It was prize-giving night at school this week. It’s a lovely occasion, a chance for everyone to celebrate the hard work that goes into GCSE’s and A levels, a chance to cheer for all the kids who’ve done really well. If you’ve read the wonderful description of Gussie Fink-Nottle presenting the prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School in PG Wodehouse’s Right-Ho, Jeeves! you’ll know the sort of thing I mean. No, no-one got plastered and yes, everything went fine, but the incidental details that PG puts in are spot on; details such as the well-scrubbed air everyone has and the gentle sound of a lot of people being quietly, benevolently, indulgently bored. Bored, that is, until the Main Event, which is Your Child getting their certificate. That’s not boring. That’s the best bit ever.
Actually, the whole thing was pretty good. If you only read the papers or watched TV, it’d never occur to you that any teenager is hardworking, conscientious and a nice person who’s fun to be with. Like a normal human being, in fact. Oh yes, and not some sort of mobile list of Problems. So it was good to sit in the school hall (an ordinary comprehensive school, at that) and listen to achievements being celebrated.
Celebration is something we could probably all do more of. I’ve not talking about acting like some sort of Kellog’s Cereal family, all bright smiles all the time (Please; shush; it’s breakfast, OK? Just let me go and chill out somewhere) or whooping with joy as the contestants do on America’s Next Top Model almost constantly. This would be trying. However, celebration doesn't usually just happen, it needs to be made to happen.
My friend, Angela Churm, had a TV play broadcast this week. It was an episode of Doctors, the BBC’s mid-day soap and she wrote it. Yo! Naturally enough, we celebrated; watched the episode, broke out the champagne, sang Happy Television Episode To You! and had a nice meal. Because, you see, if we hadn’t done, it would have all felt a bit flat. The BBC (a bit remiss, this) don’t send flowers and congratulations cards to their writers. But it was a real red-letter day. (Red letter days are called that because of the old custom of marking Saints’ or Holy Days (aka Holidays) in red on the Church calendar.)
So well done to all the kids with their certificates. And Angela. And thanks for the champagne!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
When I got married, oh, quite a few years ago now, we went to Belgium for our honeymoon.
Yeah, right, I know Belgium isn’t perhaps the most romantic spot in the world – Greek islands or the south of France do perhaps win out there – but in those far-off days, with a limited budget, Greek islands seemed about as get-at-able as the dark side of the moon and Belgium was Abroad. There was different money, different-but-the-same food (Belgium chips are served with tartare sauce which was an absolute revelation; we even had garlic!!! Wow, this was really going it!) people talked in Foreign and, perhaps nicest of all, were the cafes.
The main square in Bruges has a choice of cafes which are an agreeable cross between an English pub and a French café terrace. You can eat and drink outside but, because the Belgium climate is as interesting as Britain’s, all the cafes have a big, quietish room in which blue-overalled whiskery-chinned blokes sip their beer or coffee, small children act like members of the human race and families relax. The décor runs to dark wood, brass and comfortable chairs and all in all, exudes an atmosphere of contented well-being.
And on the bar was a tray of poppies and a collecting tin. Now, in those fledgling days, I was surprised to see them. Remembrance Day poppies were British, surely? It was mid-October and these were the first poppies we’d seen that year. The lady behind the bar beamed as we picked up a poppy from the tray and beamed even more as she heard our accents.
Ingerlish?
Well, yes.
More beams and then, without any self-consciousness at all, she declaimed, word perfect and in a carrying voice, In Flander’s fields the poppies grow, between the crosses, row on row…
The whiskery blue-overalled stopped drinking and rustling their newspapers and nodded in grave approval. Children gazed in polite admiration and their parents listened attentively. I can’t imagine what would happen if the bar-maid in an English pub got overtaken by poetry but it wouldn’t be this reverent silence.
Belgium? Bruges? In Flanders’ fields…? Damnit, that’s where we were. If not in the fields, exactly, certainly in Flanders. Flanders. That’s why (uh, duh!) the Foreign being spoken wasn’t French but Flemish. This was where my granddad (and yours too, most probably) had fought the Great War. And the Belgiums hadn’t forgotten. It was one of those moments when history catches up with you in a rush.
Since then I’ve been back to Flanders’ Fields and realised just how much the poppy means to the Belgiums. I’ve been to the dressing station (a first port of call for the wounded) beside the Canal de l'Yser where Major John McCrea, a Canadian doctor, anguished by the death of his friend, wrote In Flander’s fields. The dressing-station looks for all the world like a set of old garages with the doors off. It’s not been spruced up and is more real, somehow, because of it.
