Today
Popping in to our friends' house yesterday we were invited to share their lunch of cheese and biscuits. Very nice and there were also pickles. The beetroot was especially tasty "It's called "sweetfire"" explained Cherie "I think it's quite spicy." Later she drew Howard's attention to some very good fig and ginger chutney. And the Onions were pickled in balsamic vinegar.
All this complemented the Cheddar, Stilton and Camembert very nicely.
In My Day
We simply never had pickles as children. Mamma made jams and marmalade but chutneys and pickles formed no part of our diet. Occasionally Mamma would buy sauerkraut which was invariably eaten with Frankfurters, but that was it.
I sometimes saw pickles on the tables of friends houses but I think I had some idea that they were unclean foods or terribly working-class and never touched them.
When I went on school events requiring packed lunches I looked at my colleagues' food in amazement. Cheese and pickle was strange enough but some of them had sandwiches featuring something called "Picalilli". This seemed to consist of lumps of vegetables (cauliflower featured, I remember) encased in a thick sauce of a vile yellow colour. This would ooze out of the sides of the their sandwiched and I was simply revolted as I watched them eagerly eating this muck.
When I met Paul I discovered a whole new world of flavour with his Dad's home-made chutneys, and have also learnt to make and enjoy the kinds of fresh chutneys that go with Indian Cooking.
My neighbour once told me that when he was a lad he was given Cheese and beetroot sandwiches. I've tried it - delicious, sweetfire or not!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Memory Lane
Today
After a pleasant few hours pottering around Knight's Hayes near Tiverton, Howard suggested we take the scenic route back home. This turned out to be very indirect. We drove across Exmoor as the low, swirling clouds coquettishly hid and displayed Dunkery Beacon.
Our first stop was Porlock Weir. We looked at the boats left high and dry by the tide and took a few photos before hastily going back to the warmth of the car.
Up Porlock Hill. "Can we take the road to Robber's Bridge?" pleaded Paul. "I'd so like to show it to you." Howard was happy to do this and we took the tiny lane that plunged off the side of the main road.
"Picture this....,"I said
In My Day
It's the end of May 1972, the weather is hot and we were about to take a holiday in Exmoor. I had for some time so wanted to share with Paul my love of Exmoor. I was very pregnant with Lizzie. We booked ourselves into a little B & B called Shilstone Farm near the village of Brendon.
We drove from Brighton to London to drop the cats off at my brother David's, then worked our way to the A30 heading West. There was no M3 or A303 in 1972 and very few bypasses. It was also a bank holiday weekend. The traffic was dense and got denser. Outside Salisbury it stopped altogether and barely moved for over two hours. The car warmed up and we worried about its capacity even to reach its destination. I became more and more uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with my bump.
Paul was hungry and tired by this time; he had had to do all the driving and this was hard going. At last we cleared Salisbury and made some progress. We joined the A39 at Minehead as the sun began to lower and shine straight into our eyes. We took a chance on Porlock Hill, hoping that the Humber's dodgy transmission would be able to cope. I began to look anxiously for the turning, worried that we'd arrive too late at the B & B or, worse still, not be able to find it at all.
Paul was beginning to doubt my navigational skills, when I suddenly saw the turning marked "Brendon and Malmsmead". We turned suddenly onto this tiny steep road that seemed to fall off the side of the hill. We could see across the valley with its mixture of lush woods and heather-covered moors. As we twisted our way down towards the rippling stream in the valley and Paul drove over Robber's Bridge we felt all the irritation and tiredness; the weight of the long journey slip from us and Paul fell as instantly and passionately in love with Exmoor as I was.
"Thank you for sharing this with us," said Howard as he positioned his new Audi carefully to get over Robber's Bridge "This really is Memory Lane"
After a pleasant few hours pottering around Knight's Hayes near Tiverton, Howard suggested we take the scenic route back home. This turned out to be very indirect. We drove across Exmoor as the low, swirling clouds coquettishly hid and displayed Dunkery Beacon.
Our first stop was Porlock Weir. We looked at the boats left high and dry by the tide and took a few photos before hastily going back to the warmth of the car.
Up Porlock Hill. "Can we take the road to Robber's Bridge?" pleaded Paul. "I'd so like to show it to you." Howard was happy to do this and we took the tiny lane that plunged off the side of the main road.
