tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85324730290764821692024-03-04T20:01:11.691-08:00News from good cateressJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-32359013911532851582014-11-23T10:26:00.002-08:002014-11-23T10:28:38.538-08:00Vanilla Fudge, Christmasgood cateress, newsletter.
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<div class="fb-post" data-href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151547054089785&set=a.10150638198849785.408442.715619784&type=1" data-width="466"><div class="fb-xfbml-parse-ignore"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151547054089785&set=a.10150638198849785.408442.715619784&type=1">Post</a> by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jmcqueenmason">Jane McQueen-mason</a>.</div></div> This was the new Folly in mid 70's
When I started to write the newsletters I knew the November and December would be the hardest to write, as they are my busiest months. So I have decided to combine them. As a caterer any sense of joy for the Christmas season is lost, but in my teen years I still had it.
I need to write a little explanation here, about where I am writing about. For the most part it will be the Isle of Wight, and in particular the River Medina area from Cowes up the river to Newport. My cousin Diana, an archivist, has traced my mothers family back to the 14th Century; we are all christened, married and buried in the four parishes along the river, Cowes, East Cowes, Northwood and Whippingham. It is still for the most part a beautiful river valley although Cowes and East Cowes continue to grow along it, but much of it is unchanged for centuries. Pastoral farm land the most part, with a public footpath that runs along the East bank. As I write this in my office in Harlem I can look up at the wall above my desk filled with Victorian prints of the river, Whippingham Church, Uncles house in Cowes, but mostly the river from different angles and I am transported back to my roots.
My parents, my aunt Janette and uncle Murray in a variety of partnerships and singly had the pub called The Folly Inn on the river. Originally, The Polly, a working barge in the 17th Century which had been swept aground in one of our notorious sou’westers, presumably during the equinox high tides and it had never been able to float again. At some point it had become an Inn and so it remains. When Murray and Janette had the Folly in the 60’s, while doing some renovations they had discovered that the original hull was still fairly intact and had installed Plexiglas in the floor so you could see it. Further renovations had removed all that, but in the attic there were still parts of the original deck.
Also living on the river were the Cundall family. Pam and Allan with their sons, Robert, Colin and Philip, they ran sailing holidays on their boat the Rene Phillippe. The Rene was a large wooden motor boat, I thought she went to Dunkirk, but everybody tells me I am wrong. People came from around the world for the sailing holidays and Pam's amazing cooking. It was a wonderful life for all of us, particularly the children. We lived on a tidal river, played around on boats, Simon fished and so dug for rag worms for bait in the river silts at low tide he was always being rescued from the gooey sucking mud. There was a copse behind the Folly for us to play in, during the Spring there were primroses and wild daffodils, Blue bells in May. We went to sleep at night with the Halyards beating tunes on the masts and the night wading birds chirping to each other as our lullabies.
Come early December their would be an invitation from Pam to help her make sweets/candy as Christmas presents. Some years the Rene would be tied up along the jetty, but one year I do remember rowing out to the Rene. Pam and Lucy, my mother would have worked out all the ingredients ahead of time, and of course, what I would be doing, my job was to show up. I always showed up I loved this day. One of my favorite things, was candy making.Fudge, coconut ice, truffles, marzipan fruits, chocolate corn flakes. Anything with sugar and butter.
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<div class="fb-post" data-href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151551352269785&set=a.66582634784.59999.715619784&type=1" data-width="466"><div class="fb-xfbml-parse-ignore"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151551352269785&set=a.66582634784.59999.715619784&type=1">Post</a> by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jmcqueenmason">Jane McQueen-mason</a>.</div></div> Me standing by the river
We started with fudge. As the sugar melted into the condensed milk, the tangy air of the river faded as the sweet smell of sugar, butter, vanilla pervaded the boat. I had to stir almost continuously to stop the sugar from burning on the bottom of the pan; something that with Pam's gentle reminders never happened, but when I was alone frequently did. This was a job that called for patience, something I didn't have much of, as I stirred and watched, stirred and waited for ‘soft ball’ phase to be reached. Pam would talk to me, distracting me from my impatience with a small chore here and there that could be done during the stirring. Then without warning we were there. The smell would change. It was exciting pouring the molten mixture into trays to cool, ready to be cut into squares. Of course, I wanted to try it hot from the pan, burnt fingers and certainly scalded tongue followed.
My next sweet was coconut ice. I enjoyed making it but I could never quite get my mind around laying the pink and white on top of each other, I wanted them to be side by side.
Chocolate and cream turning into ganache for truffle, with each year a different flavor. Sometimes chopped apricots, always some liquor. It was put away in the fridge to solidify ready to be scooped with a melon baller and rolled in cocoa.
By now the portholes were running with condensation from the steam.The water lapped against the boat as the tide turned. Time to row back across the river.
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Simon and I on the old Folly swings. Old Folly in background
The following week we would get together again. Pam was very creative and had found small trays to pack our sweets on, with colored doilies as a liner and sprigs of holly with berries from the copse. It looked and felt like Christmas. I really enjoyed these times, but one year I stopped helping Pam, I forget why, I was a teenager and it probably seemed unimportant. ButI never stopped making sweets. For a brief moment in my early twenties I decided that was what I would be a sweet maker. After all I would make fudge, coconut ice and sell it to my friends. My then boyfriend, older and wiser than me, said the words that I have subsequently used on many occasions. “You will have to make an awful lot of sweets to make any money,” Its true but homemade sweets, jam, cookies and cakes are really the nicest gift to give and receive
Old fashioned Vanilla fudge
1lb Sugar 2oz butter 300 ml Magnolia vanilla essence
Grease a tin 6inch x 6inch Put the sugar, butter and magnolia in a large heavy based pan, heat gently until the sugar has dissolved and butter melted. Bring to boil and boil steadily to 240 F or soft boil stage, stirring frequently. Remove the pan from heat to cool surface, add the essence and beat until mixture becomes thick and creamy and grains form - minute crystals. Pour into tin. Leave until nearly cold and mark into squares with sharp knife. When it is firm cut into squares
Merry Christmas Happy Hanukkah Beautiful New YearJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-49581503818244268752013-10-03T18:07:00.000-07:002014-11-23T10:30:50.755-08:00A beautiful early Fall Day in CT.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXb8klPRnNhqvp3BGpnUwOKIhrN27EfyIrASeemQERkoCZ6Y2GJ9abka-91PqeOJrR6U_lc1ZQlhfteSbdET9wxOTFTupO34ciWYrpWMRy5OKfmqfRaCQRtDwZRjynyd6kyFpq7AD3s125/s1600/DSCN2668.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXb8klPRnNhqvp3BGpnUwOKIhrN27EfyIrASeemQERkoCZ6Y2GJ9abka-91PqeOJrR6U_lc1ZQlhfteSbdET9wxOTFTupO34ciWYrpWMRy5OKfmqfRaCQRtDwZRjynyd6kyFpq7AD3s125/s320/DSCN2668.JPG" /></a>
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href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7bVxPAr4YU94G8vfOaUGBwccURbWJjKmqaqZkzh8hCR23EDG2XUjmTIRxWRSx_mnRip1C8PP-3Ex4NVjFklbNnBAm2urPY8ehn0pDRySYhkDivGaIuivAg2Z6rZLEks6TV-fsAT-EGSm/s1600/DSCN2708.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7bVxPAr4YU94G8vfOaUGBwccURbWJjKmqaqZkzh8hCR23EDG2XUjmTIRxWRSx_mnRip1C8PP-3Ex4NVjFklbNnBAm2urPY8ehn0pDRySYhkDivGaIuivAg2Z6rZLEks6TV-fsAT-EGSm/s320/DSCN2708.JPG" /></a>Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-23843213617073516662013-09-09T12:43:00.000-07:002013-09-09T12:43:57.588-07:00Sleepy Bee's and a DragonflyI have noticed that the various Bee's are vacillating between extra beesiness to sleeping on the Rudbeckia. Fall is in the air...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNa1fGpDcfaXPvZnoKVToHjJCIyxorU6atbBxOfwJ2LKFSvUzEqF9aornw9nOxMbG0P6l8ly5iwzqOFAUv1ziftCJoalQjPety-CCe1JCj6X_lDVQofQwxUkflTGbZwWVRMLGspg5TZ-eL/s1600/DSCN2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNa1fGpDcfaXPvZnoKVToHjJCIyxorU6atbBxOfwJ2LKFSvUzEqF9aornw9nOxMbG0P6l8ly5iwzqOFAUv1ziftCJoalQjPety-CCe1JCj6X_lDVQofQwxUkflTGbZwWVRMLGspg5TZ-eL/s320/DSCN2529.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoNQgkLXIWcptVMAx0vMeuRskvc1WF-gAyKng5AwpqZ-DOkCnaF7xGFP0D8j9BOpiQCNEEh9PcbSoRONDy6lwZcPoWJN57NrT6qRyrcQDjjdosAhp_aHpg-oeKRDAepIAKoWY-Ce2ab_s/s1600/DSCN2531.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoNQgkLXIWcptVMAx0vMeuRskvc1WF-gAyKng5AwpqZ-DOkCnaF7xGFP0D8j9BOpiQCNEEh9PcbSoRONDy6lwZcPoWJN57NrT6qRyrcQDjjdosAhp_aHpg-oeKRDAepIAKoWY-Ce2ab_s/s320/DSCN2531.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFL4iOMdtZRIHpMW0C2Lu1eH13z6sAH0Z8H-5p3BiqBeMmSXuZ7bVNtDotDh5csTLIQkxJ58EfJ-GnX0vr6SMW8QMeXyUJddCEnk7jAA6l8JqYLH2z6wflU3RJszGzBzWDyENyN4V83JST/s1600/DSCN2532.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFL4iOMdtZRIHpMW0C2Lu1eH13z6sAH0Z8H-5p3BiqBeMmSXuZ7bVNtDotDh5csTLIQkxJ58EfJ-GnX0vr6SMW8QMeXyUJddCEnk7jAA6l8JqYLH2z6wflU3RJszGzBzWDyENyN4V83JST/s320/DSCN2532.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCKr69OUQ2OafrJZff5NUJjdE62Aw9T4yoRGbWHqCtNilUailM8vOBEZfjYXLdLxVGSwyWroqGpiYY5fdmu_g-b7luo1n2es0ABmEqEQTHWaJNTG3z0yorBACliI54zSokXgKEPfZdAl3/s1600/DSCN2535.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdCKr69OUQ2OafrJZff5NUJjdE62Aw9T4yoRGbWHqCtNilUailM8vOBEZfjYXLdLxVGSwyWroqGpiYY5fdmu_g-b7luo1n2es0ABmEqEQTHWaJNTG3z0yorBACliI54zSokXgKEPfZdAl3/s320/DSCN2535.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRyUof5eULO0qp3_GyoVkcOQbq16UkS382MAT4mzoiW38rU8l0REeVZYwq-5giH0ikSefSeCDDOTAVT5fs04iJeeCug1vaOJw5eiq7MteAfiHTarIcX4ueRFDzjO8sKdYIEoETHDwr2e4/s1600/DSCN2536.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRyUof5eULO0qp3_GyoVkcOQbq16UkS382MAT4mzoiW38rU8l0REeVZYwq-5giH0ikSefSeCDDOTAVT5fs04iJeeCug1vaOJw5eiq7MteAfiHTarIcX4ueRFDzjO8sKdYIEoETHDwr2e4/s320/DSCN2536.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzvVSyBi10-5sE-HF8I-ZxoJCwYwK6D5w83F12eOlCJbU3wLBSmez_ulqwFPZiNAUau9qD-YhFvaSCmgToDfVHxlcRsQffVgIcLp8_HDFdEairmAvmx47OW4Ol9TeYPlFXhf7h_WfFAn2/s1600/DSCN2539.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzvVSyBi10-5sE-HF8I-ZxoJCwYwK6D5w83F12eOlCJbU3wLBSmez_ulqwFPZiNAUau9qD-YhFvaSCmgToDfVHxlcRsQffVgIcLp8_HDFdEairmAvmx47OW4Ol9TeYPlFXhf7h_WfFAn2/s320/DSCN2539.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Q79jC8pGrXJPdPMsRb2Sl-0bV93gEMB4K3YmAirgtuomeqrpAcxcMHV4jVJdfbvGG-29kh68uUGxP59WQUvh3IlZPUAyoxpvgWY1soVoWVsOo9_1jQK6e8ij5TJd2BNwfuRI4m4PRNcu/s1600/DSCN2540.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Q79jC8pGrXJPdPMsRb2Sl-0bV93gEMB4K3YmAirgtuomeqrpAcxcMHV4jVJdfbvGG-29kh68uUGxP59WQUvh3IlZPUAyoxpvgWY1soVoWVsOo9_1jQK6e8ij5TJd2BNwfuRI4m4PRNcu/s320/DSCN2540.JPG" /></a> Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-31570569280124289402013-04-16T09:34:00.001-07:002013-04-16T09:39:59.235-07:00Little FfynchesWhen we were very young, not only did we read A. A. Milne’s book of poetry but we would go back to England to visit my grandmother and mum’s sister June. June owned a flint stone, thatched cottage called Little Ffynches in Rustington on the South Coast of England. The cottage as though it belonged on a chocolate box lid. In fact when I first lived in London, my room mate received a post card from someone and I was surprised to see that it was in fact Little Ffynches.
Little Ffynches was on The Street and sat in a cluster of similar thatched cottages with
a more modern (19th century?) big house called Ffynches to the right. Everyone knew each other, and now when I think back I realize that they were all single women; divorced, widowed, and of a certain age.
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There was the lady who kept geese, we would love to feed them, and other than walking down to the Chickens kept in a very large chicken house further down the road, was our favorite thing to do. All those Jemima Puddleducks rushing towards us, was a little intimidating but from it we learnt that the geese had saved Moscow from Napoleon... Another lady, much older was to be honored and respected her husband had died in the Great War and had been awarded a Victoria Cross. We were taken into a darkened room to look at his medal displayed in a case where we talked in hushed voices about his courage.
Then there was Meg, she owned Ffynches the large red brick villa next door to the right.
Meg had dachshunds, 4 of them, as I wrote this it occurred to me that this might be where my love of these little sausage dogs came from. There was a long pebble drive winding through the garden up to Ffynches. I have distinct memories of dead sparrows in the drive, in various stages of decomposition, maggots etc. Simon and I peering at them in wonder. My guess would be that there must have been a cat, but who knows.
Meg a small square woman, with a gravelly voice, smokey, with a kind laugh and allowing both of us to hammer away at her grand piano, neither of us with any musical sense at all, but loving it.
The first visit that I remember with any clarity, I must have been 4, it was late summer, September. We flew from Germany, there must have been a reason. June and Johan (her Danish husband) were away. We would take the bus down to the beach, where they had a beach hut. It must have been during the equinoxial tides because we would go shrimping. Shrimping a family tradition. Granma and mum pushed the larger nets, we had our little blue nets, slowly adding the tiny shrimp to our buckets. Granma telling us how much we would enjoy them for tea..
After a while we headed back to the Beach Hut, across the painful pebbles of the beach. The hut was a welcome escape from the wind. The hut fragrant of summers past, salt and ambre solaire. Beach towels, shorts and swimsuits hanging from the various hooks, mixed in with assorted hats, beaten up straw and sun bleached canvas. Nets, buckets and spades in one corner, a couple of faded, multi striped deck chairs in another. A camping gaz burner and a dented kettle was put on to boil for a warming cup of tea, with a chocolate digestive. I sat warming up, wrapped in a towel, on granma’s lap watching the grey sea, being whipped in the wind from the safety of the warm hut.
When we got home, The brown shrimp, cooked and served for tea, quite scary to us.
Perhaps the first time we were aware of catching, killing, cooking and eating our food.
Granma showing us how to gently removed the head, squeeze the tail, pull to remove the shrimps carapace, then putting the tiny, sweet bodies on a piece of brown bread and butter, popping into our mouth’s. I make it sound painless, I remember whining and crying as I did this.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrhyphenhyphenPYG9nWg_4zn0oqjbpXpt9DwfiwWFUU2nWqZOaG7RiBwsrR2cIE0k3ceTunHQcVsh2iX8T-bzNfQMjMNu0NdPpWYpoBErFEWtPYLImV4Ye3xR2eSd1zUErZzMZSlpQz6Nit4BB7zYw/s1600/Little+Ffynches,+Mahala+in+front+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrhyphenhyphenPYG9nWg_4zn0oqjbpXpt9DwfiwWFUU2nWqZOaG7RiBwsrR2cIE0k3ceTunHQcVsh2iX8T-bzNfQMjMNu0NdPpWYpoBErFEWtPYLImV4Ye3xR2eSd1zUErZzMZSlpQz6Nit4BB7zYw/s320/Little+Ffynches,+Mahala+in+front+1.jpeg" /></a>
Mahala in Front of Little Ffynches
Little Ffynches had a very large kitchen, walls lined with glass fronted cabinets filled with assorted dinner services, glasses. I want to say it had an aga, but actually think it was a big old gas stove. A stable door at the front, on warm days the top open to let the air in. The cottage itself really did sit right on The Street, but in the early 60’s there was very little traffic. The back door leading out to the walled garden. The kitchen sink ran out into the gutter drain at the back of the house; I remember being fascinated about the tea leaves coming down and washing along the gutter. A low 6 inch wall ran along the drain and various old flower pots sat on it. Flowerpot men, Bill and Ben the flower pot men with Little Weed, we sang as we played with them.
The walled garden was a traditional English cottage garden; Roses, Hollyhocks, Delphiniums, sweet peas, espaliered fruit trees. An old fashioned floral swing seat that creaked as we swang gently back and forth.
Tucked into a back corner the garden shed. Fascinating garden shed. Filled with cushions for garden chairs, the garden chairs, old paint cans, flower pots, cans filed with nails and screws. Jam jars with liquid, high up out of reach of curious childish hands and eyes. Cobwebs in window frames, high up in the eaves. Daddy long legs scurrying out of our way. We were not allowed in without a grown up being present.
We went back and stayed many times, although it was never the same once my granma passed. Christmas in 1964 was a favorite. Danish Christmas Eve, with an almond dessert in which trinkets were hidden. Christmas Day, lots of entertaining. Dad and Johan in velvet smoking jackets; June and mum in glamorous frocks. Visits to the pantomine in Brighton.
