In the market for romance

It’s amazing what you can find at a farmers’ market – cheese, meat, pies, vegetables and bread – and yesterday I even stumbled across a little bit of romance.

I was out on my lunchtime walk with a shopping list of lasagne ingredients and I ended up at the monthly Derby Farmers Market.

Derby Farmers' Market

It was a smaller affair than usual, no doubt due to the time of year and freezing weather, but there were still a few stallholders out braving the cold in impressive layers of rustic knits and fingerless gloves. 

I immediately got chatting to Mary Button, from The Really Good Cheese Company, who was really excited to hear about My Year Without Supermarkets and offered some lovely words of encouragement.

I asked her where her business was based and she nodded to the man selling pork products at the next stall along.

“With him!” she said.

It turns out Mary and the sausage seller Ashley Hedges are an item and they live together at Smith Hall farm in Hulland Ward, in Derbyshire, where they rear pigs and also have an organic field kitchen. 

“Please tell me you met at a farmers’ market?” I asked.

“We did!” she laughed. “We met here actually, at Derby Farmers’ Market, three years ago.”

And is it all romance down on the farm?

“Oh yes, very romantic,” she quipped. “Getting up at 5am to feed the pigs together!”

I bought cheddar from Mary and some organic pork and leek sausages from Ashley, who had been up since 4am to do his chores on the farm before heading down to Derby for the market. It's inspiring how much effort these farmers put into getting their produce out there and I really do think we, as consumers, should support them rather than just flocking to Tesco.

With the promise of a visit out to the farm in the spring to see the organic pigs, I moved onto another brilliant stall selling Lincolnshire Poacher Cheese.

The stallholder frankly looked freezing, but he still managed to muster enthusiasm as I told him about my challenge. I needed a block of Parmasan, which he hadn't got, but instead he gave me a taste of the next best thing - a strong cheese that his wife uses on her lasagne. When did you last have an interaction like that in a supermarket?

I finished my little shopping trip with a visit to Jack Rabbits, a brilliant cafe/deli/food store in Queen Street that offers loads of different cheeses, pickles, locally-produced jams, artisan breads, a few veggies, eggs and other bits besides.

I bought mozzarella and butter, which Julie, one of the owners, described as "really creamy", but unfortunately they didn't have any creme freiche. I was really impressed by how helpful the staff were though. After checking that there wasn't any left in the shop next door, I was told that a delivery was expected and I could ring the shop at any time and they would happily set something aside or order something or me.

Fast forward to this lunchtime and I took them up on the offer, and telephoned to see if the ellusive CF had arrived (lazy I know but it's a 20 minute walk from my office and it's snowing!). Julie called me back to say that it had so I've just been to collect it, and bought some nice sourdough bread in case we really do get hit by snowmageddon this weekend and I can't get out. It's panic buying non-supermarket-stylee!

Produce from the farmers' market

It’s the little interactions like this that make avoiding the supermarkets so worthwhile and enjoyable. I'm now back in the office with a very cold nose, but filled with warmth thanks to all the lovely people I’ve met. Forget 2013 - this challenge is good for the soul. It may be a resolution for life!

A fresh look at pizza

I have a sordid little secret to confess.

On the third Tuesday of every month, I sneak off in the evening by myself, park my car down a dark street and passionately devour an Italian.

I am, of course, talking about pizza (tsk, what did you think?!).

Traditionally pizzas were the speciality of Italian restaurants and pizzerias but lately supermarkets have been getting in on the act. So much so that most of us now keep a couple of supermarket-bought pizzas in the freezer for those nights when you just want to whack something in the oven and veg out on the sofa. Some stores like Morrisons and Asda even have their own fresh pizza counters where you can have one made to order.

With my ban on supermarket shopping now in full swing I’ve pretty much had to kiss goodbye to those ready-made pizzas. Not that I ate a lot of them, but sometimes they did hit the spot.

But luckily I know somewhere else that sells pizzas that hit the spot, and that place is Fresh Bite in Belper.

Fresh Bite, Market Place, Belper

Walking past this little shop you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s just another takeaway. But anyone familiar with Belper will tell you that this place does the best, most mouth-watering and top value pizzas in the area, and in fact some of the nicest pizzas I’ve every tasted.