"Picture this....,"I said
In My Day
It's the end of May 1972, the weather is hot and we were about to take a holiday in Exmoor. I had for some time so wanted to share with Paul my love of Exmoor. I was very pregnant with Lizzie. We booked ourselves into a little B & B called Shilstone Farm near the village of Brendon.
We drove from Brighton to London to drop the cats off at my brother David's, then worked our way to the A30 heading West. There was no M3 or A303 in 1972 and very few bypasses. It was also a bank holiday weekend. The traffic was dense and got denser. Outside Salisbury it stopped altogether and barely moved for over two hours. The car warmed up and we worried about its capacity even to reach its destination. I became more and more uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with my bump.
Paul was hungry and tired by this time; he had had to do all the driving and this was hard going. At last we cleared Salisbury and made some progress. We joined the A39 at Minehead as the sun began to lower and shine straight into our eyes. We took a chance on Porlock Hill, hoping that the Humber's dodgy transmission would be able to cope. I began to look anxiously for the turning, worried that we'd arrive too late at the B & B or, worse still, not be able to find it at all.
Paul was beginning to doubt my navigational skills, when I suddenly saw the turning marked "Brendon and Malmsmead". We turned suddenly onto this tiny steep road that seemed to fall off the side of the hill. We could see across the valley with its mixture of lush woods and heather-covered moors. As we twisted our way down towards the rippling stream in the valley and Paul drove over Robber's Bridge we felt all the irritation and tiredness; the weight of the long journey slip from us and Paul fell as instantly and passionately in love with Exmoor as I was.
"Thank you for sharing this with us," said Howard as he positioned his new Audi carefully to get over Robber's Bridge "This really is Memory Lane"
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Standing Room Only
Today
Recently my brother David was entertaining me with tales of how he maximises the use of his bus pass. This despite living in a very rural location. I think catching a bus for him involves leaping into the road and flagging it down, despite the lack of a bus stop. As well as travelling to the obvious local destinations such as Wells, Frome and Shepton Mallet, he uses the buses in much more adventurous ways.
David had heard tell of a bus, which seemed to be more myth than reality, which travels to Salisbury only on Tuesdays (why only Tuesdays, and why not only on Tuesdays which also fall on the third of the month and have a full moon?). David followed the clues and caught this bus which gradually filled up with other holders of bus passes along the route. From Salisbury he caught another bus to Old Sarum. Despite almost missing his connection back again, he had a splendid day, enjoying the bus experience as much as the destination.
In My Day
Dixon's Outdoor Transport (DOT for short) was the name of the bus company invented by David when we were children. He was the mastermind of this operation, devising elaborate timetables, naming all the bus stops ("Garden Gate" "Hollybush" etc), setting up a fares system and designing tickets. I suppose such a game was fairly inevitable, given our London upbringing and the central part that catching the bus played in our lives.
The bus was composed of us children like a sort of sedate conga, weaving our way from stop to stop. Timetables were punctually observed and fares taken in cardboard money. David and Chris were either bus drivers or conductors. Beatrice and I, according to ancient laws relating to the inferiority of both our junior ages and our sex, were only ever allowed to be passengers.
The management of the company was strictly David's; I don't think we were permitted to question the authority of the timetables which were miracles of precision, design and layout. I wonder exactly how many hours of my childhood were spent obediently chugging around behind my older brother, never questioning his right to act out his obsession and dreams.
It was this concern with and enjoyment of the detail and organisation of the bus system, apparent back back in the 50's as well as now, that made David's story last Saturday so fascinating and poignant.
Recently my brother David was entertaining me with tales of how he maximises the use of his bus pass. This despite living in a very rural location. I think catching a bus for him involves leaping into the road and flagging it down, despite the lack of a bus stop. As well as travelling to the obvious local destinations such as Wells, Frome and Shepton Mallet, he uses the buses in much more adventurous ways.
David had heard tell of a bus, which seemed to be more myth than reality, which travels to Salisbury only on Tuesdays (why only Tuesdays, and why not only on Tuesdays which also fall on the third of the month and have a full moon?). David followed the clues and caught this bus which gradually filled up with other holders of bus passes along the route. From Salisbury he caught another bus to Old Sarum. Despite almost missing his connection back again, he had a splendid day, enjoying the bus experience as much as the destination.
In My Day
Dixon's Outdoor Transport (DOT for short) was the name of the bus company invented by David when we were children. He was the mastermind of this operation, devising elaborate timetables, naming all the bus stops ("Garden Gate" "Hollybush" etc), setting up a fares system and designing tickets. I suppose such a game was fairly inevitable, given our London upbringing and the central part that catching the bus played in our lives.
