AH SURE AZURE

Author: Kathy

  • How to make Bread

    How to make Bread

    Having spent six weeks working the early morning shift in a bakery in Co Kilkenny last summer, I knew I was not cut out for night shifts. My love of baking remained intact.

    It being Spring here in Corfu, I find myself again with the baking bug. Seldom do I pick up a recipe for the first time and have success. I have carried around on my travels a hardback book by Emmanuel Hadjiandreou called ‘How to make Bread’ and had never before made anything from it. I chose the cinnamon rolls recipe for no better reason than I had the right number of eggs and cinnamon in the cupboard. I was so happy with the result I wanted to record it and share if not the taste, then the experience.

    My first attempt, the ‘pre ferment’, failed to rise after an hour and I weighed out a second amount. This seemed to double in size after the correct amount of time. The smell of the cinnamon made the process a pure pleasure. I kneaded the dough the requisite five times, then left it for an hour.

    My failure with the first dough had lingered but I resisted the ‘useless’ label I was about to give myself. So I was like a mother seeing her child walk for the first time when I saw that the earlier dough did eventually rise. I had left it in its bowl on the radiator and my spirits rose with the dough.

    You can almost smell the
    cinnamon

    It was sheer pleasure then to knock the air out of the dough and lay it on the counter, baste it with beaten egg and sprinkle cinnamon over it.

    Rolling it up and cutting it into whirls was easy peasy and fitting them into a floured tin was novel. The idea is that they merge into one another but they are suppose to again double in size, before baking. That was not happening quickly and I was tempted to put them in the oven which I had heated up but I thought fondly of the first batch which just needed time to rise. I turned off the oven and decided to wait. It was in any event the time of day to attend the cafeneion for a little something, given all the kneading and rising time I had devoted to my precious dough.

    Back from the local, my patience was rewarded. The whole pan was now tightly packed with cinamonny, sugary rolls.

    I lit the oven again and in fifteen minutes exactly, my triumph was complete. They looked great as they were, but better with melted butter basted on top. Not sure if the icing sugar improved the look, but the inside was perfection, if I say so myself, and I will say so because this whole post is a boast. Here’s to lazy, perfect Sundays when the dough rises.

  • It was a dark and Stormy Night

    It was a dark and Stormy Night

    It was a dark and stormy night and the pirates huddled round and said ‘Cap’n – tell us a story’ The captain took a seat at the fire and began -‘It was a dark and stormy night…’

    The thunder crashed and the rain fell in torrents. My life evolved into the perfect storm both metaphorically speaking and in reality. And yes, I had a few glasses of wine before anyone thinks of that. It is hard to escape the village of Gardylades, perched on the side of a mountain, without partaking of some hospitality, especially on a night like that.

    Reaching home successfully, I collected some wood to keep the fire going
    fed the dogs and bedded them down for the night. I noticed two things at this point,- the broadband had gone down and I could not find my set of keys which I had used to open the door of the house. I decided I would look for them in the morning.

    All that night, the storm raged, with lightning flashing and thunder crashing overhead very soon afterwards. I woke frequently and at one point, I heard the lightning making a zap that disabled the cooker and the water pump. When I woke in the morning, I found I still had light, so I was only lacking in cooking facilities, water and broadband. Then I remembered the keys. I conducted a thorough search of the premises, as they would say on Crimleline, to no avail. I wandered dejectedly up and down to the woodshed, eyes on the ground, while the rain continued to pour.

    Luckily, there was a spare key to the jeep, which I found and used. I developed a theory that one of the dogs had picked up the keys and run off with them. This turned out to be wrong but it didn’t stop me developing a habit of walking round the garden with my eyes on the ground, seeking a glint of metal. Not only was the jeep key on it, but the back door and my BMW keys were on the same keyring. As a background note, I had, the Friday before, used the wrong PIN number for my card and was dipping into emergency cash while I waited for a new number to issue.

    By the end of the day, I had the water and cooker and water sorted out and a new modem for broadband installed. But still no sign of the keys. I rang my friend and gave her my theory about the dogs and another theory that I could have thrown them in the fire when I put a log on it before going to bed. She scoffed at both and I had to agree that they were highly unlikely.