I discovered it on my way to book club one evening. Because I work in Derby and live in Chesterfield, I joined Belper Book Chat as it’s sort of on my way home, but of course I tend to go straight from work without having any tea - which is how I discovered Fresh Bite - and the place has now become part of my monthly book club ritual.

I park my car in the cobbled square opposite the shop and the reassuring drone of the pizza oven greets me as soon as I step through the door. After heading to Fresh Bite every third Tuesday for the last five years the staff all know me and know exactly what I’ll be ordering.

I always go for a Margherita, because put quite simply, when the pizza is this good you don’t need anything else. And occasionally, if I’m feeling naughty, I have a bit of garlic bread too.

I settle down in one of the wooden chairs to wait, often getting to see several other customers pop in to collect their takeaways and rifling through a copy of the Derby Telegraph which is usually floating around (another reason to love Fresh Bite).

I watch my pizza being constructed and going through the little oven. As I see it starting to emerge my mouth begins to water.

Once the treasured pizza has been handed over the next part of my ritual begins. I get back into my car and drive a couple of minutes up the road to park opposite the pub where my book club meets, the box warming my lap.

I’m sure the people who live nearby must wonder who this strange woman is who pulls up on a Tuesday evening, switches the interior light on, pushes the seat back and devours a pizza straight from the box.

But that’s what I do and it’s brilliant.

Fortified by my Fresh Bite pizza I feel I can even take on Dickens - a good job seeing as we read five of his novels last year to mark his bicentenary.

Although knowing one of the best places in the world to get pizza doesn’t really help me stock up my freezer, it does at least give me an outlet for my craving. And perhaps, after all, pizza shouldn’t be eaten mindlessly on the sofa, but instead enthusiastically gobbled down in a dark car, lit by a single street lamp, windows steaming up from the heat.....

Meet your meat (or at least your butcher)

So the supermarkets have hit the headlines today for all the wrong reasons, with reports that traces of horse meat have been found in low-cost beef burgers.

I was chatting to my pal Bill the butcher this morning and he said the stories hadn’t surprised him; the only way you can really know where you meat is coming from (and indeed - what it is!) is to find a reputable local butcher and ask questions about the produce. The supermarkets and their suppliers now operate on a scale so large that accountability is difficult.

But hang on a sec, how can a person who doesn’t eat meat weigh into this debate? And just what is a vegetarian doing being on friendly terms with a butcher?

The answer to the first point is that there are both carnivores and herbivores in my household – with myself and the rabbit representing the veggies, and my boyfriend, cat and snake flying the flag for the meat eaters. So I’m well-used to buying chicken, sausages and mince alongside my Quorn.

And I’ve known Bill the butcher for almost 20 years because he and his wife Christine, son Phillip and Phil's wife Sonia run Dunston Park Farm in Derbyshire – a business that includes a farm shop and equestrian centre offering livery and dressage training. My elderly horse is one of the pampered equine residents, which adds a nice irony to the situation. While some suppliers are allegedly putting bits of horse into their burgers, I’m relying on a butcher to look after mine!

But perhaps this is what makes Bill such a good butcher – he and his family are massive animal lovers and welfare is at the top of their agenda.

Despite this though I hang my head in shame as I confess that before I started my challenge to avoid the supermarkets I was not a regular customer at the farm shop. Instead I bought most of our meat at Tesco.

Why? Well the usual reasons really.... price, convenience, and I suppose a natural vegetarian aversion to the meat counter. I wanted my meat to be cheap, cheerful and handily packaged so I didn’t have to think too much about where it came from.

Clearly this has to change.

Dunston Farm Shop

Dunston's farm shop, it has to be said, is every vegetarian’s worst nightmare. There’s a huge counter piled high with glistening bits of animal.

But Bill has been delightedly welcoming me into the shop since my resolution started and loudly telling other customers that he’s going to be the man to get me eating meat again.

During this morning’s visit we start chatting about today's news and he is adamant that strict regulations mean any business selling meat SHOULD know exactly where it comes from.

Records are kept from the time an animal is born. Tags are put into the animal's ears and paperwork has to be filled out when that animal changes hands or goes for slaughter.

I ask Bill if he knows where his meat is from and he nods emphatically, opens his arms wide and gestures towards his counter.

