Fruit of the forest

Today, Saturday 8th October, sees the 2022 World Porridge Making Championship taking place in Carrbridge, as competitors from around the globe compete for the Golden Spurtle. Carrbridge is a village in the Badenoch and Strathspey region of the Scottish Highlands.

For the past week, I have been having porridge for breakfast, not so much in the hope of qualifying for the Championship, but more because Covid has finally caught up with me and I've had a sore throat from Hell. My usual muesli didn't seem such an attractive dish when compared to a smooth, warming bowl of sweetened oat-based slop.

I would normally eschew any accompaniments with my porridge, be they sweet or savoury, but the 'vid meant I needed a bit of cheering up. What with the cost of living crisis and all, as an economy measure, I had already opted to finish off every open jar of compote, jam, jelly and marmalade in the cupboards and fridge before buying any new ones. This is the preserve of the thrifty. So my breakfast was augmented with a big dollop of raspberry jam.

Oddly enough, the jar in question was bought in June last year, en route to our holiday in the Highlands. Back then, it wasn't to be used to flavour porridge or be liberally spread upon some toast. No, no, no, no, this was for a much higher cause, as bait to attract creatures out of the forest. For a few nights in Nethy Bridge, and also in Lochinver, jam was spread onto either a tree stump or a rock to hopefully tempt badgers or pine martens to linger for a lick. Keen readers may recall that it worked well for the former in Nethy, but not so for the latter at Lochinver (as peanuts turned out to be an irresistible snack for a marten).

This jam definitely had provenance, and likely bits of lichen, moss and grit as well, but it did need either eating or binning, as the 'Consume within four weeks of opening' date was but a distant memory. I tried hard not to think of badger saliva and bird poo as I industriously spooned off and disposed of half an inch of the top layer, revealing what I hoped was pristine habitat, uncontaminated by prime Caledonian pine forest, its residents or their effluvia. At this point, I guess it would've been handy if I was exhibiting that well-known Covid symptom, loss of taste but, hah, no such luck.

A week of breakfasts and self isolation later, I have spent quite a bit of time asleep, dragging in fresh bedding from the airing cupboard to the bedroom every evening. And now that the jar is almost finished, I am eyeing up the peanut butter and the eggs. Weirdly, of late, the cats are more wary of me for some reason, but thank goodness I've not suffered any ill effects from the jam.