Cornflower

Heuch!

Sorry this is blurred but it's an action shot for St. Andrew's Day, and men in kilts move fast. Heuch! is a shout or loud cry expressing excitement or exhilaration, especially uttered by dancers during a reel. William will be dancing a few reels soon as he goes to his first ball shortly, and has had to have his kilt (Anderson tartan) let down for the occasion.

My mother undertook the long and tedious job of hemming the many yards of fabric - look at all those pleats. Please note, he will not be dancing barefoot, nor without a jacket, tie or sporran, but these pictures were taken during a quick try-on session to check the length was alright: it must just skim the floor when kneeling.

We are not nationalists in this house, preferring a more 'inclusive' outlook, and anyway our heritage is mixed. I am Manx born from a Scots family while Gareth comes from south of the border. When we became engaged my grandmothers passed comment on my intended: "he's a nice fellow," said one "... considering he's English" added the other. The sassenach has now lived in Scotland for enough years to have pretty much 'gone native', and the skirl of the pipes can bring a tear to his eye with the best of them.

Back to the subject of dancing. Will goes to the same school his grandfather attended, one which is proud of its history and traditions. It prides itself too on continuity, to the point where Will was taught country dancing by his grandfather's science teacher, still going strong some fifty years on!

And as for all the porage he's been brought up on, it's given him muscles fit to lift an Englishman, even one a wee bit taller and a great deal heavier than he is:

Heuch!

A is for....

Since I wrote about my cooker a few days ago, lots of people have commented on it. I admit to being a member of a rather daft 'club', that of eccentric Aga owners who look upon the vast cast iron object which dominates their kitchen as, almost, a family member. So, do turn to another site now if you are one of those who wonders how anyone can invest such emotion in a mere appliance.

Here is mine in all its British Racing Green glory. "But how do you control it?" people ask. "You don't - it controls you," might be the reply.

It's on all the time, warming not just the kitchen but much of the rest of the house, too. Plates are always hot, the ovens always ready for anything you may care to cook. Yesterday I put a chicken in to roast at lunchtime, knowing I was to be out all afternoon. It had twenty minutes in the hottest oven and was then moved to the slow simmering oven where it cooked to perfection. It was succulent and falling off the bone when we were ready to eat and could have stayed another hour or two had we been delayed. We use this method for our Christmas turkey, starting it off late on Christmas Eve and sitting down to lunch at 1.00; and having four ovens means bags of room for all the elements of a complicated meal.

The Aga dries clothes and 'irons' certain items of laundry, too. My bread dough sits beside it and rises beautifully, and I make yogurt by putting milk and culture in a jug on the warming plate, wrapped in a towel or tea cosy, and leaving it for a few hours. This morning I took a pan of chicken stock from the simmering oven where it had been overnight, so we'll have soup or risotto later, and as I write, a batch of scones is in the baking oven.

Here's a seasonal illustration by Edward Bawden from a 1933 cookery book, reissued by Persephone Books.

According to Ambrose Heath, I ought to be making such delights as "Shrimps Czarina", "Sausages en surprise" and "Guards' Pudding" this month. I expect that menu would go down well with these two:

A stitch in time

Looking at this picture reminds me of the opening line of L.P. Hartley's "The Go-between": "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." This is the front cover of The Needlewoman magazine from August 1936, a time of sunny optimism, to judge by the picture, and of a harking-back to the imagined cosiness of earlier days.

I bought a couple of these magazines just because I was curious to see what they contained and to get that period feel. I think they are charming, and they are imbued with a lovely domesticity and a pride in the skill of the housewife and needlewoman.

One includes a transfer to embroider a cover for the phone book: "Just what everyone wants! A jolly cover to hold the unsightly telephone directory, which so quickly becomes torn and dog-eared after a few weeks' use", and full instructions for embroidering this firescreen:

Or for the lady of leisure, how about a bed-jacket in muslin and crepe de chine ?

There's a comprehensive review of Paris fashions in the October 1933 edition:

 

"Fichus and scarfs as well as berthas employing some unusual embroidery are prominent in the fashion picture....but [this is] the great opportunity for the clever needlewoman, as it is easy for her to make several different accesssories for the same dress which may completely transform its appearance."