In the mid sixties we moved back to England and for a month or so lived and went to school here. But by then the chicken coop was gone, the lady with the geese had moved. It was no longer a small enclave of a english seaside town ala E F Bentons Mapp and Lucia novels. When I read the Lucia books years later, I gave all the characters the faces of our Rustington friends.
There was always a large low bowl of Lemon Barley water steeping on the kitchen counter.
3/4 cup of pearl barley
Use a potato peeler to remove zest and then juice 2 lemons
1/2 cup of sugar - or honey
6 cups of water
Place the barley in a sieve and rinse under cold water until water runs clear.
Place barley in a saucepan with lemon peel and 6 cups of water.
Bring to the boil over medium heat. Once boiling, simmer for 10 minutes then strain mixture into a heatproof bowl. Discard the barley.Add sugar to bowl and stir to dissolve. Stir in lemon juice and then let mixture cool to room temperature.
Just now the lilac is in bloom,
All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,
Smile the carnation and the pink;
And down the borders, well I know,
The poppy and the pansy blow...
Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,
Beside the river make for you
A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep Deeply above;
and green and deep
The stream mysterious glides beneath,
Green as a dream and deep as death. -- Oh, damn!
I know it! and I know How the May fields
all golden show, And when the day is young and sweet,
Gild gloriously the bare feet That run to bathe...
Rupert Brooke “The Old Vicarage Grantchaster”Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-55127137630327997652012-11-30T08:12:00.002-08:002012-12-02T10:23:43.914-08:00good cateress nesletter Dec '12 Beechcroft ChristmasIn the early 1970’s when we lived at what I think of as the “Old Folly” it felt as though it had been unchanged for centuries, the front still had the haunted Bow window. Rather than the new Folly that we returned to in 1975 which was modernized, extended, repaired. Murray (mum’s brother) and Janette with Diana had been running it since the early 60’s. Dad left the army to join them in this venture. We all lived together as one big happy family! For mum it was returning home to her roots.
I think I have mentioned before that Diana, became an archivist, traced our family tree back to the 16th Century, we were all born, married, died between four parishes along the River Medina; Cowes, East Cowes, Whippingham and Northwood. I do tell everyone that what saved us, was the men were seafarers, whalers etc and so bought new women to the Island. Needless to say we all considered the Island home, I have memories of many trips from Germany, and we all had a need to see, smell and hear the sea.
The pub and river became our way of life. School was totally different, Simon and I had been at Boarding School in Germany, and now we were at the local schools. We had been used to moving regularly, our friends were as transient as we were, but now we were among people that had lived in the same place all their lives. It was hard to start with but we had this ready made community on the river.
Pam and Allan Cundall with their family, Robert, Colin and Philip lived on the Rene Phillipe a wooden boat that could sleep 12 or so, from which they ran sailing holidays. We were all good friends, having regular Sunday lunches on the “Rene”. Simon, Diana and I got to go out on the day out trips,also Firework nights at the end of Cowes Week.
I think Pam’s parents, Nan and Pop, moved to the Island in 1971, I know I will be corrected on this point. They bought a large Victorian house in Wootton called Beechcroft. I did a little research on google and it says it had been a women’s and children’s hospital until 1936 and during the war, I thought it had been a private residence for a wealthy industrialist of some sort. Anyway, a large red brick house with high ceilings, many fireplaces, five main bedrooms, a separate flat, and many large rooms downstairs
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Nan and Pop ran a dolls hospital, so the side entrance and back rooms were the Dolls Hospital. It was always fascinating and eerie to see rows of dolls eyes and heads on shelves. Beechcroft, like the Rene, it became our home away from home, we were often there for dinners, parties, and it was always a lot of fun.
Christmas Day! We got up early for Christmas Day Mass at 8am, we all went. Then home for Breakfast in front of the aga, The sausages and bacon had been put in the medium oven of the aga as we left for church and would be ready upon our return. Opening our presents and then opening the pub for 2 hours 12 - 2.
Christmas opening was never like regular opening hours. We would all be wearing something new from our Christmas presents; me in a new jumper and maxi skirt; Mum a new piece of jewelry from Dad, Simon and Dad shirts and ties The locals all came, friends and family too. If the weather was good people sailed up the river from Cowes. The first drink was on the house, boxes of chocolates were on the counter. It usually got quite raucous but in a good way. Allan and my father enjoyed many a Whisky Mac that morning. We would eventually get rid of everyone, close the pub, bank up the fire upstairs so there would be some warmth when we got home - no central heating in those days.
Finally, we would be in the car, up Folly Lane, cross the main road, and on through Whippingham and Brocks Copse to Wootton and Beechcroft. We drove the roads to and fro so often, I can see it all. Some years there would be a deep frost and the fields would all be white, sparkling in the sunshine.
Entering Beechcroft into the Hallway, there would be the tallest Christmas tree, covered in lights and decorations, in the crook of the curved staircase. The dining room was straight ahead and the table would be set. Usually we were 14, some years Peter (Pam and Allan’s oldest son who lived off the Island with his family would come) and then we were 18, and any other people that were invited. So the table was large and beautifully laid. We all sat, Philip, Simon and I usually sat together as the youngest. We started by pulling our Christmas Crackers and of course, wore our silly hats and read the bad jokes out load.
Allan carved the turkey and ham; bacon rolls filled with the turkey liver, stuffing. Vegetable dishes filled the center of the table: roast and mashed potatoes, roast parsnip, carrot and swede, brussel sprouts, peas, gravy, bread sauce. Conversation and laughter filled the room. Good wines flowed. Christmas Pudding was presented afire. We all wished on the first bite and my father quipped “Jane you are still here..” Warm mince pies, Brandy Butter was aplenty. Cheeses and Port followed. Simon, Philip and I would hope the After Eight tray would land and stay in front of our small group. Then if we had had crackers filed with indoor fireworks we would let these off.
Sparklers sizzled. We all helped clear the table.
Now the fun began. We would play games. One I barely remember that my Grandfather had invented called Family Coach, which involved different carriages: Phaetons, gigs etc. Charades and so on.
In the evening very often more guests arrived, fellow members of the elite group, The Folly Squadron. And now we played Sardines; Murder in the dark, through the house. What made Beechcroft so great for these games were the number of rooms and that some of the windows were so deep we could hide on the sills behind the curtains, I always hoped to be partners with Colin and Robert for these, they had often thought out where to hide ahead of time. It would be so funny to hear people go past our hiding places, the trick was not to make a sound and give yourselves away, something I was not always so good at.
And then there was Nan and Pop’s speciality game, that they would set up while we were all running around playing sardines. I do not remember it’s name but the game never left me. The premise was there was a serious accident outside your house, in the dark we tried assess the damages. You had to feel what was on the table, and guess what it was. Peeled grapes for eyes; plastic glove filled with warm water a decomposing hand, cold spaghetti for intestines, cold chiplata’s (thin sausages) for cut off digits and so on, I just don’t remember it all. Gruesome and fun at the same time Lot’s of squeals as each person was led in, and let out a different way so as not to spoil the shock for the others.
This was how we spent Christmas for many years, mum, dad and Simon still went long after I came to America. Spouses and children were added as we all got older, nan and Pop passed, but their tradition continued with Pam. I do remember as I got older thinking we could do something else, but now I am much older I look back and think these were the best of days, filled with joy and goodness.
.
"Shall we liken Christmas to the web in a loom?
There are many weavers, who work into the pattern the experience of their lives.
When one generation goes, another comes to take up the weft where it has been dropped.
The pattern changes as the mind changes, yet never begins quite anew.
At first, we are not sure that we discern the pattern, but at last we see that, unknown to the weavers themselves, something has taken shape before our eyes,
and that they have made something very beautiful,
something which compels our understanding." -
Earl W. Count, 4,000 Years of Christmas
"I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old,
familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Pam on NoyJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-79736783791472926702012-07-26T10:08:00.001-07:002012-07-26T10:08:03.308-07:00Diamond Jubilee Party in Harlem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWo4ggcLieuYBneDoQrik27O2eGakhU6X9aiGnnGdEh1pubda_83wHz74Uc2EIkKGaLFhJ_jzl4U6Z-Tpfe51pBsxz5hx7536FlujpUWJvXdOmHLYZOdHyAtF7kmAktNE4a5hnHZRbYLX/s1600/Kay+Jubille+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWo4ggcLieuYBneDoQrik27O2eGakhU6X9aiGnnGdEh1pubda_83wHz74Uc2EIkKGaLFhJ_jzl4U6Z-Tpfe51pBsxz5hx7536FlujpUWJvXdOmHLYZOdHyAtF7kmAktNE4a5hnHZRbYLX/s320/Kay+Jubille+party.jpg" /></a></div>Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-693655575491445612012-07-25T08:26:00.000-07:002012-07-25T08:41:43.207-07:00Diamond Jubilee Tea in HarlemIt’s a funny thing about the Queen. I don’t pay her much attention and yet she seems to have always been part of our lives. Dad was photographed with her in Berlin when we lived there and she visited. I remember all the Children from Charlottenberg school lining the road waving Union Jack flags for the same visit. Uncle Uffa (Fox) sailed with Prince Philip and taught Charles, Ann and Andrew to sail. When Mum was in hospital waiting to give birth to me; there was a hullabaloo outside her room, as Uffa appeared with beautiful flowers. He had been having lunch at the Palace, and told the Queen he was off to see Lucy in hospital and she gave him the vase of flowers from the lunch table to bring to Mum. And on, there are stories.
While I was in London for Dad’s funeral in February. I could hardly fail to notice that the Queen was everywhere. Diamond Jubilee. Sue, my cousin that I stay with, had recorded a documentary about the Queen. I realized as I watched it that there had been no other King or Queen in my lifetime. A memory came to mind of us as a family in Riccione back in the mid 60’s, we had somehow been talking about the Royal family, as you do! I asked Dad how many Kings and Queens had been in Dad’s lifetime. He reeled of George V, Edward VIII, George VI and Elizabeth II. Wow, that was a lot! Would I see so many? No, he said you would have Elizabeth II and Charles. Not many!
On my last day, Sue and I were flying around Brent Cross, picking up my last bits and chocolate; I saw Union Jack cup cake cases, mini flags and other decorations. I put them in my bag for check out and decided I would have a Diamond Jubilee Party in Harlem.
Over the following weeks as I saw and talked to friends and neighbors I told them we would be having a Diamond Jubilee Party, June 2nd and Ladies had to wear Hats. As June drew closer different people reminded me or confirmed the Diamond Jubilee Party. At the same time we got busier with bookings all around June 2nd, but nothing actually on the date. I began to think “ am I really going to have this party?” But I’d told too many people to cancel.
The menu and time began to change, from Lunch with Coronation Chicken Salad, a curried chicken salad, that was developed in the 1952 for the Queens Coronation, England was still on rations, so it had to be thrifty and tasty. I have had many versions of it, my recipe will follow. With a pasta salad of some sort, nice green salad all followed by Eton Mess, a delicious concoction of broken meringue, whipped cream and raspberries and/or strawberries.
I settled on afternoon tea. Timing was right, the garden would not be too hot. I had had a mental image of sunny kitchen Jane, baking and icing; Coffee Walnut Cake; Lemon Cake; Cheese scones hot from the oven with home made Damson Jam; a beautiful Dundee fruit cake as center piece. The realities of time and just what people would eat set in. Dundee cake was the first thing to go, as I knew I would be the only person to eat it.
I asked Suzanne if she would make cupcakes. Suzanne happens to make the best cup cakes ever, unequivocally. That was my genius stroke. Num would make his Mixed Nut Shortbread and Pecan Bars. I would make the rest Tea Sandwiches: yes, yes, of course, Chicken Almond Rounds!
Drinks , never changed. Pimms, Elderflower spritzers, Prosecco and Pellegrino.
I had thought I had a few bottle of Pimms left, about 20 years ago I had catered a Pimms sponsored party and had Umbrella’s and a case of Pimms left. But apparently we had drunk it or given bottles away. I had thought it would be the easiest thing, but kept forgetting to buy it! So mid day I headed out to pick up a few last minute items (Pimms). The first liquor store I went to, I got to the Pimms as a woman lent in and took the last bottle. I went to 3 other liquor stores before finding a bottle. Apparently every other Brit in NY was doing the same thing.
Beautiful ladies in wonderful hats began to arrive, many of whom had not seen each other in 20 years or so; people meeting for the first time. Pimm’s was drunk, tea eaten. Conversation and laughter filled the garden. Num , Hui and John played music, Num doing a spontaneous rap for the Queen. http://youtu.be/9jLwwg51i3U It was a glorious early summer afternoon, no bugs, not too hot
Coronation Chicken Salad
4 Chicken breasts cooked, poached, cut into one inch pieces
2 cups Mayonaise
1 cup mango chutney
2 scallions chopped
2 tablespoons dry sherry
2 tablespoons curry powder - I like the Sharwoods Hot
Combine last four ingredients in Cuisinart or blender. Mix into
chicken pieces.
