Today
A gorgeous picture of my great-nephew Isaac on Facebook today holding an upside-down spoon (why do all children do that?) and filling his face with apfelmus.
He was obviously enjoying the taste! I commented: "I remember apfelmus, I used to make that with Mamma!"
In My Day
Apfelmus was a seasonal treat when I was a child. First, apples had to be garnered. This happened in a number of ways. Sometimes we would go up to Grandma Richardson's house just up the road. Mamma had been a domestic servant to the Richardsons before the war and we kept up a friendly relationship until she died. We'd use huge apple-pickers - great jaws on sticks to pull down the branches and take the apples. There were wind-falls as well. In this way, Grandma R had her crop harvested and we got to take home lots of apples ourselves.
Sometimes the apples came from our garden; but that was before half of the land (the bit containing our raggedy orchard) was compulsorily purchased for housing). We used much the same method to collect our apples. In later years, Bramleys were simply bought from the greengrocer.
First, the apples had to be cored and cut up. Often the insides would reveal maggots or other nasties. I became adept at spotting those apples whose tell-tale little holes and marks gave this away. Cores and stems were discarded but we left the skins on.
Next they were cooked. Mamma used little or no water, allowing the apples to stew in their juices. Bramleys soften up pretty fast and when they were done, batches were put into a large, rather insanitary wooden framed sieve over a large mixing bowl. Using a wooden spoon, the pulp was forced through the mesh. We watched as the puree gradually transferred into the bowl; its colour anything from white through pink to green.
When the last fragment of apple had been pushed through, Mamma would add sugar to the right taste (tart but not too tart) and then add raisins. and left the whole thing until the raisins had plumped up and the mixture cooled.
This was then eaten in big bowlfuls, just as it was. A bowlful probably contained the pulp of about 6 apples and was very filling. I remember loving the contrast of the very sweet raisins with the tartness of the pulp. We always called it by its German name "apfelmus" to the extent that I thought that that was what everyone called it, not realising just what an unusual treat we were having in post-war Britain.
Lizzie used to have a spoon called a "Tommy Tippee" that didn't twist over when she picked it up, thus ensuring a full helping of apfelmus every time. I wonder if they still make them?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Pinkie
Today
My nephew reported on Facebook today that his two-year had been to casualty, having caught her finger in a hinge with an injury requiring stitches.
He was very proud of the way she's coping and I'm sure his pride is justified. I just have some thoughts whether our pride in our children's stoicism (especially at age two) could cause them to suppress their real feelings. Poor little scrap, I hope she mends soon.
In My Day
Becky was two years old and sitting in the middle of our cramped sitting room floor playing "Christmas". This game entailed her placing one of her favourite toys on a big blanket spread on her lap and wrapping it up. I walked through with a tray of coffee mugs for some visitors and trod right on her little finger that was concealed under the blanket.
I managed not to drop the tray and picked up the crying child. Her little finger nail had pulled right out of the base and the finger was turning blue.
Off to casualty where they took a look and said that they would try to replace the nail. To do this involved giving Becky a "ring-block" of 4 injections at the base of the finger to numb it after which they would try to slide in the nail and repair the finger. "If you wouldn't mind waiting outside, Mrs Barrett", they said and took my baby into the curtained booth in the middle of casualty. There was silence from within the booth.
About half an hour later the nurse and doctor emerged with Becky and bandaged finger. "She was so good," they told me "not a peep!" I looked at Becky - she was only two, after all, not an age at which children are renowned for their ability to keep a check on her emotions. Her face was strange, trance-like, as though she'd entirely absented herself from the situation. I asked her if she was alright. "Did it hurt?" "Yes" "Did you want to cry?" "Yes" "Well, you can cry now if you want" "But it doesn't hurt any more"
Thinking about how she coped without me in that strange place made me want to cry and I hugged her all the way home.
I had to have a "ring-block" a couple of years later when I was having a whitlow removed. It hurt like hell.
My nephew reported on Facebook today that his two-year had been to casualty, having caught her finger in a hinge with an injury requiring stitches.
