Introducing our latest products September 7, 2016 00:00
If you’ve been following our Facebook and Instagram posts over the past couple of months, you might have noticed that we’ve been carefully developing some new products. Being a small, independent business means we’re always on the lookout for good things and we love having the freedom to experiment with ideas that don’t break the bank.
We begin by sourcing manufacturers who share our high standards of quality and good service and we’re proud that everything on our site is made right here in the UK. We then begin working on the designs, not just for the products themselves but for the packaging as well.
We launched our new iPhone covers a couple of weeks ago and we’re already ordering more stock. They come in two designs – Rabbit and Owl – and have a tactile, matt finish which offers superior protection for your phone without being cumbersome or clunky to carry around. We’ve been using the prototype we had made since April and are pleased to report that so far the case hasn’t scratched or worn at all (despite carrying it around in our back pocket and dropping it more than a few times) and the design is as clear as the day it arrived.
The other new product to hit the Pheasant Plucker & Son shelves recently is a range of artisan-made soap which comes in two lovely flavours: Bathing Beauty is so soft and gentle you can use it on newborn babies and it’s lightly fragranced with organic lavender essential oil to promote relaxation, making it excellent for long soaks after hard days; Peppermint and Pumice is designed especially for hardworking hands. Its volcanic pumice removes dirt, grease, mud and grime whilst the organic peppermint essential oil soothes and refreshes. The soaps are cut by hand in our studio so they're all slightly different and we individually wrap each one in its distinctive packaging. Neither of them are tested on animals and they don't contain any of the chemical nasties that find their way into some commercial soaps.
Both the iPhone covers and the soaps make wonderful gifts – the phone covers are an inspired choice for people who are tricky to buy for as they’re both sophisticated and practical. The soaps are great as a little 'thank you for having me’ gift and or to have on hand if you have guests to stay.
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Beautiful Blackcurrants August 23, 2016 15:15
Pheasant Plucker would make a very good witch. After all, the concept of a sisterhood of like-minded individuals and the opportunity to concoct new recipes and potions in the company of a cat is an appealing one.
Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve spent a considerable amount of time hunkered over a heavy black cooking pot, bought for 50p at a village fete, stirring with great intensity and muttering to ourselves. In the absence of a cat, Louie the chicken has stood guard by the kitchen door and inquisitively poked her beak in from time to time.
Unfortunately we haven’t been mixing up hexes or evil spells but just making jam. This is the high season for it, and although raspberries, redcurrants and strawberries are more or less over, there is still time to turn your attention to blackcurrants, plums and damsons. A lot of people think there’s something complicated about jam making and are put off by scary-sounding recipes that use terms like ‘jam thermometers’ and ‘test for pectin’ but Pheasant Plucker has no time for any of that. We like our jam quick and easy and on a piece of toast as soon as possible.
Here then, is the easiest blackcurrant jam recipe you could think of. It contains only four ingredients and once you’ve prepared the blackcurrants, you can be done and dusted within half an hour.
800g granulated sugar
Medium size knob of butter
To prep the blackcurrants, remove the stalks and any large, dried heads where the flowers used to be and wash them thoroughly. Put a saucer in the freezer.
Place the blackcurrants in a large, heavy bottomed cauldron (or saucepan) and pour the sugar on top (it’s important to put the sugar on top of the fruit rather than the other way round, so that the sugar doesn’t burn and stick to the bottom of the pan). Then pour in the water and bring to the boil over a high heat.
As the mixture comes to the boil, skim the surface if you need to and add the butter, which will prevent it from frothing too much.
When the fruit reaches a rolling boil, so that it can’t be stirred down, look at your clock and time 10 minutes. In the meantime, sterilise some jam jars by washing them in hot soapy water and drying them in a warm oven. (You could swish them out with some boiling water out of the kettle without too many problems instead of the full sterilising method but to be honest, it’s not really that much effort).
When the jam has boiled for ten minutes, take the plate out of the freezer and pour a teaspoonful of the jam onto it. (Be careful because it will be HOT). Leave it a minute and then poke it with your finger – if it wrinkles a bit and isn’t too runny, it’s done. Use your initiative at this point, you may prefer a slightly runnier jam or you may like it really thick. If you think it needs a bit longer, continue to boil for another five minutes and then test again. I’m of the opinion that it’s better to have a slightly syrupy consistency than a jam that’s too hard and chewy (if you decide it’s too runny when you’ve put it into jars, you can decant each jar as you use it and boil it up again for a couple of minutes in the microwave. It usually does the trick).
