Food and drink meanderings

We like to celebrate (almost anything) with Champagne cocktails.

            We do not use the cheap Champagne that we lay down for a few years to  mature, but almost any other sparkling wine that seems at the time to be good value. In a large wineglass goes a slug of Cognac, a shake or two of Angostura bitters, some ice and the sparkling wine. Some sparklers might call for a bit of sweetening. Varying quantities makes for added pleasure. A much cheaper, summer long drink edition can be made with cider as the sparkling bit, ordinary brandy, and then the Angostura bitters and ice – but its not nearly as good.

            I had never thought that uncooked sweet corn, cut from the cob and added to beef stew, would be a delicious addition. But it is. Other stews benefit from this addition when sweet corn is in season.

            Any leftover mashed potato, that I usually fry with an egg for breakfast, is wonderful if turned into croquettes. Just add the yolk of an egg, stir, form balls or disks, coat with crisp breadcrumbs and cook on a hot, oiled surface.

            But before I even think of making croquettes, I now use cold, or warm mashed potato to surround scallop shells – like a wall. It’s quite a job to do, and time-consuming. But it is worth it when you fill the centre with chopped-up scallops with their coral, and over the scallop meat pour a white sauce to which you have added Dijon mustard, some anchovy essence (optional), a bit of a fish or chicken stock cube, and possibly grated cheese. I sprinkle a little paprika over the top. These delicious, filled shells can be frozen individually and then bagged up in the freezer for future use. Just unfreeze them (keeping them separate and upright as you do so), heat them through in the oven for 5-10 minutes and finally put them under the grill so that the sauce bubbles. I have done the same with dressed crab, but the crab flavour gets a bit lost.

            Another recent recipe (one that I have revived from years ago) involves belly pork. Bone and skin belly pork and cut it into thin slivers (well, as thin as you can manage, unless you can get the butcher to do it for you). Make a marinade of tomato ketchup, Worcestershire sauce and chilli-con-carne powder. Add some pepper and salt and mix it up with the fingers. Add the pork slices and coat them well. This dish of marinated pork can now lie happily in the refrigerator until wanted (turning it over every so often). When its time comes to be eaten, allow the meat to reach room temperature and grill till crisp. Scrumptious, however served.

            Runner beans, purposefully left on the vine to become long and stringy, can be autumn harvested and then kept in a thin layer on a rack indoors. When the skins are dry and crisp, pod them. Allow the podded beans to dry further in a bowl on a window sill. When wanted to eat in the fingers (or with sticks or fork) with winter drinks, boil newly-harvested beans for 15 minutes in a pressure cooker, or dried beans for 30 minutes, drain them, and to them add some pressed garlic, olive oil and salt. Stir and serve. They are astoundingly good, and unlike other beans.

            Lamb chops marinated in mint sauce grill well and are tasty.

            Sliced tomatoes and ripe figs in a vinaigrette make a good combination for a first course, as does sliced cucumber with sliced avocado – again with a vinaigrette.

            To use oven space when it is being used for a main dish, put into an oven-proof dish chopped onions, chopped tomatoes, chopped peppers, garlic, capers, olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. When cooked through, this dish can be eaten hot or cold.

            Also in spare oven space, and in an oven-proof dish, put sliced large tomatoes, or halved small ones with olive oil, vinegar, plenty of pressed garlic, pepper and salt with a coating of breadcrumbs. This vegetable dish can also be eaten hot or cold, but it does need cooking until the tomatoes are soft and shrivelled beneath their crisp topping. The dish will probably need to be taken out of the oven before the main dish is cooked.

            Both of the above dishes can have oil added and be re-heated under the grill.

            Another variation of this theme is to scoop out some flesh from a halved aubergine. Into this boat-shape put a mixture of your choice, making sure that onion (or shallots), garlic, and plenty of olive oil, go in with chopped tomato, pepper and salt. Think of adding flavours, like oregano, coriander, mint, capers, chopped gherkin and so on. Over-cook rather than under-cook.

            The above are small items that I have wanted to write about but have been too busy painting.

A Restaurant Lunch

There is a restaurant on a bus route or Underground that runs from us to where we sometimes go to celebrate. It is not an ordinary place, but a special, treat one.

            This time, with no special reason, we decided to eat there.

            It is a restaurant with no menu, where the food is provided by the chefs direct and just cooked from kitchen to table.

            The “front of house” lady is jolly, and speaks with a charming foreign accent. Lunch starts at one o’clock.

            We combine our visit to buy coffee in a nearby shop that smells strongly of its product. We buy a quantity, and have it ground finely for immediate use and for freezing for the future.

            With the usual hugs and kisses we were greeted at the restaurant.

            Sitting near to us was a couple of distinguished gentlemen of artistic demeanour.

            Being known, so without even ordering, a bottle of excellent Puglia Primitivo red wine was placed on our table. But we wanted to start with a glass of white, which was then poured for us – when I made a grave mistake.

            During and ever since I wrote extensively on wine, I carry a corkscrew in my pocket. This I used on the proffered bottle of red to surprise and amuse the bubbly lady host. The patron/owner appeared at that very moment and scolded her for not having opened the bottle at the time she poured the white wine. I apologised for my poor behaviour.

            We had probably only consumed the first two courses when a jolly crowd of six men appeared with full intent to also enjoy a gourmet lunch.

            The two distinguished men nearby asked us to slow down our consumption as they, like us, knew that there was lots to come and didn’t want to be rushed. We concurred – with words of friendship.

            So, with much pleasure in the enjoyment of good wine and food, we made friendly contact with the six closely related men, whose profession was to advise on climate control in offices.

            The meal proceeded – two, three, four, five, six courses. Then seven, eight …

            By this time we had become firm friends with the six, who were laughing, hugging each other, animated in gestures and in high, manly spirits. At one time they sang in unison as do football followers, but without alcoholic inducement, being just happy fellows on the spree.