He was very proud of the way she's coping and I'm sure his pride is justified. I just have some thoughts whether our pride in our children's stoicism (especially at age two) could cause them to suppress their real feelings. Poor little scrap, I hope she mends soon.
In My Day
Becky was two years old and sitting in the middle of our cramped sitting room floor playing "Christmas". This game entailed her placing one of her favourite toys on a big blanket spread on her lap and wrapping it up. I walked through with a tray of coffee mugs for some visitors and trod right on her little finger that was concealed under the blanket.
I managed not to drop the tray and picked up the crying child. Her little finger nail had pulled right out of the base and the finger was turning blue.
Off to casualty where they took a look and said that they would try to replace the nail. To do this involved giving Becky a "ring-block" of 4 injections at the base of the finger to numb it after which they would try to slide in the nail and repair the finger. "If you wouldn't mind waiting outside, Mrs Barrett", they said and took my baby into the curtained booth in the middle of casualty. There was silence from within the booth.
About half an hour later the nurse and doctor emerged with Becky and bandaged finger. "She was so good," they told me "not a peep!" I looked at Becky - she was only two, after all, not an age at which children are renowned for their ability to keep a check on her emotions. Her face was strange, trance-like, as though she'd entirely absented herself from the situation. I asked her if she was alright. "Did it hurt?" "Yes" "Did you want to cry?" "Yes" "Well, you can cry now if you want" "But it doesn't hurt any more"
Thinking about how she coped without me in that strange place made me want to cry and I hugged her all the way home.
I had to have a "ring-block" a couple of years later when I was having a whitlow removed. It hurt like hell.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Patter
Today
Yesterday we met my sister-in-law in Tesco, busy buying baby necessities for her daughter. My niece is fast approaching the time when her second baby will be born. Pregnancy hasn't been an easy experience for her, but that doesn't seem to dim her joy.
In fact, this is a fecund season for the family, with three more babies due this year. My only regret is that the dilution down the generations and geographic distance mean that I don't see as much of my great-nieces and nephews as I'd like. I try not to forget them, however, and make cards and little gifts to send them.
All the grandparents are very much involved with the day-to-day lives of these babies; much more so than when I had my children.
In My Day
Daddy actually had 21 grandchildren if you count the child from Keir's first marriage and those born after he died; if you exclude those he still had fourteen. The age range covers thirty-three years, a whole generation in itself. Daddy was immensely proud of them. When David and Chris both had two children and I still had one he told me to buck up or I'd lose my place in the race. "It's not a competition, Daddy," I said "I'll do this when I'm good and ready."
What I'm not so sure about is how close he felt to these grandchildren. He was very happy to sit surrounded by small people when we went to Dorking to celebrate birthdays, like a familial Buddha, but I don't remember him playing with or talking to them much. Mamma was more likely to get intimately involved, knitting jumpers for the children, cooking with them and telling stories. Certainly Lizzie always felt close to her Grandma and, I think, still misses her.
On the other hand I do remember how Daddy interacted with three month-old Becky when I was caring for him in Dorking while Mamma was in hospital. He talked to her, stimulating her to her first forays into verbal communication and holding her tightly on his lap while I tried to manoeuvre his wheelchair around the hospital corridors, attracting many "oohs" & "aahs!" from passing folk.
Paul and I were discussing quantum theory this morning and the possibility of multiverses. "In another one I might be surrounded by ten grandchildren," he said. "And, who knows, you might hate it!" I replied. I don't think so.
Yesterday we met my sister-in-law in Tesco, busy buying baby necessities for her daughter. My niece is fast approaching the time when her second baby will be born. Pregnancy hasn't been an easy experience for her, but that doesn't seem to dim her joy.
In fact, this is a fecund season for the family, with three more babies due this year. My only regret is that the dilution down the generations and geographic distance mean that I don't see as much of my great-nieces and nephews as I'd like. I try not to forget them, however, and make cards and little gifts to send them.
All the grandparents are very much involved with the day-to-day lives of these babies; much more so than when I had my children.
