Summertime in Wimbledon

At last the sun is shining again. Well sort of.  It has been a vicious rain lately, cold and blustery, but now everything is green and soggy again, just like an early English summer should be.  Except the cold seems to have done for the bumblebees.  Lots of different bees this year, including the hairy-footed garden bee, no less. A pitch black furry little thing, it was unmistakable, although I missed the hairy little feet.  Lots of honey bees, too - there was even a swarm at the tennis yesterday. But my best is this giant southern hawker dragonfly, two years in my pond, existing on my baby newts, as I understand. But what an exquisite specimen.


Talking of which, Maria Sharapova is back in town.  An amazon beauty, we saw her one morning, jogging along the busy Ridgway with her trainer - she was not trying to hide, that's for sure. Bumped into Pete Sampras at Blockbusters once, too - got his autograph, but he didn't look up.  The best, though, was when my daughter came home from her school tennis courts, and told me about how, "Yana came and said hello to all of us, mummy".  The divine Jana Novotna, famous for her tears at losing in the final, had come off the practice courts and introduced herself to every little girl. How we cried when she finally triumphed that year.  Oh, the stardust rubs off, I can tell you.


It's the year of the strawberry this year, there's no doubt.  I don't eat them generally, but really, they are as sweet as I've ever had them. The early (long-forgotten) sunshine has made for the best harvest in living memory (I made that up, actually). But it is true that this year, halved, sprinkled with balsamic vinegar and possibly a little bit of demerara for the crunch, they are a seriously sophisticated and memorable treat.


And not only that. The asparagus is too too divine.  We're mostly having it cold with a spoon of home-made mayonnaise (home being Waitrose, in this case).  But this evening I plan to do a very early favourite of mine: asparagus soup, and definitely having it cold.


So: a bunch of fresh asparagus, hard bits cut off, tips kept for garnish. One onion, or a few spring onions chopped and very gently sauted in plenty butter.  Jamie adds celery and leeks to the onion, but then he also serves it hot. When the onion is quite soft, add the chopped asparagus.  Cover and cook a bit more, then add just under a litre of chicken stock.  Bring to the boil, cover and simmer gently until very tender.  Whizz. Add more seasoning to taste (using white pepper if you're a bit... you know) and stir in a nice big glug of double cream. Add the tips and heat gently for a few more minutes to tenderize.  Take off the heat, then when it's cool, chill.  I adore a cold soup, and you can chop almost anything green on top.  Maybe a squirt of lemon?


But how about this from James Martin:  the Jersey Royal potatoes are heavenly at the moment too, so chop a few (left-over) cooked potatoes into hot oil, along with some of the fresh asparagus tips, when just cooked and crispy, take off the heat and add chopped watercress and chives. Season. Divide into four bowls and pour the hot soup gently around, just like a top chef.


On the other hand, Jamie would put a softly poached egg on toasted ciabatta, breaking the yolk just as you slip it into the hot velvety soup..... I can't choose!!

I spent the day with Angela Malik.  Like quite a few of us on the course, it was a Christmas present.  A Day of Confident Indian.  Well, it did make me more confident, although at the end I dubbed it Complicated Indian, because you really put in a LOT of different things.

Parlez-vous?

Everybody loves France.  Sometimes the language can be a little baffling, true, but a short hop from our shores, and the moment you set foot in France you're foreign. My first brush with French was one very early dawn in the mid-Seventies.  We were on a bus from Athens to London.  You took a bus for $60, and for three days and two nights you got distance. This was quite exciting in many ways, the fun Greek students we befriended, the Continent, Italy, Switzerland and France rushing past your window, and the pressure to make time which involved the drivers swapping driving duties while the bus was hurtling down the motorway at seventy miles an hour.  It was about 4am when I heard my brother whisper excitedly, and there it was: in the grey shadows of the early morning light... the Eiffel Tower. We had arrived in Paris, its huge iconic structure forever in the memory of that dawn. We were as far from Durban as it was possible to be.  The bus stopped. Out into the chilly air and into a cosy a little French tabac.  It was a tiny affair, with lots of warm polished wood and one huge glass counter brimming  with fresh golden croissants. The smell of coffee filled the air. Well if this wasn't what it was all about: after a pretty gruelling three days, coffee and croissants in Paris at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. The French barman stood casually in his black waistcoat to take our order.  We'd like a croissant si vous plais... he looked at us quizzically.  We tried again.  We'd like a croissant please, inflecting a further syllable.  No.  He had no idea what we'd like. Another of us tried. A CROISSANT, si vous plait.  Never heard of that either.  Sorry. He made us say the jolly word about six times, each time shrugging and shaking his head, even though there was nothing else in the whole cafe!  But our accent was far too much for this Parisienne. Pointing and money eventually did the trick, but he made it quite obvious he had never met a less useful bunch. 

There is always something of that in France.  Never does the written word look less like it sounds.  Last week we took a chalet on the beautiful Cote d'Armor in Brittany.  Just a few days by the sea, and a little bit of seafood somewhere quiet.  The chalet was called Chanson d'Oisseau.  I mean, how would you say that? They kindly let us know at the chalet: "shong-zon dwazo".  It means the Song of the Birds, and it certainly was that.  They woke us up in the fresh morning, and sang till the last light.  Even the cuckoo. And when the tide was low we saw row upon row of short black stakes between the islands: mussel farms. We were in the home of moules. Our best meal, though, was a dish of chicken.  Lunch is just as big a deal in France as dinner, and we stopped at the Restaurant Le Vieux Chateau. Not as pretentious as its name implies - the Chateau is just a ruin opposite. We made ouselves comfortable and a very bleached blonde took our order.  Ahh, Poelet St Jacque...that's got to be chicken!  Oh, we just felt like chicken.  Our plates duly arrived.  Circling a neat mound of rice, ten plump scallops sat, interspersed with crispy green mangetout.  Sweet and perfectly cooked in a dreamy white sauce, it was as delicious as it was unexpected.  Scallops cooked on the stove.  Result.