            We had taken flyers of my 17 pictures in Guildhall Art Gallery’s exhibition of artists’ depictions of London’s Tower Bridge since its inception in 1894.We gave one of these to a neighbour of the six.

            The meal continued – nine, ten, eleven courses and onward toward the final one (no.15) of profiteroles.

            No course had been too much, all fascinating in their way – none that one would cook at home.

It came to coffee, when Sambucca was offered as an addition. Then, would we like a liqueur? We chose Limoncello.

As we rose to leave we engaged in conversation with the distinguished gentlemen, who turned out to be retired professors of chemistry and science – with one of them having once experienced a major “eureka” moment in his career.

With more hugs and kisses all round we left – full to the gills, to rather stagger toward our bus stop for home – and a digesting “feet up” as befits those of our increasing age.

Do lunches like this happen elsewhere, we wondered?

Wartime and some experiences

 

Those who came through WW1 seldom spoke of their experiences, so dreadful were they.

            My father came into this category. So, as children, we knew almost nothing about how he suffered when fighting the Turks in Mesopotamia (now Iraq). It was not until well after his early death that his letters home from the battlefields about his experiences and how he was shot, then found to be alive among the dead bodies, and brought back to England from the Middle East, did we know some details. He never really recovered.

            In my case, WW2 was a much cleaner affair.

            My children, I believe, never enquired about my part in it – until now, when my younger son, Pete, not only asked me about my experiences but wanted a printed account. I think that most of what I now write is in my unpublished autobiography. But here it is in essence, mainly for him.

            A lot of what I did is of little account, so I will tell only of my near contact with the enemy – which wasn’t much.

            Having crossed the Atlantic in The Duchess of Richmond (which was fairly safe as the ship was fast and submarine warfare still not a major force), and reached the USA in 1940 as a refugee, I was anxious to return to join the RAF to fight for my country. So, when old enough, I boarded a Swedish vessel (Axel Yohnson) in New York to sail north to Halifax, in Nova Scotia. There, in 1942, we were assembled as part of a convoy to cross the now far more dangerous Atlantic.

            Convoys are slow – as slow as the slowest ship involved. So, at some 10 knots we set off with a Canadian destroyer as escort. This escort left and we were on our own.

            I awoke one morning to find our few passengers and crew standing by the lifeboats. The convoy had been attacked by U-boats during the night. There were now far fewer ships in the convoy. I had slept through all the excitement as Nazi sub-mariners beneath the waves nearby had been attacking us with considerable success. Although unseen, I had now been a bit too near to the enemy for comfort, and unable to fight back. Eventually a British destroyer appeared to see us into Liverpool.

            I joined up almost immediately on landing. It was 1942.

            Instead of starting my flying training right away I was told to return to civvy street until I could be fitted into the system. As the weather was so bad in England, trainee pilots had to wait for vacancies in airfields abroad where the climate was more conducive to elementary and advanced flying training.

To fill up this waiting time I took a job as a farm labourer. Rationing was strict and food scarce. So it seemed to me that working on the land might, in a small way, help the national effort.

One day I was in the middle of a field hoeing turnips or swedes or something, when I heard the roar of approaching aero engines. And overhead, banking over the field so low that I could see clearly the pilot’s and gunner’s faces, was a German JU 88 hugging the ground contours on its way to bomb the railway yards at Reading nearby. Why the gunner didn’t just pop me off I don’t know. Perhaps being off course he was too worried about navigation to bother. They did bomb Reading, but missed the railway and killed many young people at a school. I later took a job as a prop swinger to be nearer aeroplanes and gain some flying experience.

Now in the system, I was posted to RAF Davidstow Moor in Cornwall to be made aware of what was involved in operational flying. From this high altitude airfield we flew Warwick aircraft in Coastal Command. Slung beneath these rather cumbersome, twin-engined aircraft was a specially-designed lifeboat. Our job was to fly over the Bay of Biscay to drop the lifeboats on their multiple parachutes near to aircrew who had bailed out and needed to be rescued. My job in the second pilot’s seat was solely as another pair of eyes. Whereas others were looking down to the sea, my job was to search the sky for Focke-Wulf Condor aircraft. These fast, four-engined aeroplanes were bristling with cannon (we only had the much smaller 303 Browning machine-guns) and with mines in the bomb bay to attack Allied convoys at sea.

With wonderful eyesight I saw one of these Nazi aircraft in the far distance. We were as mincemeat had any of its crew seen us first. I switched on the intercom and shouted: “Focke-Wulf….” when the communicating wires somehow parted. So the crew had heard the warning call but had no idea of the enemy’s position or distance. So I pointed it out to the Skipper by my side who alerted the rest. There was considerable apprehension in that aircraft. We dived to just above sea level and at full throttle headed back to base. And what was our reward? We were guaranteed a fried egg. And I suppose we were also rewarded with our lives.

Still waiting to go abroad for my pilot’s training I was posted to RAF Skellingthorpe, near Lincoln. It was a bomber airfield of Lancaster aircraft. Evening after evening these magnificent aeroplanes and their crews would fly to bomb Germany – not always entirely with bombs but sometimes with added cargo such as fake ration books, money, and other disrupting matter.

One day a Lancaster was to go on an engine test up to Scotland and back before leaving that night for Germany. As the rear gunner was unavailable, would I like to fly in the rear turret? Would I? You bet I would.

So, fully kitted out, I found that, surprisingly, I had enough room to squeeze into the turret in reasonable comfort. It would have been quite different had I been strapped in there for many hours on end.

I was allowed to be in the turret for take-off. And away we went. Despite my helmet the noise was deafening. I could spin the turret around from side to side and raise and lower my four, fully armed-up Browning 303 machine-guns. So, had an enemy aircraft appeared from over the North Sea, I was fully prepared (with no training, I might add) to have a go at shooting it down. It never happened.

            My only job in the turret was to occasionally, when asked to on the intercom, tell the navigator the drift. For this I lined up the guns on the landscape below and read the number on a drift scale down on the right.