A few hundred yards away, at the Menin gate in Ypres, the Last Post is played every night at eight o’clock. Every night, and the traffic stops and wreaths are laid and it all seems as if it could only happen once a year but no, it’s every night. The Ypres Fire Service have played the Last Post each evening from about 1920 or so. When the Nazis marched into Ypres in the Second World War, the ceremony was stopped. On the day the Nazis left, the Fire Service returned.
With all that in my head, I was disappointed this Sunday, when, at the local Remembrance Day ceremony at the War Memorial, we prayed that, We should commit ourselves to responsible living and faithful service, and to Work for a just future for all humanity and other laudable sentiments but we didn’t say the Poppy poem. I mean, you can’t disagree with the ideas, but I can’t see anyone, not even a Belgium barmaid, quoting them.
So here is Major McCrea’s poem. Perhaps you could drop a coin into a Poppy tin. It’s a very small way of keeping the faith McCrea talks about – and of helping the living, too.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Yeah, right, I know Belgium isn’t perhaps the most romantic spot in the world – Greek islands or the south of France do perhaps win out there – but in those far-off days, with a limited budget, Greek islands seemed about as get-at-able as the dark side of the moon and Belgium was Abroad. There was different money, different-but-the-same food (Belgium chips are served with tartare sauce which was an absolute revelation; we even had garlic!!! Wow, this was really going it!) people talked in Foreign and, perhaps nicest of all, were the cafes.
The main square in Bruges has a choice of cafes which are an agreeable cross between an English pub and a French café terrace. You can eat and drink outside but, because the Belgium climate is as interesting as Britain’s, all the cafes have a big, quietish room in which blue-overalled whiskery-chinned blokes sip their beer or coffee, small children act like members of the human race and families relax. The décor runs to dark wood, brass and comfortable chairs and all in all, exudes an atmosphere of contented well-being.
And on the bar was a tray of poppies and a collecting tin. Now, in those fledgling days, I was surprised to see them. Remembrance Day poppies were British, surely? It was mid-October and these were the first poppies we’d seen that year. The lady behind the bar beamed as we picked up a poppy from the tray and beamed even more as she heard our accents.
Ingerlish?
Well, yes.
More beams and then, without any self-consciousness at all, she declaimed, word perfect and in a carrying voice, In Flander’s fields the poppies grow, between the crosses, row on row…
The whiskery blue-overalled stopped drinking and rustling their newspapers and nodded in grave approval. Children gazed in polite admiration and their parents listened attentively. I can’t imagine what would happen if the bar-maid in an English pub got overtaken by poetry but it wouldn’t be this reverent silence.
Belgium? Bruges? In Flanders’ fields…? Damnit, that’s where we were. If not in the fields, exactly, certainly in Flanders. Flanders. That’s why (uh, duh!) the Foreign being spoken wasn’t French but Flemish. This was where my granddad (and yours too, most probably) had fought the Great War. And the Belgiums hadn’t forgotten. It was one of those moments when history catches up with you in a rush.
Since then I’ve been back to Flanders’ Fields and realised just how much the poppy means to the Belgiums. I’ve been to the dressing station (a first port of call for the wounded) beside the Canal de l'Yser where Major John McCrea, a Canadian doctor, anguished by the death of his friend, wrote In Flander’s fields. The dressing-station looks for all the world like a set of old garages with the doors off. It’s not been spruced up and is more real, somehow, because of it.
A few hundred yards away, at the Menin gate in Ypres, the Last Post is played every night at eight o’clock. Every night, and the traffic stops and wreaths are laid and it all seems as if it could only happen once a year but no, it’s every night. The Ypres Fire Service have played the Last Post each evening from about 1920 or so. When the Nazis marched into Ypres in the Second World War, the ceremony was stopped. On the day the Nazis left, the Fire Service returned.
With all that in my head, I was disappointed this Sunday, when, at the local Remembrance Day ceremony at the War Memorial, we prayed that, We should commit ourselves to responsible living and faithful service, and to Work for a just future for all humanity and other laudable sentiments but we didn’t say the Poppy poem. I mean, you can’t disagree with the ideas, but I can’t see anyone, not even a Belgium barmaid, quoting them.
So here is Major McCrea’s poem. Perhaps you could drop a coin into a Poppy tin. It’s a very small way of keeping the faith McCrea talks about – and of helping the living, too.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Monday, November 2, 2009
TheHeir's loom and Agatha Christie
Do you know where the word “Heirloom” comes from? I didn’t until last week. It was half-term and, like many another parent, I was faced with a family who wanted Something To Do. Now, by and large, the aforesaid family are fairly self-sufficient in the Something To Do department. One of the better aspects of everyone getting that much older, is that – by and large – all they really need is transport and money. Sometimes they even provide that for themselves. However, the ditact went out: we had to do something together.
