Public Speaking

 I have managed in a long life to avoid speaking in public - except twice.

The first time was for the editor of a newspaper where I had a weekly column. He asked me to give a talk to his club. I think it was called The Lions. I did my best to decline, but we were friends and the continuation of my column was important to me. So I agreed.

For my talk I wore a country-designed jacket that incorporated several ordinary pockets and two large poacher's pockets. 

I was expected to talk about wine, which was the subject of my column. So I started off with a bit about the nonsense of wine language by critics and the blurb on bottles, and that wine you like will almost certainly go with the food you like. This debunking approach to the subject was expected of me. 

Then I manoeuvred my talk around to food, singing the praises of a classic tomato salad, an ideal dish with which to start almost any meal. "You may," I continued, "like to know how to make it the way they do in France."

From one of my poacher's pockets I produced a large plate. Then from another pocket a thin bladed and very sharp knife, and from the third, a large tomato. These I placed on a tall stool that I had arranged to stand next to me.

I halved, cut away the firm centre, and then thinly sliced the tomato. There was a slightly astonished look on the faces of my audience.

Next from the pockets came two small pots of pepper and salt, then a bottle of home-produced vinegar, and one of olive oil. With these I dressed the tomato slices (being generous with the oil and frugal with the vinegar).

From yet another hiding place I produced a small onion and chopped some of it finely before scattering some of the small pieces over the tomato slices. 

Lastly out came a bunch of parsley and scissors with which to cut a sprinkling of the herb over the lot. 

That was the end of my "speech". There was laughter and much applause.

Then I produced every fork that I owned so that my audience could sample the result of my talk.

The second speech was in quite a different setting, and very much grander.

There were so many of my paintings in an exhibition at Guildhall Art Gallery, where other contributors were given single offerings, that I was asked to give a speech and formally open the exhibition in front of friends, critics and the public.

The show was a commemorative one concerning Tower Bridge. And as I had lived in dockland, painted and written books on it, I had many a tale to tell. But not liking the idea of a major speech, I practised and practised it for weeks beforehand. I even dreamed of it. I could think of almost nothing else. But I was committed and had to go through with it. Could I remember my 15 minute oration? 

Before my speech was due I was preceded by a Guildhall official who was very much an accomplished speaker.

My turn came. I was introduced on to the stage. I was off.

My tales were obviously popular and were greeted with laughter. Then I forgot my story plan and stopped talking, soon to take up again and reach the end, when I cut the tape and pronounced the exhibition OPEN. There was much applause. One listener thought that my mid-speech stumble was done on purpose for effect.

I hope never again to go through such an ordeal, but should I have to - at a wedding for instance - I have a story planned. It will be directed at the groom to illustrate that as much as we men love women, some take a little understanding at times. 

The Life of Trees

 In the garden of a house that I bought near Andover, in Hampshire, there were two larch tree saplings growing wild in an unsuitable place in the garden. So I moved them to an out-of-the-way spot where they could grow, in freedom without overcrowding or casting unwanted shadows. Though small, they were staked firmly and planted fairly close to each other.

When they had grown into real trees, one bore beautiful little blue flowers on its branches, the other none. So, presumably, they were female and male. 

When I last saw them from the nearby lane, they looked very grand, very tall, and very fine. I felt the pleasure of having become a successful larch tree matchmaker.

A friend of some years ago was dying of cancer. Before she died she turned strongly religious. She died.

Before that she gave us a small cutting of a bay tree. This was planted in a suitable pot and allowed to form a five foot high bare trunk with its fragrant leaves on top. 

Because she was so keen on God, we named her "Elizabeth's Tree" and formed the top into a cone shape, like an arrow pointing to heaven, where she presumably went.

Perhaps because of its position it thrived initially but went into decline. So I moved it, still in its original pot to another place in our small London garden. In doing so I pruned it with excessive vigour into a proposed ball-shape. This it loved and has now become a thick ball of aromatic leaves atop its bare trunk. It is a fine tree that enhances our garden in its new position.

I don't know if there is any religious significance in all this - me being an atheist and all. 

Waiting and Luck in the war

 In parallel with modern-day waiting, like for deliveries, taxis, post, queues and such, a lot of my war was  waiting, but on a larger scale, mainly for the nsext posting on my way to becoming a pilot. Tedious it may have been but, in looking back, it was often accompanied by good luck.

On returning from America to join the RAF in 1942 in a convoy when we were attacked by German U-boats, I was accepted into the AF, given a number and told to wait.

Just that I managed to get back to England instated and in one piece was luck. The RAF was much in need of pints at that time, but conditions for learning to fly in England were meteorologically not conducive for novices. So I had to wait for a pilot-training vacancy abroad where the weather was free of clouds.

Not yet in uniform, I took a job as a farm labourer to help, in a very small way, to feed the nation. And in doing this very manual work I came nearest to the enemy in the entire war. Weeding in the middle of a field one day, a German Ju88 twin-engined bomber flew low and so close to my head that I could see the pilot and gunner quite clearly. They were on their mission to bomb the railway station at Reading. That I am able to write this is that the gunner failed to pull the trigger and shoot me dead. That was a real slice of luck during a wait.

My next job was as a prop-swinger at the RAF Theale. Dangerous I am sure it was in starting aeroplane engines by swinging the propeller and falling back at the same time. But through good luck I not only survived but also had the luck to obtain flying experience in the second pilot's cockpit when it was available.

Wait over, I was at last in uniform and flying my first solo flight at RAF Shellingford, which consisted of no more than a farmer's grass field.  No luck was needed there as I now had some experience in the air.

The next wait was, I suppose, the most dangerous.

To give trainee pilots a taste of real combative action was to farm us out to operational RAF stations to experience the real thing. My first and most interesting posting was to RAF  Davidstowe Moor in Cornwall to fly in the second pilot's seat in twin-engined Warwick aircraft. Each sortie was to fly out over the Bay of Biscay to find and then drop a lifeboat to save downed aircrew. Whereas pilot, gunners and all were looking down at the sea, my job was to keep an eye out for German, four-engined Condors for which we were no match. I did see one before they saw us. We were slow and poorly armed by comparison, but escaped unhurt. That was a real stroke of luck.