I add various things to this mixture. Cut up fresh mango or chopped
dried apricots and cashew nuts.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpsHGImXChYxSxtFl4iLLlRagCGc2bdYa5ly-Z3kTTGDpUBUNA5JWAmcgoGOxxr6sIa-j1RSEoPuK-6Gkxz14Iu-8rXr1fVhyphenhyphenMlTqwG8lY2q7uYpk5kqKXEJZ4TZwdXC4aUJA1_Y59M3l/s1600/IMG_0686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpsHGImXChYxSxtFl4iLLlRagCGc2bdYa5ly-Z3kTTGDpUBUNA5JWAmcgoGOxxr6sIa-j1RSEoPuK-6Gkxz14Iu-8rXr1fVhyphenhyphenMlTqwG8lY2q7uYpk5kqKXEJZ4TZwdXC4aUJA1_Y59M3l/s320/IMG_0686.JPG" /></a></div>Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-60560517839936346942012-04-08T11:14:00.001-07:002012-04-08T11:18:41.914-07:00good cateress, newsletter April 2012<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUmFkFAuQNSp_pMBY_W4tcNe3g2cBST8b833eMRJ1xeWRCInrXAojZqcB4XaDfG396pbxY6NKWJx1C59wDWYCIyaNaon3GPb4E0syQapi-OXl3x0XpEf75Uq87QMfaNPnC878TUgF3WzY/s1600/IMG_0258.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUmFkFAuQNSp_pMBY_W4tcNe3g2cBST8b833eMRJ1xeWRCInrXAojZqcB4XaDfG396pbxY6NKWJx1C59wDWYCIyaNaon3GPb4E0syQapi-OXl3x0XpEf75Uq87QMfaNPnC878TUgF3WzY/s200/IMG_0258.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729095998873201922" /></a><br /> good cateress newsletter, April 2012<br /><br />Six years ago we moved to Harlem. We had come uptown to view our new home a couple of times, it was winter, the block was quiet. I had told myself that if I couldn’t walk along the block to see the apartment, then I surely could not live there. But all was good. We had looked at a few different places in Harlem, I wanted a garden and light, that was my main criteria, this had all of that.<br /><br />We moved in April, Spring warmed into Summer and the block changed. The more obvious change was the decibel level. It attacked us from all sides. <br /><br />Had I been aware that there was a small Church at the back of us? No not really, but that first warm Sunday changed all of that. The Pastor opened the window, which was apparently next to the drummer... As some of you are aware, Num my partner, is a drummer, percussionist and has won Grammy’s with Burning Spear and Common. I say this, because the Church drummer played off, the drums were poorly tuned and he was loud. We heard him all day Sunday, 3 nights a week. He also played the same, music is not the right word, some weeks were more annoying than others.<br /><br />The noise in the front of the house was entirely different. A couple of doors down lived a young woman who managed Hip Hop bands. In the warm evenings she would sit on her stoop, and her various performers would stop by to visit in their SUV’s speakers blaring out their Rap or Rant. No good Rap, just a cacophony of sounds with a myriad of expletives mixed in.<br /><br />With the height of summer all the people that lived across the street moved outside. Barbecues, tables, chairs were set up and stayed there for the summer months. Day time was quiet, it was too hot, but as evening began to fall, out they would all come. Drinking, smoking, playing cards and Dominoes all night, loud talking, arguing as they got drunker.<br /><br />But nothing had prepared me for 4th of July. I had come home mid afternoon, some of the neighbors were in their backyards grilling with family and friends. Otis was singing “Sitting on the dock of the bay”, followed by Marvin crooning “Heard it through the Grapevine”, it was all beautiful. Later we heard the distant rumble of the Macy’s firework display. Later still, the fireworks started going off all around us, a lot of them. Some were so loud they felt like they were in the house with us. It was around this time I began to differentiate between the sound of gunfire and fireworks.<br /><br />Despite the noise, this was the friendliest block I had lived on in New York. All our neighbors greeted us with a cheery “Good Morning” or “Hello”. After living on the Upper West Side for 11 years, where we saw the same people all the time on the block and in our building, and no one responded to a smile or a greeting.<br /><br />The block was also full of characters. The old man across the street, who in nice weather was on his stoop, bad weather in his weather, smiling and waving at everyone.<br />In the same building was a man who had Mississippi plates on his red van, who wore shorts and wellies. Van did not have a working engine, so a group pushed it from one side of the road to the other for the alternate side parking rules. No one came to help one day, so I offered, he was so surprised. I explained he was a neighbor etc; so we started pushing and others came to assist.<br /><br />Miss Lucy an old grizzled woman, addicted to Crack, the stories varied as to who she was, my favorite was that she had been a Head Mistress of a school, who never acknowledged the people on the block. She retired and hit the pipe!!??!! I could only ever smile as I walked down the block and would see her with an old sheet over her head; the tell tale glow of the lighter hitting the pipe, she would be lit up in profile under the sheet. Each winter the family would come and take Miss Lucy off to Rehab; but the first sign of nice weather and there she was back on the abandoned building stoop, selling flowers picked from our front gardens. One winter a memorial suddenly appeared on her stoop, word was she was dead, her corner friends and fellow junkies would miss her. Then one day, a few months later she was back. I have not seen her in eighteen months and there were no further memorials.<br /><br />The Leader of all things negative was “Booster”, stealing and Heroin were her stocks in trade. The day we moved in she told Num “ The hand is faster than the eye on this block”, to which He responded “The arse better be faster than my boot” and she quickly slunk away. She would start the day looking clean and presentable, then would pee on herself and have to change numerous times. Arrested numerous times for drug activity we have not seen her in a couple of years.<br /><br />Should I be up early enough and look out the window, I would see some of my neighbors going down the block in their robes/dressing gowns to get their coffee from the corner store. Some carried their own mugs from home to be filled..<br /><br />We learnt not to park our car too close to the corner. The Dealers hid their baggies on top of the cars wheels. I soon learnt that these same dealers kept the Block safe. Each Spring with the new ‘arrivals’ there would be various meetings trying to form a “new” Block Association all anxious to be rid of the “corner”. One year the Police did clear the corner for a brief moment and we almost immediately had two muggings.<br /><br />The Block has changed enormously, as has this part of Harlem. As one of my neighbors said to me last year, he knew Harlem had changed when he came out of the subway on 125th street, as Oprah got out of her Limo to go to Red Rooster.<br /><br />I miss old Harlem, and I am happy to have lived to be a part of it. Yes, it is cleaner. It is no longer necessary to leave here to buy everything we need. But the friendliness has gone, most people leave for work, come home late. The old guys on the corner are slowly disappearing and being replaced by wary young bloods, it is not as safe.<br /><br /><br />"The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March." - Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926<br />Pear Franzipane tart<br /><br />Shortcrust Pastry<br />1 cup plain flour, 1 tablespoon organic sugar, 1 stick of butter, cold water.<br />Combine first three ingredients in food processor, pulse for about a minute,<br />add cold water a little at a time to combine.<br />For the frangipane<br />2 sticks butter, softened, cup of sugar, 2 eggs, cup ground almonds, 1 tbsp plain flour<br />For the poached pears<br />2 cup of sugar, plus 2 tsp extra, 4 good-sized pears, 1 cinnamon stick, broken in half, 3 cloves, ½ lemon, 2-3 strips thickly pared orange zest<br /><br />Make the frangipane filling. Cream the butter and sugar together in a large bowl until light and fluffy. Gradually beat in the eggs, one at a time, then fold in the ground almonds and flour. Mix well and chill until needed.<br /> Make the poached pears. Put the sugar in a saucepan, pour in 500ml water and place over a medium heat. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Peel the pears and add to the pan, along with the cinnamon and cloves. Squeeze the juice from the lemon into the pan and add the squeezed lemon and orange zest.. <br /> Simmer for 20 minutes, then remove the pears to a plate with a slotted spoon and discard the liquor and solids. Set aside for 15 minutes, or until cool enough to handle. Don't overcook the pears - a knife should just pierce them easily. <br />Preheat the oven to 350 degrees On a lightly floured work surface, roll out the pastry to a circle large enough to line the tart tin. Trim off any excess pastry and spread the frangipane evenly on top.<br /> Cut the pears in half lengthways and, using a teaspoon, scoop out and discard the core from the centre. Cut each pear half in slices, widthways, then lift onto your knife and push down on the pears slightly to fan them out. Lift into the pastry case and arrange in a circle. Fill in the gaps between each pear half with a few more slices and arrange some in the centre. Bake for 55 minutes to 1 hour, until the pastry is golden and the filling is set. Serve warm or at room temperature with a dollop of crème fraîche.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-88882961518674404662011-10-15T08:39:00.000-07:002011-10-15T08:40:27.575-07:00good cateress, newsletter October 2011good cateress newsletter<br />September 2011<br /><br /><br /><br /> This newsletter was inspired by my trip to London and the Isle of Wight in August. It was glorious in so many ways. Although the weather cooler, than I had anticipated, the sun shone. <br /><br /> As the plane descended over Southern England, it had been light as we flew over the Scilly Islands and the Cornish peninsula. Dusk fell as we flew, but in the fields below I could see the lights from the Combine’s in the fields steadily harvesting the wheat. It was somehow comforting, that in the midst of rioting in London’s streets, the eternal cycle of farming the English countryside, quietly went on.<br /><br /> In what has become a tradition, my first taste of England is my cousin Sue Searle’s Bacon, Onion, Mushroom Tart. I have to confess during my flight to London; as <br />the discomfort slowly sinks in and I pass up, what the airlines choose to call food, my mind turns often to the tart awaiting me. Not a quiche, a heartier English tart, fragrant with onions, bacon and mushrooms generously sprinkled with grated cheddar warm with a salad, tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden.<br /><br /> Roast leg of Lamb is our family dinner the next night. The dining room table is laid with glass, silver and china. The middle of the table has steadily filled with numerous varieties of vegetables: Potatoes, roast and new one’s boiled; Cabbage, Runner beans and broad beans from the garden; roast parsnips; onion sauce, gravy.<br />And then dessert of nectarines, blackcurrant (garden), marzipan baked in the oven. Graham and Sue have spent the day preparing, cooking this scrumptious repast I have learnt from past experience to pass on the slice of jam sandwich cake, when I first get home, with my cup of tea!<br /><br /> I headed down to the Isle of Wight, train and ferry. A journey I knew well from my years living in London, it would need to be something very good to keep me in ‘town’ for the weekend. Of course, I preferred the older ferries, standing on the deck, wind and spray in your face, as Ryde seafront lights glittering welcomed us home. Now you are enclosed in a ferry that closely resembles a plane’s interior, and I suspect we will soon have to pass through security.<br /><br /> A very pregnant Jemma with sleepy Mabelle picked me up from the ferry; Simon lent me wheels from www.fairleesevicestation.com; Mandy bought home dinner from Farmer Jack’s and promised me first thing she would take me to Arreton, to see it myself. Aga roasted Isle of Wight Chicken! Ben and Sam’s salad greens; Ratte potatoes. The beautiful Jen, the bride, arrived with baby Rory and Sam, my handsome talented godson. www.HaleDesigns.com. I was home, surrounded by old friends. <br /><br /> I easily fall back into the grove of Hale Manor, it is an old comfortable slipper, we know each other well. Coffee, aga toast and the paper at breakfast, people popping in and out. Kettle and teapot constantly on the go. The unofficial headquarters of A E Brown Farms, a hardworking farm in full throttle. Wheat harvest is in full swing and it is bumper year, sun and rain at he right times! Sweet corn is ready to be picked; asparagus is over; Squash and Cauliflowers later in the year. And the newest edition Farmer Jacks new farm shop.<br /><br /> Two years ago, Farmer Jacks had been a smallish farm stand in a corner of the car park at Arreton Village. I was eager to see the new full shop, Sam built all the shelving and storage, for Ben’s brain child, this was a family affair. As my eye’s caught sight of the shop, my face just had huge grin on it. We had all talked for many years about this and here it was. So much more than I had imagined. The first thing I saw was the butchers stand, with a real butcher and all Isle of Wight meats, poultry; home-made sausage, scotch eggs in four different flavors. A stand with worldwide cheeses including the Isle of Wight, my two favorites Blue and Gallybagger a seriously sharp cheddar style cheese. <br /><br /> Shelves stacked with Isle of Wight items. Many new to me, including the Isle of Wight Tomato stalls, ketchup; roasted tomatoes; juice, chili sauce all from www.thetomatostall.co.uk . My favorite marketing was Oil of Wight, a rapeseed oil pressed and bottled at Marvel Farms, we old Isle of Wighters pronounce Isle as Oil. Baskets and vegetable stands filled with Isle of Wight produce of every description. Breads from two local bakeries, Bembridge and Scarretts Lane. One made exceptional eccles cakes and the other a very moorish doughnut - European style with Jam and granulated sugar. I was excited about the life a new generation was blowing into local farming and food. www.farmerjacks.co.uk.<br />Farmer Jacks also has many international food items, not least the frozen croissants and pastries., which are yummy.<br /><br /> I bought a variety of Scotch Eggs, my favorite being the herbed sausage meat, to take with me to Uncle Tony’s house for lunch the next day. Not that I thought we would need it, I knew from old that there would be masses of food, it was a Dixon family event. Michael, Tony and Betty had been very busy cooking up a storm. Michaels Thai seafood salad was a standout, the desserts were to die for - and I nearly did! It was fantastic to catch up with my family, new babies, grown up children.<br /><br /> Before going to lunch, I drove to Gurnard to meet Nick and his family and see the start of the Fastnet Race, the final race of Cowes week. As a family we had often gone to see the start of the big races; Round the Island, Old Gaffers and this one. It is hard not to think of the Fastnet race in 1979 which had been hit by a force 10 gale - Hurricane - in which there had been 15 fatalities. Today the Solent was full of huge Ocean racers, the smaller, slower boats started later. The wind was blowing, clouds scudding across the sky, Halyards rattling in the wind, brightly colored spinnakers being hoisted to catch the wind, yachts visibly lurching forward as the big sail filled with wind.<br /><br /> I had a couple of pub lunches in the following week. I have a complaint here about pubs generally, but some restaurants I go too as well. Far too many food choices. Not just on their regular menu but then endless “Specials of the Day”. Anyone with any cooking skills at all, knows instinctively that there is no chef making 10 additional choices to the menu. A special should not be that weeks special from “Brake Bros”. I would rather see one excellent addition than ten muddled idea’s. Not everyone is Jamie or Gordon. And my other complaint, huge portions; and they wonder why people are obese? <br /><br /> Gardens I love to sit in and eat. Red Lion at Freshwater; Waverley at Gurnard; Warren Farms, Totland; Buddle Inn, Niton and The George in Yarmouth. Clearly I do not get to the East end of the Island! I do think of the Crab Inn in Bembridge fondly!<br /><br /> Over the last five years I have enjoyed some fantastic meals at The Taverners in Godshill. A true Gastropub, and one some of the others could learn from. All local ingredients, home made food, seasonal ingredients, including Rook Pie before it was removed from the menu. I have to admit I was a little disappointed this time, but I suspect it was all to do with my choice; Lamb Burger with beets and feta. As I ate it I kept thinking I would have preferred it with grilled eggplant and a tzatziki dressing. The runner bean fritters with thai chutney were outstanding. I have kept wondering what was in the thai chutney? It was also August,and I am sure the chef was exhausted.<br /><br /> Friday I met Jo in Ventnor for Breakfast at Besty and Spinky’s. Just about everyone told me that this was the best place for Breakfast not just in Ventnor but on the Island! It was lovely sitting outside in the sun and wind eating a bacon sandwich. <br /><br /> For me the greatest thing about Ventnor, is that there is now a local fishmonger, Blake’s. It always seemed so odd that the Isle of Wight was surrounded by water and there was no fishmonger. Over the years a few had tried but failed because so few people supported their endeavours preferring their fish from the supermarkets. I bought three plaice, my favorite fish, had them filleted ready to cook meuniere on sunday night.<br /><br /> And so to the wedding! When I arrived at Hale the previous week, the Yert and Globe ‘disco’ tent, that Sam had designed and built were up. The Globe was incredible, the structure was built in hexagons made up of hazel branches from around the farm, and then covered with sail cloth made by sail maker Conway Hughes The floor mirrored the basic structure with a removable fire pit hole above a central air hole that could be left covered too. <br /><br /> When I got back from breakfast there were already half a dozen beautiful and handsome young people helping to decorate and set the tables in the marquee. Sam had built a bar around an old victorian fireplace and mantle; cascades of white and yellow chinese lanterns in different sizes hung like chandeliers from the ceiling. Wooden birds with different flower names hung from the tables, with matching paper bird place cards. Empty french jelly jars also hung down filled with wild flowers, Queen Ann’s lace and purple daisies. Multi colored and patterned home made bunting from was strung fluttering in the wind. From somewhere a coconut shy appeared. As the day wore on, more young couples arrived to help. A picnic of Farmer Jacks cheeses, pates, breads and fruits was laid out.<br /><br /> I am so used to setting up an event, with my crew in New York City, I had forgotten the pleasure and joy of friends and family creating the space and feel for themselves. I suspect that English country weddings like this are unchanged for a couple of hundred years or more. I felt for a moment that I was in a Thomas Hardy novel. It was here that I began to realize I needed to go back to live in England. After all, what I missed was the friendship and support of those we love and live among; the easy camaraderie of people who love and believe similar things.<br /><br /> Jen and Sam had made some Elderflower cordial in the Spring, which we mixed with white wine and fizzy water, decanted into Isle of Wight Tomato stall ketchup bottles, served with a straw as the pre wedding drink. I made hors d’oeuvres. The wedding supper was all local produce, simple and delicious. There were 2 outstanding food moments for me, both came later.<br /><br /> Andrew Long and his brother raise a few Gloucester Old Spot pigs, one of which was their present to Jen and Sam. Stuffed with a ginger stuffing; Slow roasted a good part of the day and into the evening. Served in rolls, with chutneys on the side, after a good deal of dancing and drinking at 11pm, it was hard to know when I had eaten something so good. Succulent, flavorful, piggy and perfect.<br /><br /> The other was Barb’s wedding cake. Jen and I had talked about the cake during the planning. Barb arrived with it on Friday. It has been so long since I have had a really great traditional English fruit cake, I wanted a slice immediately. I held off. When it was officially cut with an Ax, I sliced up one layer, and had my first slice to try. Fruity, spicy moist, right amount of marzipan and icing. I will not say how many more slices I ate that night, but the best was with a cup of tea by the aga at 2am!!!Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-40005684764352787322011-10-15T08:29:00.001-07:002012-10-02T06:51:53.017-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKUWaw2y5IpCXsaSVXOSXXbJQ037sBVi81BSwevGUNriV_orUZdDeviNXwvJ2HToSqqpsOTg-R8uV-ymXEUApXht-Oi3VmZE7uKt24Jnl6CiWabE0QrW-YBaxZdIgaXSxeqXjzy7p_lR0/s1600/IMG_0328.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKUWaw2y5IpCXsaSVXOSXXbJQ037sBVi81BSwevGUNriV_orUZdDeviNXwvJ2HToSqqpsOTg-R8uV-ymXEUApXht-Oi3VmZE7uKt24Jnl6CiWabE0QrW-YBaxZdIgaXSxeqXjzy7p_lR0/s320/IMG_0328.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663742565822943122" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqfn97BGJvCyfbZHncTjtLZo1bbYfTn964BD2q2FCx7NHIfGchzcdxn9iqF7QsMz9jsnJ3lEk0O4AxnZOiB7phyphenhyphen5LyOxSf46OQ4VDCkRpTPKb8ttq8q5sY-tF3f8ljQEX8UAJ9VjIOFG-/s1600/IMG_0356.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqfn97BGJvCyfbZHncTjtLZo1bbYfTn964BD2q2FCx7NHIfGchzcdxn9iqF7QsMz9jsnJ3lEk0O4AxnZOiB7phyphenhyphen5LyOxSf46OQ4VDCkRpTPKb8ttq8q5sY-tF3f8ljQEX8UAJ9VjIOFG-/s320/IMG_0356.