That’s why we ended up at Quarry Bank Mill, Styal, Cheshire. It’s a cotton mill, one of the oldest in the country and is in a very picturesque part of the countryside because it was originally powered by water. When steam power came in, it made more sense for the factories to be huddled together in towns, but for a long period of time, a cotton mill had to be situated next to a river. The water wheel itself is massive and it’s a terrific sight to see it turning on its ponderous way.
The mill not only houses all the old machinery, it also acts as an exhibition centre for the story of cotton. A lady dressed in vaguely Eighteenth century peasant gear took us through the process on cotton manufacture as it used to be conducted at home from fluffy bits from plants to yards of cloth. The loom is a whacking great thing – about eight feet across by six foot high - housed in a wooden frame. A loom represented a serious investment on the part of a family and were passed down from generation to generation becoming, in fact, the Heir’s Loom. As cotton manufacture moved into factories, machines got bigger and much more powerful, but the essential process remained the same.
There’s an interesting Agatha Christie connection with this part of Cheshire. Agatha’s sister married a Manchester manufacturer, James Watts. (The enormous Watts' Warehouse in the centre of Manchester is now a hotel). Agatha spent a lot of time at the Watts' house, Abney Hall. Abney Hall is about five miles from Quarry Bank. She used the solidly Victorian Abney Hall as the blueprint for the aristocratic Chimneys in The Secret of Chimneys and a whole raft of other country houses and paid a delightful homage to the hall in the introduction to The Adventure of The Christmas Pudding. However, perhaps the most striking “borrowing” is the name of Styal village for the house at the heart of her first book, The Mysterious Affair At Styles. (I’m not sure if the change of spelling is deliberate, by the way; like many another outstanding writer, Agatha Christie’s spelling was lousy.)
One lovely feature of Quarry Bank Mill is the millowner’s garden. It's bounded by a large cliff of Old Red or Devonian Sandstone. The rock, which was laid down when the land which is now Britain was at the centre of a desert continent. As the name “Devonian” implies, it's common in Devon – the cliffs of Torquay, Agatha Christie’s home town are made of Devonian sandstone – and must have struck a chord with the young Agatha. The garden has only recently been opened to the public and still has a secret air about it. I'm willing to bet this was the garden she had in mind when she wrote about the very sinister Quarry Garden in the late novel, Halloween Party.
S’interesting what you can learn on a day out, isn’t it?
That’s why we ended up at Quarry Bank Mill, Styal, Cheshire. It’s a cotton mill, one of the oldest in the country and is in a very picturesque part of the countryside because it was originally powered by water. When steam power came in, it made more sense for the factories to be huddled together in towns, but for a long period of time, a cotton mill had to be situated next to a river. The water wheel itself is massive and it’s a terrific sight to see it turning on its ponderous way.
The mill not only houses all the old machinery, it also acts as an exhibition centre for the story of cotton. A lady dressed in vaguely Eighteenth century peasant gear took us through the process on cotton manufacture as it used to be conducted at home from fluffy bits from plants to yards of cloth. The loom is a whacking great thing – about eight feet across by six foot high - housed in a wooden frame. A loom represented a serious investment on the part of a family and were passed down from generation to generation becoming, in fact, the Heir’s Loom. As cotton manufacture moved into factories, machines got bigger and much more powerful, but the essential process remained the same.
There’s an interesting Agatha Christie connection with this part of Cheshire. Agatha’s sister married a Manchester manufacturer, James Watts. (The enormous Watts' Warehouse in the centre of Manchester is now a hotel). Agatha spent a lot of time at the Watts' house, Abney Hall. Abney Hall is about five miles from Quarry Bank. She used the solidly Victorian Abney Hall as the blueprint for the aristocratic Chimneys in The Secret of Chimneys and a whole raft of other country houses and paid a delightful homage to the hall in the introduction to The Adventure of The Christmas Pudding. However, perhaps the most striking “borrowing” is the name of Styal village for the house at the heart of her first book, The Mysterious Affair At Styles. (I’m not sure if the change of spelling is deliberate, by the way; like many another outstanding writer, Agatha Christie’s spelling was lousy.)
One lovely feature of Quarry Bank Mill is the millowner’s garden. It's bounded by a large cliff of Old Red or Devonian Sandstone. The rock, which was laid down when the land which is now Britain was at the centre of a desert continent. As the name “Devonian” implies, it's common in Devon – the cliffs of Torquay, Agatha Christie’s home town are made of Devonian sandstone – and must have struck a chord with the young Agatha. The garden has only recently been opened to the public and still has a secret air about it. I'm willing to bet this was the garden she had in mind when she wrote about the very sinister Quarry Garden in the late novel, Halloween Party.