When you’re happy with it, let it cool for 5 minutes and then very carefully ladle it into the jam jars. Let it cool further and then seal with some greaseproof paper circles and put the lids on. Once it’s cool completely, store it unopened in a cupboard for up to a year or in the fridge when you’ve opened it.
And that’s it. Delicious blackcurrant jam in the time it takes to learn to fly a broomstick.
Baby Bro's Bunnies March 26, 2016 23:56
When Baby Bro was 16 he appeared home one day with a new pet rabbit. Ma Pheasant isn't the world's biggest animal lover and certainly doesn't like them at close quarters so she wasn't thrilled when he announced his plans to housetrain it and keep it inside. Poor old Ma tried in vain to keep the house in the region of clean when we were all living at home but with a herd of scruffy, clumsy teenagers, it was easier said than done. The thought of a large fluffy bunny added to the mix was probably a step too far but Baby Bro was banking on Ma's easy going nature and she let it slide, on the proviso the rabbit lived outside. Which he did. Sometimes.
The rabbit was named Mayot, which is Lincolnshire for Mate, and whenever Ma Pheasant went out, he was smuggled in for 'housetraining' which entailed him going about his rabbity business and Baby Bro cleaning up after him. He was a friendly little thing and we got used to him hopping about the living room or appearing from underneath a pile of dirty clothes in Baby Bro's stinky bedroom. It was strangely comforting to have him curled up next to us on the sofa, happily dozing away, while we watched tv.
Everything was going well until one day when Baby Bro picked him up to put him back in his hutch outside before Ma got home. Our old cat happened to prowl past at the same time and she glanced in Mayot's direction, licking her lips with possibility. Mayot smelled the whisper of anticipation in the air and, faced with fight or flight, decided to make a run for it. He jumped out of Baby Bro's arms & landed on the floor in a heap, breaking one of his little legs in the process. It was devastating. We took Mayot straight to the vet who said the only way to save his life was to amputate the broken leg, at a cost of over £150 (I'd recently seen a similar operation involving a guinea pig and a pair of scissors on Vets in Practice and so generously offered to do it for half the price but sadly my services were declined). The distant spirit of Pa Pheasant was heard scoffing and humphing loudly in the background at the idea of spending such a lot of money on a rabbit and Baby Bro made the sad decision to have Mayot put to sleep.
One of our aunts heard of Mayot's sad fate and, worried that poor Baby Bro was irreparably heartbroken, bought him another rabbit, this time a little grey doe called Jenny. Alas, Jenny was not the generally chilled out specimen that Mayot was and yearned for wide open spaces and adventure. She made a break for it one morning and was last seen heading for the hills. A few weeks later Baby Bro found out that one of his friends had found a small, pale grey rabbit hopping down the middle of the main road and had stopped to pick her up. She'd taken her home and a few days later, the rabbit had given birth to a litter of kits, half of them pale and fluffy like their mother and half of them brown and wild like their father.
After Jenny, there were no more rabbits. Baby Bro moved onto girls, skateboards and underage boozing but at this time of year with rabbits everywhere, it felt a fitting time to remember Mayot, Jenny and Baby Bro's attempts at housetraining.
Happy Easter everyone xx
Illustration by Hugh Brandon-Cox, from Wandering with the Woodman, 1948
Signs of the countryside March 10, 2016 10:46
When you live in Lincolnshire there are things you see on a daily basis that you take for granted as an everyday part of life. We were downloading some photos the other day and noticed a subconscious theme unfolding that someone with a more city-slicking inclination than us might find quaint and charming at best or downright eccentric at worst. This then, is the first in an ongoing, sporadic photoseries highlighting some of the signs we see around us.
If you lived here, wouldn't you be hotfooting it off down that path every night of the week? We would.
You can do almost all of your weekly shop at gate stalls and judging by these prices, they'll save you a pretty penny too:
There are reminders all around that the countryside is a living, working environment which can sometimes be hazardous. This sign reminded us of a time when Herbert, who worked on our farm (introduced last time in Happy Birthday Crofty), forgot the electric fence was on and climbed over it. Poor old Herbert. If only we'd had these signs back then it could have saved him a double dose of excruciating pain and severe piss-taking.