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663742559582063282" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdarerggx7VHM91czJVID2F11I2ARRvCvNd2ZUEMibytPNwCYWZq9zcK7ODRK4-MT9jJx-yR8dH-ITPj9Jvq7-NfOy9z-bPbsV7TDGyZAI2zycc_YyN8llqKu4X4PsE0zFvicP2EcaLttc/s1600/DSC_0009.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdarerggx7VHM91czJVID2F11I2ARRvCvNd2ZUEMibytPNwCYWZq9zcK7ODRK4-MT9jJx-yR8dH-ITPj9Jvq7-NfOy9z-bPbsV7TDGyZAI2zycc_YyN8llqKu4X4PsE0zFvicP2EcaLttc/s320/DSC_0009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663742554388871298" /></a><br />good cateress newsletter<br />September 2011<br /><br /><br /><br /> This newsletter was inspired by my trip to London and the Isle of Wight in August. It was glorious in so many ways. Although the weather cooler, than I had anticipated, the sun shone. <br /><br /> As the plane descended over Southern England, it had been light as we flew over the Scilly Islands and the Cornish peninsula. Dusk fell as we flew, but in the fields below I could see the lights from the Combine’s in the fields steadily harvesting the wheat. It was somehow comforting, that in the midst of rioting in London’s streets, the eternal cycle of farming the English countryside, quietly went on.<br /><br /> In what has become a tradition, my first taste of England is my cousin Sue Searle’s Bacon, Onion, Mushroom Tart. I have to confess during my flight to London; as <br />the discomfort slowly sinks in and I pass up, what the airlines choose to call food, my mind turns often to the tart awaiting me. Not a quiche, a heartier English tart, fragrant with onions, bacon and mushrooms generously sprinkled with grated cheddar warm with a salad, tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden.<br /><br /> Roast leg of Lamb is our family dinner the next night. The dining room table is laid with glass, silver and china. The middle of the table has steadily filled with numerous varieties of vegetables: Potatoes, roast and new one’s boiled; Cabbage, Runner beans and broad beans from the garden; roast parsnips; onion sauce, gravy.<br />And then dessert of nectarines, blackcurrant (garden), marzipan baked in the oven. Graham and Sue have spent the day preparing, cooking this scrumptious repast I have learnt from past experience to pass on the slice of jam sandwich cake, when I first get home, with my cup of tea!<br /><br /> I headed down to the Isle of Wight, train and ferry. A journey I knew well from my years living in London, it would need to be something very good to keep me in ‘town’ for the weekend. Of course, I preferred the older ferries, standing on the deck, wind and spray in your face, as Ryde seafront lights glittering welcomed us home. Now you are enclosed in a ferry that closely resembles a plane’s interior, and I suspect we will soon have to pass through security.<br /><br /> A very pregnant Jemma with sleepy Mabelle picked me up from the ferry; Simon lent me wheels from www.fairleesevicestation.com; Mandy bought home dinner from Farmer Jack’s and promised me first thing she would take me to Arreton, to see it myself. Aga roasted Isle of Wight Chicken! Ben and Sam’s salad greens; Ratte potatoes. The beautiful Jen, the bride, arrived with baby Rory and Sam, my handsome talented godson. www.HaleDesigns.com. I was home, surrounded by old friends. <br /><br /> I easily fall back into the grove of Hale Manor, it is an old comfortable slipper, we know each other well. Coffee, aga toast and the paper at breakfast, people popping in and out. Kettle and teapot constantly on the go. The unofficial headquarters of A E Brown Farms, a hardworking farm in full throttle. Wheat harvest is in full swing and it is bumper year, sun and rain at he right times! Sweet corn is ready to be picked; asparagus is over; Squash and Cauliflowers later in the year. And the newest edition Farmer Jacks new farm shop.<br /><br /> Two years ago, Farmer Jacks had been a smallish farm stand in a corner of the car park at Arreton Village. I was eager to see the new full shop, Sam built all the shelving and storage, for Ben’s brain child, this was a family affair. As my eye’s caught sight of the shop, my face just had huge grin on it. We had all talked for many years about this and here it was. So much more than I had imagined. The first thing I saw was the butchers stand, with a real butcher and all Isle of Wight meats, poultry; home-made sausage, scotch eggs in four different flavors. A stand with worldwide cheeses including the Isle of Wight, my two favorites Blue and Gallybagger a seriously sharp cheddar style cheese. <br /><br /> Shelves stacked with Isle of Wight items. Many new to me, including the Isle of Wight Tomato stalls, ketchup; roasted tomatoes; juice, chili sauce all from www.thetomatostall.co.uk . My favorite marketing was Oil of Wight, a rapeseed oil pressed and bottled at Marvel Farms, we old Isle of Wighters pronounce Isle as Oil. Baskets and vegetable stands filled with Isle of Wight produce of every description. Breads from two local bakeries, Bembridge and Scarretts Lane. One made exceptional eccles cakes and the other a very moorish doughnut - European style with Jam and granulated sugar. I was excited about the life a new generation was blowing into local farming and food. www.farmerjacks.co.uk.<br />Farmer Jacks also has many international food items, not least the frozen croissants and pastries., which are yummy.<br /><br /> I bought a variety of Scotch Eggs, my favorite being the herbed sausage meat, to take with me to Uncle Tony’s house for lunch the next day. Not that I thought we would need it, I knew from old that there would be masses of food, it was a Dixon family event. Michael, Tony and Betty had been very busy cooking up a storm. Michaels Thai seafood salad was a standout, the desserts were to die for - and I nearly did! It was fantastic to catch up with my family, new babies, grown up children.<br /><br /> Before going to lunch, I drove to Gurnard to meet Nick and his family and see the start of the Fastnet Race, the final race of Cowes week. As a family we had often gone to see the start of the big races; Round the Island, Old Gaffers and this one. It is hard not to think of the Fastnet race in 1979 which had been hit by a force 10 gale - Hurricane - in which there had been 15 fatalities. Today the Solent was full of huge Ocean racers, the smaller, slower boats started later. The wind was blowing, clouds scudding across the sky, Halyards rattling in the wind, brightly colored spinnakers being hoisted to catch the wind, yachts visibly lurching forward as the big sail filled with wind.<br /><br /> I had a couple of pub lunches in the following week. I have a complaint here about pubs generally, but some restaurants I go too as well. Far too many food choices. Not just on their regular menu but then endless “Specials of the Day”. Anyone with any cooking skills at all, knows instinctively that there is no chef making 10 additional choices to the menu. A special should not be that weeks special from “Brake Bros”. I would rather see one excellent addition than ten muddled idea’s. Not everyone is Jamie or Gordon. And my other complaint, huge portions; and they wonder why people are obese? <br /><br /> Gardens I love to sit in and eat. Red Lion at Freshwater; Waverley at Gurnard; Warren Farms, Totland; Buddle Inn, Niton and The George in Yarmouth. Clearly I do not get to the East end of the Island! I do think of the Crab Inn in Bembridge fondly!<br /><br /> Over the last five years I have enjoyed some fantastic meals at The Taverners in Godshill. A true Gastropub, and one some of the others could learn from. All local ingredients, home made food, seasonal ingredients, including Rook Pie before it was removed from the menu. I have to admit I was a little disappointed this time, but I suspect it was all to do with my choice; Lamb Burger with beets and feta. As I ate it I kept thinking I would have preferred it with grilled eggplant and a tzatziki dressing. The runner bean fritters with thai chutney were outstanding. I have kept wondering what was in the thai chutney? It was also August,and I am sure the chef was exhausted.<br /><br /> Friday I met Jo in Ventnor for Breakfast at Besty and Spinky’s. Just about everyone told me that this was the best place for Breakfast not just in Ventnor but on the Island! It was lovely sitting outside in the sun and wind eating a bacon sandwich. <br /><br /> For me the greatest thing about Ventnor, is that there is now a local fishmonger, Blake’s. It always seemed so odd that the Isle of Wight was surrounded by water and there was no fishmonger. Over the years a few had tried but failed because so few people supported their endeavours preferring their fish from the supermarkets. I bought three plaice, my favorite fish, had them filleted ready to cook meuniere on sunday night.<br /><br /> And so to the wedding! When I arrived at Hale the previous week, the Yert and Globe ‘disco’ tent, that Sam had designed and built were up. The Globe was incredible, the structure was built in hexagons made up of hazel branches from around the farm, and then covered with sail cloth made by sail maker Conway Hughes The floor mirrored the basic structure with a removable fire pit hole above a central air hole that could be left covered too. <br /><br /> When I got back from breakfast there were already half a dozen beautiful and handsome young people helping to decorate and set the tables in the marquee. Sam had built a bar around an old victorian fireplace and mantle; cascades of white and yellow chinese lanterns in different sizes hung like chandeliers from the ceiling. Wooden birds with different flower names hung from the tables, with matching paper bird place cards. Empty french jelly jars also hung down filled with wild flowers, Queen Ann’s lace and purple daisies. Multi colored and patterned home made bunting from was strung fluttering in the wind. From somewhere a coconut shy appeared. As the day wore on, more young couples arrived to help. A picnic of Farmer Jacks cheeses, pates, breads and fruits was laid out.<br /><br /> I am so used to setting up an event, with my crew in New York City, I had forgotten the pleasure and joy of friends and family creating the space and feel for themselves. I suspect that English country weddings like this are unchanged for a couple of hundred years or more. I felt for a moment that I was in a Thomas Hardy novel. It was here that I began to realize I needed to go back to live in England. After all, what I missed was the friendship and support of those we love and live among; the easy camaraderie of people who love and believe similar things.<br /><br /> Jen and Sam had made some Elderflower cordial in the Spring, which we mixed with white wine and fizzy water, decanted into Isle of Wight Tomato stall ketchup bottles, served with a straw as the pre wedding drink. I made hors d’oeuvres. The wedding supper was all local produce, simple and delicious. There were 2 outstanding food moments for me, both came later.<br /><br /> Andrew Long and his brother raise a few Gloucester Old Spot pigs, one of which was their present to Jen and Sam. Stuffed with a ginger stuffing; Slow roasted a good part of the day and into the evening. Served in rolls, with chutneys on the side, after a good deal of dancing and drinking at 11pm, it was hard to know when I had eaten something so good. Succulent, flavorful, piggy and perfect.<br /><br /> The other was Barb’s wedding cake. Jen and I had talked about the cake during the planning. Barb arrived with it on Friday. It has been so long since I have had a really great traditional English fruit cake, I wanted a slice immediately. I held off. When it was officially cut with an Ax, I sliced up one layer, and had my first slice to try. Fruity, spicy moist, right amount of marzipan and icing. I will not say how many more slices I ate that night, but the best was with a cup of tea by the aga at 2am!!!Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-84288937051309988452011-08-01T08:05:00.000-07:002011-08-01T08:06:58.141-07:00July 2011 newsletter -good cateress newsletter, july 2011<br /><br /><br />I have found myself reflecting on age, probably because I recently celebrated my birthday. But also I noticed that when I look back over the last ten years or so, that the years all begin to look the same. Certainly, a lot of work! Thank you! So, I wondered whether I could remember each birthday, where I’d been, who I was with, what we’d done and from that build what that year had been like. Did the birthday reflect the year?<br /><br />One birthday in particular jumped out. For me it felt like the last blowout from the wonderful, crazy 80’s, even though it was 1991. I was in my mid 30’s, we were all still drinking a lot and occasionally partaking of illegal substances - oooh those 80’s! My first recession was starting to make it’s presence felt; the day’s of Area, Palladium and Spy magazine were over. AIDS was really impacting my group of friends and was depressingly awful. Ann Magnuson’s words from her One Woman show about NY in the 80’s, summed them up “We laughed and we laughed”.<br /><br />My group, and yes we all believed we were fun, fashionable and fabulous, had moved with ease from the nightclub world. We had always eaten out downtown, were used to giving Taxi drivers directions, once they left the numbered grid and moved into named streets to our favorite restaurants: Hawaii 5-0, the only thing on Avenue A; Gulf Coast; Tortilla Flats, a new Odeon.<br /><br />Spanish friends of Clare’s opened El Dorado Petit on 55th Street across from Michaels; it was a sister restaurant to their famous Barcelona restaurant El Dorado. This became our favorite destination. Tapas for dinner, yum. Tomato Bread; Patatas Bravas; Garlic Shrimp; Chicken Croquettes with a delicious Spanish red wine. It seemed that I could go any night and find someone I knew there.<br /><br />A posse of friends rented the upstairs space for my birthday. A buffet of Tapas; lots of wine, large group of friends. David arranged for a cake from Buttercup Bakery, who had just began to make and decorate cakes, and they still tasted great - I am not sure what they did to their cake recipe but it changed. My cake was covered in painted sunflowers and looked amazing. I wore one of my downtown Barney’s dresses, a classic shift dress in splashes of red, yellow and green pattern; it was a big favorite. I am seen at a birthday dinner a few years later wearing the same dress. <br /><br />We had a blast. Within a year or two, some of us were sober, some had moved, others died. I had to get serious about my life. The last huzzah indeed.<br /><br />Sunflowers have always been a favorite. Walking or driving along and catching sight of a big yellow head gazing up at the sun, bee’s dozing gloriously in it’s pollen. <br /><br />One summer when I went back to the Isle of Wight, I was delighted to discover that David Brown had planted sunflowers in the field to the side of Hale Manor. A huge field full of bright sunshine and bobbing yellow heads following the suns movement across the heavens. Bee’s happily buzzing from one glorious head to the next.<br /><br />I am ready to invite the Prospect Park Foragers to come trap our squirrels. Do we have Crack addled squirrels or are they all like that? We have a number of different characters, but there is a couple, they roam as a duo - a squirrel gang - who are just so badly behaved. For the last ten days or so I have got up each morning to find decimated sunflower heads on the lawn. I had planted a pack of seeds, but the majority of the sunflower seeds had been planted by the same squirrels, in fact I have pulled up more than half of the sunflower plants they planted. Maybe this was their intention in the first place? Do they think these are their sunflowers, as I think they are mine?<br /><br />Which brings me to Watermelons. I Love Watermelon, but have to confess that until I lived in America I did not know how much. We rarely saw watermelon in the 70’s in England. My summer in Greece, I ate a huge piece each day for lunch. Simon and I have a slightly traumatic memory of stopping at a watermelon stand in Italy. It was hot, we stopped for a drink and a bathroom foray in the bushes. As mum walked us into the bushes we came across a horrifying sight. Someone earlier had had explosive red diarrohea that was filled with watermelon seeds. It took years before I could eat watermelon, and to this day my mind flashes back too it.<br /><br /> We are coming into Prime watermelon season. In Harlem the two stands that we buy from drive their watermelons up from Georgia and the Carolina’s, they are sweet and delicious. Perfect dessert or snack.<br /><br />Num and I thought we would try to grow some watermelons in our garden. One area gets the right sun. End of February.beginning of March I planted two seed varieties in small pots, placing them on the sunny windowsill along with the pots of tomato seeds. We carefully nurtured them, pricking them out in May. The plants began to grow and we had flowers. Then baby melons, which seemed to double in size each night, we could definitely see growth. We were excited, we were growing watermelons. So apparently, was the squirrel...<br /><br /><br />Squirrel pie, no I’m kidding.<br /><br /><br /><br /> Sour Cherry and Peach crumble<br /><br />3 peaches or nectarines - peeled and cut into 1 inch or so pieces<br />quart of Sour cherries - washed and pitted<br />3/4 cup of natural sugar<br /><br />1 stick butter<br />1 cup flour<br />1/2 cup natural sugar<br />1/2 cup each of peeled hazelnuts and whole almonds<br /><br />Mix the fruit and sugar in the bottom of a baking dish - approx. 6 x 8.<br /><br />Pulse the flour and butter in food processor. Add sugar and nuts, pulse<br />together.<br /><br />Cover the fruit with the crumble mix. Place in 350 degree oven for 40 minutes or until golden brown, with the fruit bubbling below.<br /><br />Garden of Sunflowers<br /><br />A garden of sunflower’s beckoned to me<br />Come join us my lady, and joyous you’ll be<br /><br />We’re large one’s, small one’s, dainty and fair<br />And even some delicate to wear in your hair<br /><br />We follow the sun, swaying slowly without a care<br />We have a new dance, which with you we will share<br /><br />Gently hold onto our leaves, allow us to lead the way<br />To our sunflower two step, dancing throughout the day<br /><br />I couldn’t resist them, so dandy a sight!<br />So off I did go in my sunflower flight<br /><br />What a glorious time, up til twilight<br />and then I had to bid my flowers good night<br /><br />So happy were we, a long day filled with fun<br />upon leaving, I kissed them, each and everyone<br /><br />So tender the moment, as I turned to leave<br />with eyes brimmed with tears, could I truly believe<br /><br />Oh! It was so true! I then knew it to be!!<br />I had to smile, cause they were all winking at me<br /><br />AnonJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-22768544292938217102011-05-10T16:34:00.000-07:002011-05-10T16:35:46.938-07:00good cateress newsletter May '11good cateress newsletter May 2011<br /><br /><br />May the Season of Asparagus and Weddings!<br /><br />We ate our first New Jersey Asparagus about ten days ago for Easter. I saw them at Union Square market unexpectedly given how our winter that would not end, hung on into April. But there they were the tall green stems with maroonish heads, tightly tied with string on a few stands. There were huge piles of Ramps too, but where do all these Ramps come from? Are the farmers stripping the woodland floor of them? I would prefer to see them in the ground and smell the sharp pungency as I walk among them.<br /><br />I cooked the asparagus in two ways. Steamed with melted butter, as my mother always served them. The other half I quickly blanched and then put them in a herb and olive oil marinade before placing them on the grill for a few minutes each side. Serving them with the marinated rack of lamb that was grilled alongside the asparagus. I made early garden mint sauce for the lamb. A Spring dinner of renewal.<br /><br />I have written many times that my favorite asparagus are the large white asparagus from France and Germany, which exists now only in my memory. But I also love the fresh English asparagus. Simon, my brother, grows them in York in his allotment. My friends the Brown Family grow them on the Isle of Wight and they can be found at Farmer Jacks their farm stand in Arreton, http://www.farmerjacks.co.uk. Take a look, you like me will wonder what I am doing in New York City!!<br /><br />Apparently I am not alone in thinking the A E Browns Asparagus are superior. Ben Brown delivered a special picking of Asparagus to the Palace for the wedding of William and Kate. They are believed to have been served in a mini tart for the Lunchtime event - an old favorite of we at good cateress, with a crumble of goat cheese on top. In the evening Buffet, Asparagus served with English Crab. My mouth waters at the thought of the fresh crab and asparagus - a salad perhaps with a home made Aioli?<br /><br />I did get up and watch some of the Royal Wedding on the morning of the 29th. I didn’t feel I needed to be up at 5am because I knew it would be played all day. I watched the BBC, I knew that Diane, Katie, Barbara would drive me crazy with their commentary, so I went to the source. <br /><br />I had gone up to London for Charles and Diana’s wedding in June 1981 and stood on The Strand and watched everyone going past on their way to St. Pauls. I had wanted to feel the excitement of the crowd, it was quite unlike anything I have ever witnessed. Everyone was so proud to be British and gloried in the Pomp and Circumstance of it all. <br /><br />While in London to see my father in February, I had gone with my cousin Sue to see Westminster Abbey. Not because of the wedding but because I had been reading Robert Lacey’s History of England and was keen to see Edward the Confessors tomb, in what was the original part of the Abbey. The History in the Abbey is quite overwhelming. It is interesting to see Queen Elizabeth and Mary Stuart together, Elizabeth being the last of the Plantagenet and Tudor line and Mary from where all the future Kings and Queens come, rather like a line drawn in the sand of past and future.