The Spirit of Place

We end the literary year on a high, and not just physically on the tors and the moors of Cornwall where I found myself again, just a few weeks after William Atkins took me to Bodmin.  For my guide this time was Philip Marsden, an author who rarely fails to bring magic through his words.

In Rising Ground Marsden explored his native Cornwall; A Search for the Spirit of Place.  It was a time when his family were settling into a new, but ancient home, and when the family home his parents had occupied since Marsden was a babe, was changing hands.  So there are some deep and personal moments to be shared.

But in the main he is taking us through Cornish history; walking us among the standing stones, the circles and the barrows, and the millennia past.  This is not the Cornwall I remember from thirty plus years ago when I sought little but sun and fun, but it is a Cornwall I’d like to explore now.

There are pagans at the Admiral Benbow; villages under the seas; stones lined up with stars and with rising suns.  And there are legends.

The narrative is peppered with the lore of the land, the language of the place as it once was.  And the text occasionally takes me back to some of Marsden’s earlier works, from his younger travelling days, to far-flung spirits.

We meet the old worthies of today, and learn of their ancestors.  We visit places no longer lived in, and learn of the times they were.  And we avoid the surf schools and the artists.

Is Land’s End a-calling?  I recall it is another windy cliff, the tat of the tourist trade, and seriously underwhelming.  I might just look around with fresh eyes.  And I might just take that long road to the south west again one day.  It’s been a long time.  I’ll take Rising Ground with me if it ever happens.

I am not alone

… in my morning walk in the gloaming, across the garden to the chicken run.  It is a walk I have done in all weathers, and this past week has been no exception.  I can trip over frost-hardened molehills, or squelch in the mud; gaze at the stars sparkling as dawn is rumoured, or bow my head against the buffeting wind. The wind suits them best, and I watch for a minute or two.

One day I may have been wakened enough, and had the foresight, to be armed with a camera.  It’s the rooks; though there will be jackdaws too, but in the gloom they are all but wraiths.  They rise from that stand of old Scots pine across the way; rise from woods in the lee of the wind.  And they play. We can leave the starlings to their murmuring, for the rooks do nothing quietly.  But they do flock and they rise and ride the currents, filled with joy.

They settle again on the canopy, then rise again.  The group splits, some on the dead braches of the beech, the main host in the pines.  There is quiet, but it does not last. Another gust and they are off again, swirling, massing, calling.  Black wings, grey skies.  I try to count – twenty in that group; ergo a couple of hundred in total, probably much more.

And off they go again, dipping and rising, swooshing; swirling across the fields and back again. Flocking, resting on the wires, twisting as one, and all the time calling; planning the day’s feeding no doubt.  The chickens call impatiently, and I tip the pellets into the feeder, closing the door behind me.  I trip over a cat, for they are always first fed; soon it will be my turn, the coffee is brewing.

There are times we curse the scarcity of light in the winter, those few hours.  But when dawn is delayed, and it nears at chicken-feeding time, I get to watch the rooks, and to listen.  Oh if The Urchins made such a racket they’d hear from me alright.  They’ll be back soon, but for now it’s just me and the rooks.

It’s that time of year again

The land is gripped in frost; the ground yielding nought to the peck of the chicken.  And the stars are bright, and clear; it might even be telescope time, but for one thing.

For it is that time of year when The Genealogist takes The Urchins off the to The Northern Wastes.  Some of us may be partied out, but there’s more fun to be had, more feasting and more presents.  As I gaze upwards I realise the laptop with the software that brings the stars to our screens is away with them.  And for once she has a genealogy project to deliver, a surprise for Floosie’s half-century.

So it is quiet at Grasshopper Towers.  The cats and the chickens are fed; the bird-table groaning with stale pancakes.  And did you know that two out of three cats turn up their little pink noses at king prawns?  They’ll need eaten up.  Oh well.

Before all those festivities started my dear friend The Queen of Hearts had brought my attention to a recipe.  I’ve been looking for the occasion, and perhaps the Return of the Brood may be the time.  I was convinced that the attraction to said QofH was in putting four birds on one platter, for she and The Knave have been broodier than most.

But then I went to the recipe, and drooled.  It comes from that man Yotam Ottolenghi, whose fare we have been sampling of late.  Rather than our favourite cookbook this one comes from his website, and that is a site to bookmark, and to return to often.

