Today
Paul commented on my soup today. "This is delicious. You could sell this in a restaurant as 'winter-warmer broth'. What's in it?"
"Well", I replied "it started out on Tuesday as butternut squash and carrot soup. Then I added the leftover Indian-style aubergines from yesterday, then the unfinished courgettes and carrots from today's lunch, gave it a whizz and, voila!"
In My Day
Back in 1970 I worked one Summer as a relief waitress. For much of my time I worked at an Italian restaurant situated between St Bartholomew's' Hospital and Smithfield Market. There was always a "zuppa di giorno" which was different daily. After a while I began to notice a pattern.
"Why", I asked the chef "does the soup seem to get darker and stronger throughout the week?" He explained to me that fresh soup was made on Saturdays. This could be asparagus, cauliflower, anything light. The next day leftover soup was added to with, say tomato, mushrooms or peas, all of which were left over from meals, and rejigged on Sunday as Minestrone. This went on until Friday, usually culminating in oxtail on Fridays; the overpowering taste of the beef concealing all the previous incarnations. I don't think he was joking and it certainly explained things. And, after all, why not? It was perfectly good soup, nothing was wasted (I have to assume that Friday leftovers were either chucked or taken home) and it certainly was different each day.
There's a school of thought that says that there are optimum days to eat out; when food is most likely to be freshly prepared and cooked, although this article suggested that things may have changed. But I note that the writer was eating at a pub that served snails on toast for lunch, which is hardly average.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Monday, January 25, 2016
Ring Cycle
Today
It's interesting just how much unused stuff many of us have. When we start to look more closely we sometimes find that, not do we never use or look at the items, but there may even be some value in them which we can use to improve our lives.
In My Day
When my mother died in 1981 she left a little pearl and diamond ring to Lizzie. Lizzie was only nine so I kept it tucked away safely. About three years later, when we were at Montfort Close we found ourselves in financial difficulties. For several months I couldn't quite see our way to paying the mortgage. First Paul sold his model railway stuff. That kept us going for a while. Then we sold an antique roll-top desk that had belonged to his father.
Even with that I felt our heads slowly sinking between the waves. I took Lizzie's ring to a jewellers to have it valued. They told me about £600. That was a colossal amount; enough to get us all on dry land.
Back home I took Lizzie into my confidence, explaining the whole situation clearly and asking permission to sell the ring. She agreed and, after I'd allowed a "cooling-off" period, I sold the ring and we straightened ourselves out.
I never really thought about it again until a year or so ago when we were talking about the extent to which children should be shielded from family troubles such as ours. Lizzie said "I remember you asking me if you could sell the ring. I felt so proud to be involved and able to do something to help." I was really touched by this as I think I hadn't wanted to think that Lizzie felt coerced into the decision.
Since then we have helped each other out in so many ways and I don't think the Lizzie has missed the actual ring itself one bit.
I think there's Doris Lessing short story about a diamond merchant who gives a precious pearl to a girl he loves. She marries someone else. They meet again at the end of the war in Italy when she is poverty stricken and desperate. She shows him the pearl and proudly says that she's held onto it through thick and thin and he's furious that she's missed the point: it's just a pearl - stuff - which could have kept her and her family alive.
It's interesting just how much unused stuff many of us have. When we start to look more closely we sometimes find that, not do we never use or look at the items, but there may even be some value in them which we can use to improve our lives.
In My Day
When my mother died in 1981 she left a little pearl and diamond ring to Lizzie. Lizzie was only nine so I kept it tucked away safely. About three years later, when we were at Montfort Close we found ourselves in financial difficulties. For several months I couldn't quite see our way to paying the mortgage. First Paul sold his model railway stuff. That kept us going for a while. Then we sold an antique roll-top desk that had belonged to his father.
Even with that I felt our heads slowly sinking between the waves. I took Lizzie's ring to a jewellers to have it valued. They told me about £600. That was a colossal amount; enough to get us all on dry land.
Back home I took Lizzie into my confidence, explaining the whole situation clearly and asking permission to sell the ring. She agreed and, after I'd allowed a "cooling-off" period, I sold the ring and we straightened ourselves out.