After another wait, I was posted to RAF Skellingthorpe, in Lincolnshire. This was one of the airfields from which Lancaster bombers left to bomb Germany at night. I took the place of a rear gunner in an engine-testing flight up to Scotland and back. Except for the remote chance that a German raider could intercept us, it was a case of not needing much luck, but luck it was.

Another posting was to RAF Hornchurch and another wait, where I volunteered to mend slate roofs in   Plumstead that had been broken in German bombing raids. 

One of the first V2 rocket-propelled bombs to land in England fell within earshot. It was luck that I was a good distance away, just as I had been from Buzzbombs falling in central London when I was on leave.

At last the Hornchurch wait was over and I was off to America to become a pilot in Oklahoma. 

This was my third wartime crossing of the Atlantic by ship in a sea thick with Nazi U-boats. Not to have been torpedoed was real luck.

I write this just after the 75th anniversary of VE Day, the television pictures of which I found very interesting and joyful. Referring to my logbook I see that on that particular day in America we were given a day off, flying in formation the day before and in the Link Trainer the day after.

Pilots were no longer needed in Europe, but for the Americans the Pacific war was very much in progress. Fortunately there were enough of our skilled pilots to fly in the fight against Japan, so novice pilots like me were redundant. Luck again.

I returned to England by sea and became a Photographic Intelligent Officer until my turn came to be demobilised. My task held no risk as it was a desk and stereoscope job concerned with why the Germans had taken so many aerial photographs of oil installations in the area close to the north of the Caspian Sea. During this wait period I qualified to become a medical student but on release from the RAF it was found that I had TB of the lung (then incurable). So my luck rather ran out then.

I never liked having to wait so much in wartime.  But I did like the good luck that seemed to coincide with it.

And I have always thought that had I been born a year earlier I would almost certainly have been killed in flying operations over Germany, such was the mortality rate of aircrew. So perhaps all this waiting did, in fact, help to save my life. 

That's luck alright.

Crossing the Atlantic by Ship in War time

 I crossed the Atlantic Ocean four times during World War 2. Well, the last time was when the European war was over but the Pacific war raged, thus making the fourth Atlantic crossing a safe one.

In 1940, when I was 15 years old and at school, my mother heard of an American family who wanted to give safe shelter to an English refugee. Fearing a Nazi invasion and what went with it, she thought that one of our family should survive and asked me if I wanted to go. I did - and went.

THE FIRST CROSSING (10 days)

On the 24th of July 1940 I took a train alone from London to Liverpool, there to board a liner, The Duchess of Richmond, bound for Canada. We sailed right away.

I shared a cabin with three others, mentioning in my brief notes that there was a very pretty girl next door, that we were all seasick, Camel cigarettes were 7 1/2 for 20, and we passed two envoys at sea. After four hours navigating the scenic St Laurence River we docked in Montreal on the 4th of August 1940, where I was met by kind Mr and Mrs Killorin, who were to care for me in the USA.

So my first crossing of the Atlantic had been uneventful. Although German U-boats prowled the ocean, word had it that the speed of our ship offered safety. Anyhow, a Canadian destroyer kept us company as we neared Canada.

I noted briefly that it seemed funny not to be carrying a gas mask, no air raid shelters were to be seen, and that no one bothered with blackouts. Somaliland had fallen to the Italians. I was far from any conflict, in a peaceful environment and, surprisingly, in a very foreign land.

I met much friendship by those in the New World. Sent to Taft School, peopled by rich American boys, I did not fit in at all. Penniless, I sold magazine subscriptions in my spare time to have enough cash for ice cream and fizzy drinks.  An occasional censored letter arriving from England was my only contact with home.  Not being a smart American, I was sent to a trade school, where I learned how to draw teeth for cog-wheels.

Fortunately I got to know another misfit who played the clarinet and sculpted in wood. He lived nearby above his family's garage. His rather Bohemian life appealed to me. I treasured a friendship that may well have had a bearing on my future life.

At last I was old enough to return to England to join the RAF with a view to becoming a pilot. 

SECOND CROSSING (28 days)

I joined a three-island, Swedish passenger cargo ship, the Axel Johnson, in New York on the14th of June 1942. We sailed north up the East Coast of new England toward Nova Scotia, in Canada. The engine failed off Cape Cod, but we got going again, arriving in Halifax to have a new crankshaft fitted. We then formed up with around 40 other ships on the 29th of June to become part of a motley convoy to cross the Atlantic. Guarded by a Canadian destroyer, we set forth at the speed of the slowest ship (probably one of the old coal-burning vessels).

Having been fairly safe off the American coast, we were now about to venture through seas inhabited by active wolf packs of German submarines. The destroyer returned to Canada. We were unprotected, more so when we broke down yet again and the convoy pushed on over the horizon. But we got going and caught up with the rest. However, our position was now at the outside of the convoy, and thus vulnerable.

I returned for bed on the evening of the 6th of July. On turning up for breakfast on the 7th, there was much commotion. During the night we were attacked by submarines. The passengers and crew boarded the lifeboats and there were many explosions. I had slept through the lot. Many ships with supplies for the UK were no longer with us, presumably sunk with, I'm sure, terrible loss of life.

An English destroyer saw us into Liverpool docks on the 12th of July 1942. I noted in my diary that two years away was "a mighty long time". I was home and about to sign up for action.

THE THIRD CROSSING (9 days)

I was now in the RAF as the lowest form of human life and destined to complete my flying training back in the USA, this time in Oklahoma in the mid-west.

I sailed from Liverpool on the 30th of December 1944 in the New Mauritania as the airman in charge of  the fruit store. It was a cold job, but with plenty of fruit to eat after having experienced strict rationing in England. Again, our speed saved us from falling victim to U-boats, but had there been disaster, my chances of getting out of that fruit store would have been much like getting out of a safe. But all was well. We arrived in Moncton, New Brunswick, on the 7th of January 1945.

In America I was awarded my wings and, fortunately, not asked to join the war in the Pacific. There were many more experienced pilots to do that.

