11 September 2014

There was no cake...

Or flowers. No cars or bridesmaids or best man. No mother, or father, of the bride or groom. No guests. No invitations to guests. There was no veil, no shimmering dress train. Nothing borrowed or blue. Neither of us wore a hat. Or socks. There was no music, no witnesses, no confetti. 

There was an office where we bought a license for $95, a woman, who looked like Whoopi Goldberg, wearing a ribboned sash printed with 'Jesus Loves Me' who said, 'You guys!!' when we told her we didn't have a camera in a paving slabbed garden where she asked us if we'd be each other's best friends. And we said yes. 

Villa les Marronniers
Antibes
Later there was a swim in the Atlantic Ocean on Florida's east coast, a glass of champagne with mango juice. And pancakes with maple syrup. 

There was 22 years of togetherness behind us and the bureaucratic procedure of buying a house in France ahead of us that favoured married couples. There was the surprise and disappointment and some annoyance from the people we loved when we phoned and told them. There was us. The only people who really mattered in this decision. 

Seven years later. The house in France was bought, made beautiful and enjoyed, then sold. We came home to the Applehouse. Today there is cake. Made with Bramley apples from our farm. Ahead of us is tomorrow. And the next day. How much further can any of us know. 


more years behind us
than ahead of us
unrolling fresh turf

Hungry Writing Prompt
Write about a wedding. 

3 September 2014

Singing the blackberry sorbet song

blackberry sorbet
I have made something extra-ordinary and I am singing about it because I want you to make it too and listen to you sing. Extra-ordinary because it does not taste as I imagined it would. Blackberries and sugar syrup combine to make so much more than themselves. Nothing at all like blackberry jam or jelly. It is floral. It is rich. It is like the happy endings of fairy tales. It is almost beyond words but I'll keep searching: it is the taste of deep summer, it is church bells at a wedding, it is the silence after a firework show. It is the song you hum before you fall asleep under a starry sky. It is the perfumed bramble of sweetness. 

You have to help me out here:

Boil 240 ml of water in a saucepan, remove from the heat and stir in 250 gr of white granulated sugar until it's completely dissolved. Leave to cool then chill.

Pop about a pound of washed blackberries (sorry about the shift from Metric to Imperial: I'm a child of the 60s, what can I say?) into a blender and purée then mix with the chilled sugar syrup and a couple of tablespoons of lemon juice.

Sieve the mixture into a bowl to get rid of the seeds - I push as much as I can through a metal sieve rather than let it drip delicately in its own time. Then, if you have an ice-cream maker follow that path. If, like me, you don't, you'll need to cover the bowl with cling-film, put it in the freezer and whisk the mixture every 90 minutes or so, or when an icy crust starts to form at the edges. I recommend at least 3 whisking sessions to break up the ice. Then you can tip it into an airtight container and let it freeze overnight.

It will be very hard but just leave it out for 15 or 20 minutes before you scoop. There's no dairy in the mixture so there's not a problem with re-freezing. 

And now sing your own blackberry sorbet song.

Hungry writing prompt
Write about singing. Or write about a song.

27 August 2014

It's all jam. Let it bubble.

'I'd never have imagined you in a place like this,' my brother-in-law said last year as we were walking through the apple orchard talking about fruit, new trees, bees and home-made jam. 

Bramley Apple Trees
I've known him since I was about 12 years old. He married my sister when I was 17. He was on the sidelines of my 'glory' years in the 1980s: that's the superficial glory of too much make-up, big hair and a wardrobe bulging with party clothes rather than any particular achievement. Unless you call walking in 6 inch stilettos while wearing a strapless silver sequinned boob tube and 'spray-on' lycra lilac jeans an achievement. Actually, I'm beginning to think it was! 

30 years later. This summer my day to day wardrobe has consisted mainly of cut off jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops or wellies, depending on the terrain. (Wellies terrain includes long grass with evening slugs, log collecting in the wet, the nettle choked bramble hedge that skirts the orchard and, occasionally, Tesco's.) Instead of foundation and blusher my face has been regularly smeared with blackberry or damson juice and ash from the bonfires where we've burned the trimmed tops of the alder windbreaks. Sometimes I look back at the Martini-drinking party girl and wonder if that really was me. Do you have past selves that seem more like completely different people, not just different aspects of your personality? People you might not like much? People you want to grab by the shoulders and shake? 

Hungry Writing Prompt
Write about the person you were 30 years ago.

But it's all jam, as the title of this post says. Every single thing I've done, achieved, lost, wasted; every experience I've had, positive and destructive; all the people I've met, lives I've enriched or depleted; all of it has boiled down, or up, to who I am now. Who is that?