“Every bit,” he says. “Every single bit.”

“We used to rear our own cows and sheep here, but when the equestrian side of the business took over we stopped doing that. Now we use a local farm just a few miles away.

“This means I know where the animals were born, how they were reared, what they were fed and where they were slaughtered. I know the history behind every bit of meat we sell.”

And what about the price? Bill’s meat is certainly more expensive than Tesco's cheaper offerings.

He asks me to think about the work involved in rearing an animal and running a farm in the UK, and compare this to the prices supermarkets charge for budget meats.

He also asks me to consider the other ingredients, or “fillers” such as pasta that can be used to bulk out cheaper meat products. Even without the alleged horse DNA it still doesn’t sound appetising or healthy.

I know from first hand experience that Bill’s meat really is just that – meat. I was in the shop a week ago to get some mince for my other half and was a bit taken aback when Bill literally took a lump of flesh and put it through his mincing machine while I watched. Not particularly entertaining viewing for a veggie, but at least it meant I knew exactly what was in the mince that I took home and that it had been made from a single piece of meat.

And although it costs more, you do also get more for your money at Dunston. A couple of days ago I walked away with a steak the size of a house brick and today’s chicken breast puts the shriveled little supermarket offerings to shame.

Bill admits that some of his customers are wealthy, but we also discussed the merits of putting quality over quantity and experimenting with cheaper cuts, more economical recipes and using leftovers to get the most from your meat.

And from my veggie standpoint, I’d also like to add that having a couple of vegetarian days and experimenting with meat-free cooking might be another way that a family on a tighter budget could afford to buy better quality meat from a butcher and use it more sparingly.

I guess the moral of this story is that all those who feel queasy after reading today’s headlines should think carefully about the meat they buy and ask plenty of questions. Any good butcher should be happy to talk about where their meat is from.

But I fear Bill might be in for a disappointment regarding in his vow to change my meat-free ways - this veggie ain’t for turning!

My rear without supermarkets

Okay I've done the (slightly more) glamorous stuff - I've bought the quirky olive oil from Spanish farmers and visited the local florist for a housewarming gift. 

But now it's time to strip things back and deal with a pressing issue - namely where do I go to get my toilet tissue?

It's all very well experimenting with farmers' markets and delis to find some fantastic food but when it comes to the household basics like loo roll and kitchen cleaners I'm a bit stumped without Tesco.

Following my chat with 93-year-old grandma (see yesterday's blog) I've decided that keeping an eye on the old folk is a smart tactic for my challenge. After all, you don't successfully negotiate your way through seven, eight or even nine decades without picking up a few tricks, and these guys remember what life was like before the supermarkets so they know of other places to shop.

With this in mind I decided to have a look in Wilkinsons. This well-known hardware chain is beloved of OAPs everywhere; they flock to the familiar red storefronts like wasps to a pint of beer on a hot summer's day. The mere mention of the word 'Wilkos' used to send my granddad into a hot flush of excitement. So it's got to be worth seeing what all the fuss is about.

Plus with the news today that HMV is going into administration it's a timely reminder that high street chains need our support too. They provide local jobs, and a structure and familiarity to our town centres. So many people grew misty-eyed at the closure of Woolworths a few years ago, but without support from customers these chains will continue to struggle.

After battling my way through the army of tartan trollies in the Chesterfield branch of Wilkinsons yesterday I have to say, hand on heart, that I'm a complete convert.

I, Jade Beecroft, effing LOVE Wilkos.

Anyone who hasn't been in there recently quite frankly hasn't lived. My granddad was right. It's brilliant.

First of all, it's just full of life-enhancingly practical stuff - pretty much all you could ever need to oil the cogs of your household. I needed a packet of washing up scourers and found myself stood in front of a huge display of the things, literally gob-smacked at the scouring choice before me. I've never seen such a vast array of scourers in my life. There were big ones, little ones, multi-packs, multi-multi-packs, wire ones, ones with special grips, budget ones and even flower-shaped scourers in a choice of cheerful colours.

And that's one of the most wonderful things about Wilkos - you can just walk around marvelling at things...

"My goodness, is that a pink, flower-shaped washing up scourer?" you think as you saunter past.