S’interesting what you can learn on a day out, isn’t it?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Webcon - Virtually There
In answer to the email that poured in after my blog next week, (cheers, Carol!) Snooker the cat is fully returned to health and has taken up her position as Most Senior Animal once more. She’s snubbed Arthur, wound up the kitten, Minou, and resumed being snooty to canine branch of the Gordon-Smith household. I was discussing Snooker’s internet presence (cats love computers; after all, there’s a mouse involved!) when she removed herself from her sofa, walked across the room and plonked herself firmly on my knee in a warm gesture of approval. That cat loves being a star!
It was Poisoned Pen’s virtual Crime-writing conference yesterday. If you want to have a look at the sort of ground covered, go to http://www.ppwebcon.com
It was a really good idea. From your own computer screen you could log in and listen to live interviews, text other guests in the virtual coffee shop (and my daughter Jenny actually brought me a cup of coffee while I was doing it, which added to the ambiance) watch book trailers, take part in panels etc., etc. It’s weird how, although you know the other participants are all actually in their own homes, when in conversation with them it feels as if they’re all in one place. This struck me particularly in the evening session I took part in with Aileen Baron, broadcast on Blogtalk Radio. One of the other guests on the show was Jane Finnis. Jane’s contributions are always worth listening to, as she thinks very quickly and always has something to say worth listening to. Jane’s Roman mysteries are published by Poisoned Pen (USA) but she actually lives in Yorkshire, a matter of 80 miles or so from where I am in Manchester.
After having kicked the topic round thoroughly for half an hour or so, we signed off. It was really odd afterwards to ring Jane and do the telephone equivalent of going for a drink in the bar. It was hard to believe that somehow or other she hadn’t been in America. After all, her voice had been coming from America for the last half-hour. I’m sure there’s a good juicy Mystery Clue there somewhere. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure Dorothy L Sayers used the same notion in a short story. Damn.
The topic was Cozy Thrillers, as in should there be a new genre, called a Cozy Thriller. As assiduous readers will know, I’m not a huge fan (!) of the word “Cozy” applied to mystery/crime stories. It’s commercial death in the UK, but the Americans have a much more relaxed approach to the concept. What Aileen Baron was actually arguing for was intelligence in Thrillers, something we could all do with a bit more of. As far as I could tell, the conversation went really well – but I still don’t like the word “Cozy”!
It was Poisoned Pen’s virtual Crime-writing conference yesterday. If you want to have a look at the sort of ground covered, go to http://www.ppwebcon.com
It was a really good idea. From your own computer screen you could log in and listen to live interviews, text other guests in the virtual coffee shop (and my daughter Jenny actually brought me a cup of coffee while I was doing it, which added to the ambiance) watch book trailers, take part in panels etc., etc. It’s weird how, although you know the other participants are all actually in their own homes, when in conversation with them it feels as if they’re all in one place. This struck me particularly in the evening session I took part in with Aileen Baron, broadcast on Blogtalk Radio. One of the other guests on the show was Jane Finnis. Jane’s contributions are always worth listening to, as she thinks very quickly and always has something to say worth listening to. Jane’s Roman mysteries are published by Poisoned Pen (USA) but she actually lives in Yorkshire, a matter of 80 miles or so from where I am in Manchester.
After having kicked the topic round thoroughly for half an hour or so, we signed off. It was really odd afterwards to ring Jane and do the telephone equivalent of going for a drink in the bar. It was hard to believe that somehow or other she hadn’t been in America. After all, her voice had been coming from America for the last half-hour. I’m sure there’s a good juicy Mystery Clue there somewhere. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure Dorothy L Sayers used the same notion in a short story. Damn.
The topic was Cozy Thrillers, as in should there be a new genre, called a Cozy Thriller. As assiduous readers will know, I’m not a huge fan (!) of the word “Cozy” applied to mystery/crime stories. It’s commercial death in the UK, but the Americans have a much more relaxed approach to the concept. What Aileen Baron was actually arguing for was intelligence in Thrillers, something we could all do with a bit more of. As far as I could tell, the conversation went really well – but I still don’t like the word “Cozy”!
Monday, October 19, 2009
The case of the Circular Cat
Snooker the cat gave us a scare on Saturday morning. I was lying, deep in the dreamless, when my beloved husband appeared by the bed, not with the Saturday morning tea and toast (Marmite and marmalade – noooo, not all mixed up, separately of course!) but with the injunction to Get Up! The Cat’s Acting Strangely.
Poor old Snooker was indeed acting strangely. She was walking round in a circle, for all the world as if someone had nailed her right-hand paw to the floor, with her neck all twisted. Hum. So it was off to the vets and an anxious wait. Now partly the anxiety was caused by the idea of old fur-face having injured herself and – I must admit – partly from the idea of the Vet’s bill. These animals can’t half cost, you know, and Snooker, who turned up as a stray, cost a few hundred quid in the first month or so. Gulp. So it was with some relief when the vet said there was nothing to worry about. Really? I asked, looking at our circular cat. Yep, nothing much. It’s a balance problem. It happens in older animals. Like a stroke? Nothing so dramatic. It’s a Latin name known to vets which means your cat’s gone wobbly and is going round in circles. Gosh. I’ll just give her this anti-inflammatory injection and you should see an improvement. And he did (brave man) and it worked. A day’s dozing, followed by being tempted to eat (tuna and chicken) and one cat, right as rain, able to walk in a straight line, emerged once more.