            Returning to Skellingthorpe all crew except the pilot had to leave their allotted stations and gather amidships. The aircraft left as usual that evening. Many did not return. And the rear gunner was the most vulnerable person aboard. It was not unusual to have blood and parts of him hosed out of the rear turret on the aeroplane’s return.

            On leave in London we were in the thick of it. Trains were brought to a standstill in a raid, searchlights swept the sky, sometimes holding an enemy aircraft in their beams. Then anti-aircraft guns would roar. The sound of bombs was commonplace. V1 Buzzbombs would fly over at any hour. If the pulse jet engine was alive when the craft was overhead you were safe. If its sinister and distinctive drumming noise stopped before it reached you, it was a case of diving for any cover available. But I never got out of the bath for any of them, even though one once stopped overhead in Victoria as I was bathing and hit Buckingham Palace nearby.

            The other nasty weapon was the V2 rocket. When still waiting to go to America I was stationed at RAF Hornchurch in Essex. I had volunteered to mend bombed roofs in Plumstead on the other side of the river. I had been given an hour’s training by a roofer and provided with the equipment and a mate. With very poor quality slates we mended several roofs in such a poor district that I remember a pretty girl smile, only for her to reveal a mouth full of rotten teeth. It was when on a roof (the accumulated Victorian slate dust and dirt was choking) when there was an explosion in the distance, followed by a very strange rushing-of-air noise. It was one of the first V2 rockets to hit London.

            At last I was sent to Oklahoma in the USA (in Mauritania and crossing the submarine-infested Atlantic for the third time) where, after primary and advanced training, I was awarded my wings and a commission.

Few commissions were awarded. But after crashing an aircraft (not my fault) and visited in hospital by the Commanding Officer and Adjutant, who thought that I might want to give up this flying business, I had my chance. “No sir,” I said, “I want to get out of this bed and FLY.” I thought I’d overdone it, but the C.O. on leaving the hospital, was heard to say: “That’s just the kind of young man we want in the Air Force.”

I did sustain one war wound. When having my wings pinned to my uniform by a Wing Commander who had one arm in a sling, the pin on the wings penetrated my uniform’s material and drew blood on my chest. I suppose this might be construed as “friendly fire”.

It was the end of the war in Europe. Fortunately we had enough skilled pilots to fly for us in the Pacific Campaign. So I was grounded to become a Photographic Intelligence officer.

            So you see, my part in the war was very minor and of not of great interest.

            I often think that had I been born but a year earlier I would almost certainly have lost my life, probably as a bomber pilot. I was extremely lucky to have timed it so well.

                       

 

Guildhall Art Gallery Tower Exhibition Reopens

The exhibition entitled Tower Bridge. A Celebration of 120 Years, in Guildhall Art Gallery in the centre of the City of London, has reopened and will remain open until 5 January 2015.  Seventeen of my paintings are on view.

            I suppose it was because I have so many paintings in the show that I was asked to give a speech and open the exhibition on the 2^nd of June 2014.

            This I managed to do ( http://youtu.be/cIe3kVdBptY) and to considerable applause, though I rather embarrassingly stumbled at one point and forgot what I wanted to say.

            However, the opening was a great success, and the paintings of Tower Bridge throughout its life, depicted by artists through the decades, are shown beautifully in a lovely gallery. Moreover, helped by the skill of the curator, Julia Dudkiewicz, and the generosity of the City of London, everyone enjoyed themselves immensely.

            At the end of June there was another anniversary “opening”, this time in Tower Bridge itself, taking place within those two upper spans that hold the bridge’s towers together – or apart.

            This time the speech was made by Dan Cruikshank, the eminent historian, again accompanied with generous hospitality.

            The spans were of great interest to me as they were of roughly geodetic construction – the same method that was used during the war in the making of Wellington and Warwick bombers (in which the latter I flew). Only here, the Tower Bridge’s spans were made of hefty steel and rivets instead of light aluminium used for aircraft.

            The cross members that look so thin and elegant from the ground or river are, in fact, substantial and spacious. Both were in use for the party, one holding a live band and many guests for the rather long opening speech.

            Views up and down river from this eerie are excellent and, being now glazed, no longer disturb those who dislike heights. People standing beside the Tower of London below look minute.

            Being run by the City of London, in the heart of the City itself, entrance to Guildhall Art Gallery is free. And now signs in Guildhall Yard outside the gallery entrance guide those who wish to see the exhibition into an impressive interior. Opening times are Monday to Saturday 10 am to 5 pm and Sunday 12 noon to 4 pm.

            Do not miss the chance to look around the Tower Bridge exhibition’s adjoining room where there are some original photographs of the bridge under construction.

Chicken - dream chicken under a blanket

I had a dream one night about a chicken dish, and it went like this: In a greased baking pan I put 5 fresh bay leaves (why 5? It was a dream). On these leaves was placed a well-scored chicken (not too large). The bird was then coated with thick yoghurt into which lots of garlic had been pressed with salt and pepper. Now the white-coated fowl was covered with a thin blanket of suet crust pastry (using any fat with twice its weight of self-raising flour, a little turmeric for colour, salt, and then water to form a ball to roll out). Any surplus blanket was cut away, to which I added grated cheese to form a ball, flattening it out with my fists on to a baking surface and scoring it to make cheese straws (goldfingers). I took the straws out of a medium to hot oven (180 degrees) after half an hour to eat then or later, leaving the chicken to bake for another hour. I had surrounded the uncooked chicken in its blanket with potatoes that had been boiled for 10 minutes and oiled, salted and peppered. That was it. And delicious it all was when the recipe was put into practice and consumed soon after the dream.

            In a pressure cooker, for half an hour, I boiled the leftover blanket and chicken carcass with a chicken stock cube, water, the original 5 bay leaves, and two star aniseeds to make the liquor for a soup. Having strained out the solids from the contents of the pressure cooker and discarded them, I added some milk to form the consistency of the soup required.

