There’s been a bit of a production line in the kitchen today, preparing various homemade produce to give as Christmas presents. I dusted off and properly labelled some jam and chutney made in the summer and strained the fruit off the damson and sloe vodkas and put them in nice bottles. I also made a batch of blackcurrant jam from some fruit I froze when I didn’t have time to deal with the 12lbs of fruit I picked in one afternoon in July. Another delayed project is some rosehip syrup - the defrosted fruit is bubbling on the stove ready to strain through a jelly bag overnight and boil up with sugar tomorrow.

seascribe said: PPJ, what is a sloe?

did not even occur to me that you american lads wouldn’t know what a sloe was!

Prunus spinosa (blackthorn or sloe) is a species of Prunus native to Europe, western Asia, and locally in northwest Africa. It is also locally naturalised in New Zealand and eastern North America. (thanks wikipedia)

They grow wild in the UK and generally don’t taste that great on their own, they’re pretty bitter. They fruit in the autumn and birds go nuts for them. Picking them is kinda fun until you prick yourself on the branches (sharp) and thorns (super fucking sharp). Sloe gin tastes like autumn in a glass.

EP Review

SLOES - Chasing Tails

Sometimes, listening to music can be quite a task. When you know that there is more to it than is obvious at first (and second and…) try and you’re like „well, okay then, let’s do it again – sigh.“

That’s NOT what you’ll experience with Sloes’ music. There’s certainly more to discover than what is revealed during the first listen, but delving deeper is not a duty, it’s a pleasure. So – press the repeat button and enjoy!

I am soft-
mouthed sloe-eyed

Deer/girl here to
bleed. My mouth
tastes of Mycenae,
father. Tastes of
white rock tombs.

Father, oh! Father,
father. Look at me
my hair your hair
splayed over this stone.

My eyes your eyes
watching this knife.
The sharp edge of
it with the sea reflected.

My white dress and
myth-kings licking
the ocean-wet cling of it
with their gaze.

I am princess,
helpless, hungered for.

You’d eat me alive
for the wind.

—  Iphigenia Laments, Elisabeth Hewer