Currently it's Jam-Maker. Apple, blackberry, damson, plum and now... onion. I know, there's something a bit icky about the words 'onion' and 'jam' together. But it's not chutney, it's not relish or marmalade. It's sweeter - caramelised onion and dark brown sugar offset with notes of balsamic vinegar and garam masala. 
Peel
Recipe? Hmmm... this really is a throw-it-in-cook-it-up kind of experience. Thinly sliced onion cooked slowly in butter until very soft but not browned at all, sugar and spice mixed in, the vinegar added at high heat then bubbled until syrupy. I started with 6 large onions, a large knob of butter, 100gr of sugar, a tbsp of spice and 100ml of vinegar. But I added more sugar to get the sweetness I wanted. We've eaten half a jar already, slathered on slices of mature cheddar.

Sauté
On top of being official Jam-Maker I am also writer, time-waster, tutor, click-clack maker, apple-picker, cook and cleaner, evening-sofa-slouch, family history researcher, aunty, step-mother and step-grandmother, part-time morning-tea maker, laughter lover, wine drinker, hula-hooper, moaner, table-tennis player, playmate to a cat, dreamer, lip gloss wearer, log stacker, rain-wonderer... I could go on. And on. You could too.

Bubble
Jar
If you'd asked me 30 years ago to tell you who I was I'm pretty sure I'd have been stuck after offshore banker. Not that there weren't other aspects to me (I was always immersed in a book, was learning to cook, I loved the sea...) but I didn't look inwards and appreciate them as things that mattered. And we should, don't you think? We should celebrate ourselves, our lives, share the things that make us who we are. 

Yay: 'Let your jam bubble!' : ) 

21 August 2014

Belly laughing

"Pork belly," I said.
"What did you call me?" Tony asked.
This has been an ongoing gag between us ever since we were loading up the car outside Carrefour in Antibes around 2009 and Tony asked me to toss him a packet of freshly cut jambon so he could make an impromptu ham baguette in the front of the car. There were two different sized packets.
"Big ham?" I said. 
"What did you call me?" he said.
Ensuing fits of giggles. 


For me the best jokes are those that arise from silliness because the laughter feels pure, healthy. We're not laughing at anyone, anything. It's all about joy, a lifting of the spirit. 

Hungry Writing Prompt
Stand in front of a mirror and laugh for one whole minute. 
Then write about laughter


This was the above-mentioned pork belly. Rind cut off (for crackling), bones cut out (for extra stock flavour in the pan), rolled and ready to tie up.





After my first luscious slow roast pork belly experience at Sosban, Llanelli I've been meaning to have a go at home. Tony accelerated my attempt by buying two strips at a local butcher so... a quick knot or two, a sprinkling of salt and pepper, a slow slow roast (for about 2¼ hours at 160C / gas mark 4) followed by a 25 minute burst of high heat and out came two delicious, pull-apart-with-a-fork feasts. Mashed potato (with creme fraiche and butter), shredded steamed cabbage tossed in some chopped and sauteed onion and bacon, and gravy made from the meat jus and blisterings scraped up from the pan. The crackling was great too. Big happy belly. What did you call me?

16 August 2014

Out of chaos comes chaos. And the 'Wrapizza'.

Chaos doesn't suddenly descend on a writer's room: it's creeps in, like fog, or mould. There's nothing to notice at first. Then you're forced to acknowledge its small claims over the days, weeks, until one day you look around and realise why you feel so wired. There's no clear route from your computer to your door, the waste paper basket is overflowing, you can't see a single knot of wood on your desk top, loose sheets of paper and plastic sleeves that were once married are now littered everywhere in acrimonious divorce. 



I'm not advocating Pure Order. I like a certain amount of clutter but there comes a point when not being able to find anything leads to tidying up a bit. That point is now.

I wish it had been three days ago, before I decided to make jam from the first crop of Victoria plums from a neighbour's tree. I can't decide whether the chaos flavoured the jam or whether I just don't like plum jam. But there's something not right about it. Too sweet? A touch singed around the skins? The four sealed jars sit there like judges: you wasted all that fruit, they say. You didn't pay enough attention. They may have to move out. 

Here they are brooding over the early stages of my Wrapizza: a guaranteed cure for the chaotic and hungry writer being judged by jam. 

A wrap, a tomato base, thinly sliced cheese (of your choice) and red onion. Microwave for 1 to 2 minutes until the cheese melts and the onion softens, top with a pile of fresh rocket and drizzle with balsamic glaze.

You could use any ready-made pizza sauce but it's easy to chop up (and skin) a handful of ripe tomatoes and cook them down, with the spices and herbs of your choice (garlic pepper, chives, a little chilli, oregano...), to a thick and sweet and fragrant sauce. You don't have to be quite so OCD about the cheese: remember I was attempting to temper the chaos.

It doesn't matter how many times I assemble this snack it always makes me feel happy, satiated, relaxed. It's comfort and taste combined. It makes tackling the chaos a little less intimidating. Even the jam relaxed a little: it may live to see another day.

Hungry Writing Prompt
Write about the chaos in your life: past and present.