Now, apart from the brief moment of grief at the sight of the Gordon-Smith finances being dipped into by yet another ruddy animal, what’s the point of the story? Nothing much, unless your cat gets a fit of the circles, you might find it reassuring. It just happened, that’s all. And that’s the difference between fiction and real life.
In real life, stuff comes along, starts, muddles, finishes and doesn’t really amount to much. A story, although it can seem like real life, isn’t like this. If a Poor Old Woman in the middle of the woods scams lunch off the Seventh Son, it’s not because she’s hungry and there’s not a MacDonalds for miles, it’s because she’s testing his fitness to rescue a Princess or recover a Great Jewel or a Magic Lamp or what-have-you. If Hercule Poirot announces a case is the most baffling of his career, we know it’s a wind-up. Hastings might not get it but Hercule will. If Frodo’s asked to drop a magic ring into Mount Doom, somehow or other Frodo will do it.
The stuff on the way’s important too. In A Fete Worse Than Death Jack comes across an old friend, Bingo Romer-Stuart. I needed a way for Jack to get hold of records at the War Office and so I dreamed up Bingo, a Brigadier, who works at the War Office, threw him enough back-story (about two lines, I think) to make him a credible old friend, and there we were. Bingo, in fact. I could have added a page or so about Bingo – he was quite clear in my mind – but the reader would have signed off out of sheer boredom long before I’d finished. Everything in the story has to add to the story.
Oh, and the cat’s fine too.
Poor old Snooker was indeed acting strangely. She was walking round in a circle, for all the world as if someone had nailed her right-hand paw to the floor, with her neck all twisted. Hum. So it was off to the vets and an anxious wait. Now partly the anxiety was caused by the idea of old fur-face having injured herself and – I must admit – partly from the idea of the Vet’s bill. These animals can’t half cost, you know, and Snooker, who turned up as a stray, cost a few hundred quid in the first month or so. Gulp. So it was with some relief when the vet said there was nothing to worry about. Really? I asked, looking at our circular cat. Yep, nothing much. It’s a balance problem. It happens in older animals. Like a stroke? Nothing so dramatic. It’s a Latin name known to vets which means your cat’s gone wobbly and is going round in circles. Gosh. I’ll just give her this anti-inflammatory injection and you should see an improvement. And he did (brave man) and it worked. A day’s dozing, followed by being tempted to eat (tuna and chicken) and one cat, right as rain, able to walk in a straight line, emerged once more.
Now, apart from the brief moment of grief at the sight of the Gordon-Smith finances being dipped into by yet another ruddy animal, what’s the point of the story? Nothing much, unless your cat gets a fit of the circles, you might find it reassuring. It just happened, that’s all. And that’s the difference between fiction and real life.
In real life, stuff comes along, starts, muddles, finishes and doesn’t really amount to much. A story, although it can seem like real life, isn’t like this. If a Poor Old Woman in the middle of the woods scams lunch off the Seventh Son, it’s not because she’s hungry and there’s not a MacDonalds for miles, it’s because she’s testing his fitness to rescue a Princess or recover a Great Jewel or a Magic Lamp or what-have-you. If Hercule Poirot announces a case is the most baffling of his career, we know it’s a wind-up. Hastings might not get it but Hercule will. If Frodo’s asked to drop a magic ring into Mount Doom, somehow or other Frodo will do it.
The stuff on the way’s important too. In A Fete Worse Than Death Jack comes across an old friend, Bingo Romer-Stuart. I needed a way for Jack to get hold of records at the War Office and so I dreamed up Bingo, a Brigadier, who works at the War Office, threw him enough back-story (about two lines, I think) to make him a credible old friend, and there we were. Bingo, in fact. I could have added a page or so about Bingo – he was quite clear in my mind – but the reader would have signed off out of sheer boredom long before I’d finished. Everything in the story has to add to the story.
Oh, and the cat’s fine too.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Food, Glorious Food
There’s been a lot of discussion about food this week on the DorothyL American crime and detective story website. Rather to my surprise, there’s a whole lot of Americans who feel warm and fluffy inside at the thought of Treacle Pud, Bisto gravy (yes, honestly!) Clotted Cream, Scones, Jam, Yorkshire Pudding, etc, etc. And I haven’t even mentioned Toad In The Hole! You might have noticed something about the above dishes; they’re all very definitely comfort food, childhood favourites that bring warm feelings of love and care with them, in a way that lettuce just doesn’t.