A rainy afternoon in the Breton city of Dinan would lift anyone's spirit. A vast walled medieval town, perfectly preserved. Breathtaking could hardly describe it.  We stopped for a drink at a particularly picturesque restaurant.   Inside, dominating the dining room, a wide sweeping spiral staircase, huge and black and very shiny, giant ancient oaks still holding after five hundred years. This place had soul. 

But we headed back to the coast for dinner.  In the exquisite pale Victorian splendour of Saint-Cast-de-Guildo, we raised our game.  Not only was this restaurant overlooking the white sands and fading turqoise sea, the handsome young waiter could translate. He read out the specials in perfect English, and we went for bar. Seabass. Cooked to perfection, the buttery sauce on the side was a revelation.   Was it hollandaise?  Couldn't put a finger on it. What, we asked our English-speaking hero, was that sauce served with the bar... "Ahh, he said, with a heartbreaking accent, "that is....butter white".  I've watched the cookery shows, and I know it's called beurre blanc (ber blonk) even in English, but I could have climbed into his pocket I was so charmed. 

And so easy. Here it is: Butter White (ber-tair whet):

Chop 4 shallots, place in a saucepan.  Add 200ml of white wine (Chablis apparently, we always have it...not!) and any or all or none of these: bay leaf / garlic / thyme / parsley. Bring to the boil and reduce by half.  Lower the heat, and cube 200 - 250g of cold unsalted butter. Whisk them in one by one, letting each one melt before the next. Just don't overheat, and keep whisking.  The sauce should be just thickened. Season with salt and pepper, and strain. This will keep warm for a while.  Add the juice of half a lemon just before serving on your delectable fish / broccoli / asparagus / peas / artichoke ....

Chop chop

Suddenly you've just got to have salad. The sun shines, the veggies are bursting with colour and flavour, all you want is crunch. It's lovely when someone remembers a salad we had ages ago. Imogen reminded us: we all made that lovely salad with.....sumac.  Great name for a dusty, sour Middle Eastern spice used in the Lebanese salad, Fatoush.   It's a dried and crushed berry, and surprisingly for something so exotic, the trees grow all over London.  We love Lebanese. There are lots of brilliant little Lebanese cafes in central London, big square silver trays of irresistible salads lined up in the windows, always so fresh, so friendly, so cheap.  And it's true, a year or so ago we made a lot of Fatoush.  


Well I say it was Fatoush, but we got carried away, and added a few of our own things, and left a few things out. And ok, I'm going to say it, ours is better!! So here it is, our Fatoush: 


Crisp cos lettuce, not quite a whole one, 2 tomatoes, 1 red onion, half cucumber, half a bunch of flat-leaf parsley, clove garlic, 2 large gherkins, large Tbs of capers - maybe some red pepper too. Everything chopped quite finely, good squeeze of lemon, and a very large Tbs Hellmans mayonnaise, maybe more. Salt, pepper, mix.  Tear two toasted pitta breads into pieces and scatter on top, sprinkle with 2 large Tbs of sumac, and drizzle the lot with olive oil.  Serve.


We stopped making that salad, but here are a couple that have been staples in our home for years.


First, tuna and rice salad.  This is a brilliant simple summer dish, very filling, and in my opinion, the best way to eat rice. Cup of brown rice simmered till just tender then cooled. Two tins of tuna with the oil. Chopped tomato, cucumber, parsley and lots of red onion. Plenty of lemon juice, lots of mayonnaise and salt and pepper (plenty of everything, really). Mix and serve on a bed of lettuce.

Then, tuna and bean salad.  I was addicted to this. First cook your white kidney beans, or..... open a can.  Rinse. Pile on a shallow plate. Top with flaked tuna, tuna oil,  red onions sliced into fine rings - quite a lot, lemon, lots more oil, parsley, pepper.

And a really, really simple starter that we have before almost every meal during the height of summer, when the tomatoes are at their best, with a glass of ice cold Beck's.  Chop two or three tomatoes,  put in a bowl with salt.  Chop two cloves of fresh juicy garlic into reasonable chunks, not too small, add to the tomatoes.  Allow to stand.  Toast a few slices of ciabbata or sourdough bread, pile the tomatoes on top, and douse with olive oil and sprinkle with pepper.


And last, in a toasted pitta, chopped tomato, spring onion, avocado, salt, red chilli, oil. Mix well and fill the pitta.  If you have fresh coriander, that would be good too. It's just a guacomole, but I made it at the start of a solitary weekend, and ate it for every single meal.  That good.

My Liege, my Lentils

I love The Queen almost as much as I love potatoes.  As a newly-arrived colonial, we lined up as she drove past my office in Buckingham Palace Road.  We were all rather high-spirited, and in my enthusiastic waving, I toppled off the kerb just as she drove past.  Hoots of laughter as she gave an indulgent smile and wave just for me. It's true I was teased for throwing myself at The Queen, but close up.... what a presence -  what a complexion!   

Last big Royal Wedding, I vividly remember the pervading feeling of joy. Charles finally had his Princess. There was something to celebrate. The night before, we climbed up Parliament Hill to watch the huge fireworks display. We were not the only people with that idea.  There were hundreds of us, all young and 80s trendy, drinking wine, happy laughter and friendly chat, doing what England does so uniquely well - crowds.  Join a crowd scene of any sort in England, and it's likely you'll never forget it.  We sat in the warm evening, the lights of London, our new home, twinkling beneath us.  I'll never forget that feeling. We were part of it. 