In My Day
Daddy actually had 21 grandchildren if you count the child from Keir's first marriage and those born after he died; if you exclude those he still had fourteen. The age range covers thirty-three years, a whole generation in itself. Daddy was immensely proud of them. When David and Chris both had two children and I still had one he told me to buck up or I'd lose my place in the race. "It's not a competition, Daddy," I said "I'll do this when I'm good and ready."
What I'm not so sure about is how close he felt to these grandchildren. He was very happy to sit surrounded by small people when we went to Dorking to celebrate birthdays, like a familial Buddha, but I don't remember him playing with or talking to them much. Mamma was more likely to get intimately involved, knitting jumpers for the children, cooking with them and telling stories. Certainly Lizzie always felt close to her Grandma and, I think, still misses her.
On the other hand I do remember how Daddy interacted with three month-old Becky when I was caring for him in Dorking while Mamma was in hospital. He talked to her, stimulating her to her first forays into verbal communication and holding her tightly on his lap while I tried to manoeuvre his wheelchair around the hospital corridors, attracting many "oohs" & "aahs!" from passing folk.
Paul and I were discussing quantum theory this morning and the possibility of multiverses. "In another one I might be surrounded by ten grandchildren," he said. "And, who knows, you might hate it!" I replied. I don't think so.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Mulling it over
Today
Being rather hesitant about hacking straight into my beautiful piece of sari silk, I decided to do a mock up of the jacket I'm making in plain fabric first. I persuaded Paul to check my measurements (my back neck-waist measurement is a whole three inches shorter than the average for my size!) before cutting out the paper pattern.
"Do you know", I said to Paul "when I was learning cutting we used to make a basic "body"out of calico which we then used as the template for all patterns. It was called a "mull"".
In My Day
I didn't start out knowing how to do all this. Back in the '60's I used to measure myself then cut out the fabric to the shape I wanted. I became very observant of how clothes were constructed, but had no idea about allowances and easing and other technical terms. Somehow the clothes I put together hung together - perhaps because dress shapes then were just straight shift and I never attempted jackets or anything clever.
When I went to the West Sussex College of Art to learn theatre design, I began to learn more about how to turn an idea into a beautifully fitting work of art. For this we went to the fashion department, where a very precise and helpful woman taught me the right way to take measurements, how to allow for the movement of the body and how to respect and use the grain and weave of the cloth. "Dressmaking" she told us "is all about how to make a flat piece of fabric fit the curved shape of the body."
I learnt that, for a hem to hang straight, it must be cut curved, and how to allow for the slope of the shoulders at the back so that the garment didn't rise up. I was fascinated - this is what I'd been missing all those years ago, when I'd just made it up as I went along,
When that part of the training was considered over for the more generalised theatre design students, I went back and begged to be taught some tailoring. So the teacher patiently showed me how to steam, stretch and shape heavy wool and canvas interfacings to give the perfect jacket or coat. I made a coat, too, using an old army blanket that came from God knows where, which I wore for some years. I learnt how to make a bound buttonholes (I was not so good at worked ones and have been grateful for the automation that my sewing machine gave me).
I never entered the world of theatre design but have lost count of the number of garments I have made since, for myself, children, family, friends and others, sometimes for payment, sometimes for love. My greatest reward is to see people actually wearing the clothes I've made them.
I've just remembered the name of that teacher; it was Mrs Mull!
What I have now is a hankering for a proper adjustable dressmakers' dummy. Anyone got one hanging about?
Being rather hesitant about hacking straight into my beautiful piece of sari silk, I decided to do a mock up of the jacket I'm making in plain fabric first. I persuaded Paul to check my measurements (my back neck-waist measurement is a whole three inches shorter than the average for my size!) before cutting out the paper pattern.
"Do you know", I said to Paul "when I was learning cutting we used to make a basic "body"out of calico which we then used as the template for all patterns. It was called a "mull"".
In My Day
I didn't start out knowing how to do all this. Back in the '60's I used to measure myself then cut out the fabric to the shape I wanted. I became very observant of how clothes were constructed, but had no idea about allowances and easing and other technical terms. Somehow the clothes I put together hung together - perhaps because dress shapes then were just straight shift and I never attempted jackets or anything clever.