And finally, our favourite: Ma Pheasant is a very keen and accomplished gardener and every summer hundreds of middle aged ladies flock to her gate to look round her garden. The poor old duck was going through a tough time a few years back and driving past a sign like this we suddenly saw a sure fire way to cheer her up. On slammed the brakes, out we jumped and two old feed bags of horse muck were chucked in the boot and duly delivered to her door. She was so touched she burst into tears.
Happy Birthday Crofty February 29, 2016 00:00
Isn’t it funny how some people leave a lasting impression even though you hardly knew them?
When we were kids, there was an old man called Crofty who lived a couple of villages over where he worked on the local large estate. He had a lot of brothers, including Herbert who worked on our farm, and although we knew him by sight, we didn’t know him to speak to. He didn’t have a car but cycled all around on his push bike instead. His cycling style was unmistakable: like all the old farming boys in those days he wore loose fitting, thick wool trousers which he secured tightly at the ankle with a bicycle clip. He would pedal determinedly with slow, leisurely laboriousness and with his knees turned out almost at right angles. For some reason, he really captured our imagination and there was always great excitement if we saw him when we were out and about; we sometimes even played “Crofty” in the yard and tried to ride our bikes like he did.
However, the most fascinating thing about him to us was that his birthday was on 29 February, which we found almost inconceivable. Did he really only have a birthday every four years? In our shallow, childish way we felt so sorry for him, imagining long years going by when he had no party and no presents and we loved trying to work his ‘true' age – could he really only be about 15 but be trapped in an old man’s body? It seemed like one of the great mysteries of the universe.
Thinking back, Crofty, Herbert and their brothers were amongst the last of a dying breed of people who worked the land before the modern mega-industrialisation of farming. There were three or four such men on our farm around that time who, when they retired, simply weren’t replaced – farming methods had moved on and there wasn’t the need for them anymore. Times change, for the most part for the better, but those old boys left a deep imprint in our minds. Thirty years on their faces and even their voices can still be recalled perfectly.
Happy birthday Crofty.
Note: unfortunately we don't have any photos of either Herbert or Crofty so the one used in this post is of two other men who worked on the farm back then: Jim Marshall the Foreman and George Brown. Jim had a heart attack and died in our yard one day in early summer and Pa Pheasant always treasured this photo of him.
An Ode to Valentine's Days past February 9, 2016 13:17
Growing up on a farm, whilst not without some incredible perks such as unlimited pets, learning to drive before we reached double figures and the freedom and space to tramp over miles of beautiful countryside whenever we felt like it, was not without its drawbacks. This was never more so blatantly obvious than during the awkward teenage years, when it slowly became clear that for some unfathomable reason boys aren’t particularly drawn to girls who can carry a bale of hay under one arm without breaking sweat, who sometimes smell a bit like they've just mucked out a stable and who enjoy scrabbling around in the bottom of hedges. Add this to the fact that you live miles from another house, most of your clothes come from Peacock and Binningtons and the hottest competition for your attentions are two brothers from the local Pony Club called Doggit and Tatty and you begin to get an idea of what we were dealing with.
As they surely are for everyone, those early adolescent years were a hormonal wilderness but Pa Pheasant, whilst not the most outwardly emotional man to walk this earth, tried to do his bit to make them easier. When he quickly realised his plan to set us up with two neighbouring farm boys*, on the basis that they wore leather patches on their sleeves so were obviously thrifty and good with money, was doomed to failure, he resorted to more subtle tactics to smooth the adolescent transition. Every year without fail, he would send all of us at least three Valentines cards, always anonymous and with mysterious messages inside (such as “to a devil, from a devil, who the devil sent it?” Or the even more cryptic “Now then?”). It was his way of demonstrating to us that he could begin to understand the complexities of youth, and although he always denied sending them, he knew we knew who they were from. If some inner voice shouted “ever so slightly tragic” at the back of our minds, we ignored it long enough to answer honestly at school, when grilled by the Mean Girls, that yes, as unlikely as it may seem, the postman had indeed been kind to us. Of course, we didn't let on who they were really from but they gave us the space to breathe on one of the most awkward days of the school social calendar.