Like when Diana died. The day before the funeral, I went down to Buckingham Palace. I had happened to be in Kensington early that first morning, and my flowers were right at the very bottom of the sprawling mountain at her gates. This thing felt momentous and I still wanted to be part of it. The Queen was due  back in London, and the whole city had a quiet expectancy.  There were shrines, flowers, candles everywhere.  In the Royal Parks, every tree was a dedication to people's grief.  The Palace gates and railings were thick with letters, poems, ribbons and accusations. The crowds were four or five thick around the Palace, the TV cameras high on their plinths.  A good-humoured crowd, swelled with plenty of tourists, we waited for something to happen.  Then we saw it, coming down Constitution Hill, just above heads, the flickering gold and red of the Royal Standard, leading a huge and sombre Rolls Royce Phantom to the gates. I caught a glimpse only of the car. People crowded forward.  Not many waved. The tension mounted.  We knew there was a big issue over the Palace flag flying half-mast. And the very second the gates opened, the Royal Standard went up. Right to the top, it stayed for a minute or two, then all of a sudden, down it went.  We watched incredulous as the half-masted flag with a sudden jerk, went back up to the top yet again. The crowd gasped, then an Aussie accent suggested loudly that it was the Queen herself hoiking the flag back to the top again:  "I say it goes UP!"  It was a hilarious image, and the tension was broken. 

But of course The Queen was under serious pressure. As it turned out, she was deeply worried about the reception of the crowd. This was fast becoming a Royal crisis. The Royal Standard stayed at the top of the flagpole, but the next day the Union Flag was lowered to half-mast during the funeral, and is now flown half-mast at times of national mourning. The Standard is never flown half-mast, of course, because there is always a sovereign.

I couldn't see anything. There was no way I could get anywhere near. But I wanted to stay, I had to stay. I hung around Green Park, kept open, like Kensington Gardens, all night for ordinary people to hold vigil. Little groups, hundreds of them, a huge subdued party, one where everyone belonged.  It was dusk when I decided.  I would walk the funeral route all the way to Westminster Abbey. Down The Mall I went, heading straight towards St James's Palace, where Diana was lying beautiful and cold.  A wide imposing tree-lined avenue, it was completely deserted.  I had not got very far when I looked up to see it again.  That heraldic Royal Standard, atop that huge black car.  It was The Queen - my Queen, because by now I was a British subject. Fresh from paying her respects, she was slowly heading back to Buckingham Palace.  The only person in the street, I ran to the side as she passed. I ran with my arm up high. I waved and waved and waved. And The Queen, in a moment I'll always remember, her face white and stained with grief,  turned, and looked directly at me.

I'll probably be on my own to watch the Wedding, but if I had to make a celebration lunch for two, as we romantically did all those summers ago, I would do what I made the other night: a Royal Pork Belly.

Too jolly easy by far, salt and pepper the biggest pork belly you can find.  Into a roasting pan, the oven at 150, three hours, basting every so often.  For the last 10 minutes, bring nearer the top and grill.  Keep an eye on it.   To accompany, well, we had an excellent lentil salad last night, Boil puy lentils for 20 minutes, cool, add chopped red onion, chopped parsley and coriander, carrots, celery, radish, red pepper. Lots of lemon, mustard powder, a little mayo and oil.  Served with the sticky melting pork, endless crackling, and maybe some sweet chilli jelly - good enough for any commoner.

Spring

Arriving back here after five weeks in the southern hemisphere, I expected my garden to be overgrown and abundant.  But no, it was a sorry dismal little place, muddy, covered with fallen branches and twigs, a slimy green pond, and just a couple of snowdrops (I swear I put in more).  My lovingly-planted hedgerow...sticks in the ground.  The adorable little insect-house... empty. That promising little burrow....zilch. Still, a couple of weeks, and a bit of work, and I'm beginning to see what it was I could have missed while I was away. My single snakes-head fritillary (and I planted twenty-four, this I know) is outshone by a mass of lesser celandine all over the lawn.  Buttercups - thousands of them! 

It's been a busy three weeks with dear son returning unexpectedly - albeit after much subtle imploring ("GET OUT OF TOWN!!") by his dad - from Tokyo. It's been a happy-sad time of big meaty roasts, family treats and dread. The unspeakable tragedy is a constant back-drop, but there are always funny moments.  Rip sat Alyssa down when she'd got tired and upset after days of nasty after-shocks and scary news.  In their cosy flat in Yokohama, he took both her hands in his, looked her in the eye, and soothingly and confidently told her it would soon all be over. “Trust me, I know this for a fact,” he levelled, “it will settle down”....just then a huge after-shock engulfed them, and they just sat there, holding hands, lurching backwards and forwards. They say timing is everything. It was time to get out.

No ovens in Japan, so it was easy to show off. My best was our new fave, brisket - just the usual method, onions, whole garlic cloves, not enough flour, stock, glug of something, celery (inspired) and chunks of carrots.  Slow roast at 150 for three hours or so, remove the meat and vegetables, strain the gravy and mash the onions and garlic through into the stock.  Reduce a bit, add a roux (squish equal parts of flour and soft butter, to the tune of how thin the gravy is) to thicken. Whisk. Bubble. I think we had rice with that, because unusually we were out of potatoes (YAY! I can hear my family cry). 

I love potatoes, I think this country has the best. I could eat them with every single meal.  My favourite here is Maris Piper, although I will always buy Cyprus in season, and I still dream of the little black Shetland potato I found at Waitrose, which I baked and they were like creamy chestnuts with crusty nutty skins.... although I’ve only ever found them once. 

South Africa doesn’t have the best potatoes in my memory, but this trip I made my everyday crispy potatoes, and they were sensational. I put this right down to the totally perfect Avalanche potato we bought and bought and bought at Woolworths, the South African M&S. Everyone (two people) asked how I did them, so here it is: Medium-sized wedges of potato, peeled, into a flat baking tray. Lots. Douse in olive oil, salt and pepper, mix around. Place in a 180 oven, move and unstick them halfway through – not too soon or they’ll collapse. Bake until very crispy, then bake for a little bit more. I would have had exactly that with the brisket and gravy. 

So back to cooking for just two.  It’s warming up slowly here, daffodils are out, almost over really, and when the sun shines, it is the best. Tokyo is still cold and fragile. It took a while for the after-shocks inside their heads to stop, but they couldn’t wait to get back. Not long now, and it will be cherry-blossom time.  