<br /><br />The part I loved most about the Royal Wedding was the fact that it was a morning service. Until I was in my early 20’s every wedding that I attended or we catered at the Folly Inn or The Clarendon on the Isle of Wight were all morning weddings. There is something quite great about it, not least being that it is not a three day wedding event.<br />11 am at the church, think of the movie Four Weddings and a funeral, they are in a panic about being late because they have over slept. You can be home from the entire event in time for an hour or two of gardening before going on to dinner or an evening wedding Dance.<br /><br />After the wedding and the photos at the church and church yard, we would go on to the reception; in a Marquee, a Hall or event space. As you entered and went through the greeting line you would be served a glass of sherry either an Amontillado amber in the small glass or fino, dry and pale. Once inside there would be other drinks available and Canapes. <br /><br />When I was thinking back about the canapes I realize just what an indicator of how well financially we are doing, food and in particular wedding receptions are. In the 60’s and early 70’s Britain was coming out of the war and recovery. Yes, there was Carnaby street, Mary Quant etc. but generally life was still a little grey and we were struggling and it really wasn’t until the mid 80’s that England bounced with money and by then I was in New York.<br /><br />I have to say I loved these easy canapes many of which can still be seen in my menus.<br />Prawn vol. au vents and prawn bridge rolls; chicken and mushroom vol. au vents; smoked salmon canapes; salmon and cucumber; egg and cress bridge rolls; Ham and mustard, beef and horseradish, cheese and tomato sandwiches. Tinned asparagus wrapped in buttered brown bread. Mini quiches; mini sausage rolls, mini bangers. All that bread and pastry, yet no one was overweight or obese. I took a look at my British Good Housekeeping Cookbook published in 1969, which is a little like the US’s Fannie Farmer.. All the above mentioned food was in their Entertainment section.<br /><br />At the Folly Inn in the late 60’s, we would go for the summer weekends to help my aunt and uncle, Murray and Janette with the weddings and regatta’s. I would rush down to the kitchen on a saturday morning to find large bakers trays from Wray’s bakery in Newport. There would have been an early morning delivery, the driver knowing that the back door was unlocked and he could quietly take in trays full of mini sausage rolls, bridge rolls and the vol. au vent cases. I would have a sausage roll for breakfast, quality control tasting. I knew it would be a great day! Around 12 I would go and change into a dress, ready to help with passing the trays laden with goodies on to the table, but only after trying each delicacy.<br /><br />Interestingly nothing sweet apart from the wedding cake itself. Fruit cake made months in advance, drizzled weekly with a spoonful of Brandy; a layer of marzipan between the cake and the icing. The royal icing, decorated beautifully in basket weave; scallops; tiny rosebuds and flowers all made from fondant. Weeks later you would receive another small slice of cake in a box that had been mailed. Now this cake, I often wondered if it was even the same cake; it would be dry and crumbly, the icing as hard as rock.<br /><br /> I am often asked about making a British Wedding Cake, which I can do, but I cannot do the icing. West Indian weddings often have the same cake and their decorations are the same, just not all in white. My favorite was at a Bajan wedding a few years back. The cake was spectacular with a white and deep purple decoration. I rushed to ask the baker if she was local, I could give her an order, no she had driven down from Toronto with the cake. The cake sat majestically on its royal purple tablecloth, silently holding court through the wedding.<br /><br />During May the evenings are still cool enough to want something warm. I still love a bowl of soup, but a lighter fresher version than the heavy winter <br /><br /><br /><br />Asparagus Soup<br /><br />My mother often saved the bottom parts of Asparagus that had been snapped off. The best way to get the better part of the asparagus, is to snap it in half. It will naturally tell you where the break should be. Should would cook these bottoms with a few good stalks, having saved the tips.<br /><br /><br />2 pounds green asparagus<br />1 large onion, chopped<br />3 tablespoons unsalted butter<br />5 to 6 cups chicken broth<br />1/2 cup crème fraîche or heavy cream<br />Salt, Pepper and a small pinch of Cayenne<br /><br />Cut tips from 12 asparagus<br />1 1/2 inches from top and halve tips lengthwise if thick. Reserve for garnish.<br />Cut stalks and all remaining asparagus into 1/2-inch pieces.<br />Cook onion in 2 tablespoons butter in a 4-quart heavy pot over moderately low heat, stirring, until softened. Add asparagus pieces and salt, pepper and the pinch of Cayenne, which I find enhances the flavor, to taste, then cook, stirring for 5 minutes. Add 5 cups broth and simmer, covered, until asparagus is very tender, 15 to 20 minutes.<br />While soup simmers, cook reserved asparagus tips in boiling salted water until just tender, 3 to 4 minutes, then drain.<br />Purée soup in batches in a blender until smooth, transferring to a bowl, and return to pan. Stir in crème fraîche, then add more broth to thin soup to desired consistency. Season with salt and pepper. Bring soup to a boil and whisk in remaining tablespoon butter.<br />Add lemon juice and garnish with asparagus tips.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"'Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume: There's crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers." - Thomas HoodJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-50335309575998615812011-04-13T10:45:00.001-07:002011-04-13T10:45:24.568-07:00good cateress newsletter may 07good cateress, newsletter, May ‘07<br /><br /><br />May. The beginning of the New season of fruits and vegetables,<br />something truly worth celebrating! Although this year for us in the<br />North East it will be a little later than usual, due to our very sad<br />April. In England they spent Easter sunbathing in their gardens,<br />while we in New York were inside with rain and cold, feeling quite<br />miserable. I have ventured to the Green Market two or three times in<br />recent weeks, full of expectation, there are a few ramps; last week a<br />few asparagus.<br /><br />In previous years we have been eating the new seasons greens; Turnips,<br />mustards, collards, chard even these hardy growers are still to be<br />seen. For some reason I dont regard these as Spring vegetables,<br />although clearly they are<br /><br /> When I think of ’new’ vegetables, the one’s we wished on the first<br />time we ate them that year, I am talking of shelling peas, fava beans,<br />new potatoes, carrots and asparagus followed by soft fruits,<br />strawberries, raspberries and then my personal favourites currants and<br />gooseberries, rarely found here, although Chip in the Green Market<br />usually has a few.<br /><br />As a toddler, I am told, I would stand in among the rows of peas, you<br />could quickly tell how tall I was or how far I could reach by the<br />height of the remaining peas. One of my earliest memories is of<br />sitting on the kitchen table with the large yellow colander next to<br />me, shucking peas, my mother was guiding me in this enterprise,<br />helping me to put some peas in the colander not just my mouth. My<br />mother always cooked the new peas with a couple of good pods and a<br />sprig of mint in the water. Divine!<br /><br />My other favourite shucker that appears now are Broad Beans known here<br />as Fava beans. In England we plant them in the Fall and they grow<br />through the winter ready for an early spring harvest. We grew them<br />ourselves and occasionally would cut the top leaves off the plant ,<br />depending on the black fly that seemed to find these plants<br />particularly tasty, and sauté them with garlic. They were always<br />sweeter and younger than the store bought beans, as the farmer wanted<br />a fuller pod for the weight. In England we eat these beans in their<br />pale grey/green outer skins, which gives them a distinctive slightly<br />bitter taste. I enjoy them out of those skins as they serve them here,<br />but I tend to think of them as an entirely different vegetable.<br /><br />Baby new carrots! I can eat 3 or 4 while driving back uptown from<br />Union Square. Crunchy, earthy, sweet. The perfect snack and nothing<br />like the hideous little carrots in bags at the supermarket, again not<br />even the same vegetable. As I crunch away on the carrots, I am<br />reminded of Peter Rabbit stealing the farmers carrots in the Beatrix<br />Potter book.<br /><br />When I had my appendix removed at the age of 16, in the midst of<br />moving from the Folly to the Clarendon in Chale on the south side of<br />the Isle of Wight. The Clarendon an old coaching Inn that had stood<br />there for 400 or so years, with long views of the west Wight<br />coastline. A couple of days after the operation, these were in the<br />days when you kept you in hospital for a week, Mum and Janette<br />appeared in the ward with a trug filled with Mrs. Kings new carrots<br />and peas to cheer me up. It was heaven after the truly inedible<br />hospital food, I happily sat up in bed shucking the peas, chomping the<br />carrots and quickly thereafter recovered. The hospital staff and<br />other people in the ward just thought it was all too peculiar!<br /><br />Asparagus too. My mother always had asparagus for her birthday in<br />May, in honour of her on her birthday I always eat them and toast<br />her, fortunately on saturday at Union Square there were a few local<br />asparagus. My first asparagus, having grown up in Germany were the<br />large white European variety. We did love those large white<br />asparagus, we were allowed four stalks of mums birthday treat. For<br />those that don't know, the Peruvian white asparagus available here<br />while they might look like European white asparagus, actually bear no<br />resemblance to them at all; although the distinctive flavor is mildly<br />sensed.<br /><br /> Our first year back on the Isle of wight, we had been living there<br />about a month, it was May mums birthday I thought I would buy her Isle<br />of Wight asparagus for her present, the shopkeeper showed me green<br />asparagus. I was horrified I had never seen them that colour and<br />declined them! I quickly grew to love and appreciate them.<br /><br />But my favourite of all new Spring produce is buttery new potatoes,<br />boiled with a mint sprig, giving them a slight minty flavour. Why is<br />it so hard to find good new potatoes that you scrape rather than peel<br />here? It has always bewildered me the lack of seasonal and variety of<br />potatoes here in America. Every where we lived in Europe we had them,<br />so why is America so happy to put up with an Idaho baker year round,<br />so boring. In his book Botany of Desire, Michael Pollan talks about<br />potatoes and how the Peruvian Inca’s grew 100’s of different varieties<br />of potatoes for many different things, perhaps they should go back to<br />that and stop growing white asparagus.<br /><br />A new potato has skin that you can literally remove by running your<br />thumbnail across it, hence scraping them. At the end of May beginning<br />of June in England, the Jersey Royals arrive from the Channel<br />islands. Perhaps the king of new potatoes, as a child I could eat 15<br />or so potatoes in one sitting.<br /><br />Is there a meal more redolent of Spring than Roast leg or shoulder of<br />local new lamb served with fresh garden picked mint sauce; new<br />potatoes, carrots and peas, followed by local strawberries and cream.<br />I can smell and taste it all.<br /><br />Finally, in May the woods and copses are full of bluebells, you look<br />at a carpet of blue, with a light fragrance and the buzzing of insects<br />sucking the nectar of pollen.<br /><br /><br /> Here we go into summer....Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-31797596756421813522011-04-13T10:42:00.000-07:002011-04-13T10:43:19.620-07:00good cateress newsletter mar 07good cateress, newsletter. March/April 07<br /><br />Last year as I began to formulate the possibility of a newsletter in<br />my mind, I had always known that the topic for the March newsletter<br />would be my grandmothers Nettle Soup. It was part of our family lore.<br /> In the early Spring we could not drive from Whippingham to Wootton on<br />the back road that ran through Brocks Copse without my mother looking<br />at the side of the road, where the new Stinging Nettles were about 4 -<br />6 inches high. Nettle Soup she would say with a shudder.<br /><br />In the depression of the 30’s and then into the war years with its<br />rationing, each Spring, on Sunday afternoons after church, my<br />grandmother with her young family would head by bike to Brocks Copse<br />specifically for the young nettles.<br /><br />Brocks Copse is a dark wooded area with the old road running through<br />it, so named for its badgers. However I always thought it was a foxy<br />place, dark and rather like the wood Beatrix Potter wrote her story of<br />the fox. I would go there to pick the pale yellow wild primrose, that<br />makes the nursery bred Primula seem such a tawdry upstart. The<br />hedgerows would be full of pussy willow and catkins, later in the<br />Spring there would be some of the few remaining wild daffodils. We<br />would never tell where these precious remnants of flowers that at one<br />point had been a carpet of bobbing yellow reminiscent of Wordworths<br />daffodils in the Lake District; people had dug up the bulbs for their<br />gardens, where they had for the most part died. On the bend of the<br />road there is a lone house, my aunt Janette had stayed with her<br />Grandmother here as a child, she remembered there being no electricity<br />and the house was lit by candles and paraffin lamps.<br /><br />So, as a family they would head out to pick the dreaded nettles. My<br />grandmother made the soup as a Spring tonic to clean the blood of the<br />winters ailments. Apparently the soup was hugely cleansing and we<br />were always led to believe that we should be grateful that we were not<br />made to drink this awful concoction. Although my mother wanted us to<br />understand clearly that in case of the apocalypse and we survive this<br />was an easy source of nutrition.<br /><br />Last summer while visiting dad he had given me my grandmothers recipe<br />book. I already had my mothers, in which at about the age of 10 I had<br />began to write my own recipes. There in Mahala’s book was the<br />infamous recipe for Nettle Soup, I read it, it seemed rather like<br />Spinach soup and I did wonder what all the fuss must have been about.<br />As I am rarely in England at this time of year, I have not tried the<br />recipe for lack of young stinging nettles. I have never seen them<br />growing here in the US as they do in England, where you cannot walk in<br />the Country without being stung around your ankles, and you pray for<br />the lowly Dock leaf to be somewhere nearby so you can rub the dock<br />leaf on the sting to ease the stinging rash.<br /><br />So I was really surprised to open both Martha Stewart and Gourmet<br />magazine this month and find recipes for Nettle Soup. Clearly Carl<br />Jung's collective unconscious is much in play.<br /><br />We are slowly inching our way towards my favourite time of year. I<br />have already began to prepare the soil for planting my garden here in<br />Harlem. There are signs of growth, although my first daffodils<br />bloomed on New years day and all through January and now look like a<br />mess, others are budding. The chives are up and the Clematis are<br />sending forth their first green shoots. My Basil and Tomato seeds are<br />in their peat pots on the windowsill.<br /><br />Then there is the 127th Street Playlot. I have become involved with<br />the Playlot through the Block Association and working with the<br />Abyssinian Development Corp. The Playlot has a couple of childrens<br />play frames, empty planters and tree’s, the magnolia is getting ready<br />to bloom. We have just won a small but significant grant from<br />Citizens for NYC.<br /><br />The award ceremony was one of my great moments in NYC. There were<br />awards large and small given to various groups from all five boroughs,<br />all made up of people from all walks of life and nationalities,<br />interested in improving their neighborhoods and exchanging information<br />abut where to get more help. Ranging from places like East New York<br />Farms, an amazing endeavour in Brooklyn that has rescued abandoned<br />lots and literally turned them into a neighborhood farm, to groups<br />like our Block Association who are just beginning to make that change.<br /><br />We have a difficult time ahead of us. We began with a clean up day on<br />Saturday and we can now see what we need to do. We have a lot of<br />empty beds but hopefully with the help from various New York charities<br />we can get plants, tools, soil. In the summer we hope to have Yoga<br />and calisthenics, art and music classes.<br /><br />I have heard it said many times that one person can make a difference<br />and for me, West 127th Street is where I would like to do that.<br /><br /> Happy Passover. Happy Easter<br />--Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-25473520740822706222011-04-13T10:40:00.000-07:002014-11-23T07:58:00.444-08:00good cateress newsletter nov/dec 06good cateress, newsletter. Nov/Dec 06<br /><br /><br /><br /> When I started to write the newsletters I knew the November and<br />December would be the hardest to write, as they are my busiest months.<br /> So I have decided to combine them. As a caterer any sense of joy for<br />the Christmas season is lost, but in my teen years I still had it.<br /><br />I need to write a little explanation here, about where I am writing<br />about. For the most part it will be the Isle of Wight, and in<br />particular the River Medina area from Cowes up the river to Newport.<br />My cousin Diana, an archivist, has traced my mothers family back to<br />the 14th Century; we are all christened, married and buried in the<br />four parishes along the river, Cowes, East Cowes, Northwood and<br />Whippingham. It is still for the most part a beautiful river valley<br />although Cowes and East Cowes ccontinue to grow along it, but much of<br />it is unchanged for centuries. Pastoral farm land the most part, with<br />a public footpath that runs along the East bank. As I write this in<br />my office in Harlem I can look up at the wall above my desk filled<br />with Victorian prints of the river, Whippingham Church, Uncles house<br />in Cowes, but mostly the river from different angles and I am<br />transported back to my roots.<br /><br />My parents, my aunt Janette and uncle Murray in a variety of<br />partnerships and singly had the pub called The Folly Inn on the river.<br /> Originally, The Polly, a working barge in the 17th Century which had<br />been swept aground in one of our notorious sou’westers, presumably<br />during the equinox high tides and it had never been able to float<br />again. At some point it had become an Inn and so it remains. When<br />Murray and Janette had the Folly in the 60’s, while doing some<br />renovations they had discovered that the original hull was still<br />fairly intact and had installed Plexiglas in the floor so you could<br />see it. Further renovations had removed all that, but in the attic<br />there were still parts of the original deck.<br /><br />Also living on the river were the Cundall family. Pam and Allan with<br />their sons, Robert, Colin and Philip ran sailing holidays on their<br />boat the Rene Phillippe. The Rene was a large wooden motor boat, I<br />thought she went to Dunkirk, but everybody tells me I am wrong. People<br />came from around the world for the sailing holidays and Pam's amazing<br />cooking.<br /><br />It was a wonderful life for all of us, particularly the children. We<br />lived on a tidal river, played around on boats, Simon fished and so<br />dug for rag worms for bait in the river silts st low tide he was<br />always being rescued from the gooey sucking mud. There was a copse<br />behind the Folly for us to play in, during the Spring there were<br />primroses and wild daffodils, Blue bells in May. We went to sleep at<br />night with the Halyards beating tunes on the masts and the night<br />wading birds chirping to each other as our lullabys.<br /><br />Come early December their would be an invitation from Pam to help her<br />make sweets/candy as Christmas presents. Some years the Rene would<br />be tied up along the jetty, but one year I do remember rowing out to<br />the Rene. Pam and Lucy, my mother would have worked out all the<br />ingredients ahead of time, and of course, what I would be doing, my<br />job was to show up. I always showed up I loved this day. One of my<br />favorite things, was candy making.<br />Fudge, coconut ice, truffles, marzipan fruits, chocolate corn flakes.<br />Anything with sugar and butter.<br /><br />We started with fudge. As the sugar melted into the condensed milk,<br />the tangy air of the river faded as the sweet smell pervaded the boat.<br /> I had to stir almost continuously to stop the sugar from burning on<br />the bottom of the pan; something that with Pam's gentle reminders<br />never happened, but when I was alone frequently did. This was a job<br />that called for patience, something I didn't have much of, as I<br />stirred and watched, stirred and waited for ‘soft ball’ phase to be<br />reached. Pam would talk to me, distracting me from my impatience with<br />a small chore here and there that could be done during the stirring.