CHICKEN - DREAM CHICKEN UNDER A BLANKET (with cheese straws and soup)   

You will need:

Fresh bay leaves

A smallish chicken

Thick yoghurt

Garlic

Fat, flour and turmeric (as colour) for the blanket

Grated cheese for the goldfingers

Potatoes (optional)

Oil

Pepper and salt

For the soup:

Star aniseed

Chicken stock cube

Milk

Pepper and salt if necessary

The Tale of a Cat and Fox

 

It was about 3 o’clock in the morning that I woke up to the sound of a fox in the street outside.

            The noise it made was not like those spine-chilling shrieks of their mating call but a cross somewhat between a bark and a growl. The noise persisted.

            I climbed out of bed, pulled back a section of curtain, and raised slats on a Venetian blind to look out.

            Outside, a fox was directing its gaze at something and making this noise. It was agitated.

            The fox was at the edge of the road pointing at a cat, no more than a metre away from it. I had not even seen this cat, as its colour was (as in camouflage) much the same as the wet pavement on which it sat. I later saw that the animal had white legs.

            The cat sat on its haunches and, as the fox tried to grab it in his jaws, a quick swish of bared claws soon sent Renard in reverse.

            This sparring lasted for some time, until the cat rose from its sitting position and rushed at the fox – which retreated post haste.

            The next phase was the cat chasing the fox and the fox chasing the cat, with no result but with the fox continuing its intimidatory noises.

            When the cat was chasing and threatening the fox, it raised its tail and swished it from side to side.

            Had the cat been frightened of the fox it could so easily have climbed a garden wall or tree and been safe. But it didn’t.

            There could have been no territorial dispute, so it must have been that the fox wanted to kill the cat – for its own or cubs’ food.

            After all these high jinx, the cat ran to beneath a Land Rover car to find superior fighting ground.

            The fox circumnavigated the Land Rover several times, sometimes poking its nose under the chassis – only to withdraw it very smartly.

            Finally, the fox gave up the chase and trotted off down the road – hungry. It had learned something about cats. And so had I.

 

Wine Speak

I have written a great deal on wine. And I have never used a word of “wine language” – except once, when winemakers had gone mad on cold fermentation, when I described the general taste of it as being rather like pear drops.

            So now, looking at the descriptions on back labels, gives me great pleasure and much laughter.

            I have only been collecting these comparisons for a month or two and have recorded enough, using only those that I have actually read on the bottles that we have consumed.

            Making wine taste like various fruits predominate. For instance, these include: ripe berry (very popular), strawberries, prunes, cherries, peach, melon, pear, yellow and crisp apple, gooseberries, blueberries, ripe blackcurrants, juicy plum, bulging with ripe black plum, succulent black cherries - but not one, not a single mention of grape.

Other flavours include smoky mocha, chocolate in various forms, liquorice, oak scented, boxwood, rose flower, sweet and silky tannins, subtle spice, violet character, round mouth, brooding, approachable, eucalyptus gum, and two that I love: deft lemon acidity and spicy minerality.

            Should anyone ask you to describe a white wine on offer, you might try one of the last two, and watch for the reaction.

            If I ever do read that a wine tastes of grape, I will jump for joy.

Margreet as Cook

I once wrote in a cookery book that my wife, Margreet, was “not used to cooking”.

            It was true. Having spent her career in the Dutch Foreign Service, there had always been someone to cook for her.

            Then she retired, started to cook, and loved it. Now we cook one week on and one week off.

            She would still like to measure things, but often uses my recipes that mainly decline it.

            She gets better by the week, and is now showing imagination.

            Here are two of her excellent ideas:

When using cooked cold green beans that had grown in foreign parts and almost tasteless, she coated them with a vinaigrette and finely chopped-up anchovies. They became delicious.

Rather in the same vein, she cleverly used up rather nice-looking but not very tasty little sweet corns. Having been boiled, she fried them in butter with garlic. This brought out all their flavour.

Jim's speech Guildhall Art Gallery

 http://youtu.be/cIe3kVdBptY

Tower Bridge: A Celebration of 120 Years

A telephone call came through from the curator’s office at Guildhall Art Gallery.

            The curator, Julia Dudkiewitz, was forming an exhibition of pictorial depictions of Tower Bridge since its inception and had wanted to show my large 1954 painting of “Tower Bridge from Bermondsey Wall” that happens to be in the National Collection. She discovered that it hangs on a wall in some far-flung Embassy. Thus, it was unobtainable. So could she come around to see if I had anything else that might be suitable to show.

            Margreet and I rummaged around and found a large self-portrait, done in 1965, made up of dockland shapes – the funnel of the Dollar Bay tug, smoke and steam coming from it, wharves, quays, and a marker buoy. In the background, as the distant focal point, is a rather freely painted Tower Bridge.

            The curator looked at it and declared that she had seen many, many paintings in her life, but not one like this.

            There were also one or two later “Landscape Recalled” pastel depictions of the bridge that she liked. As well, records were held somewhere of other bridge paintings by me - ones sold at Christie’s and through Offer Waterman Gallery. These she would try to track down and borrow.

            The exhibition will be held at Guildhall Art Gallery throughout the month of June 2014, and I am to cut the opening ribbon.

That was the blog that I wrote before the exhibition opened.

For this major exhibition, I had rather rashly agreed to give an opening speech before cutting a ribbon. Now it so happens that I have managed throughout my life to avoid speaking in public. So, for my first, and I hope last effort, I decided to speak “off the cuff”, but with practice and without notes. Night and day I practised my piece, altering it, extending it on request, and getting more and more nervous. I longed for the speech to be over and done with. I could then sleep without the words running through my head.

            As for cutting the tape, I planned to hold on to one bit, snip a piece off, and keep it as a souvenir. Then I heard that the tape bit had to be abandoned, due to some “health and safety” aspect. Perhaps they did not trust me with a pair of sharp scissors.