A Few Bad Men

Back from South Africa, a land of myriad butterflies and scuttling lizards all set about in a bleached and dazzling sun.  It’s been a kaleidoscope of joyful faces, multi-colours and poignant memories.  One such re-visiting was to Fugitives’ Drift.  Just a few miles from the victorious Rorke’s Drift, Fugitives’ Drift tells the opposite story: of the devastating defeat suffered by the British Army at the hands of the Zulu. Where only 55 men escaped the carnage, managed to avoid the relentless assegais, and forded the flooded  Drift back into Natal and to safety.  Where the world's first-ever posthumous VCs are buried, dying in their attempt to save the Queen’s Colours.

We first saw the name on a crooked little sign announcing the “Fugitives’ Drift Lodge”, a vague arrow pointing down a long bumpy track.  It was the mid-eighties.  Visiting home from the UK, we had taken a favourite drive through the heart of Zululand to the quaint little settlement that is Rorke’s Drift. We loved the woollen rugs they dyed and wove at the Lutheran craft centre there.  It was hot and very dry when we came across the sign announcing a drift we had never heard of, so we drove down to get ourselves a drink.  The Lodge looked pretty basic, but we wandered in, up the broad stairs, through the wide dark verandah, and into the cool reception room.  We stood around a bit, looking in fascination at the battlefield memorabilia on tables, the walls, everywhere.  Almost  a museum, we thought.  Eventually a young man appeared, dark hair, and rather pale-faced, he smiled and nodded as we ordered two very cold drinks with ice, please.  We sent him off, and made ourselves at home examining the buttons and bayonets that were obviously on display after being picked up in the area.  It had been a long drive, and we settled back in the comfy chairs as our host brought two tall tinkling glasses of sparkling orange.  We took our time, asking about his wonderful collection. It was obvious he was passionate about this little-celebrated part of the Anglo-Zulu Wars – the battle the Zulus won: Isandlwana.

It was only when we came to pay that that it dawned on us. David Rattray, for it was he, refused our money, saying thank you, but this was not a hotel.  We had made ourselves at home, ordering extra ice even, in his front room!  He smiled at our discomfort.  No, on the contrary, he assured us, he was very pleased we had come. He was planning to open a hotel on this very spot, and to run battlefield tours culminating in the dramatic crossing of Fugitives’ Drift.  Would we like to climb aboard his Land-Rover; he’d give us a personal tour.  He drove us down to the Buffalo River, and first-hand, we got the story of how the 24th were overrun and slaughtered.  How the few men who managed to avoid the stampeding Zulus, the boggy marshes and the slithering gorges, finally either drowned - their heads bobbing and whirling in the flooded pools - or made it across to Natal, and back to the tiny garrison at Helpmekaar. How the two VC’s, Melville and Coghill, tried in vain to save the Queen’s Colours, but were inexplicably murdered and disembowelled on the Natal side, under a huge rock, where they had managed to drag themselves crippled and bleeding. Where they still lie.

David Rattray was to become the world renown Anglo-Zulu War historian, honoured by the Royal Geographical Society, personal friend of Prince Charles, and famed for his passion, his authenticity, and brilliant oratory. He painstakingly interviewed old men on the folk stories handed down from grandfathers. He went on to build the international standard Lodge in the middle of remotest Zululand, and created an industry honouring Zulu history and the Zulu people.  An ordinary man, universally loved and respected.  Then three years ago, he was cruelly murdered in front of his wife by five armed robbers, who took not a penny.  Only David’s life.

Now we were travelling back into the vast shimmering valleys to take the full battlefield tour of the Isandlwana site; and a return to the now unrecognisable property we had innocently stumbled into all those years ago. 

Yes, it was pretty upmarket, that’s for sure, but the welcome was pure warm South African.  After a very long and dusty drive, the looming presence of Isandlwana Mountain hung everywhere.  The singing of the cicadas added to the dense heat.  The tour was led by Mphiwa, a handsome Zulu, whose grandfather and great-grandfather had fought alongside King Cetswayo when he had annihilated Lord Chelmsford’s army.  Mphiwa had a good delivery, and disarmed us when he described the Zulu hoard streaming over the hills, “...just imagine," he stopped and squinted hard across the horizon, taking in the vastness, “.... England.... against the All Blacks!”

In fact it was only half the British force, because Lord Chelmsford, underestimating the war-like Zulu, had taken off on a wild goose chase, and left an inexperienced Lt Col Pulleine in charge of the camp.  1750 men stood with their Martini-Henry rifles and cherry-red jackets as 25,000 or more crazed Zulus poured over and around them. The eerie quality of the mountain made even more so by a total eclipse of the sun during the height of the battle.  


Arriving at the silent battlefield in the shimmering heat was a moving experience.  The beautifully white-painted cairns built over the skeletons of men, exactly where they fell, dotted their retreat back through the valley behind.  A couple of lonely cairns up on the slopes saw an inevitable last stand on the Mountain itself.  Mphiwa told the story of his people’s historic victory, and it sent a shiver to hear him call the original battle cry, “I-SU-THU!!!” and imagine the terror those carved names must have felt.  Each man was disembowelled, and reports state the ground ran vivid and glistening with blood and gore.  They were disembowelled to stop their spirits haunting the Zulus who had killed them.  Captain Durnford - and there’s the large marble cross where he fell - was spared disembowelling:  the Zulus did not regard him as their enemy.  Well over a thousand white skeletons were found, most still in their uniforms, four months later, when the 24th had enough men to return and bury their dead. Two royal tribes locked into a spurious hatred. The Zulu King stated he did not want to fight the British for his own Kingdom, and even today, there is little here an Empire would want.  They were all traduced into a ghastly war by Chelmsford and a couple of duplicitous cronies, Sir Bartle Frere among them, on the make for imperial land. Our British fellow-tourists were left pale and shamed by the story of betrayal perpetrated by Chelmsford in the name of Queen Victoria and the British people.

And of course, that was the end of the fearsome Zulu kingdom.