When I went to the West Sussex College of Art to learn theatre design, I began to learn more about how to turn an idea into a beautifully fitting work of art. For this we went to the fashion department, where a very precise and helpful woman taught me the right way to take measurements, how to allow for the movement of the body and how to respect and use the grain and weave of the cloth. "Dressmaking" she told us "is all about how to make a flat piece of fabric fit the curved shape of the body."
I learnt that, for a hem to hang straight, it must be cut curved, and how to allow for the slope of the shoulders at the back so that the garment didn't rise up. I was fascinated - this is what I'd been missing all those years ago, when I'd just made it up as I went along,
When that part of the training was considered over for the more generalised theatre design students, I went back and begged to be taught some tailoring. So the teacher patiently showed me how to steam, stretch and shape heavy wool and canvas interfacings to give the perfect jacket or coat. I made a coat, too, using an old army blanket that came from God knows where, which I wore for some years. I learnt how to make a bound buttonholes (I was not so good at worked ones and have been grateful for the automation that my sewing machine gave me).
I never entered the world of theatre design but have lost count of the number of garments I have made since, for myself, children, family, friends and others, sometimes for payment, sometimes for love. My greatest reward is to see people actually wearing the clothes I've made them.
I've just remembered the name of that teacher; it was Mrs Mull!
What I have now is a hankering for a proper adjustable dressmakers' dummy. Anyone got one hanging about?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Stitch up
Today
I had a happy hour today, pottering round "Rose Crafts" in Midsomer Norton. It's a proper old-fashioned fabric shop - what I use to call a "draper" It has a shop window full of artistically draped bolts of cloth.
Inside are two floors crammed with fabrics, dress patterns, buttons, cords, lace, tassels and notions. Notions are all the other bits - snap fasteners, eyelets, bias binding, tapes etc. There's also plenty of stuff if you knit or embroider.
Of course, the shop, also carries lines of self-adhesive twiddly bits to satisfy the current fashion for sticking said bits onto cards and calling them hand-made greetings cards.... If they didn't, they'd be out of business.
The point of this is that I had to travel to Norton for this. There's nothing in Bath, Wells or Frome. "Where have all the drapers gone?" I asked Paul. "Once upon a time every tiny town had a shop carrying this sort of stuff."
In My Day
As a child I was taught needlework. I can't say I enjoyed it much at the time; only later seeing the relevance to real life and discovering the creative joy of turning flat fabric into garments that flattered the body.
But I don't think I ever questioned that it was an important skill. A sewing machine was a normal piece of household equipment, equivalent to an iron, kettle or cooker. When I designed the costumes for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Selhurst and knew I wouldn't have time to stitch them all myself, it didn't seem unreasonable to cut the costumes out and send them home for mothers to do the making up. Generally, one could assume that they had the skills.
Mamma made clothes for me and Beatrice when we were small, as well as costumes for us all for many occasions. She also knitted jumpers and suchlike, although I'm not sure that her knitting skills were great; something to do with the tension, I believe.
The advent of cheap clothes is killing the skill of practical dressmaking just as surely as convenience foods are killing basic cookery skills (not to be confused with the sort of stuff you see on TV - I mean of the boiling an egg variety). I can see why it happens, but, come the revolution, where will we all be if we can't stitch on a button?
About forty years ago, when she lived at South Norwood, Beatrice gave me a needle book. This I still use and have just topped it up with fresh supplies, including two new bodkins.
I had a happy hour today, pottering round "Rose Crafts" in Midsomer Norton. It's a proper old-fashioned fabric shop - what I use to call a "draper" It has a shop window full of artistically draped bolts of cloth.
Inside are two floors crammed with fabrics, dress patterns, buttons, cords, lace, tassels and notions. Notions are all the other bits - snap fasteners, eyelets, bias binding, tapes etc. There's also plenty of stuff if you knit or embroider.