I’ll make this with just one chicken, but the flavours it promises have me very impatient, as of course I was anyway for the end to my solitude, but this is one to savour.  We will have sumac-marinated chicken stuffed with bulgar & lamb.  I’ll post the results of my efforts, with recipe in due course, but if you can’t wait pop over to Ottolenghi, and dribble.

But we can’t feast on just chicken can we?  They’ll have had a long day on the road, and be tired and hungry.  We’ll need to break bread.  And just as my fingers recover from what seems to have been a daily battering on a floured surface I come across a recipe for a focaccia to surpass all others, and there’s not a sprig of rosemary or a whiff of garlic around.

The bread is laced with cumin and coriander, mint too; and chilli flakes, sumac and nigella seeds.  Too good to miss out.

It would be a shame not to finish with something sweeter, and ideas of a little banquet take shape.  There is cake to be made too.  One with an ingredient list and flavours to match what will have gone before.  In the mix will be almonds and coconut; vanilla and carrot.  There will be pistachio nuts and cinnamon, a drop or two of rosewater.

These last two dishes come from the latest addition to the Kitchen Bookshelf, a volume from the festive stocking.

Persiana is packed with goodies and brought to you by Sabrina Ghayour.  It might get well-thumbed very quickly.

So my intention is to present a menu of:

Eastern-style focaccia

Sumac-marinated chicken, stuffed with bulgar & lamb

Spiced carrot, pistachio & almond cake, with rosewater cream

Wish me luck.  All going well I’ll post comments, pictures and full recipes.  Until then I’ve got my lentil soup to keep me warm.  Now away and eat your cereal.

Rudolf

Yes I know it’s that time of year, but it’s not the furry one with the red nose, oh no.

For too long I’ve been marooned in Paraguay, having opened the intriguingly titled At The Tomb Of The Inflatable Pig, which tells us of John Gimlette’s travels in Paraguay.  It’s one of his earlier works but more recently Gimlette’s gained some plaudits, and prizes, with his Wild Coast being the Dolman Travel Book of the Year in 2012.

It took me a while to get round Paraguay and at times I considered setting it aside for a while.  But once he escaped the city and headed for the boondocks, he began to meet some interesting folk.  For Paraguay has been an escape for generations.  There are Aussies who now can’t speak English, and names redolent of the Scottish highlands whose ancestry is all but lost.  And there are the Welsh; and the Germans.

It was when Gimlette found himself in a German enclave, and on the trail of Mengele and others who should have been shot, that I knew where I was going next.

Hanns & Rudolf has been on the shelf for a year or so now.  It is a book that was subject of some discussion over at The Guardian’s weekly Tips, Links & Suggestions blog, a resource to be enjoyed and added to by all avid readers.  And I remember some posts suggesting some inaccuracies, some dissatisfaction even, but the time was right and in I delved.

Rudolf is better known by his surname, Hoess (not to be confused with Hess), and I have read his own narrative, forced out of him when, as Commandant of Aushwitz, he was awaiting trial.  Hanns was also a German, and a Jew.

The story is told by Thomas Harding, cousin of Hanns Alexander.  He takes us from the early days of both parties, through WWI and into Berlin, into the 30s and a changing world.  Hoess heads to Auschwitz, to create the vile cesspit it became; and Alexander saw his family broken apart and separated.  His father sold his medical practice, at fire sale price, and managed to get to London after paying the appropriate exit price.  Kristallnacht and Kindertransport join the world’s lexicon

Despite the reservations from contributors to The Guardian it is proving to be a good tale well told, and rips on at a pace.  That said the worst of the horrors still lie in wait for me, but I’m intrigued as to how it develops with Hanns’ quest to track down Rudolf, and What Happnes Next.

I’ll be sure to let you know.  But already I’m pretty certain this volume will find a place in the holocaust-related section.  This is no misery memoir to be avoided.

And as it happens it is a timely piece hereabouts, having waited on the moment.  For just the other day did not The Gamellawallah suggest a little trip, and Berlin as No 1 option.  It may happen, and if so it will be good.  There may be a tale to tell.  But it is The Gamellawallah…  I’d like to add another of those Meisler statues to the one from our last little jolly.

Meantime have a hugely enjoyable festive, and may your Bedside Table be groaning.  I should have some new reads to discuss in the months ahead.  If not there may be trouble…

 

Two Things

There are a couple of subjects that are close to my heart.  One is literature; the book, and the author and words.  And the other is food.  From time to time I mention one, or the other; occasionally both.

