 10 o’clock with three kilos of Dió – walnuts. I love walnuts and they gather them wild here. It’s wonderful for me as they are very reasonable at about £3 per kilo de-shelled. The Hungarians don’t understand what I mean when I tell them that in the UK traditionally at Christmas we buy our walnuts with the shells ON. The local Hungarian women literally work their fingers to bleeding rawness around the kitchen table for this meagre wage. I witnessed this last year at one of my neighbours houses. All the walnuts are shelled by hand, and the buyers are very critical that they should be in neat halves and not quarters or pieces. My neighbour and her mother had piles of empty shells to one side, supermarket bags around their feet containing many kilos of whole walnuts they had personally gathered from the woods around us in the freezing cold harsh winter wind. On the table stood various bowls of sorted shelled nuts. One for half kernels, one for quarters and one for bits and pieces that they would keep to cook with as they are un-saleable. Neither did they use nut crackers or a separator like we do in the UK. These two skinny diminutive Hungarian women crack the nuts open with their hands. Two or three at a time. I am impressed but also very sorry for them. Bea (sounds like Bay-er) told me they had been at this task for three days and her hands were sore and painful but they had another two days to go. Both of them had raw red palms and fingers with cuts bruises and skinned patches. I cannot imagine many housewives in England doing this for about 10p an hour. They are all experts on walnuts here. I have been caught out at the complexity of walnuts by attempting to purchase a small bag from the market whilst with one of my female Hungarian friends around. It is like visiting a Vintner with the most authoritative Semillon in London.
Whilst wandering around the huge indoor fresh goods market in Nagykanizsa, I spy a small bag of walnuts in front of an old lady who smiles with a toothless grin back at me, immediately, but shyly attentive. Dressed often in the traditional two brightly materialed skirt, the top of her pop socks peaking out under the thick hem. Headscarf firmly knotted under her chin and hand knitted jumper scratchily showing underneath her faded Adidas sports jacket. My friend however swirls around like a vulture, eyes the goods and the seller with hawk like severity and gently but firmly pushes me to one side while she quizzes the soft flesh of the nut with analytical precision. Invariably, the seller has as much to do with the influence on taste as the actual product. Her criticism varies from too hard, too soft, too dry, too old, too young, too brown, too pale, not harvested at the right time, to many small pieces, not enough halves and finally she tastes one with a nod of permission from the fiscally challenged pensioner and pronounces that they are last years and I shouldn’t buy them. Needless to say, I had to wait until today to obtain first rate, harvested and shelled by a friend, acceptable though-not-of-the-finest-quality Tesco’s bags full of three kilos of fresh shelled walnuts. They all look yummy to me, but I am only a foreigner.
19th December
It has been snowing all day. It was getting very deep by midday and I could see that Lilly hadn’t moved much for a while as he was converted from slightly creamy grubby white to small snow covered hillock in about an hour. As I slid down the path with my broom flicking powdered water in all directions, the hillock quacked and a similarly shaped though slightly smaller one on his left levitated and revealed little orange feet. They both shook off the snow and grinned at me, then sauntered slowly towards the chicken pen door, imitating a kind of land swimming action through the ever deepening snow. The chicken house door was as usual lately guarded effectively by Zebra. Mrs Duck more interested in inspecting the depression I had made when I attempted to broom a path from the gate to the chicken pen door this morning finally began her weird little side to side nodding acknowledgement of my presence whilst still in forward motion.
I was disappointed this evening at the dearth of eggs this month. Yet again there was not a sign of the fruit of my labours. I am considering making an English Christmas Cake to take to Iren’s on Christmas day, and it would be so nice to make it with my own eggs, but I fear that I will have to buy some. I have four waiting belligerently in my fridge to be beaten and battered into submission. But I need six. My neighbours tell me that it is too cold for chickens to lay eggs. But then, almost everything they tell me about chickens turns out to be untrue for the ones reared by the noisy, caring, always getting it wrong foreigner.
20th December
-19 degrees overnight. I can feel every draft in the house, but I don’t want to hermetically seal it up because then I would have no fresh air at all. The gas convectors are working well and with an extra jumper on I am warm and cosy. Thank you Mum for the thermal underwear! Lazi is giving me lots of cuddles too and only goes out long enough to do his ablutions then he dashes back in, grateful that he is not owned by a Hungarian who would leave him outside all the time and maybe only provide an outdoor kennel or a corner of the barn to shelter in. Maybe that is why he is being extra smoochy and attentive?
I kept all the chickens and ducks in this morning until it got up to minus six then let them out for an hour at mid day to get a bit of fresh air. They can only move around in the channels I dug out yesterday and this morning to get access to them in the snow, so it was only really the ducks and one brave chicken who ventured out. Their landscape is an alien land of mountainous valleys of white, much too high for little duck and chicken legs to stretch up and surmount. The Himalayas are the buried log gym reaching into the sky like a giant Asian pop up geography book. Sir Edmund and Tensing did not appear to guide them to the sun deprived summit, so they all had a pooh and went back inside.
21st December
Truly international evening. I was, I have to say, feeling a little lonely this evening when I switched on my internet, but I ended up with a fabulous evening chatting to my Mum in Spain, my friend in Canada, my other friends in America and Sweden and my son on the telephone in the UK. So all in all had a very good evening and went to bed smiling. I wrapped a few presents too. Almost feel Christmassy. The snow unbelievably is all melting rapidly. It is still the same shape; it just gets shorter and denser by the hour. It was very powdery when it fell and made some fabulous cookie cutter shapes on anything that protruded even slightly above level. The edges of the roofs of my Well house and Lazi’s dog house actually look like newly cut royal icing sugar with that slightly crumbly texture at the edges but in an absolutely straight vertical cut, its about 15 inches deep. My large dark grey wheelie bin has shrunk by about two feet as it is surrounded in snow, but the lid has a perfect replica in white of the undulations of the plastic, perched on top to a depth of about 18 inches (I know, I’m not being metric. Some things are hard to change). It gives a new meaning to the expression ‘snow cap’. I never thought I would use this adjective when describing about a wheelie bin, but it actually looks cute!
The chickens only stayed out for a few minutes and I ended up putting their water and food bowls inside the various hen houses. As it is so cold, I have to take hot water down to them two or three times a day or they would only have ice to peck at. The ducks and geese don’t mind eating snow but the chickens would dehydrate. George and Mildred came and looked at the snow, then honked loudly and skimmed over it to come and see me. It was only on landing that they discovered how deep it was and George looked most indignant as his undercarriage made contact and scored a deep groove in his landing path. Milly sensibly realised that I had put their food and water under cover in their open fronted porch and raised herself up on tip toes, flapped her wings and execute a complete circle back to the goose house where she immediately stuck her head in the food and then the warm water I have left in one of my plastic kitchen buckets. The metal bucket I usually use from the Well, is freezing up so much each night that the level of water ice that I create every morning has filling it up completely. It is also stuck fast and frozen to the floor of the porch so I can’t attempt to empty it even when I melt the top ice with hot water. I have found that plastic buckets and bowls seem to freeze more slowly which is why I have sacrificed one of my indoor kitchen buckets for their benefit. Their feed tray was also buried under the snow so I used a plastic planter tray. Which I might add, George immediately trod on but didn’t tip over. When I tried this method with the chickens Zebra flipped it about two feet in the air and it landed wrong side up in the snow. So I am back to the oven shelf tray for them.