Sitting under the shade of some acacia trees, sharing the huge mournful area with lots of other tour parties and lecturers; knowing that this is exactly what David strove to bring about, Mphiwa eventually tells us about the day of David’s murder.  Hard to stop the tears as we get the hollow, mindless story.  Five armed men burst into David’s living room, David rushes out to protect his wife Nicky, calls: “Don’t shoot!” They shoot and run away.  It is clear how much they all loved him, and how hard it must be to repeat this story over and over again, on this battlefield, this one man, joined forever.  We climb back into the Landie.  Mphiwa and I softly singing the Click Song. We drive home in the fading golden light with a CD of David’s voice describing the aftermath; finding the Colours in the river two weeks later, the rout at Rorke's Drift, the final defeat and incarceration of King Cetswayo at Ulundi.

Four of the murderers were arrested and jailed.  At dinner that night, another guide lowers his voice as he tells us how the fifth man escaped arrest, but was caught by locals and had both his arms - and he demonstrates with his hands – chopped off. He sits back, and by look he gives, we know this is a folk story full of wishful thinking - the local grief is still very raw.

Nicky Rattray has written in her Lodge welcome letter, that they have spent many a night trying to make sense of what happened. It seems that, just like Isandlwana, there is no making sense of just a few Bad Men.

Marmalade in Heaven

February,  and the marmalade season has brightened my life.  I do get a little excited when I see Sevilles, too excited even, because this year I think I've made about 20 jars, filling my new maslin pan to overflowing. We all make marmalade, and every year my mother is required to declare whose is the best. I confess, I always win - though my sisters, strangely, always seem nearly as  triumphant.


This recipe is no secret, because it's a Delia.  Very dark and chunky, we found our last bottle was two years old, and gee, it was superb. It was Delia who said you could freeze the bitter little oranges.  Just think, I could have had 30 jars. The other beauty is the method, so totally me - long and slow. 


For my second tranche, I used The River Cottage marmalade recipe with demerara sugar - it has a superb light jelly, although I panicked about the amount of pith at the last moment, so spent three hours straining the syrup and trimming every single little shred!  Bliss.


Dark Chunky Marmalade
So: 3lbs (if you can contain yourself) Seville oranges
2 lemons
6 lbs white sugar


Scrub, obviously, add 5 pints water, and bring all fruit to a simmer. Cover well and gently poach for three hours.  Allow to cool, remove all pith and pips from the halved oranges and lemons into a saucepan, add about a pint of the liquor and boil for 10 minutes. Strain the whole lot through a large muslin cloth back into the pan.  Now: the slicing of the orange peel. This is a precision job, as my family has found out. This year I may have gone a teeny over-chunky - no matter. Add the peel back into the pan, and finally, the gooey pith from the  muslin cloth, squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.  If your hands aren't red and raw and stinging after all that.... it'll probably work just as well.   Cover the pan with a cloth, and leave overnight.  

At first light - although I think that's just me - warm the sugar for 10 minutes in the oven (as Delia helpfully puts it, in a roasting pan - like I'm going to pour 6lbs of sugar straight into my oven) and add to the warming liquor, stirring till the sugar is completely dissolved. Bubble gently for three or four hours.  Test for  wrinkles with a cold saucer. Don't be too strict.  The first time I made this marmalade, I boiled it for 6 hours, not believing I had got a set.  A few people lost fillings.


Four hours, and it really will be set.  Leave to cool for at least 30 minutes. More.  The very last thing you want, believe me,  is for the peel to float to the top. Ladle through a wide-mouthed funnel into freshly hot-dishwashered jars. Seal.  Relax.


Excuse me, I think I'm off to find some more oranges...

Secrets and Pies

Spring is here, although my daffodils aren't up.  That's because they're still in a bag outside the back door.  But when the sun shines it really does feel like winter is done. We had a cooked breakfast the other Sunday.  Daughter home for the weekend, after a tough week hunting for digs, so it definitely was a case of breakfast in bed for her.  Just the usual, but both she and her dad finished the meal and asked the same question:  How did you do those tomatoes?  So here is my secret for doing comfort tomatoes:


Chop 6 spring onions, fry in a fair amount of butter and a little oil. Chop six on-the-vine tomatoes (if you haven't got on-the-vine, you can't make this dish - only joking!) add to the onions, and then add salt and pepper, a teaspoon of tomato puree, a teaspoon of brown sugar - maybe a little less - and a good tablespoon of balsamic vinegar, and lots of love.  Bubble gently for a bit.  Serve on toast with bacon and Duchy eggs.


Another winner is these beans.  I got this idea from watching Jamie, and he picked it up in Italy, so it's true Italian beans, I suppose.  Soak white kidney beans overnight - although last night I brought them to the boil, let them stand for an hour, fresh water, boiled again, and they were absolutely fine....so whatever.  Fill them up with cold water, add two or three (or more) cloves of garlic, unpeeled, a tomato or two or three.  Boil gently for around an hour - kidney beans collapse all of a sudden, but you want them well cooked.  Drain the beans but leave a giant mug of water in the bottom of the pan (secret no 1)  then peel the tomatoes and garlic, mash all together and add back to the beans    (no 2)  add a huge amount of olive oil, pepper and salt,  mix.  I bubbled it away for a few more minutes, served with sausages, maybe the fried tomatoes - there is no better way to do a pot of beans.


And I suppose to justify my title, here is something I made for the kids when they were younger.  The  nieces were here, and they grandly named it:  Auntie Jenny's Magnificent Sweetcorn Pie, and I think we did it a few times - and I admit, I rather liked the name.  Really it's sweetcorn fritters with extra onion, and everyone loves sweetcorn fritters.  Fry lots of onions well,  add two tins of creamed sweetcorn, and fresh-cooked corn off two cobs, or a large tin of whole sweetcorn kernels.  Mix with two or three eggs,  around half a cup of flour - maybe more,  plenty salt and pepper, parsley if you have, pour into a large quiche dish and sprinkle with cheese.  Bake for 20 minutes or so.  A giant slab with a little salad will keep kids happy - if a little grandiose on names.