Today a book arrived in the post.  Yes I know we’re just a few days from the annual feast of over-indulgence.  And the wish for a few selected titles may just be fulfilled.  I’ll be sure to let you know what arrives.  But the book that was delivered earlier was a little extra treat; from me to me, and perhaps, with a bit of practice, to whoever draws a chair up to the kitchen table.  For it is a book of food.

In recent months we’ve been looking at the flavours of the Middle East.  Firstly with the current pride of the kitchen bookshelves, Yotam Ottolenghi’s Jerusalem.  At times I’ve taken those flavours, and the spices, to the soup pot that has become important in recent weeks.  And with my soup I do like some fresh-baked bread to dip in, and to mop up.

I’ve been making bread for some now, from the household loaf to be sliced, to various flatbreads of assorted flavours, rolls and soda breads.  Sometimes I’m happy to pound away with ingredients straight from a packet from the supermarket shelf; and at others I like to potter, with a variety of seeds & grains, or with buttermilk, fried onions, balsamic.  Either way flour dusts the kitchen, and the oven smells linger and spread.  There is something therapeutic about all that kneading and stretching, proving and rising, but I’ll need to practice that slapping down of the dough that Mr Hollywood says is good for it.

I gave mention a while back of an experimental bread, man’oushe, from Lebanon, which went down well .  There’s going to be more of it, for that is the subject of the latest book.  Man’oushe is more than recipes.  It is the story of street bakeries and of life.  We will be adding to Ottolenghi’s wonderful flavours with a few varieties from just a bit further north.  From the staple bread, to pies, and sweets, and all based on the same simple disc of dough.

The ideal cookbook has to be more than recipes and pictures.  I want the stories too; tales of the writer, of the flavours, of the life.  One foodie author who takes more than her fair share of the kitchen shelf space is Tamasin Day-Lewis; for she does it in stories, from the West of Ireland to the past.  Her Christmas Cake awaits icing and decoration, as usual with one or two tweaks.  Smart Tart was a grand title for her last work, brought to us from Unbound, where she has another volume currently crowd-funding at the moment, on the subject of picnic food.  There could some good ideas to stuff in the saddle bag when the sun eventually returns.

Ottolenghi too has mastered the art of tale-telling round his food; as did Pierre Koffman with his Memories of Gascony.  But with my current taste for the flavours of the region I’m delighted that Barbara Abdeni Massaad has brought to us the stories of the bread ovens, and the toppings, and the life of Lebanon.  I’m looking forward to working some fresh dough, and finding some flavours to match the soups.  Armenian Meat Pie, now that could be coming up soon…

Two names; One puzzle

Whiling away a spare half hour in a second-hand bookshop a volume caught my eye.  And it was not the word Afghan on the spine, but the two names.  John Fox as told to Roland Goodchild.  Intriguing.

I finally read the book, Afghan Adventure, enjoyed it hugely, and was left wondering who the two were, and why Fox didn’t just write it himself.

Now these chaps had a tale to tell, or Fox did, for he was there, the central character, or one of them anyway.  Take yourself back to India, the end of WWII, and the run-up to Independence.  The horrors that were to come with Partition were not on the agenda.  Or were they?

Major John Fox was a young officer with the British Army’s Special Investigation Branch.  In his team were a couple of Englishmen and eight Pathans.  They travelled in disguise, hair dyed, and turbaned, speaking only Hindu.

Karachi is where we start.  Even today these are dangerous territories; Baluchistan, up the Indus veering off before Peshawar to Kabul, through the Khyber Pass.

In 1945 the word was that arms were being smuggled, and the Indian population were concerned that these would be used against them once the British baled out.  Fox set out to find out more.  Firstly along the coast to Gidani.  Camel caravans unloading amidst the palm trees.  Crates of revolvers and more left for another caravan to collect and take north.

The wily Fox set off for Kabul, without permission, and with his tracking plane, the only contact with HQ, nowhere to be seen.  Through the Khyber and into the throng; create a diversion.  A cave filled with ordnance, an explosion, and an escape.  Then another caravan to waylay, ambush set.  More arms sent back to Karachi.

