NotJustAHatStand

Thanks for all your comments on my last post. We only got back earlier this evening (so I'm still to catch up on all your blogs) but I had a lovely holiday, and a fab birthday on Tuesday. To celebrate my being one step closer to thirty* we went to the Three Chimneys for lunch, which was A.M.A.Z.I.N.G.

*I didn't think turning 27 was necessarily something to celebrate but I wasn't given a choice in the matter.

To start I had breast of wood pigeon with crispy tattie scones, and a port and red lentil gravy. Then for my main course I had grilled loin of lamb with spring vegetables and a rosemary jus. I enjoyed my first two courses so much I had to have dessert too, so I had the Three Chimneys Famous Hot Marmalade Pudding with Drambuie Custard. It was all absolutely delicious, and I would thoroughly recommend the Three Chimneys if you're ever on Skye. It's not cheap, but the food is out of this world, the service is impeccable, and the location is unbelievable.

However.

I regret eating that starter.

We got home about 8.15 this evening, intending to get straight into our jammies, and eat pizza in front of the TV. The cats were pleased(ish) to see us - Coco sulked and wouldn't cuddle me until I gave her a KitBit - and the house was fine. We unpacked the car, and I went into the living room to make sure everything was ok. I noticed that our fireguard had been moved. I then saw something white in the fireplace. I went to have a closer look and saw a pile of soot, debris and feathers sitting on the coals of the fire, and more of the same all over the fireplace, and the floor just in front. I then looked a bit further up, to the beginning of the chimney, and saw a pair of feet.

A pair of birdy-looking feet. Attached to something that looked distinctly bird-like.

I nearly crapped my pants of course, and I shouted for the Boy to come and have a look. He agreed that it looked a bit birdy, but was of the opinion that it was dead (he was unable to explain how on earth a dead bird would manage to perch in our chimney however). He went for something with which to poke the bird, for that is what it was. Now I should be precise here, it wasn't just a bird, it was a pigeon.

A WOOD PIGEON. One of these. One of THESE. In MY LIVING ROOM.

The Boy poked the pigeon with the end of a broom. It was most definitely NOT dead. The poor thing got a terrible fright - it squawked and flapped its wings so hard trying to escape from the nasty poking man that it dislodged yet more of the crap that was in our chimney, and did another enormous shit on our lovely living flame gas fire.

The Boy agreed that the bird was not dead and suggested, most unhelpfully, that we turn the fire on. It was at this moment, when he suggested roast wood pigeon instead of pizza for dinner, that I realised this was karma. I ate one of this bird's cousins. Possibly even more than one (I don't know how much meat you get on a pigeon, but I'm guessing not much).

I was in a bit of a state. I didn't know what to do - I kept saying to the Boy 'but what do we DO?', while he stood with his hands in his pockets looking at the fireplace, much like a plumber who looks at your boiler whilst trying to figure out how to break the bad news. In the end, we did what we always do - we phoned our mums ('But what do we DO?!').

However, neither of them were any help, so I phoned the SSPCA. We were lucky that the only animal inspector in Edinburgh and the Lothians was able to pop in on her way to another job - she dove straight in without a moment's hesitation, and after much flapping and flying of sooty feathers, the inspector pulled Priscilla the Pigeon from our chimney. She looked a bit bedraggled and indignant, and her tail feathers were in a sorry state, but she was otherwise ok (hurrah!). The SSPCA lady said she'd take Priscilla into the wildlife centre for a few days, to let her recover from her ordeal, and make sure her missing tail feathers would grow back ok, and off she went.

I took some pictures before I cleaned away all the mess the damned pigeon made, you can look at them here. It's nearly midnight and only now am I starting to calm down and relax after a long journey home from Skye, and an unexpected welcome from a wild creature in my living room. I think I need another glass of wine.

I'll put some of my holiday pictures up in the next couple of days.

Labels: Food, Holidays, Karma

It's my sister's birthday today, and the Boy and I went out with my mum, sis and her boy to a lovely French restaurant in Edinburgh. The food was all delicious, the service was good, and the surroundings were comfortable. I had crusty bread with olives and feta cheese to start, followed by lamb with a redcurrant and rosemary jus, french fries* and seasonal vegetables.

Just one problem.

My lamb was still bleating when my plate arrived.

Now, I know it's supposed to taste better if it's a bit pink in the middle, but I just can't eat something that is oozing blood onto my plate. The waiter warned me when I ordered that the lamb would be medium-rare, so I asked for medium. The only reason I didn't ask for it to be well-done was that I knew I would get disapproving looks from both Sister and Sister's Boy (who are both major foodies - Sister's Boy works in the restaurant trade). But I wasn't expecting it to be quite so pink.

Sister's Boy ordered a rare fillet steak, and I couldn't even look down at his end of the table until he'd finished. He practically had to spear it with his fork to stop it scampering off his plate and back to the field. It looked fine when it arrived but as soon as he cut into it it became apparent that it was really just a hunk of raw flesh that had been briefly introduced to a hot pan.

I know this betrays my extreme ignorance when it comes to food, but it just seems wrong to me. When I cook at home I'm always paranoid about NOT cooking meat properly, so it just seems unnatural to me. And my lamb was more than slightly pink. Bill Bryson writes in 'Notes From A Big Country' (one of my all time favourite ever books, EVER) that 'a barber will give you the haircut he wants to give you, and there is nothing you can do about it' - it seems that French chefs will give you the steak they want to give you, and there is nothing you can do about it.

But despite my squeamishness, the lamb was lovely. The best thing was that there was enough of it that I could eat round the pinks bits, and still be full at the end of my meal. Not so full that I couldn't squeeze in the creamiest, most delicious creme brulee I've ever had in my life, thankfully.

*Yes, I went to a fancy restaurant and ordered CHIPS. I'm a pikey.

Labels: Food