This is all I want to eat on the coldest, greyest, drabbest of days
It's not been the brightest start to february, but even in the chill there are so many little joys to embrace
Hey! Jack here from This Tiny Life.
Before we get into this week’s post, just a quick one to say a massive thank you for being here. This little blog is so close to hitting its first big milestone—1,000 subscribers! And honestly, that blows mine and Gabby’s minds a bit.
We’re just really chuffed that you’re here and along for the ride. We love writing these posts, cooking up new recipes, and sharing bits of life from our narrowboat. So yeah—thank you! And if you’re new and fancy helping us get over that milestone, hitting subscribe would be hugely appreciated.
Each week, we share seasonal recipes, slow living thoughts, veg patch tales, and other little snippets from our floating home in the Oxfordshire countryside.
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Surely, it’s got to warm up soon?
It might sound a little petty, but I’m putting the blame solely at Ben Fogle’s door. A few weeks ago, he shared a picture of his shorts collection on Instagram, declaring the 1st of February as “the day the shorts come out.” As someone who also likes to spend a fair amount of summer showing a little leg, I gleefully tapped the like button, dreaming of warm days ahead. And since then, without any sense of irony, the weather has been absolutely baltic. Not just cold, but grey, unassuming, and downright glum. The meteorological equivalent of a beige BHS cardy—uninspiring, relentlessly dull, and somehow always a little bit damp.
Living on a narrowboat means the outside world has a huge sway over our day-to-day life. One of the things we cherish most about this lifestyle is the direct and immediate access to nature. There’s something incredibly special about waking up on cold mornings with a slight mist rolling over the water and just taking a moment to appreciate the day. Even on the drabbest of days, there’s always something to spot—a moorhen busying themselves outside our hatch or one of the resident hares doing their daily 100-metre dash in the field opposite our mooring.
Obviously, with three humans and a tiny dog—who, despite being a miniature, still manages to occupy the entirety of the sofa for 99% of the day—our inside space is tight. That’s why the ability to step outside into what is often beautiful countryside is such a blessing. Even in the busiest of cities, the canalside offers a pocket of calm, a strip of tranquillity where nature still holds a quiet dominance.
But this time of year brings its own set of challenges. The persistent damp, the layers of mud that cling to everything, and the endless cycle of wet clothes that never quite dry. We leave little trails everywhere—muddy footprints leading in and out of the boat like some Hansel and Gretel breadcrumb scenario, only much less magical and much more annoying. None of my trousers remain unscathed; every pair is now adorned with a crusty layer of towpath grime. And then there’s Joe’s grandparents, who, in their sweet optimism, gifted him a white, all-in-one puffer coat. After just one day of boat life, it had been thoroughly towpathed—transformed from pristine winter wear to something resembling an abstract mud painting.
Yet, even in the depths of February, there are still moments of joy to be found. Our bird feeder is a flurry of activity, a gathering place for great tits, robins, and blackbirds who dart and scuttle about, searching for worms in the freshly soaked soil. The cold air can be sharp, but it’s invigorating—perfect for a brisk walk along the towpath, cheeks flushed, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee upon return. And, of course, there’s the woodburner: the heart of our floating home, crackling away as we thaw out from the chill, the scent of burning logs mingling with the earthy dampness of the season.
We had one rare day of sunshine this week, and I was up early to tilt the solar panels, tracking the low-hanging sun to wring out every last drop of charge for our very depleted batteries. It’s little moments like this—being so attuned to the rhythms of nature, adjusting to its whims—that make boat life what it is. Some might call it mad, and many people don’t understand the appeal of living in a space where the seasons dictate so much. But for us, the challenges of winter make the arrival of spring all the more magical.
So. In the spirit of the days remaining stubbornly cold, I’ve gone back to winter warmers, cooking up a seasonal veggie toad-in-the-hole. I’m toying with renaming it ‘Use-up-a-Load in the Hole’—though that sounds even less appetizing than a literal toad.
This dish was born out of necessity, a way to use up a glut of winter veg that needed rescuing before it went limp and uninspiring. Parsnips and carrots, the reliable classics, as well as a few forlorn leaves of cavolo nero. Really, you can throw in whatever you have—beetroot for an earthy sweetness (though prepare for some vibrant hues), gnarly Jerusalem artichokes, or the ever-versatile butternut squash. The key is roasting everything until caramelized and golden, before submerging it in that glorious, puffed-up Yorkshire pudding batter. And, of course, no winter dish is complete without a generous glug of red wine onion gravy, the kind that clings to your fork as the rain patters down outside. Delish.
So, thank you, Ben Fogle, for your ill-timed shorts proclamation. We’re still waiting for the sun to arrive—but in the meantime, we’ll take the small joys where we can find them.
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NOTES: Always give your Yorkshire batter time to rest. Make it a minimum of half an hour before you’re going to cook. A recent article I read suggested making it a day ahead although this would mean a degree of organisation that I would find unprecedented.
Ingredients:
For the toad in the hole:
3 large eggs
150g plain flour
300ml milk
1 tbsp caraway seeds
2 sage leaves, finely chopped
Mixed root vegetables (e.g., carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes), jauntily chopped
4–5 tbsp vegetable oil
A few sprigs of thyme + rosemary
For the Red Onion Gravy:
1 large red onion, peeled and thinly sliced into half-moons
2 tbsp butter
2 tbsp flour
100ml red wine (Merlot works well)
450ml vegetable stock
1 sprig of thyme
1 tsp redcurrant jelly
½ tsp Marmite
Method:
Preheat & Prep the Batter
Preheat your oven to 180°C. While it warms up, make the Yorkshire batter:
In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, flour, milk, sage, and a generous pinch of salt and pepper. Set aside to rest.Roast the Veg
Add the chopped vegetables to a roasting tin, sprinkle over the caraway seeds, and drizzle with a little oil. Toss everything together, then roast for 30–40 minutes, until soft and golden.Increase the Heat & Prep for the Yorkshire
Turn the oven up to 230°C. Add 4–5 tablespoons of oil to the roasting tin and return it to the oven for 5–10 minutes, allowing the oil to get smoking hot.Add the Batter
Carefully remove the roasting tin from the oven and immediately pour the batter evenly over the roasted veg. Lay a few sprigs of the rosemary and thyme on top, then return to the oven. Bake for 25–30 minutes, until puffed up and golden. Do not open the oven door while it bakes, or it won’t rise!Make the Onion Gravy
While the Yorkshire is in the oven, prepare the gravy:Heat the butter in a large pan over medium heat. Once foamy, add the onions with a pinch of salt.
Cook for 15 minutes, stirring regularly, until soft and caramelized.
Sprinkle in the flour and stir to combine.
Pour in the red wine, whisking gently, and let it reduce for 2 minutes.
Add the stock, thyme, Marmite, and redcurrant jelly. Stir over low heat until the gravy thickens and coats the back of a spoon.
Serve & Enjoy
Once the Yorkshire pudding is golden and crisp, remove it from the oven and serve immediately with a generous drizzle of onion gravy.
Jack x
Sounds lovely - will definitely try this at the weekend ! 🥰