FOURTH CROSSING (6 days)

Now, as a pilot and officer, it was wonderful to be on a great ship. The Queen Elizabeth.  She had been turned into a grey troopship, adorned with no frills whatsoever. Now, with German U-boat captains having surrendered and been sent home, there was a great feeling of satisfaction and relief by all on board. We sailed from New York on the 4th of September 1945 and docked in Southampton on the 10th of September. This last stay in America had, for me, been a very satisfactory milestone in my life, and a fourth Atlantic crossing to savour.  

The last day of my week as cook (Sunday)

 I got up around 6 o'clock, glanced at the studio work in progress, dealt with ablutions and prepared breakfast before walking down the road to buy the paper.

I took breakfast, a dish which might vary from day to day, to Margreet in bed, where we read some of the paper and discuss the forthcoming day. If I haven't a new idea for breakfast, or leftovers to manipulate, we generally have toasted, home-made bread with butter and Marmite.

I go back upstairs to make a mark or two with pastel, then go down to do the washing up from the day before or even longer. This washing up will be of plates, glasses and bowls that will have been soaking in detergent water and thus almost clean already.

I peel potatoes for lunch and boil them for 10 minutes before adding them to the baking tin in which already lies half a free-range chicken coated in yoghurt, garlic and turmeric. The spuds are coated in oil (I use groundnut oil) and pepper and salted to be ready to be cooked in the oven later for lunch.

In the garden I take another look at the sport section of the paper and watch unseen zephyrs of wind moving individual vine leaves, and feel the draught from a bumblebee's wings. We both admire the runner beans - large, no longer for eating, but growing still for next year's seed and, in their dried form, for stews and finger-eating when boiled and coated with garlic and olive oil for "bites" with drinks. 

Margreet had returned the day before with lots of apples from her sister's garden which she peeled before I cut off the "meat". This went into a saucepan to be heated down to pulp with sugar and lemon juice. The pips, cores and skins went into another saucepan to be heated down with brown sugar and sieved to form a coating for the  pies.

Then I made the short crust pastry to line three tins (one pie to eat and two to give away). Into them went the white pulp, and on it was poured the brown, sieved juice. 

Actually I shouldn't have added any baking powder or sodium bicarbonate to the pastry as it rose too much when cooking, which forced up the pulp when hot and absorbed moisture from the pulp when cooling.

I peeled some home-grown shallots, given by Margreet's niece, and added them to the potatoes around the chicken.

It was time for a cold beer in the hot garden.

Oven on. the pies came out after 25 minutes to cool down, and the chicken later in time for Sunday lunch.

After lunch it was snooze time, before watering the plant pots that were suffering in the heat and take the kitchen compost bin down to empty into the large garden bin. To be emptied the following spring, the nicely smelling compost will improve soil quality and provide nourishment to plants.

I tried minimal heat under a frying pan to sear the green part of chard leaves in garlic and olive oil as "bites" for evening aperitifs, but without great success. I'll try again.

In the evening warmth we enjoyed a glass of cold white wine from Eastern Australia and tested an ordinary Rioja. Both were adequate, but not special.

Our supper dish was complicated. It started earlier in my week as a lovely beef stew with tomato juice as its liquid, became a curry, and finally for this evening a stew with stuffed vine leaves added. It was excellent although the vine leaves that I had stuffed a few days before were a little on the chewy side, being made with older, summer leaves. The stuffing was good, using Arborio rice, minced lamb, lemon zest, lemon juice and chopped mint.

We ate some of the apple pie, which was better than I thought it would be.

It was time for bed. I wanted to watch a Formula 1 Grand Prix on television, but racing cars just going around and around send me to sleep. And 95 years olds do need rest.

Tomorrow it will be Margreet's week  to cook. 

Toad-in-the-Hole

Historically, toad-in-the-hole is an ancient British dish. My Dutch wife had never even heard of it and, I imagine the French would turn up their noses at the very thought of toad-in-the-hole (despite relishing frogs' legs) because it is connected with that dreadful reputation of culinary ineptitude in Britain that was once the butt of international jokes. 

Toad-in-the-hole was a favourite of my youth.Now, because of a recently established tradition, it has become the expected main course when a friend is invited to dine with us each year on Christmas Eve.

The snag is that trying many varieties of sausage every year and not being as I really wanted it to be, it is only recently that this hearty dish of sausages in batter has become a total success.

This success is partly due to a piece in one of those coloured newspaper supplements where the cook/author had made a simple dish of it far too elaborately and time-consuming in preparation. But it had a most useful tip concerning the batter.

The search for a successful batter and how to cook it is not the advice once given me by a Yorkshireman, who said that it should be put together just before the dish was to go in the oven. That it should rest beforehand, learned from this article, would seem now to be essential. So make the batter at least an hour or more before cooking the toad. Let's deal with the batter first, based on my own pancake mix. The volumes are enough for two people, with possibly some batter not consumed, which can be heated up and eaten later. 

In a bowl put three and a half dessert spoonfuls of plain flour, a pinch of turmeric (for colour only and not at all essential) and a little salt. Whisk it together. Make a well in the middle and into it break two eggs. Break up the eggs with the whisk and slowly add a quarter of a pint of milk as you whisk it. The batter will be formed. Make sure that you beat out all the lumps. Put this batter aside to rest and, should you pass by it, give it another whisk for good measure.

Now for the sausages. Before it became fashionable for sausages to be filled mostly with meat and be rather solid, the old British banger was harder to find, blander, and made of finely minced pork, plenty of fat (lard) a few spices and a lot of rusk. I buy a packet of Richmond 12 Thick Pork Sausages. These complement the batter as the batter complements the sausages.

Now you will need a baking tin in which to put plenty of oil (I use groundnut) and, if wanted and available, some lard (make sure that the sides of the tin are coated as well). Add and arrange the sausages (two a person) on the oil. To cook the dish you will need to remember only two numbers 

- 20 and 200. 

That's it. That's all. 

Re-Cycling

We tend to think that re-cycling is suddenly of importance. In fact it was far more prevalent when I was younger.

In the late 1920s to early 1930s in the country, our bottles were always returned to the wine merchant who had delivered them beforehand. They were re-cycled.

After the war (WW2) I bought my wine from Berry's, Robert James, The Army and Navy Stores, but mostly from Lyons. These merchants chose their wines carefully, importing them in cask, as most did, and bottled them in the UK.  For example. Take J.Lyons (of Lyons Corner House fame) who had premises in The Hop Exchange, Southwark, London. They, like others, bottled from cask, corked, labelled and capsuled at this London headquarters. They had the knack, or expertise, of choosing extremely well. Their Chateau Cantanac Brown 1959 was the best red wine that I ever tasted, and, accordingly bought and stored as much as I could afford.

Those who dealt with these splendid people at The Hop Exchange, always returned the empty bottles. They had the labels soaked off and were washed in a great circular machine that made a lot of metallic, glass and water noises. The labels, usually supplied by the makers of the wine, were stuck on to the bottles by the hand of a lady who used cold water paste as glue (most did as bottles were used again, and the label thus came off easily). Capsules (tin/lead - this soft material prevented the bottle inadvertently chipping the rim of a glass), to cover the cork were, again, added by hand, before the bottles were stacked in readiness for sale.

The bottles were English heavyweight, with the diameter beneath the neck being greater than that near the punt. These had the disadvantage of having to be stacked one layer above another with a slip of wood beneath the lesser diameter end. This was to stop them from sliding forward and crashing to the floor. The cold water paste used for the labels enabled the wine's origins to be altered easily by just cooking them off in a bath of water. Then the bottles could be re-labelled (there were no rules then), as when plain Hock could lose its modest provenance and have the royal insignia label substituted for its grander consumption at the Palace. Hotels and restaurants did not have time for staff to select and re-cycle their empty bottles, so left them outside to be collected by an East End organisation, who sold the acceptable ones back to wine merchants and smashed the rest. They did quite well, as the bottles were free to them and they made good money by re-cycling those in demand.

I know this as I had imported a hogshead of Rioja from Bilbainas, in Spain, and needed 350 bottles. The re-cycling merchants wanted too much money for them. So I did what they did, and around 4 in the morning cruised the restaurants and hotels to select the bottles I wanted.

I was very lucky to have lived through the 1950s and 1960s before the wine departments at supermarkets really got going. It was a time when drinking the occasional bottle of really good Bordeaux from the most famous vineyards was within one's means, and minor chateaux claret was one's every day wine.

Then in came bulk wine, disposable lightweight bottles, supermarket abundance, and bottling abroad. 

As wine selling is now a major business, so the re-cycling of bottles for it no longer applies. Bottles are now just glass, possibly to be re-cycled but more probably buried as landfill.

But at least I did re-cycle wine bottles when it made sense and it really mattered. And there was something really nice about handling an English heavyweight bottle and knowing that something delicious was lying inside. 

Dealing in Shares

 I am innumerate - so much so that almost anything involving a number goes into one ear, gets mangled and scrambled somewhere in my brain, and does not reappear in an intelligent form.

We all have our strengths and weaknesses, numbers happening to be one of my major failings. But I am lucky by nature. 

Years ago an uncle started a factory that made hurricane lamps. I was told that he could flood the world’s markets with two weeks production.

The company had shares, and I must have been given or bequeathed some of them. I certainly never bought any. Once or twice we did get a modest dividend. So I viewed the shares as pretty well worthless and rather forgot about them.

I am told that private companies are run mainly for the good of the owners, so I never expected much from my holdings.

However, the present owner wanted to have all the shares held within his immediate family, and bought me out. With no skill whatsoever, I did well.

Robert Adeane, (later “Sir”) was a collector and patron of art and, I believe, Director of the Tate Gallery. He may have had a vote when the Tate bought one of my early dock landscapes for the Ministry of Works (now The National Collection) from the Leicester Gallery. He became a friend in Art School days, and when I told him that I was selling my ex-bombed-out house and going around the world to draw, he advised that I invest the money in certain shares, which I did. On my return a year later the shares had at least doubled in value. So I was able to build a studio house in the country. That very successful share dealing had nothing to do with MySky  skill in financial matters.

I had at least an hour or two to wait in a queue at Lord’s Cricket Ground to see a day’s play of a Test Match. Beside me was a man with whom I got on very well. As we were about to enter the ground, he said, in a loud voice: “I like the cut of your jib. Why don’t you buy some shares in my company?”

Something told me that the important part of dealing in shares was knowing when to sell. So I asked him and he told me.

A few years later when the target price had been reached, we sold and spent the money on a holiday in Sicily. We sent words of thanks to him from the magnificent open-air Greek theatre that overlooks the belching Etna volcano.

So, for someone with no ability whatsoever in dealing with numbers, I have, in a small way, done rather well with my share dealings - an occupation that I believe is best left to professionals.

Blue Paint

Our front door in London is coated with Oxford Blue paint. It is good paint, and one to be used with great care because it is so penetratingly blue, and thus hard to be rid of if falling unwanted on any surface. For that reason I handle it in surgical rubber gloves and with apprehension.

With it I aim to obtain that lovely crusty surface that adorns the streetside woodwork of Berry Brothers and Rudd, those venerable wine merchants in St James' Street, London, where the paint and overpaint may have been applied since the 18th century.

On a summer's day, when watching cricket, I sat next to a house painter who gave me the great tip of how to prevent a dried surface from forming on the top of the contents of a tin of opened paint by simply storing the closed tin upside down. This has stood me in good stead, that was, until the following episode.

After I last painted my front door, I stored the blue paint, for some unknown reason, not right side up and next to my household tools as usual, but with other paints in the loft that were all stored upside down. 

It was springtime, and possibly after our 2019 red wine harvest had passed its malolactic fermentation

in our loft, we decided to bottle the modest vintage. After using a ladder to recover the demijohns behind the pots of paint, I found that the lid of the blue tin had not been closed adequately and that some of its contents had not only leaked out but almost glued the lid to the boards beneath. So, when moving the pot, the lid stayed behind where it had become stuck, allowing what paint remained in the tin to flow out and all around the place. I had to think quickly. 

Perched on the ladder it would have been almost impossible to tackle the disaster on my own. So Margreet brought me some surgical rubber gloves, a basket lined with a refuse bag liner and countless balls of crumpled newspaper. So the mopping up was under way. Tins were wiped and moved, a bag of painting kit put on newspaper to dry, and the paint mopped up.

Bottling the wine had to be abandoned until a later date when the spilled blue paint would be dry.

And we managed it all with only a dab of paint spilled on my wrist and another on Margreet's hand - both of which were dealt with using white spirit.

It was quite a colourful saga I can tell you. 

What do you want to do ?

New mail

Food from two cultures

I count myself lucky to have a Dutch wife. And as we take alternate weeks to cook, another culture's cuisine dominates our menu ideas every seven days.
Margreet's approach stems not from personal experience, as her past in the Dutch Foreign Service deemed that others did the cooking for her. So dishes are as she remembered them from childhood, when shortages were part of post-war Dutch life - difficult times, but very Dutch food.
However, like birds making the same kind of nest as their parents, and with no instructions, so types of national cooking would seem to be inbred.
My first experience of eating her kind of food was as a supernumerary on Dutch coasters. And very basic it was. The cook, sober or not, kept a sort of missionary's cauldron full of meat chunks in liquid ("jus"). This was served up in quantity with boiled potatoes combined with the liquor in which the meat was cooked. Sometimes another vegetable came as well. But whatever was served, it was covered in grated nutmeg. That was about it, and not very satisfactory if the sea was rough.
When briefly ashore in Holland, the crew and I savoured those specialities that can make eating there a wonderful experience. This trio of delights were - and are - raw herring (when in season), smoked eel, best in skin and both eaten in the fingers, and pancakes (bacon ones being my favourite).
Generally, though, plates of food are piled high, often mixed, as once in a restaurant when all three courses were served at one time and on one plate.
Quantity is the Dutch theme - I suppose to fill their large selves and keep out the cold and the rain.
So Margreet, probably without really knowing it, piles the food high, often in such quantity (and mixture) that leaves plenty over to chop up and add to our ever-changing and excellent soup.
My own upbringing in England was one where I took little notice of food. At home we had a blackened anthracite-fired range that supplied hot water and cooking facility for the house day and night. On it, Constance, our maid, turned out staid and solid English fare of roasts, pies, overcooked vegetables, suet puddings, dumplings and cakes - the latter made with many eggs as my father had a chicken farm. We children could have what we liked for our birthdays and always chose roast chicken. In those days chickens were all free-range, ours roaming around our fields. Our choice was sensible English. We did not know much about fancy foods anyhow.
RAF food in the war was substantial and plain, changing abruptly in the great post-war freeze-up of 1947 when anything to eat was scarce, so much so that I contracted TB, probably through lack of it.
But revelations in the enjoyment of food were just around the piecetime corner when we were allowed out of our severely rationed country to reach France and eat as though the war had never happened. Café fare was served separately in small quantities, varied, unadorned, delicious and simple - the style of which I have tried to adhere to ever since.
So, roughly speaking, for now it is hearty and filling one week and light and simple the next.
This could hardly be bettered. Vive la difference!

Brushes with Farming

I was the son of a sport-loving farmer. I inherited his love of sport, but was farming in my blood?

After agricultural college my father went to Egypt (then a British Protectorate) to, I believe but not know, to teach how to irrigate the desert with Nile water.

The evidence he left indicated that he spoke and wrote Arabic.

When the 1914-1918 war was about to break out, he returned to England, joined his territorial regiment, became an officer on Salisbury Plain and was sent to India. From there he fought in the very nasty Mesopotamia Campaign, was badly wounded, and returned to England to recover.

He started a chicken farm.

I was born in 1925 and spent, I suppose, an ideal childhood of countrypersuits on that farm.

The great depression descended upon us. Cheap eggs from Poland destroyed the chicken and eggs business. So he abandoned chickens for mushrooms - without success. He was unaware of successful business practice, so times were hard for us. He died through being given the cure-all of the time - radium.

The 1939-1945 war came. I went to America and returned when old enough to join the RAF as a potential pilot. Having been enrolled I had to wait for flying training. So, with the views I could help with food production in that time of rationing and that I wanted experience in farming, I took a job as a farm labourer. The constant worries of weather, dealing with cart-horses, rather primitive machinery, cattle and all the rest, convinced me that a post-war future in farming was not enticing.

I obtained a job as a prop-swinger and gained enough piloting experience to know that I would make a good pilot and a poor farmer.

The war over and, seeing the kind of person applying for permanency in the RAF and some of the bloodiness of returning aircrew from raids over Germany, I chose medicine. But two bouts of TB put an end to that.

Living now in the country, I was befriended by a farmer well known for his skill in making a fortune from hard-nosed farming combined with journalism. We would meet almost weekly to drink red wine and swap ideas. Through his auspices I wrote for a national newspaper and conducted a Gardeners' World programme on my garden and vineyard for the BBC.

The thought of farming never entered my head again, despite watching television programmes of lovely people with lovely farms and friendly animals making a farming life seem so pleasant.

I had not found it to be such, and glad that I never chose it as a career.

Life in a Day (Part two, pm)

My afternoon job (pleasure) is to prepare food for our evening meal. It was interrupted today as I take, as a blood thinner, Warfarin (used also to kill rats - or did). A doctor at my health centre tried to wean me off it and on to a substitute called something like Rivaroxaban. This sent me to two stays in hospital because of constant and unpleasant bleeding. As soon as this new thinner was stopped - so did the bleeding. I have now returned to old-fashioned Warfarin, which unfortunately needs a blood assessment every few weeks. So the doorbell rang and my doctor, standing outside on the pavement, changed into a sort of medical space suit. She then came in doors just to jab my finger and take a little blood sample. She then put the finger-pricking device into our kitchen rubbish bin and returned to the pavement to disrobe and put her protective outer clothing into a plastic bag for disposal. I am no expert, but feel that the operation could have been conducted on the windowsill outside with less cost, trouble and risk of virus infection. But rules are rules, I supposed. And they must be adhered to.
I like to cook beans, and in these times of difficulties they seem to me to be a most important source of nourishment. From my supply of dried red kidney beans a quantity is soaked overnight in water and pressure cooked for 35 minutes. They are then used in such as soups, stews and chilli-con-carne. I make the chilli-con-carne powder by mixing in a bowl the following: 3 measures of powdered cumin, 1 measure of chilli powder, 3 measures of dried oregano, 4 measures of paprika, 1 measure of garlic powder, and 1 measure of salt.
First courses are often made of lettuce, garnished with sardines, tuna, or brined anchovies - for  visitors (in those days) the latter on little slices of bread fried in olive oil. Barely cooked mushrooms "a la Grecque" is a popular dish, as is cucumber or cooked beetroot in chopped shallot, oil and vinegar. One of our constant favourite hors d'oeuvres is tomato salad. This is simply sliced tomato, garnished with chopped shallot, pepper and salt, vinegar and olive oil and topped with (it should be chopped parsley) fresh coriander.
For a large chicken (in non-virus times I buy them from a Halal butcher in the market) my procedure is thus: I cut off the legs with thighs and bag them for the freezer for roasting, curries, and stew type dishes. I do the same with its wings, cut from the carcass with some breast meat. From the remainder I carve off one breast for roasting and the other for frying. The carcass is then broken up and pressure-cooked in water and spices for at least one hour - usually more with a stock cube or two. The stock it makes is strained and used for the start of or topping up of soup.
I had to make space in the rather too small deep freezer part of our drinks refrigerator for a chicken treated as above. For this I removed a box of fish fingers. These we enjoy with home-made mayonnaise. I have made mayonnaise for years and only once has it failed. I find that any temperature of the ingredients work together happily. In a small bowl goes an egg yolk and half its quantity of Dijon mustard. With a wooden spoon and stirring in the same direction I add a steady stream of olive and vegetable oil (I use groundnut - for everything). When the mayonnaise has reached the thickness desired, a little lemon juice is added and a dash of cold water. Job done - with ease and pleasure.
In the kitchen we have a lidded compost bin. When a bit heavy, this is emptied into the larger bin at the bottom of the garden. Compost-making is such a pleasure, with all compostable kitchen waste put to good use. Early each spring I empty the bottom part of this large bin of friable and plant-nourishing compost and distribute it around plants and soil in the garden - and all from unwanted waste.
Then there was the fruit bowl to top up. This bowl is covered with a plate, kept in the refrigerator, and contains any fruit in season, covered in spirit, sherry, vermouth or such. A spoonful of its contents makes a wonderful dessert. And it is a fine way to use up any old spirit that may have been given as a present and seldom used.
Which pretty well brings us to evening drinks time - always welcome and taken by us in the shed if the weather is warm. We like just a little to eat with our first glass of white wine, or Pernod. Most popular are crisp rice crackers with Roquefort beurre on top. This topping was always on café menus in my student days in Paris but now seems to have disappeared. It is simply Roquefort cheese with butter, blended with a fork. It needs to be taken out of the refrigerator well before use, just to soften it.
Other festive drinks are taken in our shed are Champagne cocktails. These are simply put together on a large lump of ice, adding a measure of Cognac, four or five dashes of Angostura bitters and topped with any sparkling wine.
In our shed it is food, drink, radio music, laughter and talk before the routine of retiring, television, pill-taking, reading, ablutions (don't forget the bidet) the undoing of the bra and sleep until the early morning. As usual it has been quite a day.

Life in a Day (Part One, am)

Even with people we know well we are unaware of their activities from waking in the morning to sleeping at night. Except for the ablutions part of the day's routine, an old artist's day might be of interest. So I made notes on a day's activity which I will now try and put together.

From the very early hours I lie in bed and think of the present painting and possible writing, waking and possibly rising at around 6 o'clock - nearer 5 in summer. From my bed I have already listened to the local church clock and from its sound and resonance guessed the wind direction and air clarity.

In dressing gown I go to my studio at the top of the house to look at the previous day's painting (actually pastel) and stand by the window for some time looking outside.

I have always been keen on the weather, especially since my days as a pilot when one's life could depend on it. I look at the clouds, condensation trails left by passing aircraft, rain, wind direction, wind speed, the direction in which aircraft and birds are landing, birds sorting out their territories, signs of frost, people's clothing and visibility. I might then do a bit of art or writing (like this). It is a wonderful time for me - no noise, no interruptions, clear thoughts (hopefully) and clear air.

Then it is ablution time. The bidet is a wonderful object. When one has used them one wonders how you could ever have done without them. This particular model came from a near neighbour who thought them to be disgusting and was throwing hers out. I took it and had it plumbed in. 

As I always cut my own hair, I check it, and cut off more in hot weather. Then I dress, take my pills and fix hearing aids - matters that arrive with old age.

Getting breakfast comes next. On my way down I check the water level in the vase in Margreet's shower toom. I aim to always have a flower there in a vase that is narrow at its top, so the water level drops fast.

There is tea to be made in excellent Dutch insulated tumblers, and toast, made with our own bread on to which I try and vary flavours. But Margreet likes Marmite on her toast, or inside Arab bread. I might then fry my toast in olive oil, or fill the pitta bread with marmelade devilled eggs, bacon or sausage. I have just made pancakes out of some leftover flour from coating fried chicken the night before.

Actually it made four pancakes, two of which we had for breakfast and two were wrapped around cheese, later to become lunch. Today there is cooked batter left over from last night's toad-in-the-hole. I heat it up a little in a frying pan and spread some Marmite over it. I like to make a surprise breakfast for Margreet every so often.

Another lovely breakfast surprise is clear tea with slices of our own lemons, harvested from the garden. When cut, a lemon will scent the air all around it. 

As for that toad-in-the-hole, I have, at last mastered it. For two of us the batter should be made at least an hour beforehand and consist of 3 1/2 dessert spoons of plain flour, a pinch of salt, two eggs and 1/4 of a pint of milk. Beat it all together to rid it of any lumps - however small. Then, using the cheapest English type sausages that contain plenty of fat, rusk and some head meat, place them in a baking pan with plenty of oil and give them 20 minutes in the oven set at 200 degrees. Then, after giving the batter another whisk, add it over and around the sausages. After another 20 minutes your toad will be perfect. 

It is time to wake Margreet and we eat in and on the bed, waiting for the paper to be brought to our doorstep, now by another kind neighbour as the first one had to isolate because of her contact with a carrier of the Covid-19 virus. 

I might go into the garden to water it, keeping an eye on all plants and making sure that the large birdbath is full with clean water.

The paper arrives and we read it on the bed, which we have made together now that Margreet's arm is stronger. As she still can't reach it, I have to hook up her bra - and get a kiss for my trouble.

Aside: When I started this blogpost I thought that I could get it all complete in one piece. Now I see that it must be the first part of two.

For some of her relaxing time, Margreet has started a very complicated jigsaw of a map of Greater London. I am delighted if I can fit in a piece when passing by.

I have an interest in this jigsaw, as when finished (if all the pieces are there), I plan to turn it over and paint something on the reverse - as another jigsaw.

To provide a friend with a mother of vinegar, I delved into my red wine vinegar jar (3 litres) and found only a sulking mother at the bottom of it. There were no expected daughters to give away. So I tore off part of my mother and put it in a jam jar for her. I just hope that this gluey/rubbery piece develops into a proper mother and turns wine into vinegar, and that my own mother survives my surgery. The recipient collected her piece later.

I get lunch (normally we have one week each at cooking), but with Margreet's bad arm I am doing most of it. Lunch is always soup, which is kept on the hob and varies depending upon what leftovers go into it. This was Margreet's own make, and is delicious. With it we eat cheese (the Dutch cannot live without it). Today we added a home-made cream cheese, made with curds (from a mistake) mixed with salt and cream. It is a bit bland. Today it was wrapped in a pancake, as mentioned earlier. I have a small beer with lunch to help me snooze in the afternoon.

I will have done the washing up at any time, often singing my little protest song of "Putting away, putting away, dad is always just putting away" to clear away the dried plates and cutlery beforehand. It has been my lot in every household to have to "put away". The actual washing up I don't mind at all, which I do only having soaked everything well in detergenty water well beforehand.

After lunch we retire for a short snooze and I may read some of Hilary Mantell's third and rather overlong book on Cromwell. After Margreet's favourite show on television, I start the second half of my day. 

Garden under Virus

Had it been another time of war, I would have lifted the flagstones that almost cover our four paces by 16 pace London garden and turned it into an allotment. But at the present time of virus it will stay as it is. With this virus that no one seems to know much about, I might well have to make it more productive.
As the soil beneath the flagstones must be much the same as a 1' wide strip of soil up to one side that I first encountered 30 years ago, it would take even more compost from our excellent bin to get it into a condition that would grow anything at all. Thirty years ago this strip of soil was black and dead from absorbing years of coal-smoke-laden pollution. Now, thanks to our compost, it is light and friable. So I would have to work hard, possibly turning the recovered soil into a potato patch at first, to be able to use it productively.
As it is, I continue to grow flowers and trees in pots, some stacked high on occuloni and ironstone bricks once used to store heat, but culinarily unproductive.
On the north-facing wall, where a flowering quince is doing well in a space where a flagstone has been lifted, I have now planted shallots and garlic - in the hope that they will survive and grow without sunshine.
Some rocket that lasted the winter is our only green leaf vegetable. Its leaves are barely enough for a very small salad, but its simple four petalled flowers are a delight to the eye and insect life. For herbs we grow the flavourings of mint, rosemary and bay leaves to enhance the repertoire of our cooking.
Our lemon tree would not contribute much in a pandemic emergency, but the fruit, when harvested and freshly sliced, exude the most wonderful aroma and taste, and then become just an ordinary sliced lemon by the next day.
Above all, and of most importance to us, are runner beans. We make much of them as they climb up vertical bamboos and over a "roof" of the same material. I grow them from seed gathered the previous year in pots on the kitchen windowsill, and then plant them out when they are able to climb unaided.
We eat their large crop initially as 4" beans, only top and tailing them before giving them five minutes in boiling water. They are usually served with butter and garlic, and are a real treat.
Each year we purposefully miss picking some of the runners that would normally need stringing and chopping. We let them rip. As long pods containing large fat beans, we harvest them before they start to rot on the vine, and then dry them on racks in the kitchen. When crispy dry they are podded.
These dried beans are eaten in the winter after an overnight soak and 35 minutes in the pressure cooker. Eaten as a first course with, perhaps chopped shallot and vinaigrette, they also find their way into stews and soup. As for taste and texture they are as good as beans get.
And what do we drink with our produce? Red wine, of course, and from our own vines.
In an emergency I would return to the configuration of our predominately Triomphe d'Alsace vine that covered our arbour and garden walls. We once made 66 bottles from this arrangement. But now, because of age, I fear I have reduced coverage to just the arbour, and make but a dozen or two bottles of red from it. But it is excellent wine, known by others as Hammersmith red, but to us - just our red wine. If the virus takes over, we have plans. 

"Mothers"

We make our own vinegar with a "mother", using a 3 litre, wooden-tapped jar for red wine vinegar and another like jar for milder vinegar. Both vinegars are superior to anything you could buy.
Nowadays I wait until the red vinegar is sharp and the cider one soft and easy, then bottle one and a half litres of each in various shaped bottles for home use and gifts.
I write on this wonderful practise as a friend has just asked for a "mother".
Mothers produce daughters who become the new mothers. I have to dispose of the old ones every so often to keep them from clogging up the tap. I have to roll up my sleeve to do it, delving in and selecting the old for disposal.
To select a gift sample I was surprised to find only one mature mother - sulking at the bottom of her jar. Perhaps I had neglected to feed her with fresh wine. So I had to act the surgeon and tear off part of her body.
I now hope that the gift piece will generate vinegar and produce daughters as it should, and that my own crudely torn mother will recover her normal circular shape and virility. I have faith in her. 