Although no longer here to send us cards, Valentine's Day is synonymous with Pa Pheasant and it always means something more than a cheesy excuse to buy a bottle of cheap champagne and a box of chocolates. So thank you Pa Pheasant - this card is for you.
*It turns out one of those farm boys is now a professional tennis coach in Miami. If only we’d listened to Pa we could be living under palm trees now….
January's Retro Pet January 26, 2016 19:17
Every so often (we aim for monthly but sometimes we forget) we like to showcase a photo of someone with a pet from their childhood and this month we have a corker.
Please meet Kit Maplethorpe from East Barkwith and his black lab Pepper (or is it actually Macaulay Culkin circa 1990? We're not sure. Maybe he was taking a break between Home Alone and Home Alone 2 and decided to vacay in Lincolnshire?). We are particularly loving the Turtles t-shirt and mismatched laces, a look Hoxton hipsters bravely try, but fail, to pull off.
Kit - thanks for sharing your photo - a pack of Pheasant Plucker & Son treats is on its way to you.
Do you have any photos and stories of your childhood pets? Send them to us at email@example.com and every month we'll publish the one we love the most and send the winner a Pheasant Plucker goody bag.
After the Races pie January 9, 2016 22:20
Following on from our last blog post, in Ma Pheasant’s special handwritten recipe book is a mouth-watering dish perfect for these dark, grey, wet January Days. After the Races pie is one of the first recipes scribbled in her psychedelic notebook and it’s probably the one that’s been cooked the most since she first wrote it in, back when she was but a newly married slip of a girl and something called the Jumbo Jet had just been invented.
It’s essentially a chicken and ham pie packed full of slow cooked vegetables that have been allowed to simmer away on the hob for a couple of hours. It is rich, velvety with butter and perfect comfort food for rainy evenings. The antidote to fast food, it’s leisurely food and although it’s not complicated you need to take some time over it as it requires a lot of chopping, stirring and simmering.
After the Races Pie is easily adaptable - if you want to tart it up a bit, a handful of chopped tarragon and the juice of a lemon elevates it in a fairly cheffy direction; heated up the next day with big squeeze of brown sauce on the side is a failsafe hangover soother.
Large knob of butter
4 sticks celery
2 cloves garlic
1 tbsp chopped parsley
3 bay leaves
750ml chicken stock
450g cooked ham
750g cooked chicken
1 beaten egg
Roughly chop the onions, peppers, celery, leeks and garlic. Melt the butter over a low heat and sweat the vegetables in it until they are soft (this will take at least half an hour but the longer you take with this stage the better). Add the mushrooms until they’re also soft and then stir in the flour and some salt and pepper. Allow the flour to cook out for a couple of minutes, add the chicken stock, bring to the boil and then simmer gently.
Add the ham and chicken and simmer for a few more minutes. Put the filling into a pie dish, top with the pastry and brush over the beaten egg. Bake in a medium oven for half an hour or until the pastry is done.
And the pie is done. Delicioso.
Getting lucky on Boxing Day December 27, 2015 12:45
Pheasant Plucker’s Old Man, Pa Pheasant, loved a bet on the gee-gees and it was his ambition to visit every racecourse in the UK. Rather than being an out and out gambler, although that was definitely an appealing part of it, he loved horses and the glamorous sense of drama he found during a day at the races. I think some of his happiest moments were watching the horses’ leggy, graceful movement, ears pricked in anticipation, as they circled the paddock before a race. He loved hurrying over to the winner’s enclosure afterwards and seeing the victor, sweating and triumphant, three quarters of a ton of power, stamina and strength with its head held high and crackling with adrenaline.
It was inevitable that some of this would rub off on us and Pheasant Plucker’s baby brother’s fate was sealed one Boxing Day when he spotted a horse in the racecard called Master Cornet.
We often went to the races on Boxing Day and Pa Pheasant would always give us £5 – we could keep it or spend it, it was up to us. We were too young to put bets on but if there was a horse we fancied he’d go to the bookies on our behalf and place our 50p stakes.