Slimming styles for the fuller figure are presented, but I was amused to see that the back cover of that edition carries the following advertisement, guaranteed not to aid a calorie-controlled diet:

C is for Christmas

Much of the fun of Christmas is in the anticipation and the preparations, particularly if time isn't in short supply, so yesterday we began with the cake. We use the same recipe every year and it produces something densely moist, rich and with a complex spicy flavour.

Mary Berry and I part company over the addition of black treacle to the mixture: she puts it in while I, emphatically, leave it out. We compensate with several knobs of stem ginger and a dash of the ginger syrup and we make sure there is plenty of sherry, so now the fruit can sit and macerate for three days before we reach the next stage.

                                        **********

C is also for Calamity! Non Aga-owners should click away now as they may not understand what all the fuss is about, but on Friday afternoon the Aga went out. Thankfully the estimable Lyle was able to come up from the Borders on Saturday and get it going, so the heart beats again in the home, but we had a bleak few hours without it.....

There's no place like home

A flier arrived yesterday for a new book which has been published in association with The National Trust for Scotland : "Scotland's Lost Houses" by Iain Gow documents twenty of the country's most important vanished houses.

It is estimated that since 1945, over 200 major houses have been lost to fire, dry rot etc. and, tragically, demolition as the result of the prohibitive cost of upkeep. This book goes straight to the top of my Christmas list and echoes (albeit in a less personal sense) the work of John Harris in

which is a desperately poignant account of decay, destruction and what can happen to treasures, architectural and otherwise, which ought to be preserved.

I'm currently reading "The Thirteenth Tale" by Diane Setterfield and have reached the part where a partially destroyed country house is being explored. Anyone who has ever peered up a long drive or ventured past a deserted lodge to see what lies within an abandoned estate will recognise the mixture of unease, excitement at discovery, and the sadness which overhangs the derelict.

While the BBC television series "Restoration" has brought the plight of dead or dying buildings to the nation's consciousness, what is less obvious is the human cost attached to the loss of these great houses. They were home not just to one family but to a whole interdependent community, often virtually self-sufficient, and with a social and economic importance as great as the aesthetic significance of the bricks and mortar. Let us lose no more of them.

Cosy

Sometimes I bemoan the lack of leisure time which seems to be a feature of a busy family life, but last night  we were able to enjoy a quiet hour or two in front of the fire. While Gareth had Robin Lane Fox's "The Classical World" to entertain him, I had a book, some good chocolate and a (cashmere) sock to knit -

some people might say I live only for pleasure....

This morning a box arrived in the post from The ChocolateTasting Club, so you can guess what I'll be doing tonight, given half a chance.

Dropping by

When my mother is here she often makes pancakes for the children when they come home from school. These are not the Shrove Tuesday variety, but Scottish Pancakes or Drop Scones. Spoonfuls of the mixture are dropped onto a hot girdle/griddle or frying pan, or straight onto the simmering plate of the Aga. They take a moment to brown and bubble up then they are flipped over to cook through

before being turned out onto a teatowel to cool for just a moment:

then eaten as they come or spread with butter, jam, honey or even golden syrup.

To make : mix 1 cup of self raising flour with a level teaspoon of cream of tartar, half a level teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, a rounded dessertspoon of caster sugar, an egg and enough milk to give a thickish dropping consistency. Use a tablespoon of mixture per scone and cook in batches of four or so in a hot oiled pan. Eat immediately.

On a cold day, the warm baking smell draws everyone straight to the kitchen when they come into the house, and while it's not just her baking skills which make Granny a popular visitor here, there is usually a crowd (some of them four-legged) around the stove when she's doing a batch of these.

Celtic memories

This confection arrived in the post today. It is cashmere and silk from Celtic Memory Yarns in West Cork, Ireland, and it is lovely. Now, for anyone who feels in the mood to draw a chair closer to the fire and hear and see a few good yarns, go and visit Jo at the CMY site and you'll be glad you did.

We visited Jo's part of the country last year, staying in the wonderful Ballymaloe House, which is run by the famous Allen family, a cooking dynasty if ever there was one. We went to nearby Ballycotton on a glorious Autumn morning when the sky and the sea were just the colour of the cashmere/silk, and then we drove on up to Lismore Castle to see the gardens, the sculpture, the new art gallery and to imagine Nancy Mitford holidaying there with her sister Debo.