A Virus Day at Home

At the time of writing we have no idea about the Covid-19 virus and how it will affect everyone's and the earth's future.
Already it has altered nearly all of our lives.
Because of age and health issues we have self-isolated, but for how long? What one can say is that for many people life has worsened a lot. We consider ourselves to be among the lucky ones.
With our 8 pm Thursday recognition of all those fighting for other people's lives, we have not only clapped hands and rung bells, but have met at our door, in a deserted street, and keeping our distance, new friends from the vicinity and exchanged ideas and gossip with neighbours.
Entrance to these open formations is simply to arrive with a glass and a bottle - that is, if you are allowed out.
Our house is not as clean as before because our once-a-week cleaner also has had to self-isolate, but the garden, where we weed, trim and exercise, is as smart as it has ever been.
One imagined that there would be less lawlessness in the present circumstances, but a disguised bottle of Champagne, left on our doorstep for half an hour as thanks for the kind lady who delivered our newspaper, was stolen. It seemed to be an inappropriate misdemeanour in these times of extra friendliness and consideration.
Some modest stores, kept by us for a possible far off emergency, now remain untouched as, because of our priority we have been given a supermarket delivery slot. The "alternatives", supplied because of shortage, have only added to our interest and imagination.
If it really ever comes to the pinch, dried sausages (pemmican) that have hung in the kitchen for some 30 years as real emergency rations, will be consumed as last resort nourishment.
Garden colour, in the form of emerging roses and pelargoniums, brighten the landscape seen from our octagonal glazed shed, but the usually bought seedlings of Busy Lizzies and New Guineas will be missing from it this year.
For some reason there has been a shortage of bird life in the garden this spring, but there are plenty of cantankerous goldfinches and large wood pigeons clinging like trapeze artists to bird feeders to amuse us. They have become garden mobiles. 

Hair Clips

We are self-isolating during the plague of Covid-19 virus. For me life is almost as usual with art on the go, writing, cooking and mucking about in our small garden, which has seldom been as neat and tidy.
Margreet has embarked on a horribly difficult jigsaw puzzle of Greater London.
Due to age and lung problems we have managed at last to obtain a supermarket delivery slot. So we have enough to eat and drink.
Just before we voluntarily locked ourselves in, as we were all told anyway, Margreet wanted a hair clip - one of those multi-toothed, fake tortoise shell, sprung clips. Primark sold them, not singly, but many on a card. She bought the cardsworth - at the expected cost of a single clip.
At that time I was sealing up partly used plastic packages of such as dried beans, frozen peas and other things, and clumsily using large paper clips to do it. Then along came those hair clips. They have turned out to be quite wonderful for the clipping together of partly-used plastic bags. I recommend them. 

Bell Noise

In self-imposed isolation to, in turn, isolate the Covid-19 virus, it was time to show how appreciative we all are of those who risk their lives to save others. It was 8 pm o'clock on a Thursday evening that we ventured to open our front door to clap - not that many would hear us but the gesture was a good one.
As we only clapped our hands, a TV presenter living nearby was making far more noise with the help of kitchen utensils.
So when the following Thursday came around, I intended to make more sound, this time with a bell from the garden, used to tell birds in freezing conditions that food was being put out for them.
And true enough, my bell made a wonderful sound. But the handle had rotted away, and after a few rings, I was left with the handle in my hand and the bell part rolling down the road. I de-isolated myself to retrieve it.
It is a strange bell, with the striker hitting the inside and the bell itself rocking on a now rusted and broken spindle in the handle - a double action. So how to mend it? Difficult.
I tried to rejuvenate the old handle with nylon cord, waterproof glue and bits of wood. It was not possible.
So I cut a handle from some broomstick-size dowel rod, used a bow saw to cut a wide groove in one end, and drilled holes to accommodate a brass screw that would pass through the wood and a hole in the bell's casting. Then it was a case of adding glue, inserting the casting and screwing it all together.
Now it is just a bell, screwed and glued to a painted handle. It is certainly not as fancy as before, but it makes a good sound and will, I hope, last for many a "noise of appreciation".

Wine Blends

I have been writing on wine, growing grapes and making wine for some years. Many wines are blended at source, so we blend wines as well - mainly in a two-bottle carafe.
In our last virus-related delivery slot some "near" substitutes were included, one being a recently-harvested Australian Shiraz. We found that it was too sweet for pleasurable drinking.
In our bin of "daily wines" was the final bottle of Hammersmith, Triomphe d'Alsace red of our 2010 vintage. This we knew to be a bit too dry for pleasurable drinking. The blend of the two was excellent - most pleasurable.
When so much blending goes on in foreign wineries, why are we, as customers of it, so loath to, in our turn, do some blending as well? We should. 

Mistletoe

It is usually with apprehension that I have written in past blogs on my desire, since childhood in the country, to establish mistletoe on an orchard tree. All my attempts had been failures.
Now I have come to the final episode of this saga. It goes like this.
Trying to get mistletoe to grow on either or both of my London apple or pear trees in pots has been a constant quest, but a fascinating one.
In about 2008, I used fresh mistletoe seeds from Christmas decorations, forcing the berries into the base of fruit spurs, using tape, and combinations of string, glue, rubber solution, roofing sealant and earth. Hoping for a sign of any "taking", I had no luck. I tried the same in 2009 - still no success. I gave up.
In 2010 I was passing a rubbish skip in March and saw a bunch of discarded mistletoe that was covered with dried-out berries. Why not try them?
Using what I thought was the most natural-looking method, I tied them in to the base of many spurs, using string, rubber solution and earth. This surgery blended in well with the trees' bark and was almost invisible. 2011 came and went. 2012 passed. I had failed again. I gave up once more. 2013 came around, and to my utter disbelief a mistletoe sprout appeared at a topmost spur on the apple tree. We drank Champagne. For me it was a gardening triumph.
Next year, 2014, another sprout appeared halfway up the tree. And in 2015 a third growth appeared low down.
But there were no berries to be seen despite the flower-like new growth at the tip of each twig. However, in some 12 years I had achieved success. That was enough.
Then, just in time for Christmas in 2019 two berries appeared on the lowest bunch of branches.
I'm so happy, and rather pleased with myself.