<br />Then without warning we were there. The smell would change. It was<br />exciting pouring the molten mixture into trays to cool, ready to be<br />cut into squares. Of course, I wanted to try it hot from the pan,<br />burnt fingers and certainly scalded tongue followed.<br /><br />My next sweet was coconut ice. I enjoyed making it but I could never<br />quite get my mind around laying the pink and white on top of each<br />other, I wanted them to be side by side.<br /><br />Chocolate and cream turning into ganache for truffle, with each year a<br />different flavor. Sometimes chopped apricots, always some liquor. It<br />was put away in the fridge to solidify ready to be scooped with a<br />melon baller and rolled in cocoa.<br /><br />By now the portholes were running with condensation from the steam.<br />The water lapped against the boat as the tide turned.<br /><br />The following week we would get together again. Pam was very creative<br />and had found small trays to pack our sweets on, with colored doilies<br />as a liner and sprigs of holly with berries from the copse. It looked<br />and felt like Christmas.<br /><br />I really enjoyed these times, but one year I stopped helping Pam, I<br />forget why, I was a teenager and it probably seemed unimportant. But<br />I never stopped making sweets. For a brief moment in my early<br />twenties I decided that was what I would be a sweet maker. After all<br />I would make fudge, coconut ice and sell it to my friends. My then<br />boyfriend, older and wiser than me, said the words that I have<br />subsequently used on many occasions. “You will have to make an awful<br />lot of sweets to make any money,” Its true but homemade sweets, jam,<br />cookies and cakes are really the nicest gift to give and receive.<br /><br /> Old fashioned Vanilla fudge<br /><br />1lb Sugar 2oz butter 300 ml Magnolia vanilla essence<br /><br />Grease a tin 6inch x 6inch<br /><br />Put the sugar, butter and magnolia in a large heavy based pan, heat<br />gently until the sugar has dissolved and butter melted. Bring to boil<br />and boil steadily to 240 F or soft boil stage, stirring frequently.<br />Remove the pan from heat to cool surface, add the essence and beat<br />until mixture becomes thick and creamy and grains form - minute<br />crystals. Pour into tin. Leave uintil nearly cold and mark into<br />squares with sharp knife. When it is firm cut into squares.<br /><br /><br /> Merry Christmas Happy Hannukah<br /> Beautiful New Year<br /><br />--Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-17642067973173517032011-04-13T10:37:00.001-07:002011-04-13T10:37:31.518-07:00good cateress newsletter aug 06 - blackberriesJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-23407107624782475022011-04-13T10:35:00.001-07:002011-04-13T10:35:39.506-07:00good cateress newsletter Sept 06 - mushroomsLate last summer while staying at our friend Pippa’s house in the<br />Green Mountains of southern Vermont. A clear glorious morning, I was<br />walking beside the river that runs through the property observing<br />damage from a storm the previous day. As the storm, that was clearly<br />far worse further up the valley, had cleared, I had gone outside to<br />watch the otter play in the pond, I could not think what the sudden<br />roaring noise was or even where it was coming from. Looking down the<br />hill from the house I realized that our usual sedate, lazy river was<br />now a raging torrent of brown furious water, sweeping everything in<br />its path away. I had never seen anything like it.<br /><br />Today however the sun was out, the frogs and birds were singing; bees<br />and butterflies flew feverishly among the late summer wild flowers, as<br />if sensing the storm had presaged the end of summer.<br /><br />Nearing the woods, where the ferns still dripped rainwater, the earth<br />smell changed to the peaty mold of Fall. Here the fallen trees had<br />tree mushrooms growing on them, the ripples of growth reminding me of<br />waves on a beach. I had passed a few puffballs, still quite small,<br />smiling in remembrance of jumping on the giant puffballs in England,<br />watching the ‘puff’ of spores explode out of them. I had been told<br />many times how delicious they were sautéed in butter but had never<br />been tempted to try them. In fact after the heavy rains, there were<br />now mushrooms and toadstools coming up everywhere, in a myriad of<br />shapes and sizes, from the tiny fluorescent orange smaller than my<br />finger nail, to huge wet brown shapes that I did not recognize. If<br />only I knew what they were?<br /><br />I walked further into the woods and stopped in my tracks. There<br />before me was a Porcini mushroom. I knelt down beside the mushroom,<br />looked at it from every angle, smelt it, looked underneath at the<br />gills. I know that toadstools like to mimic mushrooms and the<br />surefire way to tell is the color of the gills. This however looked<br />like the real thing. I walked on but kept coming back to the ‘porcini’<br />looking at it wondering; worried about it. After a good amount of<br />time, I carefully picked the ‘porcini’ and carried it back to the<br />house. It was a beautiful mushroom.<br /><br />For the rest of the day I came back to the mushroom and thought about<br />it. Would I or wouldn’t I cook it? In the end I did not cook it, I<br />was too worried about being alone and eating a poisonous mushroom.<br />All the childhood tales of people dying from poisonous mushrooms,<br />adult tales too. I couldn’t do it. I threw the mushroom out. I<br />still think about it. I know it would have been divine!<br /><br />In England a slightly different experience of mushrooming, here we<br />knew our favorite mushroom, where it grew and when to pick. After the<br />first September rains, the sou’wester I realize now are the remnants<br />of Atlantic Hurricanes. We would ready ourselves for the appearance of<br />the first field mushrooms. Looking out of the upstairs windows we<br />could see our nearest mushroom field. Simon, my brother, would walk<br />the dogs over it that afternoon reporting back that there was no sign<br />of any mushrooms. A decision would be made that we would get up early<br />, certain that by the next morning the mushrooms would appear.<br /><br />Walking along the River Medina, we climbed over the wooden stile into<br />the field, the dogs slid underneath and were already running around<br />excitedly. A low lying mist lay along the field as the rains and dew<br />were burnt off by the warming sun. We all set off in different<br />directions, heads bent to the ground, in my case I looked up<br />periodically to check the field and where exactly the cows were. All<br />the mushroom fields seemed to have cows in them, apparently the two<br />things went together. I had been chased and herded by cows through<br />all too many a field.<br /><br />Simon, who inherited my fathers mushroom instinct, was always the<br />first to shout ‘I've got one,’ slowly there would be echoes of “me<br />too” and then silence we were all too intent on picking.<br /><br />There they would be; the white caps peeking through the long grass.<br />The ancestor of the cultivated white mushroom, full of flavor. The<br />smaller mushrooms caps tight and furled; others opening up in the<br />warmth of the sun ready to drop their spores. Mushrooms in fairy<br />circles mixed with fairy cap toadstools which amazed and delighted me.<br />As we were in cow pastures, some came up through cow pats, no one<br />picked those ones. Some had maggots, how? They were a few hours old,<br />but everything wanted a taste of mushroom.<br /><br />Walking home the air was full of the musty mushroom smell; we were<br />starting to salivate with anticipation over our breakfast treat. We<br />were barely in the door, knowing instinctively our task, mum was<br />laying out rashers of bacon on the grill pan. We were spreading the<br />mushrooms out on newspapers on the kitchen table, sorting them.<br />Peeling the ones we were having for breakfast; setting aside others<br />for soup for lunch. A little bacon grease in the skillet, the sliced<br />mushrooms were added, the kitchen full of the woodsy aroma of cooking<br />mushrooms, toast was being made. This, one of the great all time<br />breakfasts, something I have not eaten in 23 years.<br /><br />Mushroom soup remains one of my favorite things to eat. I buy a mix<br />of mushrooms; button, cremini, shiitake and a portabella. Saute<br />onions and garlic in butter, then add the wiped and sliced mushrooms,<br />gently cooking the juices flowing, I like fresh marjoram, sherry and a<br />little cayenne for flavor. I learnt while cooking with two Sicilian<br />lady cooks, about the Fungi stock cubes from Italy. For the longest<br />time you could not get them here and I would ask friends going to<br />Italy to look for them, but Star brand now sells them here, I find<br />that this adds that wild mushroom flavor to soups, stews and risottos,<br />which makes such a difference to the taste. I let the mess ‘o’<br />mushrooms, cook quietly for about an hour, until the flavors are<br />melded. I add flour to make a roux paste, then slowly add a<br />combination of milk and homemade chicken stock.<br /><br /><br /><br />jane mcqueen-mason<br />212 665 2704Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-62441937025948354912011-01-29T09:40:00.000-08:002011-01-29T09:42:17.517-08:00good cateress newsletter Jan '11good cateress newsletter Jan 2011<br /><br /> During this snowiest of Januaries; when one is rather dreading looking out the window at the amount of snow. In a normal winter it is quite lovely to wake and see 2/3 inches of white powder on the ground; knowing that it will be gone in a day. This morning out my front window, you can see the snow molds of cars that have been brave enough to drive out knowing that when they return a plow may have come by and closed back up the wall of snow around the parking space.<br /><br /> Back in 1994, which was our last bad winter, I lived on 87th Street down by Carl Schurz park in half a brownstone that had three working fireplaces. At some point in December my friends David and Laurent had come over for supper, after which we were<br />all lying in a row in front of the fire in the dark, lit only by the flames leaping around the logs burning in the fireplace. Laurent said “I hope we have a snowy winter”. It started snowing maybe a week later, and snowed every 5 - 7 days for the next 3 months. I do keep wondering who he said this to this winter.<br /><br /> As the resident of the bottom floor I was continually outside shoveling the sidewalk. It did keep me very fit and strong! Clifford, my cocker spaniel, after he had dashed to the curb and peed would stand for a moment watching me almost aghast that I would still be outside, before heading back upstairs to his spot on the sofa in front of the fire.<br /><br /> After the second or third of the snow storms, my friend Jane Tai, who lived across the street, with her family and Springer Spaniel Emmie, decided that this was the winter to buy a pair of Timberlands for walking in the snow with our dogs. After our morning stomp around Carl Schurz park in the falling snow we decided to head downtown together to buy some snow boots.<br /><br /> Did we walk around Lower Broadways numerous independent shoe stores comparing prices. No, we chose the closest store to the subway that actually had our sizes in stock. Apparently we were not alone that week in realizing that Timberlands were not a fashion statement but a necessity. And yes, we walked out wearing our new boots with our feet warm and snug inside them.<br /><br /> We walked straight to Jerry’s on Prince Street for lunch, we knew it had to be busy the window was covered in condensation, and as we opened the door to go in the hubbub of many conversations greeted us. Jerry’s a big favorite at that time; I could often walk in and find friends seated at the tables. A big cup of steaming cappuccino, to warm up and then lunch. I have no recollection of what I ate that day, but I know it must have had cucumber salad and fries - Jerry’s always had the best fries!<br /><br /> The snow was still falling as we headed back to the subway and home.<br /><br /> Those Timberlands lasted for another 15 years. I now have Bluntstones that are getting great wear this winter. I see everyone in their Hunter Wellies but I do have to say as a Brit, wellies kept my feet dry but I remember my feet being very cold in them.<br /><br /> In Berlin as a child in the early 60’s I had red wellies and we had many snowy winters. The first in 1963 was probably the worst. We lived in flats in Charlottenburg and there was a small hillock in front with two trees atop. There were small hillocks scattered around in various places, all mounds of rubble from the bombing in the war. But it was the perfect small hill for sledding as a 7 year old or playing marbles on in the summer. I do remember going off the path and walking into a snow drift that practically covered me. <br /><br /> When the snow from winter melted very quickly at the first sign of Spring, the water had nowhere to go. The lawns became shallow ponds for days. The red wellies were perfect for stomping through the water. It was warm enough to be coatless and the water kept us amused for hours!<br /><br /> The following winter Simon and I felt we were ready to sled some bigger slopes. <br />We drove to the Grunewald and walked with dad towing the sled up the Teufelsberg, which at that time had a ski center and sledding areas. Teufelsberg is a man made mountain, again made of the rubble left from the bombing of Berlin which they used to cover a Nazi technical college which could not be destroyed.. It was topped by an American listening post. The lower slopes had young fir trees growing up it.<br /><br /> The sledding was wonderful on this crisp sunny sunday morning. We all took turns; in various formations on our long wooden sled. Laughing having good winter fun.<br />On our way back down Simon wanted to have a go as steerer, I was doubtful but climbed on the back. All was going well, we were speeding along and suddenly were in the tree’s. We could not stop until we hit a tree. I fell off hitting another tree and loosing a loose front tooth. I was angry and shocked at seeing my blood scarlet in the white snow and screamed blue murder. There was also no sign of said tooth, which meant no<br />tooth fairy. All of which has long been a family joke.<br /><br /><br /> My other recollection of that day was how glamorous mum looked. She had on a cuddle coat, which June - her sister - had bought in the States and probably worn in Gstaad the previous winter. The cuddle coat was a three quarter, white shaggy wool with a hood that had a bright red wool lining and no buttons - hence its name cuddle coat. Mum wore it with black ski pants and boots, and looked amazing with her red hair.<br />The cuddle coat became mine in the 70’s and I wore it to death!<br /><br /> The walk back to the restaurant were we left the car was long and I complained the whole way. The restaurant was a traditional German log cabin, and it was a relief to push open the door and be greeted by the smells of smoke, beer, and hot food. We soon settled at our table in the warm smoky fug eating wiener schnitzel. Mum had a wooden platter of salami’s, smoked meats and cheeses. <br /><br /><br /> These are the days for soups, stews and casseroles, that warm the house as well as our bodies.<br /><br /><br />Chicken and mushroom pie<br />1 rasher bacon - optional, I use turkey bacon<br />Olive oil<br />2 cups mixed mushrooms - cremini, shiitake, sliced into 1/4-inch pieces<br />8 ounces chicken thigh fillets cut into 1-inch pieces<br />2 1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour<br />1/2 teaspoon fresh ordried thyme<br />1 tablespoon butter<br />1 1/4 cups hot chicken stock<br />1 tablespoon sherry<br />1 (13-ounce) 9 by 16-inch sheet all-butter ready-rolled puff pastry.<br />Directions<br />Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Saute the bacon strips in the oil until beginning to crisp , then add the sliced mushrooms and soften them in the pan with the bacon.<br />Turn the chicken strips in the flour and thyme (you could toss them about in a freezer bag), and then melt the butter in the pan before adding the floury chicken and all the flour left in the bag. Stir around with the bacon and mushrooms until the chicken begins to color.<br />Pour in the hot stock and sherry, stirring to form a sauce and let this simmer for a few minutes<br />Make a pastry rim for your pie dish. Dampen the edges to make them stick. Cut a circle bigger than the top of each pie-pot for the lid, and then add the chicken filling.<br />Dampen the edges again and then pop on the top sealing the edges with your fingers or the underneath of the prongs of a fork.<br />Cook the pies for about 20 minutes turning them around half way through cooking. Serve hot.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"Bare branches of each tree on this chilly January morn look so cold so forlorn. <br />Gray skies dip ever so low left from yesterday's dusting of snow.<br /> Yet in the heart of each tree waiting for each who wait to see<br /> new life as warm sun and breeze will blow,<br />like magic, unlock springs sap to flow, buds, <br />new leaves, then blooms will grow." - Nelda Hartmann, January MornJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-51115838449213607012010-11-27T06:59:00.001-08:002010-11-27T06:59:18.794-08:00Royal ProgressRoyal Progress<br /><br /><br />I have always enjoyed reading about History, but in particular about Royal Progresses.<br />Medieval Kings and Queens journeying through their realms bestowing their bounty and friendship. But as ever, this was also business. Favor for favor. <br /><br />I feel sure that as much as the local Lord wanted the favor of the Queen or King, in providing place to visit. The Lady of the manor, knew it only as hard work. For she had to provide food, lodging, amusement not just for the Royal family but for the entourage who might number in their hundreds. Coming to a different lords manor house, hunting, feeding all, depleting the stocks of the manor/fiefdom for their winter. But the gentry looking for the favor that would hopefully bring good to their own small kingdom of farms, villages, businesses. Not so different from the Royal family today who’s visits and weddings bring money to England. In the end it all comes down to business.<br /><br />So, within my family we are related to one of the worlds most famous Rappers, who has spent the last year making news with bad behavior. Our Thanksgiving gift was that he asked to spend it with us, with less than 24 hours notice. We knew the food was not going to be a problem, being caterers pays off, every now and then! As Cathy said “Are you cleaning or cooking?” It certainly forced us to finish the remaining unpacking and sorting. Experiment with our new dining room layout..<br /><br />We awaited the Royal progress with numbers that had changed from 2, to 4, and turned out to be 7. Two hours late! The glamorous people enter our humble fiefdom. Embarrassed at their own tardiness. The young bejeweled princeling from the year before had a larger entourage and a beautiful paramour, he had worn his new power rather casually. But now is aware of his power, having learnt the hard way that words and actions have power, not all for the good; and is cowed by it. He has been betrayed from within too. Looking for safe haven from the world, but needing the world to keep his new power and the love of his fans. With a changed inner circle and hangers on, mistrust and hope battling it out on his face, that these were the right people to trust.<br /><br />Putting them at their ease, with good food and idle chatter; probably not the sort from a Jane Austen novel, but also, not so very different. I did wonder when the court jesters would arrive, but realized we were already there.<br /><br />Did we win favor? Hard to know. But what I do realize is that for millennia my family have been small business keepers; probably innkeepers; hoteliers, cooks and so on.<br />The faces of the people we have served and sought favor from has changed, but the acts have remained the same.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-68016564123348517592010-11-27T06:18:00.001-08:002010-11-27T06:18:32.445-08:00Aileen McKay DaltonAileen McKay Dalton<br /><br />In my years catering in New York, I have had a number of girls/women that have come and worked with me. Some for a few months: Kate a Kiwi; girl from Wales whose name has gone, but was terrified of New York; a Russian Punk Rock singer. Some stay just for<br />a few days, a spanish collage artist; many Brits and Irish passing through. I have always quite enjoyed them, breath of fresh air, something new to think about. I am not talking here of the girls who went on to become great friends, but more the flotsam of people who come and go in one’s life living in New York City.<br /><br />I say all of this because there was one girl who was the exception to this rule. Almost 20 years ago, Florencia, my sister in law, called from Penn State. I was driving up to see she and Simon the next weekend, could I give a lift to a friend of a friend who had just arrived in New York. I told her to tell the friend to come to the apartment at a certain time and sure I would take her up and back with me.<br /><br />Enter Aileen. Beautiful, excited stunning Aileen McKay. Aileen wore silver locks, the only white person that I have ever seen look good in locks; a nose pierce - another thing <br />that added to Aileen’s stunning beauty; a pale blue mohair sweater, long skirt and Dr. Martin boots. I loved her style and looks. She kept telling me the 70’s was coming back - it did, but took a few more years.<br /><br />We drove up and back, spent some time over that weekend. I was hooked by Aileen’s good spirits, charm and ease. She had great stories to tell. I knew that NYC would consider her a keeper, as she loved it so it would love her.