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Cultural Concubine Blog

Neither here nor there…

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Fresh, one hour and some scratches later...

Fresh, one hour and some scratches later…

Yes, I know… it has been almost a year. So about time to get back in the saddle.

In the meantime I have been pretty busy.

There are many things to learn in the countryside.

But the most important is simply to live, but more importantly to live simply.
Quite some time ago I wrote with great pleasure about growing up, loving to drink Roosvicee.

Today I made it myself. For free.
(well ok, if you discount the oil used in the AGA, the sugar from the jar and the cost of the water…)
It is nice how the online recipe for Rose hip syrup looks so simple, but isn’t.
It leaves out the experience of one hour or so, picking and cleaning the hips. (if you can find any at all!)
Then to boot, at the bottom of the comments, a reader lamented the poor advice, explaining that temperature and cooking pots had to be significantly different.
(no metal with acid, no boiling vit. C.) Pfff. Fussy.

In a way, the way I made the syrup today shows exactly what I have learnt in the country this year.

It is so important not to leave out the experience and value of actual handy work. (the hour of picking, thorns, fresh air.)
And instead of getting lost in the very exact details (see comments) and ‘have to-s’ you just follow your gut feeling.
Everyone, sing along with me: 
… The cold never bothered me anyway…

Rose syrup done... Fruity and warming. Bring on the zing.

Rose syrup done… Fruity and warming. Bring on the zing.

In the end just I simmered the chopped rose hips in an enamel pan. Strained it once, none of this double filter nonsense… Left it to cool. And have been drinking it all day. Wonderful.

Simple.

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Occasionally I write fables. I wonder what you make of this one:

Image

Wouldn’t you agree with me?
If it is anything that you could be,
wouldn’t you climb out, be fancy free.
like a monkey in a tree…

All together in the green huckleberry.
Aunts and uncles, mums and siblings,
climbing, tumbling, making merry.
All those hands, smiles, tails and limbs.

Not this little monkey, red and wild.
It’s the quickest light and most clever.
Hates to be treated as a child
Prefers to look up to bright birds of a feather.

Wants to be free from clinging bands
No more letting down by being pulled up
It aspires to blue oxygen-low lands.
enjoying the cool view from the top.

Are ten stuck below worth less than one up high?
light as a bird, soaring on wings of light.
Fearlessly free only below sun and sky
Free from bonds below, oh what a sight.

For those on the plain, seeing a stripe in the air
Branches and leaves showering heavy heads
Up there, there’s no time to look down or beware
How quick the heady successful forgets

that freedom without love, like a king without a court
only once reaches too far for an empty crown.
One familiar hand short…
A long lonely way down.

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