Of course, the shop, also carries lines of self-adhesive twiddly bits to satisfy the current fashion for sticking said bits onto cards and calling them hand-made greetings cards.... If they didn't, they'd be out of business.
The point of this is that I had to travel to Norton for this. There's nothing in Bath, Wells or Frome. "Where have all the drapers gone?" I asked Paul. "Once upon a time every tiny town had a shop carrying this sort of stuff."
In My Day
As a child I was taught needlework. I can't say I enjoyed it much at the time; only later seeing the relevance to real life and discovering the creative joy of turning flat fabric into garments that flattered the body.
But I don't think I ever questioned that it was an important skill. A sewing machine was a normal piece of household equipment, equivalent to an iron, kettle or cooker. When I designed the costumes for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Selhurst and knew I wouldn't have time to stitch them all myself, it didn't seem unreasonable to cut the costumes out and send them home for mothers to do the making up. Generally, one could assume that they had the skills.
Mamma made clothes for me and Beatrice when we were small, as well as costumes for us all for many occasions. She also knitted jumpers and suchlike, although I'm not sure that her knitting skills were great; something to do with the tension, I believe.
The advent of cheap clothes is killing the skill of practical dressmaking just as surely as convenience foods are killing basic cookery skills (not to be confused with the sort of stuff you see on TV - I mean of the boiling an egg variety). I can see why it happens, but, come the revolution, where will we all be if we can't stitch on a button?
About forty years ago, when she lived at South Norwood, Beatrice gave me a needle book. This I still use and have just topped it up with fresh supplies, including two new bodkins. Since Beatrice is completely challenged in this department I can only assume that the giving of such gifts ensures my continuing availability to make and repair for her for the foreseeeable future.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Necessity
Today
Necessity, they say is the mother of invention. That depends on what you regard as necessary, of course.
I was trying to finish the dungarees I'm stitching for my little great-nephew who's two in a couple of weeks. Just doing the front waistband and realised, after a tricky bit of manoeuvring, that the bobbin had run out and I'd been working away achieving absolutely nothing.
"Humph!" I grumbled "you'd think by this time they'd have invented a method of warning you that it's about to run out...."
In My Day
Daddy was constantly having ideas for inventions. It seemed that he dreamt them and he'd then excitedly tell us of his latest plan. Mostly that's as far as they got, if you don't count his invention for helping him to breathe at night with a cold, which consisted of two little tubes of cardboard stuck into each nostril.... Even so, it was probably a patentable idea.
Often he'd awake after such a dream only to find those brilliant thoughts just slipping away from him. So he kept a little notebook beside the bed so that he could jot down the details of what was to bring him lasting fame and fortune before he forgot. All of his jottings, without exception, when read over a morning cuppa were complete gibberish, like automatic writing in an unknown tongue.
Hearing us describe the throwing of streamers at the last night of the Proms, he dreamt about making a streamer gun. Now there was an idea. Only he never developed it and so we are not now the heirs to the party popper king fortune, somebody else is!
Interesting to think that there was clearly more necessity giving birth to that invention than to the idea of a bobbin warning system.
Necessity, they say is the mother of invention. That depends on what you regard as necessary, of course.
I was trying to finish the dungarees I'm stitching for my little great-nephew who's two in a couple of weeks. Just doing the front waistband and realised, after a tricky bit of manoeuvring, that the bobbin had run out and I'd been working away achieving absolutely nothing.
"Humph!" I grumbled "you'd think by this time they'd have invented a method of warning you that it's about to run out...."
In My Day
Daddy was constantly having ideas for inventions. It seemed that he dreamt them and he'd then excitedly tell us of his latest plan. Mostly that's as far as they got, if you don't count his invention for helping him to breathe at night with a cold, which consisted of two little tubes of cardboard stuck into each nostril.... Even so, it was probably a patentable idea.
Often he'd awake after such a dream only to find those brilliant thoughts just slipping away from him. So he kept a little notebook beside the bed so that he could jot down the details of what was to bring him lasting fame and fortune before he forgot. All of his jottings, without exception, when read over a morning cuppa were complete gibberish, like automatic writing in an unknown tongue.