I never really thought about it again until a year or so ago when we were talking about the extent to which children should be shielded from family troubles such as ours. Lizzie said "I remember you asking me if you could sell the ring. I felt so proud to be involved and able to do something to help." I was really touched by this as I think I hadn't wanted to think that Lizzie felt coerced into the decision.
Since then we have helped each other out in so many ways and I don't think the Lizzie has missed the actual ring itself one bit.
I think there's Doris Lessing short story about a diamond merchant who gives a precious pearl to a girl he loves. She marries someone else. They meet again at the end of the war in Italy when she is poverty stricken and desperate. She shows him the pearl and proudly says that she's held onto it through thick and thin and he's furious that she's missed the point: it's just a pearl - stuff - which could have kept her and her family alive.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Shears
Today
I saw a very funny picture showing a D'Artagnan-type character swearing to deal with the bounder who'd used the fair maiden's fabric scissors for paper.
In My Day
There are some professionals for which the sharpness of their implements is so critical that they impose draconian rules about their exclusive rights to them. Chefs, hairdressers and dressmakers, to name three.
When I was learning to dressmake I was taught the importance of buying the perfect fabric shears. Dressmaking shears are uneven; one side is level so that it can run level with the cutting surface - as in this picture - and the handles allow several fingers to be inserted at the bottom for better control. For most fabrics you want a fairly heavy pair that sits comfortably in your hand.
Saying goodbye to sizeable chunk of my student grant, back in 1970, I bought the best shears that I could afford. Razor-sharp and good for fine and heavy fabrics.
In 1974, one of my friends was being married and I offered to make her wedding dress. We chose a very pretty white figured lawn and I set about creating the pattern and design. Eventually I laid the cloth out onto the table and went to get my shears for the moment of truth. I began to cut. Quite frankly, I could have done a better job with a bread knife! I stared, aghast as the scissors ripped raggedly through the delicate cloth. I mentioned my problem to Paul as he sauntered by. Only a little probing revealed the truth. "Oh, I used then to cut some sheet lead for a little project of mine," he airily explained. "They were very good, nice and heavy." I showed him my disastrous results and explained to him so forcefully about the sacrosanct nature of my shears; they are used for nothing but fabric (not even to trim patterns or cut threads) and by nobody but me, ever, ever; that he has never dared to touch my shears again
I grumpily went out and bought another ruinously expensive pair and managed to salvage my friend's wedding dress.
My family is afraid to go near my scissors although I formally accuse Lizzie of using my embroidery scissors to cut her nails back in about 1985.
I saw a very funny picture showing a D'Artagnan-type character swearing to deal with the bounder who'd used the fair maiden's fabric scissors for paper.
In My Day
There are some professionals for which the sharpness of their implements is so critical that they impose draconian rules about their exclusive rights to them. Chefs, hairdressers and dressmakers, to name three.
When I was learning to dressmake I was taught the importance of buying the perfect fabric shears. Dressmaking shears are uneven; one side is level so that it can run level with the cutting surface - as in this picture - and the handles allow several fingers to be inserted at the bottom for better control. For most fabrics you want a fairly heavy pair that sits comfortably in your hand.Saying goodbye to sizeable chunk of my student grant, back in 1970, I bought the best shears that I could afford. Razor-sharp and good for fine and heavy fabrics.
In 1974, one of my friends was being married and I offered to make her wedding dress. We chose a very pretty white figured lawn and I set about creating the pattern and design. Eventually I laid the cloth out onto the table and went to get my shears for the moment of truth. I began to cut. Quite frankly, I could have done a better job with a bread knife! I stared, aghast as the scissors ripped raggedly through the delicate cloth. I mentioned my problem to Paul as he sauntered by. Only a little probing revealed the truth. "Oh, I used then to cut some sheet lead for a little project of mine," he airily explained. "They were very good, nice and heavy." I showed him my disastrous results and explained to him so forcefully about the sacrosanct nature of my shears; they are used for nothing but fabric (not even to trim patterns or cut threads) and by nobody but me, ever, ever; that he has never dared to touch my shears again
I grumpily went out and bought another ruinously expensive pair and managed to salvage my friend's wedding dress.
