Banning Bunny

Dear Janice

It’s time to write about rabbits. Rabbits and eggs are what most people think of at Easter time – not furry animals and runny eggs with shells but chocolate eggs and chocolate rabbits. I love chocolate rabbits, especially the milk chocolate sort; they’re dead. The only good rabbit is a dead rabbit.

No, that’s not true. I don’t like dead rabbits either. When we first arrived at Double Tops, I harboured “country kitchen” notions of rabbit pie. In our first winter I asked Harry to shoot me two rabbits. I skinned and gutted them, consulted The Constance Spry Cookery Book and spent a very long time making a lapereau sous croûte (rabbit pie). I found it nauseating and I have never cooked a rabbit again. I believe the best method of cooking rabbit is that recommended for crows in Larousse Gastronomique: first, make a good, hearty beef stew. On the lid of the pot – which is reversed for the purpose – place a prepared rabbit. After three to four hours of gentle cooking, chuck the rabbit in the bin and enjoy the beef stew.

I know you love rabbits and I know that you slightly disapprove of my hating them but you would too if you had an exploding population feasting in your garden every night. Basil, our new fox terrier, is a disappointment. He just bounces up and down like a demented pogo stick when he sees a rabbit. Harry has admitted that another dachshund might have been a better choice. The late Henry’s legs were short but his determination was long. Henry never ever gave up in his pursuit of the rabbit.

I do not stand at Henry’s grave and weep but I often lament his passing. Poor Henry. His greatest foe, Toby my old sheepdog (pictured right), lives on. Toby is deaf and doesn’t know where he is any more. He spends his days spread-eagled on Henry’s back lawn, dreaming of his mustering years. Dear old Toby, he has always looked like a pensioner because he’s a blue beardie. Blue beardies are born with beautiful grey tresses and Toby still looks so decorative lying on the lawn, I’m thinking of getting him stuffed – as a rabbit deterrent. Happy Easter.

The only good rabbit is a gone rabbit.

Virginia

Dear Virginia

It’s unfortunate that so much of my childhood was coloured by fantasies of charming rabbits pottering in the garden wearing blue jackets and no pants. It’s still hard for me to look any man named Peter in the eye, particularly if he is digging for large carrots. Yes, yes, I was brainwashed to like rabbits. But I wouldn’t want them in my garden.

I do have exploding populations at the moment and not ones I want eaten by any creatures other than humans. It’s harvest time in my garden, with ripe and ready passionfruit, fejioas, apples and, best of all, tamarillos. They dangle from the branches like glowing Christmas tree decorations, but they are perfect food for Easter because they are egg-shaped.
I blanch them to remove the skins; then I might poach them in red wine, to retain the egg shape, or slice them into a jar, cover the top with sugar and leave them to macerate overnight. Far better than chocolate rabbits as an Easter treat.

Easter is a manic clean-up time in my little garden. I do search-and-destroy hand-weeding and then I go in for gourmet compost building. Into the six compost bins go the remains of the beans and tomatoes. I clip the giant catmint down to the ground and push all the prunings and the lavender clippings and the rose canes into the compost. I cut down all the comfrey leaves that grow on the dark side of the house with the rubbish bins, bikes and old pots. I add them and blood and bone.

But I’m still not satisfied with the nutritious content of the compost. Many walks are ruined because I insist on carrying home pine needles from forests, seaweed from beaches or horse poo bagged and for sale on country roads. Do you think the odd rabbit – fully naked, not the cute blue-jacketed one – could add the final seasoning to my compost?

I am preparing for the future, unlike dear Toby. Gardeners always imagine themselves a season, even a year, ahead. I’ve planted winter lettuce and Chinese greens and scattered the seeds of Shirley poppies and stocks. I know the season is changing. The grape leaves on the garage are turning bright red.