"God, there's a huge plastic greenhouse for just £39.99. And look at those lovely shelf brackets. And over here there's a unisex urine bottle. A unisex what....?" (at which point you either drop your basket or walk straight into a pyramid of toilet rolls).

It is honestly the most entertainment you can possible have out shopping.

I even found a dedicated reptile aisle catering to absolutely all your reptile needs. It's hard to imagine the pensioners of north Derbyshire having a lot of reptile needs, but never-the-less there it was.

And the price! We all know that old folk love a bargain, which is presumably another reason why Wilkos gets their juices flowing, but these prices were almost too good to be true.

I walked out of the shop with a pack of eight decent quality quilted loo rolls (I really don't approve of going overboard on something you're going to use to wipe your bum but my other half likes a soft ply), a pack of kitchen rolls, an Ecover kitchen cleaner spray (usually quite pricey) and a pack of scourers (the handy grip ones - not the flowers) and the whole thing only came to a fiver.

I thought I'd misheard when the cashier rang it through. You can pay nearly a fiver for a pack of decent quality loo rolls alone in many other places.

The old chap behind me in the queue gave me a satisfied smile and a wink as I pocketed my change, probably delighted to find that at least one young whippersnapper had finally seen the light. Who knows, maybe I'll be getting myself one of those tartan shopping trollies next, they do look very handy....

Recollections of a 93-year-old

"You knew how much money you had for the week and that was that. So you bought a rabbit and made it last for three days."

At almost 93 and still in possession of an almost full set of marbles, my grandma is an incredible living history book. I visited her yesterday for lunch and asked her what shopping was like before the supermarkets came on the scene, and what impact they had when they were introduced.

Grandma has pretty much come full circle in terms of shopping. Growing up in the 1920s in a well-to-do Sheffield family her mother kept a live-in maid who was responsible for buying the groceries. Nine decades later and pretty much housebound without help, my grandma again relies on others to do her shopping - only now it's a "nice gentleman" from Tesco who delivers it straight to her door.

But what was it like shopping for her own family in the 1940s and 1950s?

"There were shops in every neighbourhood," she remembers. "You didn't have to go into town. You had a butcher and separate fishmonger, a baker and a greengrocer. And you pretty much went shopping for a bit or this or that every day - we didn't have a fridge in those days so you couldn't store things like you can now.

"The best thing about it was the relationships that developed between shopkeepers and customers. You really got to know each other and they became like friends. They got to know exactly what you wanted so they might set something aside for you. You don't get that now with the supermarkets - everything is so impersonal."

So when did the supermarkets first come on the scene? I ask her if she remembers the first one.

"Oh yes, it was quite a to-do," she says. "I would have been in my 20s or 30s I think. The first one was quite small but then they just got larger and larger - every new one that opened was bigger than the last. The choice was unimaginable; and that got bigger and bigger too.

"I didn't go into them at first. I was dubious. I had my own butcher and greengrocer so why bother? But gradually we all started going in for a look because it was the 'in thing' to do.

"And of course everything was cheaper, so bit by bit I think everyone started shopping in the supermarkets instead."

And do you think you actually saved money in the supermarkets grandma?

"Well no, I think that was a bit of a con. Things were cheaper but there was so much choice you were bedazzled, you ended up buying much more than you needed. And then there was all the special offers too, so you'd buy three things instead of one."

By this point in the conversation I can tell grandma is getting bored. We've finished our soup and she's starting to fidget. Like most old people she's a MASSIVE fan of cake and I can tell that her mind is wandering to the Victoria sponge in the kitchen. 

I round up our little chat by asking her if she thinks things are better or worse now.

She considers for a few seconds before answering: "In some ways better. They are certainly more convenient with their opening hours and I'd be really stuck without my Tesco delivery. I'd have to rely on friends and neighbours to fetch my groceries.

"But it other ways worse. There aren't as many local shops any more because people don't support them, which I think is a real shame. And I think it's easier to balance your weekly budget when you're just popping out each day to get what you need rather than buying all manner of things in the supermarkets. 

"You see the way some people pile up their trollies and you just think 'oh my god'. It's no wonder they're all getting fat."

Grandma gives a decisive nod and, without a hint of irony, goes to get the Victoria sponge.