Pea Souper

Here's a soup that turns out to be so much more than its name implies.... Pea Soup.   One onion and one small potato chopped and gently fried in butter.  Add 2 packs of fresh peas, a chicken stock cube and 1 tsp vegetable stock and near litre of water.  Boil till the peas are cooked, add some milk and whizz - the colour is worth it alone.  Warm through and serve with pepper, cream, chives, chopped mint, croutons... 

In essence, that recipe had three components, adding up to something special.  That got me thinking of my very simple chicken liver recipe.  I adore chicken liver peri-peri, and found fresh organic livers at the market.  I often check out ideas for recipes on the web.  Martha Stewart has great recipes (real English Mustard for example - but whatever you do, don't trust her measures!), In the end they were all a bit too much trouble, and anyway the livers were already trimmed and in a marinade of olive oil and red chilli.  We have a treasured jar of red chilli paste from Gorima's in Natal, but fresh or flakes would work, as long as they're red. Then into some hot oil and butter, and when they are crispish on the outside, and pink and tender inside - a cup of red wine. Turn down and bubble quickly.  And that's all you need, served on toast, for chicken liver peri-peri - a la DIVINE.


I made this after finding the recipe in "Indian Delights", which is a huge curry book written by Natal Indian women.  It can veer to the impenetrable in the most charming way, with a million recipes, and also uses the Indian names for everything. But consisting really, of just fresh coriander, fresh garlic and fresh chillies, again this is more than its sum.  I bought three bunches of fresh coriander and you just put the lot into a liquidizer.   Honestly, the way this chutney finally came together into a brilliant emerald pesto was quite thrilling!  Mix with mayonnaise for a dip, or spoon into a curry.  Too good to be true.


Dhunia Chutney
2 only whole peppercorns
1 bunch dhunia leaves (coriander)
2 green chilies
2 cloves garlic
1/4 tsp jeero (cummin)
1/4 tsp salt
Juice of 1 lemon
Pound together or liquidize.


Although the book doesn't suggest it, I sealed it in a jar and then sterilized the lot for 10 minutes in the oven in a bowl of barely boiling water, and it has worked - although it did go a bit darker.

- Show quoted text -

Natal Memories

Christmas is all about ritual, and although my childhood Christmas was set in the sub-tropics, we do exactly the same here, other than there we were usually barefoot, wearing shorts over our cozzies. We gamely sweltered over a traditional stuffed turkey and a hundred vegetables with steaming gravy - the children being offered a pound if they could finish their plate, which we never ever could.

It's certainly not Christmas without this stuffing. This is my mom's recipe, and its distinctive aroma reminds me of Christmas as a child more than anything else. I made it this year even though there were only three of us - some years, though, there have been so many we served up canteen-style - brilliant.

Mom's stuffing

This starts with Becky making breadcrumbs. I know they say stale bread...but I've never managed to organize that, so it's a job pulling the fresh white bread into little pieces. After she gets fed up, I take over if there's not enough crumbs - and anyway how much is enough. You just take a flyer, really.  This year we decided to try the food processor - although I confused the issue slightly by shouting, as ever, "but don't MAKE CRUMBS!!!"

In a pan, fry plenty chopped bacon and chopped onions in a fair amount of oil and butter. When they've got to the stage where you just want to put it all into a big fat sandwich and run away, pour the lot onto the crumbs. Two or three grated carrots, three eggs, finely chopped celery, loads of pepper, salt, and a big bunch of chopped parsley - very important. I've sneaked prunes in, and indulged once with truffled mushrooms, but that's the basic stuffing, and you go from there. Fresh thyme is good, almost any herb, really, as long as it doesn't overpower. Fresh mushrooms, pine nuts, mix. Stuff just before the bird goes in.

here's the "melt-in-the-mouth"  10-Day ham..... 

Mushy peas

Pathetically simple, this recipe had Ripton asking for it again and again. Boil up plenty of fresh garden peas (or if you're like everyone else, frozen), 2 packs worth. Stock. When they are cooked, return to the heat to dry them off a bit, add butter, pepper, and be over-generous with the double cream. Mash, mash, mash like the wind!!

Glass tree decorations

This was a charming tradition for many years in our house.  I suppose it is a kind of recipe. A bag of coloured boiled sweets, place on a big flat oiled baking tray with plenty of space between them. Now into a low oven, and whatever you do, watch them.  Quite suddenly they all collapse and melt into irregular flat discs. Remove from the oven and allow to cool just a little, before making a hole near the edge of each one. Leave to harden. Then gently prise them off the tray. This is where you will discover if you have used enough oil and like precious ancient artifacts, they snap and stick and disintegrate, and you have to chuck them all away. However if you are successful, the kids just love tying with ribbon and hanging them on the tree where the delicate glass discs twirl in the lights. There won't be any left by Christmas Day.

Caperberries

This is not a recipe. A big bottle of fresh crisp caperberries is a must at Christmas, and at any other time.

What to do with pudding

There's always too much Christmas pudding left over, and this is the best thing: defrost a tub of creamy vanilla ice cream...but so it still has crystals in it. Crumble the pudding, add remaining brandy cream or rum sauce into the ice cream. Stir well and refreeze quickly.

This year I discovered the ultimate Bloody Mary.  I divided a bottle of vodka into three, and infused two cloves of garlic into one, two green chillies into the next, and a bunch of fresh basil into the third.  Stand in a warm place for a couple of days, then decant into sterilized bottles - this will keep, although I did keep them in the fridge.  Mix a good tot of each into a jug along with a glug of ginger wine, tomato juice and celery sticks, pepper and salt, tasting and adding till it was more Bloody Carnage.  We didn't manage to drink any as planned on Christmas Day, but we certainly made good for New Year's.

New Year.  Every year in Durban, on the Natal coast, we'd be woken up by jovial adults, and sleepily we'd stand in our pyjamas in the humid air waiting for midnight.  Memories of chatter and tree frogs. Then we'd hear it.  The long, low mournful sound of all the ships' hooters rising up from the bay.  Another year in.