My family is afraid to go near my scissors although I formally accuse Lizzie of using my embroidery scissors to cut her nails back in about 1985.
Thursday, January 07, 2016
Waste not, Want not
Today
Recently, I heard tell of someone who spent £1400 (forcing her husband to do double shifts to pay for it) to feed a total of eight guests each day on Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Now. I'll defend anyone's right to spend as much as they want, wisely or unwisely; but what shocked me was to learn that she threw out all unfinished food after Christmas Day and started again with new on Boxing day.
In My Day
As I have described in previous blogs, our Christmas lunch when we were children was pretty unvarying: tomato soup, turkey, stuffing, boiled bacon, red cabbage, roast potatoes, sprouts, chestnuts, Christmas pudding with custard.
There was always plenty left over, and for the rest of Christmas Day and Boxing Day we could pick at the food at will. After that the left overs continued to be used up. Red cabbage reheats well and lasted a long time. The meat went on for several days, appearing in a number of forms, usually finishing with a fricassee that I didn't much like as it seemed to have all the chewiest, gristly bits of the turkey concealed within. Once the carcass was stripped of meat. Mamma would boil up the bones to make stock for soup.
I don't think we questioned any of this; it was perfectly logical that uneaten food was eaten at another time; anything else was wasteful. We didn't have to be regaled with stories of starving children in Africa - we ate up everything and not just at Christmas. While I rebelled at eating dripping (the type made with goose fat was the nastiest) I accepted the rest.
I don't quite know what happened to the "joint-on-Sunday-cold-on-Monday-pie-on-Tuesday" sort of housekeeping; in some ways it's easier today as we all have freezers so left overs don't have to follow on day after day relentlessly.
This year I overbought rather, in anticipation of our "Secret Santa" event, and the girls bought even more for New Year. But I've ploughed on through it all, though I don't want to eat Ratatouille for some time to come (and I've frozen quite a lot too), and have given two unopened bags of potatoes to my cleaning lady.
The saddest thing about the whole story was that her husband said he'd give it all up so that he could spend more time with his children.
Recently, I heard tell of someone who spent £1400 (forcing her husband to do double shifts to pay for it) to feed a total of eight guests each day on Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Now. I'll defend anyone's right to spend as much as they want, wisely or unwisely; but what shocked me was to learn that she threw out all unfinished food after Christmas Day and started again with new on Boxing day.
In My Day
As I have described in previous blogs, our Christmas lunch when we were children was pretty unvarying: tomato soup, turkey, stuffing, boiled bacon, red cabbage, roast potatoes, sprouts, chestnuts, Christmas pudding with custard.
There was always plenty left over, and for the rest of Christmas Day and Boxing Day we could pick at the food at will. After that the left overs continued to be used up. Red cabbage reheats well and lasted a long time. The meat went on for several days, appearing in a number of forms, usually finishing with a fricassee that I didn't much like as it seemed to have all the chewiest, gristly bits of the turkey concealed within. Once the carcass was stripped of meat. Mamma would boil up the bones to make stock for soup.
I don't think we questioned any of this; it was perfectly logical that uneaten food was eaten at another time; anything else was wasteful. We didn't have to be regaled with stories of starving children in Africa - we ate up everything and not just at Christmas. While I rebelled at eating dripping (the type made with goose fat was the nastiest) I accepted the rest.
I don't quite know what happened to the "joint-on-Sunday-cold-on-Monday-pie-on-Tuesday" sort of housekeeping; in some ways it's easier today as we all have freezers so left overs don't have to follow on day after day relentlessly.
This year I overbought rather, in anticipation of our "Secret Santa" event, and the girls bought even more for New Year. But I've ploughed on through it all, though I don't want to eat Ratatouille for some time to come (and I've frozen quite a lot too), and have given two unopened bags of potatoes to my cleaning lady.
The saddest thing about the whole story was that her husband said he'd give it all up so that he could spend more time with his children.
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