There were more gardens to enjoy at Ballymaloe's cookery school where a recent addition was a shell house:

Cork City itself has the famous English Market and the lesser known Butter Museum! And at the airport there is a sign which reads "Cork: Small airport, big heart". Our celtic memories are all good ones..... but what am I going to make with that gorgeous yarn?

Polly put the kettle on

....we'll all have tea.

A sort through the contents of one of my kitchen cupboards reveals enough tea to serve all Cornflower visitors should they wish to drop by.

It looks as though we could cater for most tastes as we have everything from the standards such as Earl Grey, Darjeeling and Yorkshire (a.k.a. "builders' tea"), to lemon and ginger, which is force-fed to anyone with a cold or sore throat, Redbush, with its literary connections and many health benefits, and some slightly more esoteric blends. I've dabbled a little in herbalism for years (that makes me sound like the third witch in Macbeth) and thus push different combinations on my husband and children as required. Some drink them with more enthusiasm than others.

In London recently we revived ourselves with a stop at the tearoom in Liberty where I had China Rose Petal Leaf Tea from Taylor's of Harrogate with a slice of lemon cake. I recommend it.

As for the nursery rhyme, I've discovered it dates from 1797 and you can read about it here.

The good old days

I have written before about Christian Miller's autobiographical "A Childhood in Scotland"; in it she relates that her mother made all the woollen knee-length socks worn by her father and brothers, "incorporating into their tops elaborate designs of cables or...tartan; she could turn the heel of these socks without looking, and often worked on them when reading some classic book to [the children]."

Una Robertson writes in "Coming out of the kitchen: women beyond the home": "A woman in Cotterdale [Yorkshire] was accustomed to knit while walking the three miles to ...market each week, carrying on her head the past week's output of items knitted by her family. While selling her goods she went on knitting and returned home, still knitting, having on her head a supply of worsted for the following week's labour as well as her marketing. 'She was so expeditious and expert that the produce of the day's labour was generally a pair of men's stockings'".

And in Shetland "...the women knitted while carrying home heavy loads of peats or seaweed in creels on their backs."

or even while gutting herring!

Admittedly I am a fairly novice knitter, but my sock output is (an impressively small) three in six weeks. I cannot compete with these ladies of bygone days, and it is a good thing that my family are not relying on my knitting skills to clothe them or to put bread on the table!

On the subject of traditional island knitting, have a look at the article which appears in the current edition of Coast magazine :

Fish food

I've just eaten a macaroon with my morning coffee; it had a roughcast-type exterior in rock bun style, and the moist, fragrant nuttiness that comes from the right balance of ground almonds to sugar. I've had the famous macaroons at Laduree in Paris, but these homemade ones were even more appealing! Rustic but good.

The batch came about because we had fish for supper last night. Our cod was accompanied by aioli - rich, pungent, moreish. Whenever Gareth makes this buttercup yellow garlic mayonnaise (which is quite often, as it goes down well with most of us here and persuades a less than enthusiastic fish-eater to consume a reasonable amount), he uses the leftover egg whites for macaroons and they, needless to say, go down even better.

The Lyle's golden syrup tin bears the biblical quote "out of the strong came forth sweetness" (the picture of the lion and the bees always puzzled me as a child), so I could paraphrase: "out of the sea came forth sweetmeats" to show how one thing leads, curiously but serendipitously, to another.

                                     **********

(I apologise for the tangential nature of this post and the dust visible in one of the pictures - I probably ought to be doing more cleaning and less blethering here.)

Happybrow

I've just taken a quick birl around a few websites and alighted on Maeve Binchy's. It's a pity she doesn't write a blog - it would make compulsive reading, I'm sure - but even a few brief words on her 'About' page made me smile. I love Maeve Binchy's books. Her voice is unmistakeable, her warmth palpable and as she is a consummate story-teller, her books are great treats.

Her work is not highbrow, nor is it lowbrow, but it is something we should all have more of and which we could call 'happybrow': unfurrowed by care and dark thoughts, bearing only laughter lines! Literary types might dismiss the idea that it is a legitimate function of books to entertain and uplift readers, but those are two of the reasons I read and I believe them to be valid ones. There are many other writers whose work could have that happy tag (and I intend to post about another such megastar soon) but I've long been a fan of Maeve's so she gets the spotlight today.