    I was left feeling distraught and upset. But at least I could drive and everything was working, the PIN number issue being sorted. The days went by and the owners of the house commissioned a Greek man called Eddy to erect a new fence around the garden to keep the dogs in. He asked me would I move the Beemer. I told him the keys were lost and could he keep an eye out. A week went by and Eddy and his lads dug holes which they filled with concrete and got on with the fencing. One Saturday morning, with the sun shining so I could sit out and wait for the sun to come round to the hammock side, I noticed two burnt pieces of metal on the outside table. I picked them up and realised they were naked keys with the plastic melted off.

    I ran to where Eddy and his lads were – ‘ Ah Katerina- I found them in the ashes where you had emptied them.’ His look said it all- how could anyone be so dim? Alas, the Beemer keys did not survive and I have had to order a new set.

    Was it Victor Frankel who said it is not what happens to you in life but how you react to it? I have been putting that piece of advice to good use. But I still walk around vaguely looking for something on the ground. I never had the satisfaction of seeing them again so I think the failing synapses in my brain, the same ones that made me forget my PIN number, haven’t yet made the necessary connection.

    It was a dark and stormy night and the pirates huddled round and said ‘Cap’n tell us a story’. The Captain threw his keys into the fire and said – ‘It was a dark and stormy night….’

  • Hammocks and Whistling

    Hammocks and Whistling

    In a previous post, I mentioned I had formed the habit of relaxing in a hammock on the Verandah in the afternoons, before the sun went down. Since then, I have not mentioned it as it would not be fun being out there in the severe weather we have had since early December.

    We have had a succession of severe cold – 2` some nights, torrential rain, wind and apocalyptical thunderstorms. If it was calm enough to leave a pudding bowl out at night, it would be full in the morning – that sort of rain.

    Alongside that drama , we have had bright and warm sunshine on many days like Christmas Day and St Stephens day here which is the 27th December, not the 26th as it is in Ireland.

    Hammock Selfie -Helfie?

    But the good news is that I am back in the hammock. Since almost exactly February 1st, the weather has turned warmer. We are now enjoying 20` in the sunshine. The ground has miraculously dried up and soaked all the rain that has fallen in the last few months. Spring is here again. This time its all purple irises and a warmth coming up from the ground.The lambs that were born in the first Spring are nearly ready for the pot and the clanking of bells is as loud as ever.

    Wild Iris and Aloe Vera

    • Blood Oranges ripened
    • Praying Mantis on the Verandah

    At the beginning of my stay here, I set myself two goals – one to learn to whistle and the other to learn to do latte art. Was it Malcolm Gladwell who said it takes 10,000 hours to master the art of anything? On the basis of daily practice, while walking the dogs I would blow feebly and produce an embarrassingly pathetic sound. Now I can produce a recognisable whistle to which, to my total surprise, the dogs respond immediately.

    The second goal has not worked out. Even with an espresso machine here with the right kind of steamer, I have never been able to produce anything like a recognizable shape. I have watched numerous videos and tried every kind of milk. I have tried shaking my wrist to get the right drizzle and pouring from a height but it still comes out as blob of froth on top of the coffee. Neither a heart not a tulip have I produced. I have consumed crazy amounts of coffee, not wanting to waste it all, ending up buzzing with caffeine. If and when I achieve this goal, I promise to post a photo of the result.

    Ouzo-hot on some trail

    The dogs still get their daily, if not twice daily walk. This they get very excited about, even though they could just go themselves. The two rescue dogs, Ouzo, and Xara, which means friendship, joy and kindness, that sort of thing, have warm and endearing natures. Ouzo, being the younger and male, is sillier and talks a lot of nonsense in a sort of dog language, translating as ‘yarl owooo yurl’, not unlike Boris Johnson on a bad day.

    Xara

    The older one, Xara, is a big momma. solid and strong, She has a big smile and is the most intelligent animal I have ever encountered. Her eyes are expressive of pleasure, hurt, remorse and miserableness. She actually made me feel bad one day for driving off to the gym without bringing them for their walk in the morning. That evening, she was very put out and I eventually realized what was wrong.

    They have won me over. I am only their caretaker for the winter and I would never take on the burden of a dog myself, but they are very good company.

    Now that I am back in the hammock of an afternoon, Xara has resumed her habit of placing her two front legs on top of me and leaning in to the hammock, in the vague hope of being allowed up. Sometimes she will just rest there for ten minutes, her hind legs on the ground, until some urgent stirring of a frog or cicada or bird in the garden compels her to charge off, barely taking both legs with her, in hot pursuit of the unfortunate creature.

    The island is waking up. There is a confidence abroad that the worst of the weather is over.