Baby Bro was about nine or ten at the time and, being greedy like the rest of us, his eye was caught by a name that reminded him of ice-cream. He went uncharacteristically large and put his last £2 on – it was Christmas time after all. They were under starters orders and then they were off, racing round our local racecourse with all the focus and energy of the Gold Cup. Halfway around Master Cornet was third and Baby Bro was pissed off that he hadn’t backed it each way. Three minutes later, none of that mattered as our conquering hero romped home and Pa Pheasant was ushering us over to the Tote where he’d put the bet on. We queued impatiently and I remember standing there while Dad spoke to the woman behind the till. Then there was a slight commotion and the woman went away and came back with someone else – all three of them seemed to be studying the ticket incredibly carefully. Dad looked over at us and we looked back apprehensively – maybe there’d been some mistake, or maybe they knew that he’d put the bet on for a child and we weren’t allowed the winnings. Then Dad mouthed, almost inaudibly, “he’s won £400”. We couldn’t believe our ears – Baby bro had backed a winner at 205 – 1. The woman at the till had to go into the back room to get some more cash as she didn’t have enough, then she counted it out in crisp £20 notes and handed it to Dad. We walked away and Dad passed it over to my brother who stuffed it nonchalantly in his back pocket. £412! We had never seen so much money.
Over twenty years later, Baby Bro has never had such a big win again. Fortunately, he’s a fairly sensible lad and his stakes haven’t increased much since he first got the taste for gambling but every time we go to the races, we remember that little boy who came away with a bundle of cash and think “… maybe this time it’ll happen again.”
Stuffing our face Lincolnshire style December 6, 2015 13:16
This week we've been thinking ahead to Christmas but rather than the usual list of presents to buy / cards to write / things to do, we’ve been thinking about the serious issue of what we’re going to stuff our faces with. Pheasant Plucker is greedy by nature, which is lucky given the abundance of delicious Lincolnshire products being made these days. The amount of mouth watering food and drink that comes out of Britain's second largest county is not to be sniffed at, so here, in no particular order, are some of our favourites. You might want to let your belt out a notch now….
Lincolnshire's only soft cheese, with its velvety smooth texture and delicate flavour, would probably make Pheasant Plucker’s top 5 list of food anywhere in the world so we thank our lucky stars it’s made just down the road by a family who've been milking cows for over 30 years. However, for those of you not so lucky to live within earshot of Lincs FM, fear not. It’s now available to buy online so you can stock up to your heart's content.
Both are frickin delicious and worth being fat for...
2)... which brings us onto Duffy's Chocolate
We could go on and on about how this award winning chocolate is roasted by hand, produced in small, artisan batches and has incredible credentials to boot but seriously, just buy some and taste it for yourself. Chocolate will never be the same again.
Pheasant Plucker has long family arguments about which Lincolnshire sausages are the best and it’s an issue that’s unlikely to be resolved any time soon. We’re happy about this as it means we have to keep on tasting them to get a fully-rounded opinion. Newells, Curtis, Pettits – the truth is, there really are no sausages as good as Lincolnshire sausages. We bought some to take a photo of for this blog post but we ate them before we got the chance. Sorry.
Lincolnshire is not known as being particularly fashion forward but when Tom Wood started a micro-brewery 20 years ago on his family farm, he was one of the first in line of a trend that's seen London bars falling over themselves to get on the back of. Producing three core ales - Best Bitter, Lincoln Gold and Bomber County - as well as extra seasonal beers throughout the year - there are stockists across Lincolnshire, Norfolk, Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire, as well as the Tom Wood taphouse, the Yarborough Hunt pub in Brigg. Again, we bought some for this post but drank it before we had chance to take a photo of it, although the bottle did make it into the picture (it washed those sausages down a treat).
One of Lincolnshire’s biggest success stories these posh crisps are sold everywhere from the Royal Opera House and Harvey Nichols to our local pub. Crunchy, moreish and in eight different flavours, these aren’t just any crisps. These are Piper’s crisps.
My Retro Pet November 27, 2015 22:47
This is Pheasant Plucker's brother with one of his best childhood friends, our black labrador Duke.
As kids, we had a lot of badly behaved dogs but Duke was one of the naughtiest. He'd chew anything - toys, shoes, wellingtons, buckets, stones, any old bit of wood he could get his chops round; he must have had the constitution of a soldier. He was incredibly greedy and once made the bold move, while Ma Pheasant's back was momentarily turned, of jumping up on the kitchen table to steal a freshly roasted leg of lamb. Needless to say, Ma Pheasant blew her gasket and Duke was chased out of the house in no uncertain terms, wellies flying past his ears, while we kids looked on and learned a few choice new words.