Unless you’re a Flopsy Bunny, of course.
It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is ‘soporific’. I have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then, I am not a rabbit.
As well as being familiar and comforting, food can also be a great shortcut to finding out about another place. Considering all food is either Meat, Fish or Veg., it’s astonishing how different food is different various countries. I like spinach and cheese, for example, but I’d never thought of putting them in a pie until I bought one on a Berlin railway station caff. (Train stations in Germany are great – full of food!) Curried sausage, again in Berlin, was weirdly nice and my local railway station does black peas and liver, onions and mash to a turn.
Just as food is a shortcut to another country, food in books can tell you a lot about character and place. When Death in Terry Prachett’s Discworld tells us he could murder a curry – sorry, that should be, “I COULD MURDER A CURRY,” – we know that Death may come to everyone but he isn’t out to get you. When Mrs Lacey in Agatha Christie’s The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding starts detailing the menu, we know that’s she essentially a nice, kindly woman with a large guest list. OK, we could probably get to know that anyway, but it’s an economical way of getting the information across:
“…the oyster soup and the turkey – two turkey, one boiled and one roast – and the plum pudding with the ring and the bachelor’s button…. All the old desserts, the Elvas plums and Carlsbad fruits and almonds and raisins and crystallised fruit and ginger.” As we’ve previously seen Hercule get to grips with the calories, we’re not surprised when he says, “You arouse my gastronomic juices, Madame!” Later, in the same story, when he goes to interview the cook, yes he’s detecting, but his heartfelt praise of Mrs Ross’s cooking touches on lyrical. “Above all puddings,” continued Poirot, well launched now on a kind of rhapsody, “is the Christmas plum pudding such as we have eaten today.”
One of my favourite books of all time, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, uses food a lot, from Edmund’s acceptance of The White Witch’s Turkish Delight (incidentally, Lord Peter Wimsey traps a villain with Turkish Delight in Strong Poison) to the fish supper the Pevensey children share with the beavers in Narnia (…There’s nothing to beat good freshwater fish if you eat it when it has been alive half an hour ago and has come out of the pan half a minute ago. And when they had finished the fish, Mrs Beaver brought unexpectedly out of the oven a great and gloriously sticky marmalade roll…”) to the sadness evoked by picture Lewis paints of the happy tea-party with Fox and Squirrel and the other animals destroyed by the White Witch.
A hugely enjoyable bit (and a deeply Roman bit) of Jane Finnis’s excellent A Bitter Chill is her description of the Saturnalia feast enjoyed in Ancient Brit Land. “…Roast piglets, which they arranged around the sow, and platters decorated like birds’ nest containing chickens, ducks, geese and doves…. There were rich custards…and fruits to go with them, peaches and cherries in wine. Hazelnuts and walnuts, already shelled, were brought round on silver trays, and I counted nine kinds of cheese, offered with fresh warm bread.”
It’s good, isn’t it? I was right there, reading that description. When Matthew, in Anne of Green Gables buys Anne some little chocolate sweeties, we’re as touched as Anne and – as we’re talking about Canadian authors – I can’t think of Louis Penny’s Three Pines without my mouth automatically watering, so loving and lavish is the description of the food. It’s no wonder houses don’t come up for sale very often in Three Pines; you’d have to move me out with a crowbar, the food’s so good.
A good few subscribers to DorothyL were interested in a recipe I mentioned for Steamed Syrup Pudding done in the microwave. Here it is. Happy eating – and reading!
Steamed Sponge Pud (microwave)
You need a 1 ½ pint or 900 ml pudding bowl that can go in the microwave. Plastic is great.
Some cling film (food wrap?) That clingy plastic film for food, anyway, OR a microwave plate cover.
4 ounces/100grams of self-raising flour
2 ounces/50 grams of suet.*
2 ounces/50 grams of sugar, dark soft brown for preference
1 teaspoon of baking powder (about 2 pinches)
3 fluid ounces/75 ml milk
1 beaten egg
1 teaspoonful (about the lid of the bottle full) of vanilla essence
*The recipe calls for suet. I don’t know if you have suet, but if not, melt butter or margarine and use that. The point is to get the fat distributed throughout the pud.
Lightly grease the pud bowl
Put about 3 tablespoons of syrup in the base. Give it a nice good dollop. Golden syrup or Maple syrup (is Corn syrup sweet and golden? If so, then I bet that would work fine too.) Then give it 30 seconds or so in the microwave to make it more liquid.
Mix all the ingredients together and put them in the bowl
Cover with film or the plate cover
Cook at ¾ power (Power Level 6 or so) for 4 minutes, then at full power for 1 minute.
As microwaves vary, just have a look and see if it looks cooked but it doesn’t take long.
Take out of the oven, leave to stand for about two minutes, then turn upside down onto a plate and remove the pud basin. All the yummy syrup comes down the side of the pud.
This lovely served with cream, custard (if available!) or vanilla ice-cream.
It’s dead easy to do a chocolate version of this by putting cocoa (chocolate powder) to the mixture and replacing the syrup with melted chocolate. A fruit version is nice, too, with pineapple or whatever added to the syrup
Unless you’re a Flopsy Bunny, of course.
It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is ‘soporific’. I have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then, I am not a rabbit.
As well as being familiar and comforting, food can also be a great shortcut to finding out about another place. Considering all food is either Meat, Fish or Veg., it’s astonishing how different food is different various countries. I like spinach and cheese, for example, but I’d never thought of putting them in a pie until I bought one on a Berlin railway station caff. (Train stations in Germany are great – full of food!) Curried sausage, again in Berlin, was weirdly nice and my local railway station does black peas and liver, onions and mash to a turn.
Just as food is a shortcut to another country, food in books can tell you a lot about character and place. When Death in Terry Prachett’s Discworld tells us he could murder a curry – sorry, that should be, “I COULD MURDER A CURRY,” – we know that Death may come to everyone but he isn’t out to get you. When Mrs Lacey in Agatha Christie’s The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding starts detailing the menu, we know that’s she essentially a nice, kindly woman with a large guest list. OK, we could probably get to know that anyway, but it’s an economical way of getting the information across:
“…the oyster soup and the turkey – two turkey, one boiled and one roast – and the plum pudding with the ring and the bachelor’s button…. All the old desserts, the Elvas plums and Carlsbad fruits and almonds and raisins and crystallised fruit and ginger.” As we’ve previously seen Hercule get to grips with the calories, we’re not surprised when he says, “You arouse my gastronomic juices, Madame!” Later, in the same story, when he goes to interview the cook, yes he’s detecting, but his heartfelt praise of Mrs Ross’s cooking touches on lyrical. “Above all puddings,” continued Poirot, well launched now on a kind of rhapsody, “is the Christmas plum pudding such as we have eaten today.”
One of my favourite books of all time, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, uses food a lot, from Edmund’s acceptance of The White Witch’s Turkish Delight (incidentally, Lord Peter Wimsey traps a villain with Turkish Delight in Strong Poison) to the fish supper the Pevensey children share with the beavers in Narnia (…There’s nothing to beat good freshwater fish if you eat it when it has been alive half an hour ago and has come out of the pan half a minute ago. And when they had finished the fish, Mrs Beaver brought unexpectedly out of the oven a great and gloriously sticky marmalade roll…”) to the sadness evoked by picture Lewis paints of the happy tea-party with Fox and Squirrel and the other animals destroyed by the White Witch.
A hugely enjoyable bit (and a deeply Roman bit) of Jane Finnis’s excellent A Bitter Chill is her description of the Saturnalia feast enjoyed in Ancient Brit Land. “…Roast piglets, which they arranged around the sow, and platters decorated like birds’ nest containing chickens, ducks, geese and doves…. There were rich custards…and fruits to go with them, peaches and cherries in wine. Hazelnuts and walnuts, already shelled, were brought round on silver trays, and I counted nine kinds of cheese, offered with fresh warm bread.”
It’s good, isn’t it? I was right there, reading that description. When Matthew, in Anne of Green Gables buys Anne some little chocolate sweeties, we’re as touched as Anne and – as we’re talking about Canadian authors – I can’t think of Louis Penny’s Three Pines without my mouth automatically watering, so loving and lavish is the description of the food. It’s no wonder houses don’t come up for sale very often in Three Pines; you’d have to move me out with a crowbar, the food’s so good.
A good few subscribers to DorothyL were interested in a recipe I mentioned for Steamed Syrup Pudding done in the microwave. Here it is. Happy eating – and reading!
Steamed Sponge Pud (microwave)
You need a 1 ½ pint or 900 ml pudding bowl that can go in the microwave. Plastic is great.
Some cling film (food wrap?) That clingy plastic film for food, anyway, OR a microwave plate cover.
4 ounces/100grams of self-raising flour
2 ounces/50 grams of suet.*
2 ounces/50 grams of sugar, dark soft brown for preference
1 teaspoon of baking powder (about 2 pinches)
3 fluid ounces/75 ml milk
1 beaten egg
1 teaspoonful (about the lid of the bottle full) of vanilla essence
*The recipe calls for suet. I don’t know if you have suet, but if not, melt butter or margarine and use that. The point is to get the fat distributed throughout the pud.
Lightly grease the pud bowl
Put about 3 tablespoons of syrup in the base. Give it a nice good dollop. Golden syrup or Maple syrup (is Corn syrup sweet and golden? If so, then I bet that would work fine too.) Then give it 30 seconds or so in the microwave to make it more liquid.
Mix all the ingredients together and put them in the bowl
Cover with film or the plate cover
Cook at ¾ power (Power Level 6 or so) for 4 minutes, then at full power for 1 minute.
As microwaves vary, just have a look and see if it looks cooked but it doesn’t take long.
Take out of the oven, leave to stand for about two minutes, then turn upside down onto a plate and remove the pud basin. All the yummy syrup comes down the side of the pud.
This lovely served with cream, custard (if available!) or vanilla ice-cream.
It’s dead easy to do a chocolate version of this by putting cocoa (chocolate powder) to the mixture and replacing the syrup with melted chocolate. A fruit version is nice, too, with pineapple or whatever added to the syrup
Sunday, October 4, 2009
I’ve been off air, so to speak, for the last few weeks. There hasn’t been a crisis – well, only the usual sort of stuff – or any dramas or even any mild alarms but the internet decided to curl up and die. Not so long ago we decided to swap service providers to Sky and, while we were about it, get Sky TV for my Rugby-mad husband and daughter. (I have five daughters but only one follows in her father’s footsteps.) (They sit at the far end of Edgley Park stadium, Stockport, on a Friday night watching Sale Sharks; say hi if you see them or wave at the TV.) The actual event that swayed it was The Ashes. Now, yes, I know, Ashes are cricket but it took daughter about half a nano second to work out that watching the cricket meant we could also watch the rugby. And she does. Gosh, she so does.
It took the rest of the off-spring about a whole nano-second to work out that satellite TV meant not just sport but America’s Next Top Model and a zillion other goodies such as new Simpsons, endless Futurama and a whole raft of shows where someone goes and decorates somebody else’s house. (I don’t know who these people are who zap in, decorate, zap out again and never seem to stop for a cup of tea. I wish I did. The bathroom could do with a once-over and a new kitchen would be nice.)
Anyway, while we were about it, we swapped the broadband to Sky and, as always when asked to change its ways, the computer sat in a corner and sulked. When asked (very politely) to recognize the new provider, it reacted with all the subtle charm of a six-year old boy asked to kiss Great Aunt Sarah With A Hairy Chin and say Thank You for the lovely socks. It took two new routers and some serious enticement from the local Rent-A-Geek computer shop before it reluctantly scuffed its feet and came out to play once more.
S’weird how cut off you feel without the internet, isn’t it?
Talking about being cut off, I’m totally deaf in one ear. I’ve had a perfectly foul cold and one ear has signed off completely. I suppose, as human beings can get used to anything, more or less, that I’d get used to it if I was permanently one ear cemented shut, but I’m hoping that the doctor will be able to give me something to shift it. Mind you, the member of the G-S household who probably feels more cut-off than most is the newest member, the kitten Minou. She’s been taken for The Op and has to wear a plastic bucket arrangement so she won’t chew the stitches. Here’s a picture of her looking puzzled.
And, if you can stand some serious cuteness, here’s another picture of her curled up with Lucky, the (three-legged) dog, who will stand a lot of kitten as long as he’s allowed to sprawl in front of the fire.
It took the rest of the off-spring about a whole nano-second to work out that satellite TV meant not just sport but America’s Next Top Model and a zillion other goodies such as new Simpsons, endless Futurama and a whole raft of shows where someone goes and decorates somebody else’s house. (I don’t know who these people are who zap in, decorate, zap out again and never seem to stop for a cup of tea. I wish I did. The bathroom could do with a once-over and a new kitchen would be nice.)
Anyway, while we were about it, we swapped the broadband to Sky and, as always when asked to change its ways, the computer sat in a corner and sulked. When asked (very politely) to recognize the new provider, it reacted with all the subtle charm of a six-year old boy asked to kiss Great Aunt Sarah With A Hairy Chin and say Thank You for the lovely socks. It took two new routers and some serious enticement from the local Rent-A-Geek computer shop before it reluctantly scuffed its feet and came out to play once more.
S’weird how cut off you feel without the internet, isn’t it?
Talking about being cut off, I’m totally deaf in one ear. I’ve had a perfectly foul cold and one ear has signed off completely. I suppose, as human beings can get used to anything, more or less, that I’d get used to it if I was permanently one ear cemented shut, but I’m hoping that the doctor will be able to give me something to shift it. Mind you, the member of the G-S household who probably feels more cut-off than most is the newest member, the kitten Minou. She’s been taken for The Op and has to wear a plastic bucket arrangement so she won’t chew the stitches. Here’s a picture of her looking puzzled.
And, if you can stand some serious cuteness, here’s another picture of her curled up with Lucky, the (three-legged) dog, who will stand a lot of kitten as long as he’s allowed to sprawl in front of the fire.
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