10-Day Ham

Still hooked on slow-cooking, so doing a pork that takes 10 days seems just my cup of tea, and just in time for Christmas.  I am following a recipe, of course, and it's a Heston I pulled out of a magazine.  Lots of spices - but I have those from all my pickling.  First off I ask for a 3kg shoulder of pork from the butcher, and it's huge. It's all boned and tied by the time I see it, so I can't back out, so I lug it home, wrenching my shoulder. Turns out the recipe asked for boned leg, not shoulder.   A near kg of salt into a basin of 6 litres of cold water, then the spices you're going to add to the brine, tied in a muslin cloth.  I cut the little square too small, but stuffed everything in all the same. No orange peel from 2 oranges, thank you - to my taste, that would spoil it. I used only lemon rind, and no star anise.  Don't have it, don't like it.  I didn't whizz anything in the  blender first either (the rind and the garlic), I just pounded everything together in my lovely black pestle and mortar - that was pure aromatic heaven. I love the way different combinations smell so distinctive, even though you're using nothing new.  And this is what he asked for:

900g salt in 6 litres of water
1 head of garlic
zest of 1 lemon (I used 2)
zest of 2 oranges (nahh)
3 springs of rosemary (didn't have)
2 cinnamon sticks
1/2 bunch of thyme (had some outside)
7 bay leaves (outside)
7g star anise (you may like it - maybe it's the magic ingredient)
150g coriander seeds (this has got to be an error!  I used 10g)
2g cloves
4g allspice
1g juniper berries
2-3kg boned pork leg
string
I put this all into my black cast-iron casserole, which was far too small and far too heavy. Sealed and covered, I carried it outside to keep cool into the snow, and wrenched both shoulders this time, and my neck.  Next day I got a bigger plastic basin, covered it with foil, and got Michael to carry it to the fridge, where it sits, and will sit ....for 7 days.

7 days later.... during which an almighty snowstorm transformed our world - and here the footprints of a thirsty fox trying to get to the drinking hole we broke....

To get rid of all the salt you have to drain and soak for another 24 hours, changing the water three times or so.  The water didn't taste salty the third time, so we tied the pork with string, and filled the casserole with water right to the top and put it in the oven at 60 degrees (plate-warming heat) for 32 hours.  That came out last night, and the skin is certainly wobbly and cooked, and lots of fat came out too. It smelled divine.

But the proof, as they say is in the eating, so now we're going to have to wait for Christmas.....

First Pick Your Mushrooms

Woke up to a beautiful mist today, the grass all crunchy underfoot. Yellow birch leaves are still falling slowly, one by one. They survived the gales, and are falling at their own pace, thank you very much. The pyracantha is holding on to its last brilliant berries, they have given a magnificent show, but not long now. You've done very well, I thought. I wasn't sure before, but you've earned your place here.... Yes, you shall cook for Michel....!

The last few field mushrooms are struggling on despite the frost, but I've left them for the slugs and the little mice that nibble at them. It has been a wonderful year for mushrooms.This autumn, along with the pink skies and the gentle mists, my back garden turned into my own secret woodland glade. Every morning I tiptoed through the dew see how the mushrooms were coming along. And there were hundreds. From teeny tiny ones to bright red Agarics, my lawn has been carpeted with them. It didn't take long to identify the clusters of white caps coming up - our very own Field Mushrooms. Brushed and chopped, fried in hot butter till a little crisp, served on sourdough toast, salt and parlsey, it seriously was the most delicious morsel I have ever tasted. Ever. Even Michel would approve. TV's Michel Roux, by the way, is the standard I now set for everything - even my poor shrubs!

This most bountiful of autumns has inspired me. Preserving. It started innocently enough with some quince jelly, and has turned into a compulsion, and I now have a whole selection of brightly-filled jars.

My absolute best thing, though, was a full day making Pontack Sauce. Described by the River Cottage Cookbook as "pure alchemy" it is, exactly as they say, pungent, fruity and spicy. I bought 3 kg freshly picked elderberries from the Farmers Market - my fave new shopping experience - don't bother looking for them at Tesco. Almost black once you've gently baked them at a low heat with cider vinegar for 6 hours, the whole lot then crushed through a sieve. Ohh, the smell of it! Then add shallotts, cloves, allspice, mace, black peppercorns, fresh ginger, boil up for half and hour, sieve, re-boil for 5 minutes and bottle. And intriguingly, a "best after" date of 2017.

For a single 350ml bottle (folly!) here are the quantities: 

500g elderberries
500ml cider vinegar
200g shallots, peeled and sliced
6 cloves,4 allspice, 1 blade mace, 1 tsp black peppercorns, 15g bruised fresh root ginger


Last night I used a very generous glug in my Venison Casserole, and here it is:

4 onions fried in beef dripping.  Add a good handful of spelt flour, the venison chunks and fry to brown.  Then 2 bay leaves, juniper berries, some mixed herbs, tomato concentrate, pontack and some red wine. Just cover with boiling water and very slow cook for 6 hours. We had it with Delia's braised red cabbage with apples and dauphinoise potatoes.


Yes, I would cook that for Michel.

Mother's pride

Here I am again, and amazingly, it is exactly 1 year and 1 day since I last wrote - although it feels like 10 years! A wonderful busy year, lots of cooking, of course, and I shall catch up.

Two Sundays ago I picked up a magazine and saw a recipe for spelt bread - aha, a health bread! I'd like to say I kneaded and proved the yeast for hours, but no, you stir, shape, bake - done.

Now it's a loaf a week. Spelt is an ancient grain used since the bronze age. Tastes perfectly fresh and lightly nutty. Last night I swapped a third of the spelt for organic kamut, another ancient grain that the Egyptians used, although all available at Waitrose here in London. The best yet. Nutty and creamy and very filling.