The bus was composed of us children like a sort of sedate conga, weaving our way from stop to stop. Timetables were punctually observed and fares taken in cardboard money. David and Chris were either bus drivers or conductors. Beatrice and I, according to ancient laws relating to the inferiority of both our junior ages and our sex, were only ever allowed to be passengers.
The management of the company was strictly David's; I don't think we were permitted to question the authority of the timetables which were miracles of precision, design and layout. I wonder exactly how many hours of my childhood were spent obediently chugging around behind my older brother, never questioning his right to act out his obsession and dreams.
It was this concern with and enjoyment of the detail and organisation of the bus system, apparent back back in the 50's as well as now, that made David's story last Saturday so fascinating and poignant.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Trespassers
Today
As the weather deteriorates into Autumn I notice that Abby is less inclined to stand on her dignity and more inclined to come indoors and tolerate the kitties.
She's been in during the day and evening several times this week and has even deigned to sit on my lap for a few hours. She shows a preference for Paul's chair, sleeping bang in the middle of it and Paul doesn't like to disturb her.
She outstares the kitties who so far haven't taken her on.
In My Day
We acquired Caspian the dog in May 1984. He was a cheerful mongrel, aged about two. He was delighted with his new home, especially as he discovered that there were a couple of cats he could chase. This he did without malice but a great deal of energy. Amelia and Agamemnon were sorely affronted and refused to come indoors while the dog was there. They snatched their meals and zipped off outside to safety where there was little chance that he could actually catch them.
I think it was the normally timid Amelia who decided, as Autumn approached, that she was blowed if she was going to be kept out of her nice warm house by a mere dog. So the next time Cas decided that he wanted a bit of sport she simply stood her ground and gave him a good swipe, accompanied by much hissing. Cas was taken aback "I didn't mean anything by it", he seemed to be saying "Just a bit of fun, can't you take a joke?" Amelia sailed past him and took up her favourite place in the warm.
This action left the opportunity wide open for Agamemnon to follow suit which he did without having to lift a paw.
Cas, who was intelligent enough not to risk a second slapping, soon took his rightful, third place in the hierarchy. For a long time he took to avoiding the cats altogether, jumping over the sofa rather than face them. We sometimes discovered him whimpering at the top of the stairs, not daring to walk past Agamemnon who'd be reclining on a step lower down ostentatiously taking a nice long time about giving himself a jolly good wash.
In later years they all accepted each others' presence in the home, although the cats always kept their distance. When Amelia was dying she at last allowed Caspian to come close and sniff her, an honour which he repaid by mourning her death for about a week.
I'm not really hoping for feline closeness to develop between Abby and the kitties but I do wish she'd stop that stupid growling whenever she sees them.
As the weather deteriorates into Autumn I notice that Abby is less inclined to stand on her dignity and more inclined to come indoors and tolerate the kitties.
She's been in during the day and evening several times this week and has even deigned to sit on my lap for a few hours. She shows a preference for Paul's chair, sleeping bang in the middle of it and Paul doesn't like to disturb her.
She outstares the kitties who so far haven't taken her on.
In My Day
We acquired Caspian the dog in May 1984. He was a cheerful mongrel, aged about two. He was delighted with his new home, especially as he discovered that there were a couple of cats he could chase. This he did without malice but a great deal of energy. Amelia and Agamemnon were sorely affronted and refused to come indoors while the dog was there. They snatched their meals and zipped off outside to safety where there was little chance that he could actually catch them.
I think it was the normally timid Amelia who decided, as Autumn approached, that she was blowed if she was going to be kept out of her nice warm house by a mere dog. So the next time Cas decided that he wanted a bit of sport she simply stood her ground and gave him a good swipe, accompanied by much hissing. Cas was taken aback "I didn't mean anything by it", he seemed to be saying "Just a bit of fun, can't you take a joke?" Amelia sailed past him and took up her favourite place in the warm.
This action left the opportunity wide open for Agamemnon to follow suit which he did without having to lift a paw.
Cas, who was intelligent enough not to risk a second slapping, soon took his rightful, third place in the hierarchy. For a long time he took to avoiding the cats altogether, jumping over the sofa rather than face them. We sometimes discovered him whimpering at the top of the stairs, not daring to walk past Agamemnon who'd be reclining on a step lower down ostentatiously taking a nice long time about giving himself a jolly good wash.