We have friends who live near her in Ireland and who kindly drove me past her house just so that I could see it and send appreciative vibes in her direction. Their daughter once wrote to ask her for some information in connection with a school project and she got the most charming and helpful letter in return. I know many writers are similarly pleasant and obliging (Susan Hill devotes part of her website to student resources), but it does bear out what the public persona suggests, and as such restores one's faith that 'nice' and 'normal' can overlap with 'rich' and 'famous'.

So thankyou, Maeve, for the pleasure you give to so many through your writing and your lovely self.

B is for beauty

Begonia: an end-of-season specimen, bought for almost nothing.

Bulbs: last year's hyacinths 'basking' in some late afternoon sun.

Beans: to be dressed in olive oil and garlic and eaten with lamb tonight.

Bowl: made by my son.

William and other woodland creatures

William is 'the meat in the sandwich'; that's to say he is the middle child with a sister on either side, and he puts up with this situation with very good grace and diplomatic skills far beyond his age. Our fifteen-year-old, French horn-playing would-be soldier, who also happens to be a brilliant mimic with a ready wit (and an all-rounder academically, and most importantly, a good lad - he doesn't generally read this so I shan't be embarrasssing him) does have an interesting attitude to his hair. He returned home from Combined Cadet Force army camp in the summer almost shaven-headed as one of the senior boys had brought clippers and had given everyone a very short cut. Some months later, Will is veering towards the opposite extreme, avoiding all attempts to take him to the barber or to bring out the kitchen scissors for a quick tidy-up. This morning as he left for school his coiffure paid homage to Albert Einstein or someone who had come in contact with a strong electrical current. "You look like a hedgehog", said Harriet with her usual sisterly tact; "Fuzzypeg!" said I recalling a character in some favourite childhood books.

That is a very long-winded introduction to Alison Uttley's "Little Grey Rabbit" series, originally published in the 1930s, but still in print today. I read my small collection to my own children, (soldier boy included),

and still love the simple tales of Squirrel, Hare and the houseproud and sensible Little Grey Rabbit herself, and the delightful illustrations by Margaret Tempest.

Here's a taster for the romantic/nostalgics amongst us: "Little Grey Rabbit looked up from the tin patty-pans and waved her rolling-pin to direct the operations. The fire crackled in the chimney, sweet smells filled the kitchen - the scent of burning logs, and the smell of dried lavender which hung from the ceiling, and the fragrance of the green holly which Hare carried. The silver moon shone down on the white fields, making them glitter with a strange and beautiful light. The stars twinkled in the frosty air, and now and then a shooting star left a track of gold across the heavens." Ah!

Pen friends

 

Nancy Mitford was an inveterate letter-writer and as such must have been a much-loved correspondent for the many friends with whom she kept in touch, as her hallmarks were the funny, charming, thoughtful and sharply observant. While her personality is stamped on her novels, her letters define her even more crisply, and they make for wonderfully entertaining reading; of a certain era and class, perhaps, but that is not to diminish her brilliance.

The collected letters edited by Charlotte Mosley and titled "Love from Nancy" include much of the correspondence between Nancy and her one-time employer, Heywood Hill, but now John Saumarez Smith has edited the Mitford/Hill letters in "The Bookshop at 10, Curzon Street" and we are treated not only to NM's 'shrieks' but to HH's great wit as well.

Heywood writes of friends who were expecting a visit from a royal personage and who were thus "up all night ironing doilies", and discussing a customer's suggestion about suitable material for a window display "I don't quite know what the shop line is. Torn between bolsh and tweed I suppose age tends to tweed."

Nancy, on being asked to write an article entitled "My Utopia" tells Heywood "my Utopia consists of cottagers, happy in their cottages while I am being happy in the Big House. So I'm afraid it would make everybody furious with me." While staying in Venice she instructs Heywood to send books she has chosen specially for the young waiters at her hotel and for a five year old street vendor, but to send them "after I've gone as giving makes me shy."

From chat and gossip to advice, insights and great sympathy, fans of Nancy's will find much to enjoy. (And wasn't Heywood Hill handsome?)