Welcome to Scrap Farm, the newsletter/podcast where I discuss living seasonally, adapting to climate chaos and how to make jam, all in the context of trying to start a farm (possibly in the UK but at this point who knows?).

If you’re new here, hello, hi, welcome. The next few weeks are likely to be less farm-centric and will harken back to my older writings for this newsletter. Writings on ‘weeds’ and foragables, on pagan festivals and the ever-turning wheel of the year. To those returning, also Hi.

When it comes to farm updates, my partner and I are more or less where we were last week. That is, stuck in the tichy indecision, or not even indecision, but in having to keep our options open. I have applied for countless more jobs, and been rejected from quite a few. We have, however, submitted our US business plan to see if we qualify for a USDA loan on a property we toured back in October. Thinking about that land it seems like a lifetime ago. Thinking about the land we toured in the UK also seems very far away. Being in the UK hinges on me getting a well-paid job, and how long we can hold out and wait for that. Being in the US hinges on whether we qualify for a land loan. Lots of hinges. Such a liminal time lol.

Oh also I just listened to the above podcast and for once I felt like the business plan we’d drawn up might be better than we think. Or at least we ahven’t forgotten any of the easily forgotten expenses of running a farm (but I’m sure there will be others).

In Theory

Some actual news is that I passed my UK theory test. At 29 years old! What a marvel. For those of you who wonder how it got this far, I grew up in London and had no need to drive until I started living in the US at 25. I would also like to say that I got my American license in one week in New Orleans. I drove my instructor on her errands, to shop for her daughter’s birthday present and to pick up coffee. My ‘theory’ section was learnt in 8 hours in a room where I was the only person who hadn’t been driving for years already (everyone else had got caught driving without a licence, so the course for them was mandatory). I spent a week dodging drunk tourists, potholes and horse manure. And then suddenly I was allowed to drive.

Even then I hadn’t really needed to drive, I got confident with driving a couple of years ago (my partner is a saint for surviving that long and for trusting me with his manual cars). Compared to the paper multiple-choice questions and 10-minute drive around the block that got me my Louisiana licence the UK system is quite severe. The US is actually one of the only countries where the driving licence isn’t convertible in the UK. I wonder why (it’s actually because regulations are so different state-to-state).

Spotty driving history aside, I was more than apprehensive about the theory test for which I had been cramming via App for about three weeks. Turing out my pockets (and dropping hawthorn seeds on the carpet), panic-clicking on a pile of leaves in the hazard perception section, I was sure I was going to fail. But no. Passed!

I’m now working on getting a couple of lessons to prepare for the practical test. This might not seem like big news but when it comes to insurance, and ease of movement having a UK licence was a bit of a stumbling block for our plans to farm here. It seems hopeful to have passed. It feels like actually moving. In any direction. Quite literally taking the wheel.

Old Frames

Another tiny life update is a superficial one. But in it being so it gave me plenty to muse on, to chew on like gristle. It began because I needed to get new lenses for my glasses.

The last time I got new glasses was seven years ago they were free (I was a student in Scotland). In that moment I saw the world for the first time, I got contact lenses. Up until that point I had been walking around in a stubborn blur. The joy of seeing every leaf, making eye-contact with ease, and communicating so much better has yet to wear off. Saying that I do love my glasses, the frames, not least because they make me look kinda hot.

But that’s not the point of all this. The point is that new lenses in old frames cost more than buying a new set of glasses to reuse my old frames. That the sales assistant was unsurprisingly very pushy. And more annoyingly, the frames I could choose from (but refused to) were visibly lower quality than the ones that had survived 7 years on my face. But unfortunately for Specsavers, I am persistent, some would say contrary.

The interaction, the insistence on the new (worse), and the prohibitive cost of reusing made me pretty fuming. It got me thinking about the Right to Repair in Europe, which of course, Brexit has had a hand in scuppering here in the UK. If it’s a struggle to fix something as small as a pair of glasses think of all the tangled, entrenched systems and thought patterns that are bogging down our food system. Our carceral system.

And yes, it’s glasses, it’s not that deep. But I’m a poet and a drama queen so it is that deep.

Speaking of which I loved Danielle Urban’s Front Porch Threads and the beginning of a series on visible mending. Along with The Restart Project’s work to support the Right to Repair.

Spiced Plum Jam

Since there is not much to report on our progress farm-wise, I will instead report on how I have been filling my days. Now the jetlag has worn off I am diving headfirst into the joys of this season. I have been overloading on festive podcasts, from quick almanacs, to traditional songs, to deep dives into various aspects of Yule. You’ll find these resources dotted throughout the newsletter.

One of my favourite activities of the past week, between passing my theory test, countless cover letters and Beta-reading a friend’s book, has been making Plum Jam. We just polished off my mum’s Damson Jam. Damsons, a small subspecies of plum, native to Great Britain but found across Europe. They have a bright, somewhat puckering flavour and make a fantastic Jam. When I was growing up, a Damson tree overhung my grandmother’s front garden. Each year she or my aunt would make Jam from its abundance and dole it out to the rest of the family. It’s a flavour so linked to her and her overflowing garden, to her kitchen-table Britishness.

My grandmother’s death towards the end of 2020 spurred me to quit my stable job and pursue farming. She had encouraged me in my love of plants, of food. The loss of her was a catalyst, a flame under the lingering feeling the pandemic had brought on. Four years later, and fresh in the loss of my other grandmother, I’m still sentimental for that stoney fruit.

The conversation my mum and I had about jam-making was spurred on by Filler Zine arriving in the post. The eighth issue (the one I’m published in) focuses on the kitchen. A place I could go on about for hours. My piece wove in my emotional connections to Damsons, to a loss of place, to storing food for the long winter ahead. Titled ‘Preservation’ it aimed to capture pickling, when a moment becomes a memory, when food becomes stored energy.

I would like to avoid turning this into one of those horrible recipes where you have to scroll through someone’s life story to get to a basic recipe. I won’t even promise you a recipe, this is all story. Story aside, Damsons are close to my heart, but they are no longer in season. So I settled for plums.

To make the Jam I stewed diced plums with 10% of the weight of water (800g plums would need 80ml water). Once they began to soften (but not fall apart) I added an equal weight of preserving sugar (800g) and brought the heat down low. Honestly, I think it could have done with less sugar but have yet to really deviate from a recipe (jam is scary at first). At this point, I also added lemon juice, cinnamon and a hint of black pepper. As I stirred the mixture to dissolve the sugar it took on a glossy vibrant texture. I dreamt of painting my imaginary living room walls that colour, of offsetting it with creams and brusk oranges. Once the sugar dissolved I cranked the heat. Watched the rolling boil turn the liquid bubbly and viscous. I should have boiled it for longer, I am no longer listening to recipe times, I am becoming ungovernable. A little earlier than necessary I scooped it into oven-steralised jars and left them in the frigid kitchen to cool overnight.

To me, and my mother apparently, jam-making always seemed like a complex and difficult art. Now I’ve made a ok-ish jam I would say it isn’t as mystical and daunting as I first thought. If anything I now want to experiment with more. I also want to take away the fear of the recipe. Though botulism is a real worry, there is enough sugar in jams that I don’t actually have as much to worry about. There is space to experiment. I’ll let you know how it goes.

M

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If you missed the last update, read it here: