Seville Orange Stew

This stew is a real winter one – powerful, robust, tasty and concentrated. Containing potatoes, there will be no need to offer a vegetable with it. Leftover juices make the start or addition to a soup. 

The zest of one Seville orange, with its bitter juice, is enough to give the stew such a distinctive taste. Because of the seasonal bitter orange crop, the dish is a late winter’s one.

The time taken to cook this stew on top of the stove or in the oven will depend on the meat used. But allow an hour at least or, if using mutton, for instance, two to three hours.

SEVILLE ORANGE STEW

You will need:

Meat of your choice

A Seville orange

A bottle of any red wine

Onions

Garlic

Potatoes

Ginger root (optional, but gives punch and crunch)

Pepper and salt

Flour

Oil

Gravy browning (for looks, but not necessary)

Oxo cubes or stock cubes (I favour Oxo for this dish)

In oil, cook two chopped onions and the peeled cloves from a whole head of garlic.

Add finely chopped peeled ginger root.

When the onions start to brown add a dessert spoon of flour and stir.

Add the chopped meat and turn it all around.

Put in the juice from the Seville orange and all its zest – which I shave off with a sharp, thin bladed knife, chopping up the result.

Pour in the entire contents of a bottle of red wine. Stir again.

Add pepper and salt and several pulverised Oxo cubes (or stock cubes). I add a little gravy browning.

Cover with cubed potatoes.

Cook slowly on top of the stove or in the oven for an hour at least, whatever the meat – longer for tougher meat.

Keep an eye on the liquid content, adding boiling water as necessary if it appears to be drying out.

That’s it.

Simple Salmon

We seldom cook fish in our house, saving it as a treat when eating out. But when I found a couple of raw salmon steaks in our refrigerator after Margreet’s week of cooking, the task (or pleasure) was mine.

As I had heard many times that a whole salmon should be covered with cold, salty and spiced water, to be brought to the boil and then left to get cold, I did the same.

The cooked steaks needed patting dry with kitchen paper when extracted from the water. Then it was a simple matter of making a mayonnaise and boiling some potatoes.

SIMPLE COLD SALMON

You will need:

Salmon steaks (one per person)

Salt

Spices of your choice

Mayonnaise (made of egg yolk, Dijon mustard, salt, oil, and a little lemon juice)

Potatoes

Cook the salmon steaks in the way aforementioned.

Make a mayonnaise by putting an egg yolk into a bowl and adding half its volume of Dijon mustard and a little salt. Stir in oil – either olive, rapeseed, groundnut or other, or mixture, until the consistency of mayonnaise has been obtained. I use mostly olive oil. Do not worry about the temperature of the ingredients. An added few drops of lemon juice is an improvement.

Boil some potatoes (20 minutes).

Serve the cold mayonnaise-coated salmon with hot potatoes.

It is as simple and delicious as that.

A Very English Cassoulet

Cassoulet is essentially a Languedoc dish – and very French. But it can vary a lot depending upon where it is made. In Castelnaudary it is made differently from Toulouse. It is different once more in Carcassonne. In London it is different yet again – in a very English way. But it is really no more than a tasty meat and bean stew, and thus may be interpreted in any country and in any way.

Beans, tomato, onions, garlic, a garlic sausage and meat, and in what quantity, is up to the cook (British) to decide upon. It is a great winter dish.

For the beans I use dried runner beans from the small London garden – until they run out (but saving some for seed).

For the meat I use pheasant breasts, cut from the bird and frozen when that game is plentiful in the market, and cheap. Before using it in the cassoulet it is best to pare off the skin and feel through the meat to find and discard any shot. Duck and mutton are popular meats.

I like to use a pig’s trotter to enhance the liquid content. For this you can either add a trotter to the cassoulet and discard or eat it when cooked or, as I do, get the butcher to axe through a couple of large trotters and cook the pieces for at least an hour in the pressure cooker, using plain or herbal-flavoured water. I then strain off the liquid and, when cool, ease the meat from the bones to make a rustic terrine (not enjoyed by Margreet). The liquid, or part of it, goes into the cassoulet, instead of adding a trotter.

For a follow-up dish, using Brussels sprouts, go to the end of the suggestions below.

A VERY ENGLISH CASSOULET

You will need:

Meat – pheasant, duck, mutton or other

An optional garlic sausage

Beans - of your choice

Onion

Garlic

Pepper and salt

Oil

Flour

Chopped tomatoes – from a can

English beer to wash out that can

A fresh tomato or two, if around

A dash of vinegar

A pig’s trotter for the dish, or for stock (and meat)

A branch of rosemary or another herb of your choice

Soak dried beans overnight, and then boil them for ten minutes. Strain them.

In a casserole brown chopped onion and garlic in oil.

Add no more than a heaped teaspoon of plain flour, stirring it in.

Apply pepper and salt.

Add the beans.

Add the contents of a can of chopped tomatoes, washing out the tin with English beer. Add the tomatoey beer.

Put in a couple of cut-up fresh tomatoes - only if there are any at hand.

Place the pheasant breasts, duck or mutton, and trotter (if using one for the dish), just under the surface.

Add some trotter stock to cover adequately. Any over might be needed during cooking, or added to another dish, or soup.

Tip in a dash of vinegar.

Garlick sausage may be added if desired.

Place a branch of Rosemary on top, or stir in another herb of your choice.

Now let the cassoulet cook long and at a low heat – either on top of the stove or in the oven. Give it at least an hour or an hour and a half - more if using mutton.

If the dish needs more liquid, add some trotter stock, if too liquid, leave off the lid.

When cooked, discard the rosemary.

Serve the cassoulet in its cooking pot at the table, ladling out the meat and beans, then adding the juices.

Should there be any cassoulet left in the pot (in winter), cut up the meat into small pieces, add plenty of small, trimmed Brussels sprouts, then more of the trotter liquid (which will have cooled to jelly) to just cover them.

Cook this follow-up dish on top of the stove for about 20 minutes, or much longer and more slowly if you want the sprouts to absorb the cassoulet liquid.

If all the above sounds difficult or confusing, tip a can of beans and a can of chopped tomatoes into a casserole. Add some chicken breast meat. Squeeze in some garlic. Add pepper and salt and cook until the chicken is done.

Scallops in White Sauce

It is our custom on New Year’s Eve to picnic in bed, watching on television Babette’s Feast and Dinner for One, and enjoying some of our favourite food and wine. The menu varies a bit, but usually starts with avocado pear with a salmon egg filling, scallops, and shepherds pie – the last two being served in individual pots from the oven, with the scallops coming out first.

The scallop dish is really the traditional one of the shellfish cooked in a white sauce in its shell. But in individual pots with the scallops already cut up, it is easy to make and eat, and just as nice – if not so pretty.

SCALLOPS IN WHITE SAUCE

You will need:

One or two scallops per person – depending on their size, the size of the pot, and appetites.

White sauce made with butter, flour, ½ chicken stock cube, a little grated Cheddar cheese, a little Dijon mustard, milk, pepper and salt.

Make a white sauce in a saucepan, using a good lump of butter (melt it), twice its volume of plain flour (stir), adding the above ingredients, then pouring in about ½ pint of cold milk and whisking the lot as it heats through. Add more milk as necessary to get the consistency required.

Slice the scallops with their coral and place in the pots. Cover with the sauce. Sprinkle a little paprika over the tops if you feel that they need decoration.

The pots of scallops may be fashioned well beforehand, even frozen, as can the shepherd’s pies if you choose to serve them after the scallops.

As soon as the scallop sauce bubbles in the pots, they are ready – and they are delicious. (And by the time you have enjoyed them at your leisure, the shepherd’s pies will be ready.) For us it is always a very Happy New Year.

Mobile Sculptures

In 1958 to 1959 I travelled the world, writing and drawing.

            On my return I set about building a house on the cinders of a tumbledown, medieval cottage that I had bought for around £400 in order to have roots in England.

            When the half of the house that I could afford to build was finished, it needed a weathervane.

            So I bought a sheet of copper to form a double-sided, sculptural depiction of a P-R rose. On installation, it was out of proportion to the house – too large. So it was abandoned, found years later in a hedge, and now resides somewhere in the country.

            At that time I was having difficulty in returning to painting after so long away drawing. It occupied my mind.

            As it was so difficult once more to use paint and canvas, my plan was to make coloured paper collages so that I could distil landscape into simple shapes.

            There was copper sheet left over from making the weathervane, so I cut it, painted it, and pinned the painted metal to a wooden framework – a sort of three-dimensional collage/sculpture. I think I did three of them. They were quite small. One was lost, and two I somehow managed to retain intact over the years.

            One of the three was of a cut-out woman cavorting over the painted copper White Horse Downs, at Uffington, now Oxfordshire.

            A large German neighbour in London also cavorted over an obstacle in that part of the world, fell, and broke her leg. In sympathy, I gave her the copper and wood sculpture of the leaping woman.

            She lived next door and, before leaving to go elsewhere, I noticed this sculpture lying among builders’ rubble in her garden. How could it be recovered?

            I asked her if I might photograph it for my records. She gave it back to me.

            The copper part of the leaping woman was just as I had cut and painted it – green downs and whitish figure. The white horse, painted on the green grass, had also stood the test of time.

            But now the timber frame had been much eaten by woodworm, and had to be dealt with by the application of killer liquid.

            Then the wooden dowel rods holding the sides together had to be replaced, and the worm-eaten sides filled and generally made good.

            Because the killer fluid affected the paintwork, a new coat of green grass had to be applied.

            When completed, the sculpture had the mellow feel of an antique.

            It, and the other one of the three pieces, resided on top of a wall of books in my house.

            I must have taken the sculptures down at some time to show them, for, one day, a collector telephoned and offered to buy the leaping woman.

            What was I to charge?

            My advisor in artistic matters was on his way to Singapore by aeroplane. I telephoned him on his mobile number. ”Call me back in ten minutes,” he said over a crackling line. In ten minutes I might have been speaking with him as if he were in the next street.

            His advice took into consideration auction estimates and commission costs.

            I now had a price to work with. The sum decided upon was accepted.

            The sculptural weathervane, like the leaping woman, had both been thrown away and later found. The theme of each had been mobility. Now they were also quite well travelled.

On Doing Without

I have read recently of someone whose mobile telephone went on the blink for a period of time. The owner discovered the great pleasure of no longer being in constant contact with acquaintances and business colleagues. Never having owned such an object, I can understand the pleasure they took in their temporary isolation from this world of over-communication.

            Again, two men that I have known, who both made their fortunes, ran their empires from the office or over convivial lunchtime meetings – both abhorring the use of a mobile telephone.

            I, or we, have owned a car for many years. Living in the country with poor public transport, it was an essential adjunct to everyday, family life.

            On moving to London again, some 24 years ago, I gave away my car to a son, and was happy to do without it.

            Now, after much the same period of sharing my wife’s splendid Toyota, Rav 4, four wheel drive car, we have decided to do without it, and she has given it away to a niece, who needs it for broadcasting work around the country.

            Our main use for a car in London was for shopping when heavy items were involved, or when driving to Newhaven for the Channel ferry to Dieppe. There we indulged ourselves with good living for a few days, and returned to London with the back of the car filled with low cost, but very drinkable wine (144 bottles being our record).

            For much of recent times the car has been parked nearby, lying idle, and used mainly for bulk shopping and to re-charge the battery.

            A car is an expense and a worry. If we hear of a crash of metal outside, we no longer fear for the car’s bodywork. And as for the expense, what money we have saved – with licence fee, AA, insurance, MOT, service, repairs, tyres, parking fees, petrol, and the obligatory accoutrements for safety and foreign travel – we could take a cab almost every day of the year.

            It is true we have lost our lovely breaks in Dieppe, but what Dieppe has to offer, so has London. And we have been shocked on each recent visit to France by the inflation of prices all round. So we may pay a bit more when eating out grandly in London, but most things are cheaper here.

            Now, all the paperwork and cost of a car have vanished – and with it the worry involved.

            To simplify life is much to be desired.

A New Bird Feeder

It is the time of year when our garden birds need food for survival – food that predator birds, cats and squirrels cannot reach.

            On a suspended sunflower feeder, when a pigeon learned how to balance on the side of it and extract the seeds, I added a painted plywood disc, positioned so that these large birds were unable to raise their wings high enough for landing or take-off. It worked.

            Now the problem was how to allow birds to enjoy my winter mixture (stale bread soaked and squeezed dry, with bran, currants, pounded peanuts and melted lard) and protect the food from marauding squirrels.

            So the latest device is a bought wire tube, made for commercially-produced, fat ball food, with my addition of anti-pigeon spikes pointing upward through the lid and downward from its base.  The theory is that squirrels will be unable to approach it descending from above or jumping up to it from below.

            It is a rather frightening, medieval-looking kind of torture device that the birds will have to get used to.

            This new addition has been placed with other feeders of sunflower seeds, peanuts, niger seeds, dried maggots and hemp seed. In London I have an arbour from which to hang such contraptions. There the latest device will stay until birds start to demand food from it. Then it will be re-located to just outside the kitchen window, where we can obtain a better look at our avian friends.

            In the country I made an elaborate double cage atop a greased scaffold pole. One cage of vertical wooden dowel rods had the bars 1” apart for small birds to push through for the food inside, and the other 1 ½” apart for larger birds. Some of the bars could be raised for me to place the food inside.

            On a drained platform, as part of the cage contraption, curtain wire, with screw eyes and hooks held down carcasses, half apples and scraps.

            This arrangement worked so well that I wrote a piece on it for the Financial Times in 1987.

            The 1” and 1 ½” gaps in the above cages are useful sizes to remember as they are the same for the holes in home-made bird boxes of skip-gathered timber. The sides and top of these boxes are best screwed together. With the lower part hinged, the nesting material can be taken out in the autumn and the inside sprayed with bleach (to kill off any resident mites that might lurk there).

            These boxes can be screwed to a tree, but are best positioned on a north, east, or west wall (not south) above the reach of cats.

Chicken Liver Paté

It is not often that I rush into print with a new recipe using a new kitchen toy.  But in this case I have made enough chicken liver paté in a blender to last a bit. And so good it is that I feel obliged to report on its success right away.

I have managed to do without an electric blender since many years ago when I owned one that came attached to a clumsy, multi-tasking object. Since then, a plastic, hand-worked Mouli soup-making gadget has done the kind of blending required.

Then, in a Christmas sale, I saw a blender on offer at a much reduced price, and with so compact a design that it would take up only a little of our limited kitchen space.

At last I could make fine-blended paté – chicken liver paté in particular.

I will be doing the same for years to come (with variations for sure) as the result was so stunningly good, cheap and simple to make.

CHICKEN LIVER PATE

You will need:

Chicken livers

A spirit of your choice

A herb, or herbs, of your choice

Garlic

Pepper and salt

Butter

Melt a good lump of butter slowly in a saucepan until the bubbles have almost stopped.

As best you can, trim away and discard connective tissue and blemishes from the chicken livers. Then fry the livers in butter until each piece has changed colour all over.

In an electric blender jug put a small splosh of spirit.

On top of it place the cooked livers with their juices.

Add the herb(s), a peeled clove of garlic, pepper and salt.

Pour in some melted butter.

Close the lid.

Fizz up the lot (you may have to disengage the blender jug and push the mixture downward once or twice).

Extract the blended paté from the disengaged jug with a flexible spatula, and lower the mixture into small pots.

Level the paté and, with kitchen paper, clean the insides of the pot above the paté.

Cover the paté with the melted butter.

Allow the pots to cool, and then refrigerate them for future use.

Spread the paté on to biscuits or such to enjoy with drinks.

GOFFA’S KNOLL

Some time in the spring of 1977, having moved to Cambridgeshire from London, I was painting a landscape that had in the distance a small hill, covered with trees.

            In the foreground of sweeping fields of young cereal growth that flowed up to the hill, stood a hide, made of straw bales. This hide was plainly made for a marksman whose job it was not only to scare off the pigeons from eating young shoots in the field, but also to bag as many as possible for the pot or sale.

            There was no sign of anyone in situ. I was quite alone in this expansive landscape. It was the way that I liked to paint.

            I was using oil paint that I ground myself, applying it to paper that I had previously primed with a thin coating of beeswax. Knowing the wherewithal of my craft, in the way of paint, brushes and paper, was all-important to me. With complete knowledge of my equipment and how to use it meant that only the subject matter was of concern.

Just the hum from a distant road and the sound of a skylark disturbed the silence.

A couple of hares appeared and started to engage in their ritual of springtime sparring. I added them to the scene.

            I had been sitting on the grass overlooking this idyllic landscape for some time, painting away, when I was very surprised to see, in centre stage as it were, a little smoke rise from the straw hide, to be followed almost immediately by flames. The construction had self-ignited right in front of me. In a short time there was nothing left of it except for a patch of black, smouldering straw.

            There was still no one about, and certainly no body, or remains of one, where the hide had stood. It was quite disturbing. Moreover, the farmer might happen to pass by and enquire if I had been responsible for this arson attack on his straw hide.

            The marksman’s cover, set in the rolling sward, had been the focal part of my picture, with the tree-clad hill and sky behind. Now, even the hares had departed. So I packed my things away and returned home.

            What was this all about?

            I returned a few days later to look at the scene once more. It now somehow seemed more magical than before.

            I made enquiries locally to learn that the hill was called Goffa’s Knoll and that in an ancient age the local chieftain or king, called Goffa, had been surrounded by his enemies and that after a bloody battle he, his family, and all his men had been slaughtered.

            Was I being told something by being witness to this fiery manifestation?

            I returned to the same spot several times more and came to believe that Goffa’s soul, or spirit, or whatever, was trapped in his knoll and needed desperately to be released from its earthly bonds.

            So I set about doing just that in the form of a series of paintings, combining his release in the light and purity of East Anglian landscape with the seediness of London living.

            That was how I came to contrive Goffa’s apotheosis – in paintings shown at a most successful one-man exhibition in the Art Gallery of Cambridge Central Library in 1977.

Christopher Neve, Art Critic for “Country Life”, wrote: With its mounds, clumps, moods and fecundity, it persists in the sexual analogy of the monotypes but with a sense of timelessness. In the largest works here, most memorably, the painter has chosen to release the energy of Goffa’s Knoll, like lancing a boil. A half-glimpsed figure, sometimes still bound and shrouded, escapes upwards, from tumulus to cumulus. Menacing traffic threatens to run out of the frame. Ubiquitous hares box and run. Bales of straw stand about like stone circles. For me, to an astonishing degree, these paintings have the power to suggest how man’s used landscape mysteriously survives him, marking his place.

Avocado Toast

It was when guests arrived unexpectedly and I offered them Sunday lunch that I knew there was enough of the main course available, but no hors d’oeuvre. So I went into the kitchen to see what was available. There was a ripe avocado. So I fried pieces of my home-made bread in olive oil, drained them, and placed mashed avocado on top. They were much enjoyed.

AVOCADO TOAST

You will need:

Small pieces of crustless bread

Avocado

Pepper and salt

Chopped onion or shallot

Chilli (powder or sauce)

Fry desired slices of crustless bread on both sides in olive oil. Allow them to drain on kitchen paper.

            In a bowl put the flesh of a ripe avocado. Add finely chopped onion or shallot, pepper and salt, and either chilli powder or chilli sauce. Mix it all together.

            Put the avocado mix on to the pieces of fried bread. Serve.

                                                            *****

Filling out

Have you ever had a tooth-filling fall out, or a broken tooth?

            When this happens, one’s tongue seems automatically to be attracted to the abnormality in one’s mouth. The sharp bits then seem to become sharper and more disturbing to one’s tongue and daily life – until the dentist can conduct his craft to help.

            This happened to me. A bit of a filling came out, then more. And, of course, my tongue was attracted to the tooth as if by magnetism.

            Now it so happened that I had read in a newspaper article that a jawbone from ancient man that had been lying in a museum for donkey’s years was inspected and found to have a tooth with a beeswax filling.

            So, until I could telephone the dentist in office hours, I went to my supply of beeswax. This I have used since art student days as a medium for painting in oil colour and, as an unexpected bonus, as the best wood polish imaginable. (A block of beeswax is added to boiling water, allowed to dissolve, emulsified with ammonia, and the cold resultant crust lifted from the water’s surface and amalgamated with white spirit.)

            So I cut off a little of the untreated wax from its block, softened it between my fingers, and pressed it into the tooth where the filling had previously resided.

            I was delighted with the result. My tongue returned to its normal usage, ignoring the wax-filled tooth.

            But success was short lived.

            After the first meal the wax had gone down with the food.

            Wax is not hurtful to one’s digestive system. It is consumed whenever honey is eaten with the comb.

            Next, the tooth’s cavity was dried with kitchen paper and more (actually less) wax applied. A closed jaw ensured that the cavity had been filled and the wax pressed in. Surplus wax was scraped away and discarded.

            Night came. In the morning I had no idea which tooth it was that had needed attention.

            After breakfast a ragged tooth edge gave an indication of which tooth had had attention – but the cavity itself remained filled with wax.

            An appointment with the dentist was made.

            So, as an emergency measure, Neolithic man, or whoever and whenever he was, had a cunning plan that worked – as an emergency measure at least. So keep a little lump of beeswax at the ready.

Bread, Kneaded with no trouble

Since writing a recipe for No Need to Knead Bread I have been making real, kneaded bread, with the least possible work or trouble. I do not believe that the following recipe could be simpler – even though a lot of instructional words have to be involved. Out of it you will obtain six loaves for well below the price of two commercial loaves – ones that will feel like eating polystyrene after enjoying your own make, and without the cost and trouble of a bread-making machine. (There must be some reason why those who buy bread-making machines often give up on them and revert to buying bread from the shops.) From start to finish it will take you about 3 hours and fifteen minutes to produce six wonderful loaves.

What follows is detail. Put simply is this: Empty a 1½ Kilo packet of flour into a bowl and to it add a pint and a half of sweetened warm water in which some dried yeast has started to “work”. When stirred, this makes a dough. Knead it and put the result into greased bread tins in a warm place to rise. Bake for an hour. Hey-presto, bread.

BREAD, KNEADED WITH NO TROUBLE

You will need to have ready for baking six loaves in the oven at the same time:

Six non-stick bread tins

Two 1 ½ kilo packets of strong white bread flour – acquire them from the same source each time for consistency

Two large mixing bowls

Two Pyrex glass measuring jars (you will need to see the half pint and pint measuring lines).

Turmeric (for colour)

Salt

Olive oil

Sugar

Nuts if desired (if so, I use sunflower kernels, acquired from a purveyor of garden bird food)

Yeast (dried)

Butter to rub on the inside of the bread tins

A large wooden spoon for initial stirring

A firm spatula

A sharp knife

A teaspoon

Wire racks or oven shelves

Boil a kettle of water.

Put a small lump of butter to soften in each of the six bread tins.

Empty a 1½ kilo packet of strong white bread flour into each mixing bowl.

Into the flour stir some salt (a teaspoon), and a little turmeric for colour (¼ teaspoon). Stir it well to spread the turmeric evenly throughout.

Rinse sunflower kernels and add ¼ pint of them into each bowl (if desired). Stir them evenly throughout as well.

Use your fingers to coat the inside of bread tins with the butter.

Put a teaspoon of white, granular sugar into each measuring jar.

Pour half a pint of boiling water into each measuring jar (the sugar will dissolve)

Then add cold water to each jar, making one pint of liquid (not measuring in metric makes it easier – for me). Test the temperature of the liquid to be sure that it is good and warm but not too hot (the liquid will cool quickly when added to the flour).

Into each measuring jar put two teaspoons of dried yeast. Whisk it into the sweetened water, continuing to whisk until there are no lumps.

Place jars in the centre of the flour in the bowls, then cover the yeasty liquid with a thin layer of the surrounding flour.

Now is a good time to check the spacing of the oven shelves to see that six bread tins fit in well with space around them, and to warm the oven (say 50 degrees for 10 minutes before turning off the heat).

Now leave the yeast to work. Soon, yeasty bubbles will push up through the layer of flour. Leave for some 15 to 20 minutes as the bubbles grow a bit larger and the yeast becomes livelier.

Deal with one bowl at a time by whisking the yeasty mixture before adding it to the flour in the bowl. Pour this lively mixture slowly and evenly into the flour, stirring with the large wooden spoon as you do so.

Add a dribbling of olive oil.

Now make up half a pint of warm liquid in the measuring jar, using hot and cold water. Add this to the flour mixture. Stir it all together, scraping the sides of the bowl with the firm spatula.

When the mixture starts to become dough, use the fingers to bring it all together. Some flour will almost certainly remain in the bowl after you have lifted the dough out onto an un-flowered surface. Scrape out this residual flour from the bottom and sides of the bowl with the spatula and add it to the dough. Scrape off any dough adhering to the wooden spoon and add it to the mix.

Soak used utensils in cold water as you go along, remembering that you will want some again for the second bowl.

Start to knead the dough (it’s good exercise) by digging the fingers into the far side and pushing into it and away from you with the heels of the hands. The mixture will be a little sticky at first, then stiffen up.

A sausage-shape will form. Fold in the ends of the sausage to form a rough ball.

Keep kneading and folding in until the dough is almost too firm to handle. This will take from 8 – 10 minutes.

Form the dough into an equal diameter sausage shape and cut it into three equal pieces.

Put these measured lumps of dough into the three lightly-buttered tins.

Spread out the dough to take up the base of each tin and, with a sharp knife, cut about five diagonal lines into the surface.

Place the three tins in the upper shelf of the previously warmed oven.

Repeat the process with the other bowl of flour, placing the tins on the lower shelf.

The oven should be warm, but not hot. It might possibly need a short boost of heat.

The dough will rise in the tins over a period of about 1½ to 1 ¾ hours. At about the half way mark put the top tins on the lower shelf and the bottom tins on the top shelf. This will ensure equal rising.

Occasionally open the oven and test the air temperature with your hand. If a little low, turn on the oven heat for a minute or so. But with a modern, well-insulated oven this should not be necessary.

When the dough has risen to become loaf size and about to overflow the tins, start the baking process by raising the oven temperature to 190 degrees for 25 minutes, then five minutes at 200 degrees, and finally down to 80 degrees for half an hour (an hour in all).

Turn out the loaves on to wire racks to cool before eating and/or freezing them. I happen to use disused oven shelves instead of wire racks.

Keep bread tins well clear of water. They should never need to be washed.

Soak utensils as you go in cold water. And when you come to clean them be prepared to throw away the cloth, as dough will stick to it.

Buy your bread flour from the same source. Then, by using exact measures of liquid each time, you will have consistency.

                                                            *****

A Stylish Faint

It started so promisingly.

            Margreet and I had been invited to a birthday party in London’s most famous 18th century gaming club.

            So, dressed accordingly, we took the Underground train almost door to door, with us having to stand up in the rush hour crush.

            At the club, after ascending the grand, red-carpeted staircase, we passed a gaming room where many tables, designed for gambling with cards were looked down upon by oil portraits in gilded frames of long-dead worthies.

            As the door of this famous room fortuitously happened to be open, we had a glimpse through it to where, in the 18^th century, great estates and plantations were lost and won – along with probably slaves and possibly wives.

After being unable to sit in the Tube, and then standing up at the party for an hour or two, I felt a bit faint, and managed to reach a chair with Margreet’s support.

My eyesight and brain became a little befuddled – rather like blacking out when throwing an aeroplane around the sky as G-forces take effect (except that then the brain is more intact).

            Margreet saw my ashen face and called an ambulance.

            The fact that two Members of the Cloth offered me water, frightened Margreet more than me.

            First to arrive, by bicycle, was a paramedic who, seeing that blood had drained from my face toward my feet, led me, under the direction of a servant, to the aforementioned gaming room (where the gamblers had departed). I was asked to lie prone on the floor.

            Blood to the head, a satisfactory pulse rate, demeanour and spirits, soon returned.

            But when medics are called, precautions have to be taken. So all of the medical equipment able to be taken on a bicycle was put to use.

            The summoned ambulance men had difficulty in locating the building as, in the 18^th century, there was no need for it to have a number. And, accordingly, no number to the place had since been thought necessary.

            Now, with the arrival of the ambulance men, and me feeling normal once more, I was put into a chair and, because there was no lift in Georgian times (the one for food being too small for anything larger than a small roasted ox – standing up on end), I was carried down that rather grand staircase, with ambulance men fore and aft, as if in a sedan chair.  I expect that Georgian estate owners, having lost their property and inheritance at the tables, might well have fainted, too, or had the vapours or whatever, and been carried down to their carriages in much the same manner.

            I was taken to the hospital where my pacemaker had been installed and cleared by general and cardiac doctors to go home, and to have the pacemaker checked on another day.

            By the early hours of the morning we were home, and glad to consume a bowl of hot soup.

            The pacemaker, which had, until then, given me the feeling of indestructibility, was checked the following day and found to be in excellent working order. I had fainted only by standing up for so long, with blood sinking downward.

            As before, I cannot over-praise our National Health emergency and back-up services.

            But I would rather not have to use them quite so often.

Sardines on Toast

In my childhood this dish was a regular favourite. The joke was that because of its propensity to slide off the plate, we suspected that it had been on the floor at least once before reaching the table.

When I remembered this first or second course from the past and made it for Margreet one evening, she said that she could eat it on every night of the week.

SARDINES ON TOAST

You will need:

One can of sardines for two people

Its oil

Vinegar

Toast

Pepper and salt

Make a slice of toast for each person and then cut off and discard the crusts.

Empty the can of sardines with its oil into a frying pan.

Slice delicately through the backs of the fish to divide each in half, placing them with the skin side down. Don’t worry if they break up a bit.

Add a little vinegar to the oil and mix it in.

Fry the sardine sides slowly until they just begin to crispen.

With a spatula lay the fish on the toast and pour over just a little of the oil/vinegar mixture from the pan.

Salt them and mill over some pepper.

Serve (being careful not to let them slip to the floor).

Double Bass

A close associate of a famous pianist had invited us to a vegetarian Sunday lunch in her London garden.

            Another guest was a man of no great stature who parted from our direct company for a furtive few puffs on his Sherlock Holmes pipe.

After pre-prandial, sparkling drinks, he came to sit at our table.

            “Tell me about you,” say I.

            This Englishman was not only a Professor of Music, had played the bass (or was it double bass?) for several years in that famous Amsterdam Concertgebouw Orchestra, was in regular demand around the world for playing his instrument and, from working in Holland, had learned to speak Dutch fluently (much to Margreet’s delight).

            Although singing solo at school, I am almost completely non-musical – generally liking silence more than sound.

            Because a tune from some source or other fills my head throughout each night, I suppose, what with my father playing the drums and saxophone, I have been provided with a small musical gene (many more skipping on through to my youngest son who composes and plays the acoustic and bass guitar in rock bands).

            So, knowing virtually nothing of music, I am curious about it. Thus, my poor table companion came in for some questions,

            What are bass strings made of? Gut alone would be fine but subject to changes in temperature, pressure, humidity, etc. So they have a gut core surrounded by wire.

            Has nylon been tried? Yes, but without great success.

            Does the horsehair in a bow come only from white horse tails? No. Some bass players favour brown hair.

            For how long do the bow hairs last? They break and are cut off. Some bows are rather short of hair.

            How about their tension? The hair is tightened before a concert and slackened after it.

            How does the hair grip the strings? It doesn’t. The hair is treated with a resin powder and would make no noise at all if dragged across the strings without it.

            If you lost your instrument, would another be satisfactory? Another could be used, but you get to know your own instrument’s capabilities.

            Do players in an orchestra ever pretend to play, but don’t? Not so much nowadays, but more often in the past.

            When playing in a quartet or such with a singer, how much does artistic temperament enter the equation? There are temperamental players as well as singers, and when a prima donna singer is a nuisance by making unnecessary changes, the musicians generally agree to do what they were going to do anyway.

            Does much solo bass music exist? Yes, often interpreted from other music, but much is now being composed.

Are there many female bass players? A lot are coming along, but few reach the top flight because they are not physically strong enough.

            To press down on the strings he used his fingertips and two parts of a thumb. I asked to see them. The skin was firm but not hard. If, due to a force of nature, he was unable to play for a while, to start again with soft skin was extremely painful.

            Can you teach up to virtuoso standard? No. I can only teach about 45%. The rest is up to the musician.

            I might have misheard the answers to my recalled enquiries, but I was extremely lucky to have had a chance to make them at all.

            With the questions from this ignoramus over, he returned to a corner of the garden to puff on his St Bruno-filled pipe, and I returned to nibble on a lettuce leaf.

Our Olympic Games

We all have our memories of the 2012 Olympics in London. As far as my own family (Margreet and I) were concerned, we planned to not travel, stay at home, lock the door, and watch the goings-on on television.

            But, as I am English and Margreet Dutch, there was a dichotomy of allegiances involved. “We” generally meant English (or British) and us both, and “you” - Dutch. So Margreet had a firmer foot in my camp and me a lighter foot in hers – if you can see what I am trying to say.

What we hadn’t quite anticipated was that we were to entertain some (generally large) Dutch relations and their friends.

Two of these were dressed entirely in orange suits. They were not just ragbag and bobtail but well-educated and fervent nationalists – and out to have fun.

I felt that their violent orange display of nationalism was rather on the excessive side, but then realised that many of the home crowd were adorned equally violently in the bright colours of the Union flag.

Anyhow, after imbibing elsewhere beforehand, our Dutch contingent came to be entertained for drinks in our garden, where a considerable amount of wine was consumed. With only olives and our “house” pancake to eat, they left for Olympic entertainment (provided by bikini-clad Beach Volleyball ladies) in a jolly mood.

Just what happened to them later was none of our business. We heard that they returned to the Netherlands having had a splendid time here.

            Another Dutch relation, an eminent lawyer and ardent sports fan (especially of Olympics), had been residing with friends in a hotel near to Victoria Station. He had seen and enjoyed many of the sporting events that took place in specialist venues – one building of which he found to be architecturally interesting.

            He came to visit family before leaving for home and had quite a different view of the Olympic occasion.

            He loved the sports, but found the Olympic site to be far too large. It had been a considerable trek to get from one venue to another. Whereas the more compact Athens site had been an occasion for intimacy between spectators and athletes, here there was too much space in which to feel part of the sporting and festive scene.

            He also found the colours of buildings and paving to be drab after Athens. All seemed grey, in contrast to the colours displayed in Greece.

            One of his comments really interested us. He was astounded to see so many drunken women lying on the ground in London.

            So, in two groups of Dutchmen, we experienced two diverse viewpoints concerning the games.

            One crowd had come “on the spree” and loved it, the other to enjoy the camaraderie, colour and sport, with the sport winning hands down, and with the rest rather a disappointment.

Lollards

MIGHT THE LOLLARDS COME AGAIN?

Had I but a grain of historical scholarship in my bones I would have evolved the theme of the second most used book on our shelves (the first is the dictionary).

            Whenever there is reference to a king or queen in England’s past history, this book, “Kings and Queens”, is referred to.

            From William the Conqueror onwards, each monarch is given a short monograph.

            The book’s language is simple and direct. So when a Shakespeare play about our royal past appears on screen or stage, this splendid volume is invaluable.

            It is not possible for the ordinary punter to verify the accuracy of the text. But then Shakespeare turned history into entertainment. So there may be some discrepancies – as there is in much of historical writing.

            The book is a paperback, written by Elizabeth Gundrey in 1977. And when telling us about the reign of Henry IV and his persecution of the Lollards and how many were eliminated and burned alive, we wanted to know more about these followers of Wyclif who operated under a name derived from the Dutch language.

            But there was a slight snag. The text recommended on one page that we turn to page 36 to discover more about these people.

            It was then that we discovered that the recommended page (36) might well have told us more had the publishers not omitted to number the pages.

            Perseverance paid off, and on an earlier unnumbered page we learned that in Edward III’s reign, these followers of Wyclif (“in a way the first Protestant”) were critics of the corruption and pride spreading through the Catholic Church. They preached sermons against the power of the Pope and urged the people to return to more spiritual ways with less striving for wealth.

            No wonder they were persecuted and burned alive by those who were then, in the late 1300s to early 1400s, enjoying the fruits of power and money.

            This paperback has been a great and simple source of information. And from it we have now learned a little about the Lollards.

            It was a bit of a job to glean this information from the book’s unnumbered pages – and more difficult, I imagine, for the readers upon publication, as its recommended readership age group was 9 – 14.

Ups and Downs

For some time now, Margreet and I have been admirers of the work of a Scottish artist called Alberto Morrocco (1917 – 1998).

            It is a strange name for a Scotsman, but he was born in Aberdeen of Italian immigrant parents who sold ice-cream in Scotland with considerable success.

            Our connection with Christie’s is that they sell my work and we have very occasionally bought from their sales. On the strength of that we had been invited to the Private View of a major sale of Morrocco’s work. This overview of his art and craft confirmed our opinion as we smiled our way around the works on view, for he was a charming, colourful, versatile and very creative artist.

            In passing a display cabinet in the sale-room, a collector, of small stature, had asked an assistant to open the cabinet which contained three of Morrocco’s sketch books.

            Saying to both the collector and Christie’s assistant that it might be better if only one person turned the pages, we asked if we might look over the man’ shoulder.  Both we and the collector were astounded by the power and directness of the pencil and ink drawings.

            As the cabinet was closed and re-locked, we asked the said collector which of the books he might be bidding for, and that out of courtesy, we would not compete with him. He told us which one of the three had taken his fancy.

            So, on leaving the sale-room we left an absentee bid for the book of Morrocco’s Italian seaside drawings.

            It was on the day of the sale that Margreet returned home in a state of depression and tears as there had been a quite unwarranted row between two members of her family, of which she had had no part, but was much affected by it.

            It happened to be her week as the house cook. And on this occasion she was not really fit to contrive it.

            Seeing the possibility of a kitchen tragedy, and despite my passing hints and an offer to take over, she went ahead. The result was smoke and cinders.

            We were eating that evening in our garden shed. To cheer her up, I opened a saved bottle of our favourite upper Rhône red wine. This cheered us up to a state of laughter over the unhappy incident of the day and the pleasure we had taken over the Private Viewing.

            Then word came through from Christie’s on Margreet’s telephone/email that our bid for the Morrocco sketch book had been successful.

            It had been a day of tears that had ended in cheers.

Garden Update Summer 2012

Other than our herbs, our garden edibles have done well in the extended wet and cool weather.

            Runner beans have climbed up and over a bamboo frame from plastic buckets of soil. They are flowering in readiness to produce one of our favourite vegetables, when harvested at about 6" in length.

            Three varieties of tomatoes, grown from seed on a shelf in our kitchen window, have romped away after being planted out in the only strip of soil in our otherwise paved garden.

Charlotte potatoes, planted with six tubers in each of four buckets of soil have produced lush and decorative foliage.

            One bucket was upended on our marble garden table after six weeks growth and produced enough small potatoes for a couple of dishes.

            Another bucket, upended after two months growth, gave us enough potatoes for four dishes.

            These culinary delights were first eaten boiled – with butter, chopped mint and sea salt. The rest became part of salads.

            The only other edible crop was asparagus. From its large flowerpot a mere eight spears grew. Six we ate raw as soon as they were large enough to share, and two were left to grow into our annual asparagus tree – tied to a bamboo. This tree is very decorative with its delicate fronds and red berries.

            Colour in the garden has been provided by the pastel shades of busy lizzies (impatiens), scarlet flowers from the stem of a Bolivian begonia, geraniums (pelargoniums) from the holes in the side of a strawberry pot, lavender and roses.

            We may have been fed up with the weather, but the garden plants seem to have loved it.

Mushrooms and Onions

My very simple recipe for Sardines and Onions is one of the most popular on the web site/blog. Here is another like recipe that takes very little time to prepare and can be concocted well before being wanted at the table.

MUSHROOMS AND ONIONS

You will need:

Olive oil

Onion

Small button mushrooms

Pepper and salt

Vinegar

Granular mustard

A fresh herb

Cut up an onion finely and, in a frying pan, cook the pieces in plenty of olive oil until they reach the state of softness and transparency.

            Add lots of small button mushrooms, and turn them over in the pan until the mushrooms are completely covered in the oil.

            Add pepper, salt, a splash of vinegar, and a good dollop of granular mustard. Stir it all together. Tip the mixture into a serving dish. When cold, drizzle some olive oil over all.

Before serving, garnish with some chopped fresh herb – like parsley, mint, lovage, or thyme leaves.

Crusty bread at the table to sop up any juices will be appreciated.

Keep this dish simple to start with, then, if you tire of it, use your imagination to make a change by adding spices, like curry powder or chilli.

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