            The evening of the 2^nd of June 2014 arrived. I was offered words of assurance by friends as we waited in the grand courtyard. Then inside, a drink, and an opening address given by an important and professionally practised dignatory. My turn came.

            If I got the first few words out, I thought that the rest might follow. And they did. I spoke about my rather vinous experiences of drawing in the 1950s and 1960s dockland, thanks to a wonderful pass given to me by The Port of London Authority. I was now on autopilot, and what I said seemed to make people listen and laugh. Then I stumbled, forgetting what I was to say next. I suppose it made me more human. No one seemed to be concerned – except me.

            Then it was over. And seldom have I enjoyed a drink more than the one thrust into my hand.

            The Exhibition in this splendid Guildhall Art Gallery has turned out to be a wonderful one – full of interest, from sepia photographs of the bridge under construction in 1894 to a work so new that its paint may well have not yet dried.

            My own contribution was well presented by the excellent curator, Julia Dudkiewicz. And it was particularly pleasing to me that those who had liked my painting and had bought directly from me, through Christie’s, or Offer Waterman Gallery, and kindly lent them to the show, were able to see their possessions on view to all.

            The magnificent catalogue, reproducing all the work in colour, is a work of art in itself, a fine memento, and a reference vehicle for those studying the history of one of London’s, and the world’s, iconic structures.

           

Three Words

Three words to do with food and drink popped up in our conversation. Margreet, being unfamiliar with any of them, wanted a dictionary definition. Even her smart computer’s dictionaries and my large Concise Collins dictionary were in the least bit helpful.

            Those words were punt, musseau and chabrot – one very English and the others French.

            Starting with punt. In conversation I was referring to the “thief”, “voleur” or indentation at the base of a wine bottle. It took a lot of roundabout questions to the computer before she found definitions. They were mainly of boats and gambling. Although “punt” was not in a dictionary, the definition was found.

There are various reasons for having a punt at the base of a wine bottle, the most common being that it is there for stability and when Champagne bottles need to be turned by hand.

The word musseau, again, did not appear. So I referred her to a recipe in the Oldie Cookbook that I wrote in 1993. There it was, and she had eaten it many times when it had been my turn to cook. It is a wonderful way of consuming leftover meat – especially when served as a main course with hot potatoes.

Slice the meat finely, cutting away any fat. Place the result in a serving dish and cover it with capers, cornichons (gherkins) chopped finely, chopped onion or shallot, pepper, salt, olive oil and vinegar (we make our own cider and wine vinegar in 5 litre jars). Turn the mixture around to marinate. Serve with some fresh herb as garnish.

My own speciality is to add pickled black peppercorns to the musseau’s dressing. Almost fill a jar (having a plastic lid) with black peppercorns. Cover with vinegar. It will take some time for the peppercorns to soften and become ideal for a musseau or other dishes (use sparingly). They will keep indefinitely, but may need a top-up of vinegar over time.

The last word was chabrot. To “faire chabrot” is a French peasant’s custom of pouring red wine into the dregs of his or her soup, swilling it around to blend, warm, and clean the plate, and then drinking the result from the plate’s rim. It may look as peasanty as it is, but delicious. I have found that poorer red wine makes a better chabrot than a good one.

Pigs

A boar, who slept on his back with his legs in the air, having been bought by a farmer for a great sum, had failed dismally at his job and was to be sold at a considerable loss to be turned into sausages. He had to escape if possible.

            On the other side of the Downs a sow, who slept with limbs outstretched like a dog, had also been bought for a lot of money. She had not provided the farmer with a single litter and was to go the slaughterhouse to be turned into legs of pork and chops. She, too, had to escape.

            Both sow and boar managed it. And they ran.

            The boar, on his escape route, saw a couple of male acrobats disporting themselves on Downland turf. He watched and thought to himself that he could learn from their antics and become fertile with his newly-found knowledge.

            The sow, also escaping on downland, saw a couple of lady acrobats cavorting on the sloping grass. She, also, thought that she might learn to become fertile by watching them.

            A nasty storm of black clouds, combined with heavy rain, covered the Downland hills.

            When the storm passed and visibility was clear once more, the pigs found themselves together.

            They fell in love and produced some fine piglets.

Dreams are sometimes quite charming..

GARDEN UPDATE. SPRING 2014

The slats in our garden bench have been sandpapered to a lovely yellow ochre colour (when dry) – set off by arms and legs oiled to a deep mahogany hue.

            The positions of potted winter plants of mahonia and camellia  have been usurped by pots of burgeoning lilies.

            Sweet peas, grown from seed, have taken the place of tomatoes, which are trouble to grow outside and not much better than those in season bought in the market.

            Of our trees, the damson that took the place of a silver leaf fungussed morello cherry, flourishes. But will I be able to espallier it?

            Pears may be few, like apples. But our planted mistletoe thrives on the potted apple tree. Somehow this parasite has become the rare star of our garden. Everyone is interested in it.

            Daffodils and narcissus lasted well, are dead-headed, and over. But our tulips, that look more like peonies, have lasted well, and light up the garden. We didn’t think we would enjoy tulips so much.

            We have planted the kind of busy lizzie that has survived the disease that killed off most varieties.

            Over-wintered rocket went to seed quickly and has been replanted with sown seed saved from last year. It sprouts almost instantly.

            Agapanthus and flox have risen from their outside winter hibernation, as has the Bolivian begonia that over-wintered on our kitchen windowsill.

            Two spears of asparagus appeared in our large asparagus pot and were eaten raw. But as the crop has declined in vigour over the years, five new plants were grown from seed and been planted as replacements. On their seed packet it declares that a crop of spears may be obtained from their first year’s growth. But I am sure that such salesmanship is vastly over optimistic.

            Our only vegetable this year is runner beans. They climb a bamboo frame and give a constant crop of beans – to be eaten at about 4” long. Some pods are left to grow to a foot long or more in length. These are for next year’s seed and wonderful hors d’oeuvres when boiled and served with garlic, salt, and olive oil.

            The grapevine, in its now reduced span, is coming into leaf – a bit late. Last year’s small vintage lies on its lees and will be bottled soon.

            Our much admired and quite wonderful Typhoon rose flourished as usual. A friend found it to be unobtainable. Just why one of the best roses ever produced should be thus, I have no idea. I will take cuttings of it later in the year.

            The peerless pieris continues to astound us with its changing coloured leaves, flowers and berries. What a wonderful small garden plant  (shrub?) it is.

            A carrion crow has just eaten all the young blackbirds from our resident couple’s first brood. They will start again for sure, as they usually have several families each summer.

Guildhall Art Gallery and Tower Bridge

A telephone call came through from the curator’s office at Guildhall Art Gallery.

            The curator was forming an exhibition of depictions of Tower Bridge since its inception and had wanted to show my large 1954 painting of “Tower Bridge from Bermondsey Wall” that happens to be in the National Collection. She discovered that it hangs on some embassy wall in a far-flung outpost of the British Empire. Thus, it was unobtainable. So could she come around to see if I had anything else that was suitable to show.

            I rummaged around and found a large self-portrait, done in 1965, and made up of dockland shapes – steam from a ship’s boiler, wharves, quays, and a marker buoy. And in the background is a rather freely painted Tower Bridge.

            The curator looked at it and declared that she had seen many paintings in her life, but not one like this.

            There were also one or two later Landscape Recalled pastel depictions of the bridge that she liked. As well, were records of some of my other bridge paintings that had been sold at Christie’s and through Offer Waterman Gallery. These she would try to track down.

            The exhibition will be held at Guildhall Art Gallery through the month of June 2014, and I am to cut the opening ribbon.

Runner Bean Seeds

Runner beans are a wonderful vegetable. You can grow them in almost any garden or allotment, or even in drained containers on a town balcony.

            In well-drained soil and up a bamboo frame they will produce an abundance of beans (best harvested about 4” long) to be topped and tailed and boiled for 5 minutes.

            Serve with melted butter and salt, perhaps adding just a spot of vinegar (enough not to notice it) and a pressed garlic clove or two.

            The plants have more to offer. Their scarlet flowers are a lovely adornment to a garden, and their seeds a gourmet’s delight. The flowers will attract bees, bumblebees and hover flies – thus helping to pollinate all round.

            Harvest the beans with regularity from mid summer to late autumn.

            Some of the beans will hide from view, grow too long, and become too large and stringy to enjoy. Leave these to mature on the vine with some that you will allow to grow to beyond edible size. These large beans (sometimes 1’ or so long) will fatten and dry in warm weather, their skins becoming brittle.

            (When I was a boy the beans were left to become large and stringy. The strings were cut off and the beans sliced diagonally. Then they were either eaten or salted down in jars for the winter.)

            As soon as there are signs of mould, harvest all the large beans and place them on wire racks indoors to dry. Spread them out or they will rot.

            When the skins are dry, pod the beans. Save some for next year’s seed and keep the rest handy for eating in the fingers with drinks.

            For this delight, boil the dried beans until soft enough to eat (the time taken will depend on the dryness of the beans, but test after about half an hour). When the beans are ready to eat, place them in a bowl with some salt (sea salt is good), a little olive oil and a pressed garlic clove. Turn them over well and eat from the hand – having table napkins or kitchen paper handy for oily fingers.

Olives and Wine

 

Olives go well with wine – for most people.

            For many years I have had a snap-down jar of black Kalamata olives steeping in a certain amount of olive oil. This oil has become darker and tastier over time and imparts extra flavour to the olives. The jar has to be topped up with olives and oil when necessary, and tipped up regularly to coat them with the fragrant and tasty liquid.

            These olives, eaten by our guests, have their stones dropped into a wooden receptacle when eaten inside during wintertime, and thrown with abandon into the garden in summertime.

            Stoned green olives are now available at a reasonable price in certain supermarkets. Being rather dull on their own, having been emasculated as it were, I have been experimenting with taste-enhancing methods.

            With my own ideas, and the advice of a guest who immediately telephoned her Greek/South African sister in Cape Town for advice, I am settling on the system of draining the olives of their brine, adding olive oil, pressed garlic, plenty of lemon juice, crushed coriander seeds and thyme. Marjoram was also good, but I think that thyme is the better.

            Regularly upending the jar over time helps to improve the flavour. The result has been a great success. But kitchen paper towels or table napkins are essential for oily fingers as the use of cocktail sticks, short or long, has turned out to be a bit mean and tedious – though I’m sure that the Health and Safety brigade would disapprove of guests grabbing them from their bowl by hand.

            I have written a lot on wine over the years. In that time I have come across much skulduggery and even more snobbism and pretentiousness.

            Good, drinkable wine can still be obtained at a reasonable price for everyday drinking. But you must look around for it and not be ashamed to offer and drink some of the cheapest. Most wines available are quite drinkable, even in the lower price range, but beware the most advertised.

            I rather favour decanting wine, having a two-bottle decanter in use for red wine, and a litre one, kept in a vacuum container in the door of a refrigerator, for white.

            For the white, I often mix the rather acidic sauvignon blanc with the softer chardonnay. It happens that both of these on my shelves at present are Chilean.

            For the reds, almost any two bottles will blend satisfactorily. When one wine has too high an alcohol content for its own good (14% and more), a softer, less alcoholic one, will complement and enhance it.

            French wines for these blends are no longer of enough interest, being either  too expensive or of poor quality. But wines from South Africa in particular, Australia, Chile and Argentina, are generally more than adequate, and ideal for blending. And it is surprising how well wines from different countries blend.

            Take the nonsense out of wine-speak. In all my writing on the subject I have never used it. Just enjoy the fun of wine – drinking good plonk for most of the time and occasionally something really special. This will make the best seem even better. And if you want to remember tastes and styles of wine, use your own, possibly exaggerated, words – but keep them to yourself.