Hearing us describe the throwing of streamers at the last night of the Proms, he dreamt about making a streamer gun. Now there was an idea. Only he never developed it and so we are not now the heirs to the party popper king fortune, somebody else is!
Interesting to think that there was clearly more necessity giving birth to that invention than to the idea of a bobbin warning system.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Night Light
Today
I've just returned from a weekend in Barcelona. Our city-centre hotel bedroom had a complicated set of window coverings. On the outside, traditional slatted wooden shutters. Then sliding glass doors onto the tiny balcony. Next, another sliding glass door which was mirrored on the inside. Finally some gauze curtains which appeared to have little function, even decorative.
There were three effects of this arrangement, all based on exclusion: air, sound and light. The inner door meant that you had no idea what time of day or night it was. Waking up, I had no natural clues as to what time it could possibly be. I must say, I found this disconcerting.
In My Day
Being brought up in London meant the continual presence of street lights at night time. The lights of London cast an orange glow, so much so that I was sometimes surprised when visiting other cities to see white or even greenish lights.
Our bedrooms had curtains, of course, but they did a sketchy job of excluding these lights. Add to that the fact that our rooms were in the basement so we were looking up and you have a lurid effect. (Actually, thinking about this, I realise that the boys, whose bedrooms overlooked the garden, probably had a quite different experience.)
Even now, I'm not sure of the extent to which I found the lights frightening or reassuring, the latter on balance, I guess as total darkness would have been completely impossible to deal with. On dark stormy nights the trees in the front garden would wave about menacingly; their monstrous shapes exaggerated by the hellish orange lights. Primed for terror by too much reading of fairy stories and seeing "Snow-White", I wondered if those huge waving arms could grab and crush me. Did they conceal giants or wicked witches? Maybe tigers or lions.
The nights could seem interminable; but at least the daylight would eventually squeeze out the night horrors and I could watch for the sun or grey dawn, knowing that I had a reprieve. I don't think I talked much about this, being only too happy that it was daytime; certainly there was no suggestion of nightlights or leaving lights on.
I must say, since the Council replaced our streetlight, which has so far failed to come on, that Paul and I have found our nights somewhat improved!
I've just returned from a weekend in Barcelona. Our city-centre hotel bedroom had a complicated set of window coverings. On the outside, traditional slatted wooden shutters. Then sliding glass doors onto the tiny balcony. Next, another sliding glass door which was mirrored on the inside. Finally some gauze curtains which appeared to have little function, even decorative.
There were three effects of this arrangement, all based on exclusion: air, sound and light. The inner door meant that you had no idea what time of day or night it was. Waking up, I had no natural clues as to what time it could possibly be. I must say, I found this disconcerting.
In My Day
Being brought up in London meant the continual presence of street lights at night time. The lights of London cast an orange glow, so much so that I was sometimes surprised when visiting other cities to see white or even greenish lights.
Our bedrooms had curtains, of course, but they did a sketchy job of excluding these lights. Add to that the fact that our rooms were in the basement so we were looking up and you have a lurid effect. (Actually, thinking about this, I realise that the boys, whose bedrooms overlooked the garden, probably had a quite different experience.)
Even now, I'm not sure of the extent to which I found the lights frightening or reassuring, the latter on balance, I guess as total darkness would have been completely impossible to deal with. On dark stormy nights the trees in the front garden would wave about menacingly; their monstrous shapes exaggerated by the hellish orange lights. Primed for terror by too much reading of fairy stories and seeing "Snow-White", I wondered if those huge waving arms could grab and crush me. Did they conceal giants or wicked witches? Maybe tigers or lions.
The nights could seem interminable; but at least the daylight would eventually squeeze out the night horrors and I could watch for the sun or grey dawn, knowing that I had a reprieve. I don't think I talked much about this, being only too happy that it was daytime; certainly there was no suggestion of nightlights or leaving lights on.
I must say, since the Council replaced our streetlight, which has so far failed to come on, that Paul and I have found our nights somewhat improved!
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