Do you have any photos and stories of your childhood pets? Send them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org and every month we'll publish the one we love the most and send the winner a Pheasant Plucker goody bag.
Big Sky Thinking November 19, 2015 17:39
Pheasant Plucker & Son's Dusk candle, with its soothing, musky tones of lavender, thyme and rosemary is the perfect luxury for post-walk, post-pub relaxing.
Mrs H Neave's Apple Chutney November 12, 2015 22:08
Pheasant Plucker’s mother (try saying that three times after a couple of glasses of sloe gin) has a notebook which she’s had since the beginning of time that she writes interesting recipes in. Inside its swirly, bright purple and turquoise 1970s cover, are well thumbed pages, covered in splats and splodges with usually the vaguest of details and instructions (a particular favourite: “cook until done or longer if needed”). Accompanying some of the recipes are brief feedback notes written in the margin – a recipe for beetroot soup has “disgusting!” underlined three times beside it and a complicated dessert has “a complete faff” written determinedly above it, giving an insight into Ma Pheasant’s personal culinary tastes and expertise.
Some of the recipes have been cooked so many times over the years that the book is no longer needed and some of them are cooked regularly but only every so often due to seasonality. One of these is very special to us: Mrs H Neave’s Chutney.
Mrs H Neave was Pheasant Plucker’s great-grandmother. Although we never met her and don’t even have a photograph of her, when we make this chutney every Autumn we like to imagine her cooking it in her farmhouse kitchen in a completely different age to the one we’re in now but using the same processes and ingredients as us. What did she think about as she made it and what her life was like? Who was she? Did she achieve everything she ever wanted? She could never have dreamed that her recipe would end up on a blog a hundred years later.
True to form, the recipe details are spectacularly imprecise (see photo above and note the quantity of onions required) but it somehow always turns out to be delicious. We’ve been cooking this for a few years now so here's the recipe below as we make it, to save you the uncertainty.
1.5lbs apples (strong, sharp tasting ones work best) peeled, cored and chopped
1.5lbs onions, chopped
11/2lb dates, stoned and chopped
11/2 pints vinegar
1.5oz ground ginger (although we sometimes use freshly grated ginger instead)
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper
Put all the ingredients into a large, heavy bottomed pan and stir well over a high heat. Bring to the boil and then simmer away rapidly until the apples and onions have broken down and the mixture is a rich, dark brown colour with a thick consistency. It will smell quite vinegary but don't be put off by that, it will subside. Be careful as it'll be very hot at this point.
While the chutney is cooking, sterilise some jam jars by washing them in hot, soapy water and drying them in a low temperature oven. Transfer the chutney to the jars when it's ready, filling it all the way up to the top. Add a waxed paper circle and then put the lid on. You can eat it as soon as it cools, although it tastes better if you leave it for a couple of weeks to infuse inside the jar.
And there you have it. Chutney just like they made in the olden days.
Peck Bottom the Killer Cockerel November 6, 2015 10:19
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. It can only mean sloe gin. November 1, 2015 19:05
There is little Pheasant Plucker & Son enjoys more than getting snugged in by the fire on a cold, rainy evening and getting nicely toasted with a few glasses of last year’s sloe gin. Now is the time to set to and make it, with the abundance of fruits and berries ripening in the hedgerows. It’s super easy and if you can’t find sloes then damsons or plums work brilliantly too.*
1 pint gin
½ pound of sugar
Prick the sloes all over with a fork so that the juice can seep out and they can begin to break down in the liquid.
Sterilise a large jar with an airtight lid and add the sloes, the gin and the sugar. Give it all a good stir and then leave in a dark place, giving the jar a shake every once in a while.
After at least three months but no more than 12, strain it out, bottle it and leave it to mature for a few more months, if you can resist the temptation to drink it straight away.
If you’re feeling creative, you can also experiment with adding additional flavours to the original mixture. Pheasant Plucker has had various success with adding a tablespoon of vanilla sugar (yum), almond oil (floats on top, no thanks), a luxurious splash of Cointreau (yes please) and a couple of sticks of cinnamon (spicy and autumnal). Let us know how you get on.
*the premise is the same for any other fruit drink you want to make: fruit + booze + sugar left to stew = usually delicious. We've tried bramble brandy, strawberry vodka, damson gin all to great effect.