In later years they all accepted each others' presence in the home, although the cats always kept their distance. When Amelia was dying she at last allowed Caspian to come close and sniff her, an honour which he repaid by mourning her death for about a week.
I'm not really hoping for feline closeness to develop between Abby and the kitties but I do wish she'd stop that stupid growling whenever she sees them.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Clean Sweep
Today
We decided that our tonight's dinner was going to have a Grecian theme. To Paul that meant including houmous. "What type would you like?" I asked, offering him plain, caramelised onion, lemon and coriander, roasted pepper, etc. Caramelised onion was decided upon.
Now, caramelising onions takes a while if you're going to get that lovely yummy sticky taste so I started to cook them at lunchtime, allowing them to simmer gently in the butter and olive oil. Eventually I asked Paul to turn off the stove, satisfied that they would add that special something to tonight's feasting.
Later, I was just finishing drying up a few things that Paul had washed, I noticed that the stove was clear and cleaned. "Where are my caramelised onions?" I demanded. It seems that Paul, in the middle of a kitchen cleaning frenzy had come upon them and decided that this brownish sticky stuff represented something either failed or gone off and chucked the lot away.
In My Day
One of Mamma's specialities each Christmas would be the manufacture of "cinnamon stars". These gloriously chewy cookies are made out of egg white, cinnamon and vanilla sugar. To make vanilla sugar Mamma would purchase, at a hideous cost, a vanilla pod, fill a large jar with caster sugar and immerse the pod therein. After a few months the intense flavour of the pod would have permeated the sugar. This wasn't something to be rushed.
I think it was in the year that Daddy had built a kitchen extension while Mamma was away, because I can't imagine why else he would have gone to the store cupboards. Christmas approached; Mamma had saved up enough egg-white and she started to make the cinnamon stars. She reached up for the precious sugar, and couldn't find the jar. After much searching she thought to ask Daddy.
"Oh that", he replied "It had a great big worm in it". "Worm!" cried Mamma "That was my vanilla pod." You've guessed it: Daddy had chucked the lot out, "worm" and all. I can't remember now whether Mamma managed to make the stars some other way or whether we just went without but feel sure that Daddy was confirmed in his view that the kitchen was a woman's domain.
We'll just have to have roasted pepper houmous tonight instead, which, come to think of it, is actually what Paul asked for in the first place.
We decided that our tonight's dinner was going to have a Grecian theme. To Paul that meant including houmous. "What type would you like?" I asked, offering him plain, caramelised onion, lemon and coriander, roasted pepper, etc. Caramelised onion was decided upon.
Now, caramelising onions takes a while if you're going to get that lovely yummy sticky taste so I started to cook them at lunchtime, allowing them to simmer gently in the butter and olive oil. Eventually I asked Paul to turn off the stove, satisfied that they would add that special something to tonight's feasting.
Later, I was just finishing drying up a few things that Paul had washed, I noticed that the stove was clear and cleaned. "Where are my caramelised onions?" I demanded. It seems that Paul, in the middle of a kitchen cleaning frenzy had come upon them and decided that this brownish sticky stuff represented something either failed or gone off and chucked the lot away.
In My Day
One of Mamma's specialities each Christmas would be the manufacture of "cinnamon stars". These gloriously chewy cookies are made out of egg white, cinnamon and vanilla sugar. To make vanilla sugar Mamma would purchase, at a hideous cost, a vanilla pod, fill a large jar with caster sugar and immerse the pod therein. After a few months the intense flavour of the pod would have permeated the sugar. This wasn't something to be rushed.
I think it was in the year that Daddy had built a kitchen extension while Mamma was away, because I can't imagine why else he would have gone to the store cupboards. Christmas approached; Mamma had saved up enough egg-white and she started to make the cinnamon stars. She reached up for the precious sugar, and couldn't find the jar. After much searching she thought to ask Daddy.
"Oh that", he replied "It had a great big worm in it". "Worm!" cried Mamma "That was my vanilla pod." You've guessed it: Daddy had chucked the lot out, "worm" and all. I can't remember now whether Mamma managed to make the stars some other way or whether we just went without but feel sure that Daddy was confirmed in his view that the kitchen was a woman's domain.
We'll just have to have roasted pepper houmous tonight instead, which, come to think of it, is actually what Paul asked for in the first place.
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