 

Overpriced wine

I have just had lunch at a tapas restaurant where a bottle of very passable red wine from Piemonte and an equally passable white from Sicily cost £7.50 a bottle. At this price, the patron was still probably making a good profit. Wines from other well-known regions on his wine list were at the usual “restaurant” prices. The owner of the establishment, quite sensibly, realises that many of us want a good and reasonably priced house wine with our meals.

A restaurant where we used to eat now charges £35 for its cheapest red. We no longer eat there.

Restaurateurs are too greedy when it comes to pricing their wine. Over the years we have, like other people, become accustomed to this grasping practice of having to pay well over the odds for a civilised beverage that for many, nowadays, has become an essential part of a restaurant meal.

If I were young and computer-literate, I would start a web site where people could contribute to a list of restaurants around the country where the owners price a house wine without greed.

Should anyone start such a site I would divulge just where we enjoy perfectly good wines with our meal for £7.50 a bottle.

Would someone please set up such a source of vital information to those of us who eat out occasionally and don’t want to feel ripped off by unnecessary avarice.

 

Pheasant and Partridge in Cabbage

I remember well that this was a dish on the menu in a Paris restaurant where Mozart ate. So he probably ate the same. It was for partridge cooked in cabbage. When I returned to England I made a guess as to how it was made and have thrived on it ever since. Simply put: a cabbage is cut up finely and put into a casserole. On to it you add pepper and salt, some olive oil and white wine. This is worked with the hands until the cabbage is glistening. Then partridges or pheasants are nestled into it, potatoes added and the result cooked with the lid on in the oven for an hour at least – or two. Margreet’s version takes longer to prepare but shorter to cook. It is richer, and very good.

 

PHEASANT AND PARTRIDGE IN CABBAGE (Margreet’s recipe simplified a bit by Jim)

 

You will need:

Streaky bacon on the fat side (about 6 rashers)

Pheasant(s) or partridge(s)

Cabbage of your choice

Potatoes

A herb of your choice (fresh or dried)

Pepper and salt

White wine

 

Chop up and fry morsels of streaky bacon until crisp, pouring off the bacon fat into a casserole – or, if using the casserole, extract the bacon from the resultant fat. Keep the bacon bits until serving the dish.

In a large saucepan boil, in salted water, a cabbage, cut up finely, with several potatoes, cut to walnut size. Only add enough water to about the half way mark, allowing the cabbage/potato mix to boil and steam. Time it for 20 minutes, and well strain the contents, using the liquid as an addition to soup, or the start of one.

In the casserole with the bacon fat and your chosen herb (it could be thyme or rosemary), cook the pepper and salted bird(s), turning them as you do so, giving pheasant 10 minutes or 5 for partridge. Take them out.

Partridges may be halved beforehand with a heavy bladed and sharp knife by pressing its sharp edge down the side of a breastbone, using considerable force. It’s not easy to do. 

Now put the drained cabbage and potato mix into the casserole, adding a slosh of white wine for moisture. Give it a gentle stir. Then nestle the birds into it.

With the lid on the casserole, cook the dish in a pre-heated medium to hot  oven for about 3/4of an hour.

Place the partridge or carved pheasant meat on a plate and surround with the potato/cabbage mixture – which will remind you a bit of bubble and squeak. Sprinkle over the crispy bacon bits.

This is a dish that can be prepared well beforehand, then oven-heated and served at the table exactly when wanted.

 

 

Looking Backwards

 

In our conservation area of London, we had elegant and simple street lighting. A plain iron pole with an arched, “crane’s neck” top, distributed a mellow, yellowish light on to the street and pavement below.

            Then, one day, a notice appeared through the door asking for a considerable monetary contribution to pay for a change from these lights to fake gas lamps “converted” to electricity.

            Considering that these were in excessively bad taste (“taste” being very subjective) we declined – but to no avail.

            The pantomime set, “Victorian”, gas lamps are up and running, far taller than would meet with the approval of a lamp lighter – who would also have too high a cross piece on which to rest his ladder. They spread a harsh, cold light.

Ornamentation consists of moulded collars, slipped down the poles to be attached by screws. These are meant to represent the shapes of Victorian cast iron originals, in use when gas lighting was invented. I think that a royal personage would approve of the conversion.

Who instigated this rearward-looking move? Perhaps it was owners of houses in a nearby, late Georgian square who rent out their abodes to film-makers of period dramas. But even to an artistic director, these lampposts will still not look quite right.     Will the next monetary request be for plastic half timbering to nail on to our houses?

Change is inevitable and necessary. But surely change in buildings and street furniture should represent the period in which we live. Thank heavens the Georgians did not copy Stuart architecture, or architects in the early twentieth century the Victorians (well, some did).

What it has done is to make us much more aware of real, original, cast iron street furniture, which is viewed with renewed affection.

 

House and Garden Ideas

 

I am sure that most of us adapt a house, flat or garden to suit our way of living in it, making each abode unique in its way.

            I have loved the houses in which I have lived and, in adapting them, have created items of interest to buyers when I have had to leave - and in doing so made a good profit on each.

            So what ideas embellish where Margreet and I now live?

            Starting at the far end of our small garden, there are anti-cat and –fox defined boundaries. From where the animals might leap or land there is a coating of car grease mixed with hot chilli powder. Sometimes there are anti-pigeon spikes. It seems to work – if occasionally unsightly.

            By a short length of late Georgian wall at the end of the garden we keep a small pile of garden growbags. These are light in weight and will fit snugly across our inside front door in case of floods or flood warnings.

            A lidded compost bin (emptied annually) at the end of the garden is a breeding ground for mosquitoes and flies. So, in warm weather, before adding kitchen waste or a little sifted garden soil (excellent), I lift the lid momentarily, and spray in insect killer. In a minute or two all is silent inside. Then waste may be added.

            Every so often, compost in the bin is cut through with a coarse-toothed saw. Cut several times and in two directions, the compost is thus aerated and chopped. The result when the lower part is emptied into a holding bin or on to the garden in early springtime, is fine, crumbly, loamy compost – beautiful to smell and handle.