<br /><br />We all worked a Thanksgiving together. In those days I would drive up to CT, with crews for different jobs. I was at Angela’s stunning CT manse. Aileen was with me, I knew she would love to see the glamor of this particular Hollywood in CT life. We laughed about it on our way back, here we all were from small towns in the Highlands or Isle of Wight, living and breathing what we had only seen on tv. <br /><br />That Christmas when I went out to LA for my Hollywood Christmas, Aileen stayed in my apartment with Clifford my dog. Mike her boyfriend came over, they all had a good time, playing house for Christmas.<br /><br />Aileen moved on, made friends, lived the downtown life. I would see her periodically and knew she was loving it all. Mike moved here. I didn’t see so much of her but she would call once or twice a year to tell me of her NYC adventure. Mike got a job in Japan or Australia and they moved. Aileen was bereft to leave her favorite city. I told her she would be back.<br /><br />We lost touch for many years, but I often wondered where she was, I always felt she had returned to NY. And then 3 years ago Aileen was one of the first people to find me on facebook. She and Mike were married had 3 children, lived in Brooklyn, now so much better than downtown.Through facebook I got to live Aileen’s NYC adventure once again, and there was a lot of it. Aileen lived life. <br /><br />Last July, there was suddenly a post on Aileen’s page, which I knew was not Aileen. Aileen was dead. An SUV hit her Vespa while driving in Brooklyn, looking for a space for a ‘farewell’ party as they were off to Oxford for a year. It was a huge shock.<br />I felt that a light had been put out in the universe.<br /><br />At her funeral a bird sat in a tree and sang throughout the service. <br /><br /><br />A couple of times yesterday, my thoughts went to Aileen McKay and her first Thanksgiving. I give thanks for having known Aileen McKay Dalton.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-25446170004714316772010-11-13T17:48:00.000-08:002010-11-13T17:49:57.518-08:00good cateress newsletter Nov'10good cateress newsletter November 2010<br /><br /> I drove across the US back in the 80’s. Pippa - my fairy godmother - had given me Jessica’s old Isuzu trooper, on condition that I came out to Los Angles and picked it up. I was excited for many reasons, not least owning a car, but also the journey. When<br />it first came up there were a couple of friends that were going to drive with me, we thought we would make stops in Las Vegas, Santa Fe, New Orleans, Memphis - not exactly the most direct route. But for various reasons the trip got pushed back and no one could make the drive with me.<br /><br /> I had flown back and forwards across the country many times. I always have a window seat so that I can look out at the Country below. Geography O levels had been on North American geography. So I would love to see the Cities, plains, rivers - oxbow lakes on the Mississippi, mountains that I had learnt about. Great Lakes - amazing with the sunset over them, or in winter covered with ice.<br /><br /> Leaving Los Angeles on rte 40 and driving through the desert at 80 mph and feeling as though I was hardly moving. Thinking of the early European settlers making their way west and coming to the desert, how daunting it must have been. Blazing past the signs for Bagdad Cafe, suspecting I would have been disappointed to stop and not find all the films characters there. Becoming aware that although everything seemed flat that I was gradually getting higher.<br /><br /> I was reminded about those great, fake Westerns in bright Technicolor from the 50’s and 60’s. Filled with glamorous women in low cut tops screaming about Indians and dastardly men in black Stetsons filling their water bottles with whiskey before heading into the desert.<br /><br /> My first night I stopped 30 - 40 minutes from the Grand Canyon, after being told that all the Hotels at the Canyon were full. I had one of my first ‘Merican experiences here. I ate in the Hotel, not seeing any other options. I knew instinctively that the food was all frozen. I made what I thought was a safe choice, fried Scampi and fries, that tasted like cardboard. The waitress sat at the table and talked to me while I ate. We talked of food, as I did not eat what was on my plate; she telling me about her diet that she had found in a magazine, it was full of cheese, carbs and fried food, she asked why I thought she wasn’t loosing weight? I talked about vegetables and fruit, it was the first time I became aware that the middle of the country did not have the same food options as NY and LA.<br /><br /> Grand Canyon, superlative, superlative! Amazing, daunting. There is nothing I can say that many others have not said. But, lousy breakfast! I don’t eat eggs, I did not want to eat something too heavy and then sit and drive. Everyone else was tucking in with gusto. It was probably me, I was and still am a finicky eater.<br /><br /> Flagstaff was an eye opener as I drove through, a frontier town from a movie set.<br />Something I had not expected. I also realized I should have left the canyon and eaten something here. But I was in a hurry to reach Santa Fe that night. Scenically this was the most beautiful part of the drive. Big Sky country.<br /><br /> Santa Fe an oasis of food in the middle of a fast food desert. I had planned a three night stay, the only hotel reservations I had made. Inn at Santa Fe. I had a couple of restaurants I wanted to try, top of the list Coyote Cafe, but there was one other, who’s name has gone from my memory, where I ate the first night that was incredible too.<br /><br /> Santa Fe was everything I had wanted it to be and more, I ended up staying a week because the car broke down and I needed a part from Albuquerque. Pippa, I told you she was my fairy godmother, had an old room mate, Janey that lived in Santa Fe, who came to my rescue. She took me up to the Sangre de Cristo mountains: to Chimayo - were I dug up my little packet of red dirt. She also took me to Thubten Norbu Ling Tibetan Buddhist Center, where we spent a morning in meditation and took tea with the Tibetan Monk who ran the center then.<br /><br /> The food was incredible. Wild mushroom tamales; crusted rack of lamb, chile, cilantro, beans. Yum. Even the cafe’s and take outs were amazing. I learnt a lot from just eating there. Many of the ingredients and flavors remain my favorite. Did I mention I always thought I could live here, even with no ocean anywhere close by.<br /><br /> I mention all of this because my inner cowgirl is trying to break out. I will happily tell anyone that will listen that the item I promised myself on moving to America was a fantastic pair of cowboy boots in lizard, snake or crocodile with pointy toes and flashes of lurid color. Of course, I have still never bought them. In the 80’s when I could have bought them, Billy Martin on Madison Avenue was too expensive. There was also far too much else to spend money on: Fabulous nights out on trendy restaurants Roauls; Odeon, Luxembourg, Hawaii 5 0 Gulf Coast followed by dancing at Area, Pryramid, Danceteria. I turned my back on the longed for snazzy cowboy boats and embraced Asian designers in monotone.<br /><br /> Recently the High Sierra has been calling to me again. Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, States I have never visited but promise myself I will one day. I have a fancy for Western riding - something I do not do - across a dun drenched but chilly high plain. Wearing a brightly tartaned cowgirl shirt, leather culottes and the aforementioned boots.<br />Maybe jeans and chaps!<br /><br /> I wonder where this cowgirl fantasy comes from? Too much “High Chapparel” on Monday nights as a teenager. Way too many romance novels in my early twenties?<br /><br /> I know part of the influence is the beautiful ‘Sisters” , Num’s friends and relatives, that come and visit from Dallas and Oklahoma. Confident, assured in their colorful not New York City clothes, and yes, those Gator cowboy boots. Asking why New Yorkers wear monotone. Truthfully, through this recession/depression I have jsut wanted to wear color; blues, greens pinks, yellow and reds just shouting we are alive and will survive these difficult times.<br /><br /> As I write a pair of brightly colored cardinals flash across the garden, confirming the need for color. They are peeping their agreement.<br /><br /> Somehow I have started to receive ‘cowgirl’ catalogues. I always enjoyed the Sundance catalogue, that was my expensive hippy chic! But these cowgirl catalogues are something quite different, their accoutrements are a little too showy and over powering for this boring english girl. But the Boots!! I could wear all of them.<br /><br /> I do have black cowboy boots, regular ones, that are so comfortable. Thanks Traci, who I made take me to many stores in Dallas to see if I could get some boots on sale.<br /> <br /><br /> My favorite dish at Coyote Cafe, which I slightly changed and adapted was the pecan crust rack of lamb. I actually found the pecans too much, so mixed pecans and breadcrumbs (panko or home-made are best.)<br /><br /> Herb, Pecan rack of lamb<br /><br />1/2 cup of dijon mustard<br />3 tablespoons honey<br />3 or 4 cloves of garlic - crushed<br />1/2 cup of chopped pecans<br />1/2 cup bread crumbs<br />1 teaspoon of fresh chopped marjoram, thyme and rosemary - less rosemary<br /><br />1 rack of lamb<br />salt and pepper<br /><br />Season the rack of lamb with salt and pepper. <br />Combine mustard, garlic and honey; rub the rack of lamb with the mustard mixture and marinate at least a couple of hours in the fridge, but preferably overnight.<br />Bring the rack of lamb back to room temperature. <br />Combine other ingredients and then shake onto the mustard rack of lamb.<br />Roast in 400 degree oven 10 minutes each side.<br />I have also grilled the rack successfully.<br />Cut the chops through and serve.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A Prairie Song<br />Oh, music springs under the galloping hoofs,<br />Out on the plains;<br />Where mile after mile drops behind with a smile,<br />And to-morrow seems always to tempt and beguile, --<br />Out on the plains.<br />Oh, where are the traces of yesterday's ride?<br />There to the north;<br />Where alfalfa and sage sign themselves into sleep,<br />Where the buttes loom up suddenly, startling and steep, --<br />There to the north.<br />Oh, rest not my pony, there's youth in my heart,<br />Out on the plains;<br />And the wind sings a wild song to rob me of care,<br />And there's room here to live and to love and to dare, --<br />Out on the plains.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-23621013442694235592009-03-23T13:54:00.001-07:002009-03-23T13:54:40.336-07:00march/april newsletter 2009good cateress newsletter, March 2009<br /><br /> With the onset of Spring today, waking up to snow was hardly what I had in mind, after what has seemed to be a particularly long winter, it is going to be a milder weekend, but after all it is still March! <br /><br /> Looking out my window, I can see that Spring is ready to leap forth. The snowdrops are blooming at the top of the garden, a glimmer of white that is not snow. The daffodils greens can be seen peeking through, I wonder did I plant them in the wrong spot? The tulips, are further ahead. Or should I say, what is left of the Tulips. I had been delighted to see them appear. Everyone had warned that the squirrels would eat the bulbs. No one had mentioned that the squirrels waited until the leaves were up, and that they ate the shoots. I now know why people are heartbroken to get up one morning and discover the deer have eaten their flower buds, without a bye your leave, after all their hours of work and quiet nurturing. I have threatened the squirrel, as he sits on the fence watching me gasp at his decimation.<br /><br /> Spring means Easter, which for me means Hot Cross Buns on Good Friday. Hot cross buns, may in fact predate Christianity, and were a Saxon bun made with dried fruits and spices for the celebration of Eostre, and the cross on top denoted the four seasons, rather than the cross symbolizing Christianity. I had always thought that Hot Cross Buns were the first rich item after the plain fare of Lent.<br /><br /> My first really enjoyable Hot Cross Bun, was when we lived in Wiltshire when I was 9/10 years old. Mum worked in Ludgershall, a village near Tidworth where we lived. Ludgershall was one of those villages that had a butcher, a baker, a greengrocers and a village post office. As I recall, the Baker was exceptional, making all those old English loaves that we rarely see any more, like a Cottage loaf, (a round loaf with a smaller round on the top, which was white and crusty) and Sally Lunns ( a round yeast bun, that was similar to a brioche, that originated in Bath, and pre dates the Georgian period.) <br /><br /> In those days, you had to order your Hot Cross Buns for Good Friday, they were not available year round, as they are now in supermarkets. Dad, always the early riser, would take Simon and I to the Bakery for 8am as it opened, we would join the queue of people waiting to pick up their Hot Cross Buns. We and almost everyone ordered extra, so we could have them two days, once they were gone, that was it until next year. We would drive home along the back roads, the car redolent with warm spices and yeast; so that Simon and I could see the lambs gamboling around the fields and the pink piglets looking adorable in the next field.<br /><br /> Not that I distain the supermarket Hot Cross Buns. As many friends family can attest, my number one request of anyone coming over from England are Hot Cross Buns. American bakeries do not seem to understand the quiet understatement of currants, raisins and spices in a soft bun, with a thin pastry cross on top, this means it can be split and toasted or just eaten plainly. It does not need the addition of glace fruits, (Did this come from Southern European influence?) nor an icing cross, yuk! We even have a nursery rhyme about our buns<br /><br /> Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns,<br /> one a penny, two a penny, <br /> Hot cross buns<br /><br /> Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns,<br /> If you have no daughters, give it to your sons<br /> Hot cross buns.<br /><br />Surely, the only time in a nursery rhyme a daughter got preferential treatment!<br /><br /> I have tried to make them myself, but sadly I have not been very successful.<br /><br /> Saturday we were back to Ludgershall to pick up our Lamb roast for Easter Sunday. My favorite Lamb joint is a shoulder. In England we get a small shoulder joint to roast, it is so much more flavorful than leg, but they are hard to find here in the US. One time I asked a butcher for one and was staggered by the size of the shoulder, it must have been a huge lamb.. The first mint would be up in the garden for mint sauce. Spring greens from Cornwall and of course, roast potatoes and parsnips. I know I have written before of the joys of roast lamb, so I will refrain from waxing lyrical about it all again.<br /><br /> I happened to be on a Kibbutz in Israel for Purim and Passover one year. We really enjoyed the celebration of Purim, and the challenge of creating a fancy dress costume. Most of us had all our belongings in a backpack and small holdall; the Kibbutz did have Purim clothes that we could borrow. I was working in the Dining Room, and so we Dining Room girls thought that we could be Bunny girls or serving wenches, with the man running the Dining Room as our manager. I borrowed my friend Lidija’s red leotard, with a small white apron as my bunny outfit. Our ‘manager’ wore a shirt and tie as his fancy dress, the novelty being the tie, which he could not tie himself, so I tied it for him. We Brits all thought this hilarious as we had been wearing ties as part of our school uniform, and been tying our own ties since the age of 5 or 6. It was the only time we saw kibbutzniks drink and some got quite drunk with all the partying.<br /><br /> In the evening we were all in fancy dress again at the communal dining room, before we headed off to the volunteer Bomb shelter bar, for a dance. This time I was a Dalmation, all white clothes, with black spots sewn on, blacked out nose, and black paper ears. Lidija was a devil in her red leotard, red tail, and a pitchfork. Our Dutch room mate Hannah was the most adventurous, she made a large paper plate from a box, that she wore around her waist, with colored streamers, a green t shirt, she was a plate of cole slaw. Simon, was the best looking and happiest clown I ever saw.<br /><br /> During Passover I had to go Tel Aviv, so I went into Tiberias with a kibbutznik, from where I would catch a shared Taxi. I was in the large Benz taxi with a man, and a woman and her son of about 9 years old. Everyone spoke a little English, I had maybe ten words of Hebrew, but we had all managed to communicate. During the ride, the woman had given me a home made coconut macaroon to eat, and then a couple to take with me, totally delicious. As we neared Tel Aviv something in the Taxi changed, and I was not sure what was going on, but the woman too was aware of something going on. In Tiberias I had negotiated my fare with the driver, before getting into the cab, as we had all been told the drivers liked to ripe off us volunteers; the woman had watched me do this. So, as we neared where she would disembark, she asked me for my money for the fare, I gave it to her. She paid the driver for me, there was a heated discussion in Hebrew between them, clearly the driver was angry, he had hoped to get more money from me. The woman patted my hand as she got out at her stop, telling me I would be alright now.<br /><br /> When I write the story of my life I shall use “The Kindness of Strangers” as it’s title. Everywhere I have gone in the world, the universe has sent me me ‘little angels’ in all shapes and sizes to watch out for me and I am truly grateful for them. I, in turn, try to help other people. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. A motto to live by.<br /><br /><br /> Spring may be here, but the evenings are still cold. Here are a couple of simple Spring soups.<br /><br /><br /> Mandy Browns Radish Green soup<br /><br />4 tablespoons of virgin olive oil or butter<br />1 onion<br />2 bunches of good fresh radish greens - washed thoroughly<br />2 medium organic russet potatoes<br />4 cups chicken stock<br />1 cup half and half<br />3 grated radishes for decoration<br />Salt and pepper to taste<br /><br />Saute the onion, add the radish greens and potato, cover with stock, add salt and pepper. Simmer for 30 minutes until the vegetables are cooked thoroughly. Blend with a stick wand or cool and blend in food processor. Add half and half, gently bring back to boil. Check seasoning. Serve, sprinkled with a little grated radish.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Asparagus soup - the California Asparagus are here, while not entirely local, they are grown in the US.<br /><br />2 lbs green asparagus, chopped into 2 inch pieces - remove tips and blanch separately<br />Large onion or 2 leeks, washed thoroughly. I like the leeks for the added flavor<br />4 tablespoons of virgin olive oil or butter for sauteing<br />1 organic russet potato - cut into two inch pieces<br />4 -5 cups chicken stock<br />1/2 cup creme fraiche<br /><br />Saute the onion or leeks, when translucent add the asparagus pieces and potato, cover with stock, bring to boil, simmer for 30 minutes. Blanch the tips and keep separate. When the vegetables are cooked, blend with a stick blender or in food processor. Add the creme fraiche. Bring back to simmer, serve immediately with chopped tips as decoration.<br /><br /><br /> Spring has sprung the walrus saidJane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-65617575580631481912009-01-25T13:08:00.001-08:002009-01-25T13:08:39.740-08:00good cateress newsletter Oct/Nov 2008good cateress newsletter Oct/Nov 2008<br /><br /> October and November are the months for mushrooms, game and squash. All great earth items.<br /><br /> Late last week I was driving past the Live Poultry Shop on 127th Street and Amsterdam, something I do frequently on my way to the West Side Highway or Fairway. I am always intrigued and slightly horrified when I drive past and the crates of live birds are being unloaded. Would I in fact be able to deal with a live bird? I always joke to myself that it would depend on how hungry and desperate to eat I would be. I definitely fall into the category of preferring not to think of how chickens we eat are kept and butchered. I do know that the live chickens are undoubtedly in better condition than the chickens breasts we buy laid out on styrofoam and wrapped in plastic at most supermarkets. <br /><br /> I was stopped outside the store, waiting for the light and I realized that the birds I could see in the window were pheasants and turkeys. I could also see the salesman with a brace of chicken held in his hand, ready for someone’s weekend food. Do they kill them in the store? I presume so, I have never actually seen anyone carrying live poultry down the street.<br /><br /> Pheasants, I think to myself, I could probably handle the pheasant. When Dad and Murray would go out on shoots, back in the 70’s. We often had pheasant, hare and duck hanging in the cool of the stockroom, and it was often Simon’s and my job to pluck them. Murray liked to hang his birds a long time, I was never so keen on plucking those, sometimes they fell apart at the first tug of the feathers. <br /><br /> As roast lamb is my favourite spring and summer meal; roast pheasant and crisply roasted duck are some of my favourite winter meals. I have never understood american reluctance to eat game, it has so much more flavor and is hormone and antibiotic free. I also like pheasant or Guinea Fowl made Normandy; cooked with apples and onions in cream and calvados.