The bread is truly divine when it's toasted, and we have developed a hopelessly uncomplicated dish of grilled tomatoes on toast. Halve the tomatoes, sliced spring onions and powdered veggie stock. Grill till collapsed. Plenty of butter on the toast. We had it again the next morning.

Spelt bread:
500g spelt flour
10g quick acting yeast
1/2 tsp salt (generous)
50g linseed, sesame, sunflower seeds (good handful each)
First generously butter the loaf tin and sprinkle with sunflower seeds (and any other seeds). Mix dry ingredients together well, add 400/500ml warm water and stir ...will be sticky. Form into a small loaf and place in the 1.2kg tin. Leave for 30 minutes (or not), then bake for 50 mins at 180C, out the tin, another 10 minutes.... ta-dah.

British Menu

Just back from Lancashire, after a quick trip to Northcote Manor near Blackburn, to taste The Food from Nigel Haworth's Great British Menu recipes, from the addictive regional cookery competition on BBC. Nigel won the main course with Lancashire Hotpot. It looked lovely on the tv, he looked lovely on the tv, and it certainly lived up to its promise. Tender Lonk lamb, served with pickled red cabbage and carrots and leeks.

But I adored his Lancashire cheese ice cream in a teeny poppy-seeded cone, served with a summer fruit bread pudding. For some extraordinary reason this wonderful pudding didn't win. And as much as I also loved the deep-fried Muncaster crab-claw salad, if I were to make one dish it would be the ice cream. So:

Bring the cream and milk (420ml each) to the boil together in a heavy-based pan. Take off the heat immediately. Whisk the egg yolks (10) and caster sugar(180g) together in a bowl until pale and fluffy. Then add half the warm milk and cream mixture and whisk to combine. Slowly add the remaining milk and cream mixture, whisking continuously, until smooth. Pour back into a clean pan and cook over a low heat, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon. Add the cream cheese (300g) and Mrs Kirkham's Lancashire cheese (150g, grated) to the mixture and blend with a stick blender until smooth and creamy. Pass the mixture through a fine sieve into a bowl and allow to cool to room temperature. Churn the cheese ice cream mixture in an ice cream machine according its instructions, or beat by hand, then freeze for 90 minutes. Repeat this process twice. Transfer into a freezable container and chill in the freezer until needed.


Meandering back through the Peak District with the top down, we stopped to walk across the spongy hills, startling a few blissfully nibbling sheep as we went. In the fresh, fresh air, with the sweet smell of spring grass, it was impossible not to wonder what the sheep tasted like, so we stopped at a little village butcher and bought a shoulder, a huge pork pie and three fat pork chops with the bone in. The lamb is in the oven as I write. But the pork chops were a revelation.

I fried lots of white wedged onions in oil in a large roasting pan. Then the chops, the rind salted, and fried them for a bit on one side only. Two tins of cannellini beans, and a quarter of a packet of Knorr Thick White Onion Soup. This used to be a staple of South African cooking, and my sister, Pamela brought over 25 packets of the stuff when she moved here - only to find it in all the shops...Add a little boiling water, about a cup or so, and gently mix it all together without covering the chops too much. Then bake until toasted and crispy - including the beans - for about 20 or 30 minutes. Served with spinach, the chops were melting and heavenly.

Greek Dreams

We love and adore Greece. We've been to Crete, Corfu, Evia, Zakynthos, (twice) and Skiathos, a beautiful island in the north. I am always inspired by Greek food; tomatoes and cucumber, lemons, thyme, and slow-cooked lamb and beef. It was on Skiathos that we had this wonderful simple dish which has found its way onto my table over and over again. It just seems to set you up for summer, and everyone loves it, especially the kids.

I start by making some tzaziki. Peel and grate a whole cucumber and drain well. In a bowl place the cucumber, two or three crushed garlic cloves, a large tub of sheep's milk yoghurt. Mix well with some olive oil and salt and pepper. That's all you need. Let it stand. Slice at least four large courgette into fat diagonal slices and fry in olive oil in a hot pan. I sprinkle a bit of powdered vegetable stock over them (Marigold Swiss Vegetable Bouillon). Let them get really crispy on the one side and turn over briefly then do the next batch. Serve as a starter with the tzaziki, or with lamb. Yes.

On the other hand, although I believe it's easy enough to make, I only ever buy houmous. I've never had any luck making it, and the bought ones are so good - especially the organic ones; and for people, I mix two different ones together with a spoon of Greek yoghurt. And I really have done this: toasted pine nuts. Tricky to toast in that they burn so easily but divine sprinkled thickly on top with some oil.

One of the things we adored in Crete was spinach pie. It took me many years to think of tracking down a recipe. It's called Spanakopita, and really quite fun to do.

I bought some Greek filo pastry but ordinary filo is almost better. Fry a couple of finely chopped onions in oil with some garlic. Add a kg of fresh spinach (although I suppose frozen would do) and half or a third again of parsley. Fry for a while, then allow to cool and then drain. In a bowl mix up a couple of eggs and a large piece of crumbled feta and mix the spinach into it. Salt, pepper.

Then the fun bit, building up the filo pastry and brushing with oil - or spraying is quite a good idea. Four layers into a 9" square baking tin, spinach mixture in, maybe a bit more cheese on top. Four more sheets brushed with oil, neaten it up, and bake in a medium oven for about 40 minutes. Also served with tzaziki. Everyone loved it.

Checking our the Spinach Pie recipe, I just came across this lovely-sounding one: Roast Garlic Lamb with Lemon Potatoes: Arni Lemonato me Potates. I've never cooked this, but I shall now.

Spike a leg of lamb with slivers of garlic and rosemary, and then marinate in oil, lemon, grated lemon rind, chopped thyme and rosemary, and a bit of white wine. Reserve the marinade and bake the lamb on a low heat for and hour. Then add the potatoes which have been mixed in an identical marinade of oil, lemon, grated lemon rind, chopped rosemary and thyme, but no wine. Bake for another hour, remove the lamb, cover, and roast the potatoes for another 20 minutes till crisp. Boil up the marinade and serve as a gravy. How good does that sound.