            A mirror on the back wall of our small, octagonal shed (summerhouse) reflects and multiplies one candle power of light from the mirror and five glazed sides in evenings when we eat, drink and relax with our season-changing garden in front of us. When it is raining, and the drops fall on to the roof in staccato fashion, there is cosiness and magic in the air.

            We peer out of our “shed” through a grapevine arbour which offers shade in summer and where bunches of wine grapes hang in autumn.

            This arbour of reinforcing rod and galvanised wire is seen in perspective from the house. Its nearby arches are more rounded than the flatter ones beyond. And they are positioned nearer together the farther they are away. This all goes to give a false perspective, making the arbour seem much larger than it really is. And from the shed end, this configuration of arches seems to magnify the garden – rather like looking through binoculars or a telescope.

            We like to burn incense (joss) sticks outside our shed to ward off insects and scent the evening air. Some lovely clove-scented examples were once on sale in a Hilversum market, in Holland, but no longer. So I took bland ones and coated them with my beeswax/white spirit painting medium (polish, too) and rolled them in powdered cloves. It worked, but, in reality, mostly in the imagination, as the original coating on the stick gave off the more dominant scent. This might be an idea to tinker with, but now we have found clove sticks on the Internet.

            A hand bell beneath the arbour summons birds in winter when I proffer food. This means that they can forage elsewhere and know that they will not miss getting their fair share of my offerings.

            A tall, earthenware strawberry pot failed for its initial purpose, and now has pelargoniums (geraniums) growing out of its orifices instead of strawberries. On top rests a large, rustically crude, Chinese (I think) dish that makes a fine bird bath and place for them to quench their thirst. When watering the pelargoniums after temporarily removing the bath dish, I found that water rushed out of the upper holes and left the lower plants unwatered. The remedy was to drill holes in a plastic flowerpot and sink this pot into the strawberry pot’s earth. Now, when the plastic pot is filled with water to overflowing, all pelargoniums with root systems at varying heights in the pot get a drink.

            Painted to match the London stock brickwork of the house are bird, bat and insect boxes that seem to be part of the house, and cater for creatures that may or may not want to share their lives with us. Made from discarded wood on rubbish skips, and painted with my own ground colour and beeswax medium, they are just as I made them some 15 years ago, with no visible signs of deterioration in either construction or colour.

            A kitchen window and glazed door to the garden have string pinned across them to tell birds that the reflection of blue sky in them is just reflection and not real sky. This was done after a pigeon crashed through window glass into the kitchen on a clear day.

            Once inside the 1830s house there seem to be fewer ideas as you pass by black olives maturing in dark olive oil and salty, stoned green olives, coated in a mixture of lemon juice, coriander seeds, pressed garlic, thyme and olive oil. These jars are upended as often as I remember to do it. 

Due mainly to lack of space, whoever is cooking in the kitchen has everything at hand within 1½ pace. Cooking is thus ergonomically arranged, but allows only one cook at a time to be at work (we take turns to cook every other week).

In the kitchen is a new leaf tea “bucket” for cups and mugs. This has now been re-designed with a copper wire loop so that fingers are not scalded when it is being extracted from a large teacup.

Also in the kitchen is a radio-controlled clock. They are on other walls as well as this modestly priced clock not only tells the time to the millisecond, but also alters time automatically when clocks have to be put forward or back. And each works for a year on a small battery.

            Wine, held in wooden bins on a wall, is sometimes blended before being served. If a good and powerful red wine is too high in alcohol for its own good (14% or more), it is mixed with a lighter, less alcoholic wine.

            Dishes and pots are soaked in sink water overnight, washed by hand, rinsed and left to dry in a rack. If well organised, this method of washing up actually saves time, energy, water and space.

            A home made wooden salt box needs only one hand to extract either cooking or sea salt.

            There are no drawers or cupboards. Almost all wants are stored visibly – including knives, forks and spoons that lie in open bins as in a restaurant.

            Wine and cider vinegar, made by mothers of vinegar in 5 litre earthenware pots, is emptied into bottles for home use and gifts, each leaving behind an active live mother after her old and dying companions have been extracted and discarded. The cider vinegar mother was obtained in Normandy from an hotelier who had many a request for female company, but never for a mother.

            A candelabra of 5 candles, suspended from the ceiling on a chain, can be raised or lowered with the use of butcher’s meat hooks.

            When Christmas arrives there is a connection between the warm house and cold garden. I decorate the part-glazed front door with many (rather vulgar) flashing coloured lights and tinsel. Now that I have managed to grow mistletoe on an apple tree in a pot, this will also be harvested to decorate the doorway – its magical properties (being pagan) adding balance to the season.

            Pictures, that almost cover the internal house walls, making re-decoration unnecessary, are changed, added to, or stored constantly, so they are noticed and seen anew.

            Handles on the stair well are positioned accurately so that climbing or descending is made easy for both the agile and infirm.

            Rainwater passing around an inward opening window at the top of the house (I’ve never managed to stop it) is channelled, and drips through a tube into a bucket, ensuring a dry wall beneath - and making a nice noise as it does so.

            On top of our standard mattress lies one of firm rubber, topped by a very soft thinner one. The result is not only a comfortable bed, but also one that has been raised to a convenient height.

            When on holiday I have noticed what a strain it can be to get out of a bath. A handle, screwed to the inside of a dormer window, makes getting in or out of our bath an easy matter and, like the handles on the stair well more helpful as one gets older.

            The base of a lightweight aluminium ladder lies above a trap door to the loft space. The ladder is taken down to provide access to the loft, where pictures are stored, and for a high cubby-hole where paint is kept and demijohns of wine are left to complete their full and malolactic fermentations before being bottled in the new year. It is also used in the garden for pruning vines and harvesting grapes for winemaking.

            Items and ideas such as those mentioned go to make the house and garden easier to run, and to fit in with our way of living. In time to come, I hope that others will appreciate them.