<br /><br /> I do have to admit that the day I came home from school, walking through the kitchen and seeing a skinned rabbit soaking in water, totally freaked me out. I did not eat rabbit for a long time afterwards. But spending time in France and Spain where rabbits reared for eating were kept in cages outside houses, it just seemed second nature to eat them. In Spain I have loved it cooked with prunes; in France I have been served Coq au Vin or Chicken stew in the country, where the chickens had rib cages and spines. The meat was wonderfully succulent and flavorful.<br /><br /> On the Isle of Wight there were no deer to shoot. A few years into being here in America, Simon was up in State College, PA doing his Ph.D. I would drive up for weekends to see him. One November weekend, I was heading back to the City on Rte 80. I could see something strapped to the roof of the car in front of me, I couldn’t make out what it was, and it certainly looked quite odd. As I got closer and was getting ready to pass, I realized I was looking at a dead buck deer with it’s tiny horns; I almost swerved off the road when I saw it. A few more miles down the road, there was another car with a deer strapped too it. Hunting season had started. I wouldn’t know where to start to skin and butcher a deer! But thinking back this was during the recession of the early 90’s. I am betting there will be a lot more people shooting their meat this winter and the coming hard years.<br /><br /> Last winter, I finally, after much thought bought a piece of D’Artagnan Wild Boar to roast. I made a very herby stuffing to lay the boar on as it roasted, and a spicy apple sauce to serve alongside it. Of course, roast potatoes, I would not be English without a good roast spud, and braised some baby Brussels Sprouts from Union Square. Totally yummy comfort food.<br /><br /> I wrote about mushrooms in my second newsletter, October 2006. All of the newsletters can be found at http://goodcateress.blogspot.com. Although, last week I found myself with some extra Chanterelles, which I turned into a heavenly soup with very subtle flavor. Something to remember for next Fall, although I suspect I will probably not have too many occasions when I have too many Chanterelles!<br /><br /> Squash. I was amazed about the squash when I first came to America. I knew about pumpkin having seen pieces of giant pumpkin for sale in markets in France and Spain. Sadly the closest we came to squash in England in the 70’s and early 80’s was Courgette (Zucchini) and Marrow. I loved marrow; please don’t give me an overgrown courgette and tell me it’s a marrow, they are two totally different squash, one is supposed to be eaten when it is smaller and sweeter, one is grown for it’s size. Mum would cut up, peeled pieces of marrow, put them in foil with plenty of salt and pepper, butter or olive oil, then roast it in the oven with the meat that was being roasted for Summer sunday roasts.<br /><br /> But the Squash I saw here were an array of colors, shapes and size. Although, at first I only really saw Acorn Squash. The first time I ate acorn squash it had been, halved, roasted with butter, brown sugar and cinnamon - there’s that cinnamon again. But I couldn’t understand the very sweet brown sugar aspect, it made the squash too sweet for me, and as we know, I do like my sweet. So other than at Thanksgiving I passed on the squash for a few years. Over the years, I started to see other squash, particularly down at Union Square Green Market, I talked to the farmers, who suggested different ways to cook and eat the different squash. I started to buy Butternut squash and my early form of cooking was to cut into squares and roast it, as a Brit, we understand roasting! It was divine, crisp outside and succulent in the middle.<br /><br /> I made a soup with butternut squash, ginger and pear, which I liked a lot, I never added cream or milk, I liked the simplicity of the fruits and stock combination. But truly my favourite Squash item was risotto, heartwarming nectar. For the risotto I would halve the butternut squash ( by the way, for anyone interested you should buy a farmers market squash and a squash from a store and compare colors and flavors, two different items!), scoop out the seeds and strings, season the cut halves and add a knob of butter, lay on a roasting pan skin side down and bake for 45 minutes or until soft. Let it cool slightly, then scoop out the flesh and puree with a wand stick or in a cuisinart. Make risotto your usual way, add the squash puree about half way through adding your liquids. Serve with parmesan cheese.<br /><br /> The squash I have had least success with is Spaghetti squash. I know this is all about me, rather than the squash, but truly I don’t get the point.<br /><br /> I debated with myself about which recipe to share this month and came back to my original thought. My mothers apple cake. Neither Simon or I remember mum cooking this or eating this cake, but Mum sent me the recipe and I started making this cake about 15 years ago. It is one of my favorite mum recipes, and I have been known to eat the entire cake in a few days, but not recently!<br /><br /><br /> Lucy McQueen-Masons Apple cake “Rungli Rungla”<br /><br />Butter and flour a 8” spring form pan<br />Oven 375 degrees<br /><br />10 oz/2 cups flour mixed with a teaspoon of baking powder<br />8 oz sugar, we use the organic baking sugar that adds a slight caramel flavor<br />2 large eggs<br />8 oz/ 1 cup melted butter<br />1lb apples, we use Granny Smith in England it would be Bramleys - peeled, cut into pieces, placed in a bowl with lemon juice<br />3 oz sultana’s/golden raisins<br />2 oz chopped walnuts<br />large teaspoon cinnamon mixed with 2oz Demerara sugar<br /><br />Beat eggs and sugar together in kitchenaid or with handheld mixer. Add the melted butter, then flour mixture. When combined add apples, sultana’s and walnuts. Put mixture in baking tin, sprinkle top with cinnamon sugar mixture. Bake for 35 - minutes or until done, test with a skewer. Serve warm with whipped cream or creme fraiche.<br /><br /><br /><br /> Happy Thanksgiving<br /><br />We should give thanks for the change of power here in America, this year.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-60640613814943946522009-01-25T12:58:00.000-08:002009-01-25T12:59:16.259-08:00good cateress newsletter January 2009good cateress newsletter, January 2009<br /><br /><br /> In the bitter cold of the last few weeks, I am again, reminded that I would have made a truly lousy pioneer woman. I do like the comfort of heating, duvet and warming foods. <br /><br /> Although, I suspect we would have survived better without the media terrorizing us on a daily basis, with their figures and projections of doom and gloom. Even in the midst of joy at the inauguration, they continued to whisper in our ear, Can he do it? Can President Obama save the country? Could the media give him more than a week to try?<br /><br /> It reminds me of England's Winter of Discontent in 1973/4, when under Prime Minister Edward Heath the three day work week was bought in. Nightly on the news we were shown the ever dwindling stocks of coal that powered Britain's power stations. Which led to the country being limited to 16 hours of electricity a day. It is hard now to imagine a western country being without constant power. Each day we had no power from either 4am - midday, midday to 8pm, 8pm to 4am. So every fourth day we got up to go to school by candlelight, or went to bed by candlelight.<br /><br /> 8pm meant no telly, we were teenagers what on earth would we do? It was great, we played games, talking, laughing in front of the fire, lit by a tilley lamp from Murray and Janette's boat, Grey Cygnet or the mucky duck, as she was fondly known. Board games, like Scrabble, Risk, Monopoly, We had always played card games, sitting at the kitchen table playing as mum cooked dinner. Patience if we were on our own; Whist and its myriad varieties, Sgt. Major, Hearts, Solo, Bridge. And my favourite Cribbage. I have often thought I learnt to count by playing cards. On another table there was a jig saw on the go, someone was always stopped beside it, having spotted a piece that would fit, and then be hooked into working that corner for an hour or so.<br /><br /> Of course we would have eaten long before 8pm, something from England's true home cooking of winter warmers, soups, stews and casseroles, always with potatoes and a winter Brassica; January King cabbage, cauliflower - all of which grew in the fields along the cliffs of the South Wight on warm days you could smell them. A few winters later the potato harvest failed and Britain had to change again to eating something other than potatoes, rice and pasta were not eaten as they are now; the tv had to show people how to cook these novelty items!<br /><br /> England is in many ways a gardeners paradise, as produce is grown year round. There is usually some local green available. Looking back on it now, I think I enjoyed coming home from school, after munching on a warming slice of toast and butter, heading out to the garden to pick Brussels Sprouts, Purple sprouting broccoli, pull some leeks. But I know I complained then, and I have conveniently forgotten the rainy, damp days.<br /><br /> One of my all time favorite casseroles is Chicken in a pot. Most countries have a version of this, as do most families. I make mine in our largest Le Creuset. I take an organic, hormone free chicken, wash it thoroughly - I like to put my chicken in a bowl of cold water and lemon juice for ten minutes or more to clean it - season it and place it in the pot. I then take a cacophony of vegetables, really whatever I have to hand: leeks, onions, celery, carrot, garlic, peppers - hot and sweet, sweet potato, squash - butternut, zucchini, potato, thyme, marjoram; a little water, a splash of white wine, if I have some open. Lid on, pop in the oven for a couple of hours. The cooking aromas are a comfort of their own. When I start to eat and the symphony of flavors hit my tongue, I sigh with contentment. My body then starts to glow from within as the healing nutrition pulses through my veins. <br /><br /> Today we had a whole turkey breast, bone and all. We seem to eat a lot of turkey, which truly is the other white meat! It seems to me to be like a placebo, it can replicate any other meat you want. I skinned and boned the breast, believe me if I can do it you can. I didn't need it to be perfect and wanted some meat left on the carcass. This I took and roasted it with onions, celery and carrots for an hour or so. I then placed it all in a stock pot to become stock for our soups for the week. We like a broth based soup, again made with whatever vegetables are around. I use many of the same vegetables from the Chicken in a pot, chopped, sauteed broth added, slowly cooking, then adding noodles and shredded kale.<br /><br /> One half of the turkey breast we will grind up, Num will make Turkey Chilli. Some weeks we make pasta sauce, meatballs in tomato sauce or meatloaf. The other half we cut into steaks to grill or cutlets to saute. Sometimes I roast a half to have for sandwiches. I have to confess there is nothing gone to waste, as long as I didn't think about the thighs and drumsticks! I almost feel like Mrs. Beeton with a side of pig or lamb!<br /><br /> It would not harm us to return to our mothers and grandmothers cooking. Planning the weeks meals with health and economy on our minds. In the last 30 years of growth and greed, this sadly, seems to be what we chose to leave behind. And yes, I know we all work now, and our lives are harder. But, if we put half a day at the weekend to the side for cooking, I think we could discover that it is both pleasurable and relaxing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Turkey meatballs in tomato sauce<br /><br />1lb ground turkey breast<br />1 medium onion <br />2 garlic cloves<br />teaspoon of chopped parsley<br />1/2 teaspoon of thyme<br />1/4 teaspoon cumin<br />pinch of cayenne<br />salt and pepper to taste<br /><br />Bring turkey breast to room temperature. Place in bowl large enough to mix the ingredients. Peel the onion and grate into the turkey meat, chop the garlic or put through garlic press. Add all the seasonings. mix together, until well blended. Make required size balls with the turkey.<br /><br />In a skillet heat some olive oil, add the meatballs to the oil and gently brown on each side. I have to confess I end up with a sort of triangle shape meatball. When browned remove from skillet to plate.<br /><br />1 can of crushed tomatoes - I like progresso<br />3 cloves of garlic crushed or chopped<br />a little chopped jalapeno or other hot chili, if you like<br /><br />Add the chopped garlic to the skillet that you have removed the turkey balls from, saute briefly - do not let burn. Add the pepper if required, I like a little heat to my tomato sauce; then add the crushed tomatoes. If I have a fresh tomato, I chop that and add that first, it changes the flavor. Season the sauce to your liking, I always add a teaspoon of sugar to the tomatoes, I think they need it. When the sauce is simmering nicely, add the meatballs, cooking for 20 minutes, turning occasionally.<br /><br />Cook spaghetti or your preferred pasta. Add the meatballs and sauce, mix together and serve immediately with Parmesan to sprinkle on.<br /><br /><br /> Stay warm and optimistic. We can change and overcome.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8532473029076482169.post-26350210757504061952008-09-17T09:04:00.000-07:002012-10-02T06:53:10.409-07:00September 2008 newslettergood cateress, newsletter September 2008<br /><br /> I am sitting here in my garden, on a hot muggy September day, musing on what to write this month. Five of the fledgling sparrows are sitting on the fence, watching and waiting for me to throw a handful of seed. We have a plethora of new sparrows, probably two hatching’s. I sense that the parents show them our garden, saying “All you will need can be found here.” I love to watch the birds at their Lido, four various sized terracotta planter saucer’s, placed amid plants that we keep filled with water. In the speckled afternoon sunlight they take turns jumping from the sides splashing around, while others sit on the sides watching and waiting to take their turn, until a rude Starling jumps in, pushing all others to the side. The big Blue Jays come quietly on their own for their bath. <br /><br /> The garden itself, is going into it’s last hurrah, the Montauk Daisies and Korean Chrysanthemums are close to blooming. A cricket sitting on the pot of Calendula’s is carefully watching my movement. It is easy to forgot that we are in the heart of New York City. I would love to learn to sketch the birds and plants that make up our haven.<br /><br /> We have picked herbs and chili’s to make flavored oils. Tomorrow I will make Damson Jam from Damsons bought in Union Square, something I wrote about in my first newsletter. By the by, all the newsletters are up on the good cateress blog, http://goodcateress.blogspot.com. Now I have a new computer, my intentions are to add photo’s.<br /><br /> If it’s time for Damsons, in England it would also be time for Sloe’s. Sloe’s, the tiny wild plums that grow in the hedgerows of England. In late April the sloe’s white blossom heralds the last winter chill and is known as the Blackthorn winter. The fruit is small round deep purple and intensely soar. I usually like to try one, to experience my mouth instantly dry and pucker. We would see the Sloe’s while picking the wild blackberries, but usually left them for a later picking. We never cooked the Sloe’s but I would think they would make a delicious sauce for game or a jelly like the beach plums, surely a close relative.<br /><br /> Sloe Gin or Vodka were our intentions. Rinsing and drying the Sloe’s we would then prick them with a fork a couple of times and pop them into a clean bottle. Filling the bottle to between a third and a half full, we would then add an equal quantity of dark brown sugar; finally topping off the bottle with either gin or vodka, shake a couple of times to mix the ingredients up together. Then store the bottle in a cool dry place, shaking once a week or so. The Sloe Gin would be ready to pour for an after dinner drink on Christmas day, a delightful reminder in the winter depths of the glories of summer.<br /><br /> September also meant Folly Regatta, usually the second Saturday. My great uncle, Uffa Fox restarted this regatta after the Second Word War. He felt that the local sailors and families should have a regatta of their own. While he was still alive he would sail upriver to watch the races. <br /><br /> My first Folly Regatta must have been in the mid 60’s, when Murray and Janette had the Folly and we would come down from Tidworth to work for the weekend. While the regatta was a lot of fun for most people, it was a lot of work for us with fun thrown in for good measure. <br /><br /> The day would dawn bright and clear, I never remember a wet Regatta, the weather was always in our favor. The yachts out on the river would start running up their flags, getting dressed over all. The ladies from Ladies Circle and Roundtable would arrive with their candyfloss machine and home made cakes to sell. The field would be marked out for children’s races. The racing dinghy’s would arrive, Flying Fifteens, Lasers, Mirrors, plus the larger boats all with flags a flutter. Rowing and skulling races too, I think Robert Cundall always won the skulling prize. Sea Scouts running everywhere, helping the race organizers.<br /><br /> Late morning Simon and I would be set up in the marquee pitched out on the lower end of the field. We were surrounded by crates of ‘Pop’ or Soda. Coke, lemonade, orangeade, orange juices; Mars Bars, Kit Kats, Penguins, Fruit Pastilles and Gums, chewing gum. Aprons were tied on, bottle openers clenched firmly in our hands. To start with there would be a couple of takers for our drinks, room temperature, I can see Americans shuddering at this thought but it would be years before we drank cold pop and we were jolly happy for the treat! Soon we were surrounded by children buying from us, some with their race winnings. One of us would have to run off periodically to request refills.<br /><br /> Outside the marquee, the races would be taking place. Egg and spoon, three legged, sack, wheelbarrow. Out on the river the different classes could be seen at various stages of their race. The balcony was full of people enjoying themselves, catching up with friends and family alike, everyone knew someone there.<br /><br /> When I met Anthony Minghella while catering a party for The English Patient, we talked about growing up in the food business on the Isle of Wight. He reminded me that it was him that manned the Minghella Ice Cream truck selling Ice Cream at Folly Regatta!<br /><br /> By late afternoon things were slowly winding down. Children were still running around high on all that sugar; Adults were jolly from a few beers and shandy’s. The last event was the tug of war. The final teams, a group quickly put together of yachties versus landlubbers, truthfully all too happy to put their all into it, but the crowd cheered them on.<br /><br /> We usually had fish and chips for dinner that night. Janette and mum would have asked for our orders earlier and would leave to pick it up as dusk started to fall. I always had Plaice (Why do we never see Plaice here in the States??) Then we would eat in shifts; us, all the Cundall’s, and various helper bee’s. Sitting contentedly munching on this hot delight, no one talking much, but asking if we saw so and so, heard this story or that.<br /><br /><br /> Cathy and I are going to walk in the Make Strides Cancer walk on October 19, please help by making a donation. I will be walking for three people, My cousin Pat, who died in July from Cancer; My cousin Diana and friend Mary Anne who continue to fight this disease.<br />I don’t think I have to tell anyone that this is a good cause.<br />To donate now, use this link to visit my personal page:<br />http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/MakingStridesAgainstBreastCancer/MSABCBlueprint?px=8085119&pg=personal&fr_id=11618<br /><br /><br /> I wanted to write my mothers German Plum tart recipe this month. We grew two plum tree’s, the Italian plums and Victoria’s. The Victoria’s would be eater and turned into jam, partly for the jam part of this tart. The Italians for the tart itself. It is a tart that you will find yourself going to at various times of the day, for just another small slither. I learnt to cook from mum, as she did hers, neither of them weighed or measured their ingredients and cooked from feel. So it is sometimes hard to write the recipe, but I will give it to you as she gave it to me.<br /><br /><br /> Lucy McQueen-Mason German Plum Tart<br /><br />Sweet Shortcrust Pastry<br /><br /> Make your usual recipe or<br /><br />1 stick butter - 4 oz<br />1 cup flour - plain, 6oz<br />1 tablespoon sugar - we use organic <br />Cold water <br /><br />combine the first three ingredients, until they look like breadcrumbs, add cold water, as required.<br /><br />Plum Jam<br /><br />Crumble mix<br /><br /> 2 oz sugar<br /> 3 oz butter, 6 tablespoons<br /> cup flour, 6 oz flour<br /><br />Combine all three ingredients to make crumble mix<br /><br />Italian or German plums - cut in half and stone.<br /><br />4 oz dark brown sugar<br />tablespoon cinnamon<br /><br />Roll out pastry and line quiche tin.<br />Spread plum jam across the top of the pastry.<br />Sprinkle the crumble mixture over the jam<br /><br />Stand the plums on their side around outer ring of tin on top of crumble , and then work inside filling the remainder. <br />Sprinkle the brown sugar and cinnamon mix over the plums, generously.<br /><br />Bake in 375 oven for 45 minutes. This may take longer, you want the plums to get juicy but retai their shape. I often start the tart t 375 for half and hour and then turn the oven down to 350 for another 30 minutes.<br /><br />Serve with whipped cream.Jane, good cateresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15262256791969344870noreply@blogger.com0