But Fox was after the Big Man, and knew who he was.  The arms were coming in on the coast, Gidani again, by dhow, the owners under threat.  And off he went again.  There was another dhow, out in the Gulf, and his captain would talk.  The chase, and the need to find and search as the dhow made for the safety of Oman’s three mile zone.  But Fox had got himself a destroyer, and another load of arms, and the evidence.

Back in Karachi he got his man, despite several attempts on his life including a cobra through the bedroom window.

Other details of the time and the place are not overlooked, from the officers in the whorehouse, to travel sickness on a camel – the latter being a sure way of identifying the right camel in the morning – and of course the hospitality for strangers in a village.

It really is a cracking tale, an insight to the type of army life we envisage in the sub-continent.  The book was published in 1958, a product of The Adventurers Club.  By then though the narrator was still under 40, having joined the army as seventeen year old in 1939.  So why did he not tell it himself; and who was Goodchild?  Did Fox have any later tales worth telling.  I’d like to know more.

And if you find this one on the shelf, priced a couple of pounds perhaps, pick it up.  You will enjoy.

Gie’s Ten Guitars

Stuck at home, slaving over a steaming broth pot, pummelling the dough endlessly, and making sure dinner was served just as they all walked in the door.  Still I could have been at other chores, filing in the office, or getting muddy with the molehills, but it was a warm kitchen sort of a day.

The soup came along fine, spoon just about standing straight as it cooled.  The bread was freshly risen defrosted (from last week’s batch).  And the meat was resting, before being attacked with the carving knife.  But where were they?  Dinner was to be served at 1.30, and ten minutes more had gone.  The tatties were past being boiled to perfection, and the peas, well…

More time, the meat more comatose than rested.  I’ll need to carve, to pour the sauce into the jug.  It was a fine piece of ham, and, cooked in vanilla maple syrup after a dusting with dark brown sugar, some apple slices round the side; it was looking and smelling just fine.  The cats were gathering, but where were The Urchins, and their mother?

While I was left with the chores they were off to play their guitars, the weekly lesson.  Mind you they do get another pluck at the strings, at school.  Girl Urchin had surprised her teacher by playing that old Andy Stewart number about Donald and his troosers.  He hadn’t taught her it, and neither had the Sunday tutor.  She did it herself, after learning the notes in her weekly glock session in class; then plucked out the same notes on the strings, in the right order, at the right tempo.  I hadn’t heard it being practised at home.  How did she do that, several folks mused.

The door opened, and in they came, with the gale and the hail hard on their heels.  The cats were still sniffing around the cooling meat.  Time to serve.

We got a Distinction, she grinned, waving a certificate in the air.  Exam results, from the previous week.  Boy Urchin too,  though singularly unmoved he was.  It was easy.  But first music exams, Distinctions for both.  The talent, it has to be said, all comes down the maternal line.  But the pride is shared.  There are times when they just take your breath away.

We’ll get then down to Sauchiehall Street yet, a bunnet on the ground for the change.  I might even sing along…

Cold day; Warm soup

My regular reader will know that soup has been featuring heavily these last few weeks.  As the snow and the hail lash the windows I can let you know of the warming little number that will fill the lunch bowl for the next few days.  It’s a variant of the old favourite, Carrot & Coriander, with a bit of a twist. And the after taste will tingle those tastebuds for just a bit longer.

As always we’ll start with what goes in the pot:

1 tbsp olive oil; medium onion, sliced thin; 3 cloves garlic, chopped; half tsp ground cumin; 250g carrot, sliced and diced; pinch saffron; tsp cinnamon; half tsp paprika; 30g rice; half tsp turmeric; parsley and coriander; half litre vegetable stock; pinch all spice; dollop yoghut; and half tsp ginger.

Planning for a few days I doubled the quantities, and for my taste added a spoonful of coarse-ground black pepper.

The instructions are simple, man-proof even:

In heavy-bottomed pan heat the oil.  Add the onions and garlic, sweat for a few minutes.  Add the carrots, paprika and all the spices, sauté for a few minutes.

Then add the stock and simmer for ten minutes or so.  Add the rice and cook until rice and carrots are cooked.

Reserve some of the rice as a garnish.  Add the lemon juice, mint and coriander.  (The observant among you will realise neither mint not lemon juice feature in the list of ingredients; it baffled me too.)

Blend to a smooth puree, garnish with rice, mint and coriander, and a dollop of yoghurt.

Now if like me you prefer your soup with some bread to dip in, let me recommend one of the current favourites.  Your local Tesco just might have a stock of a sour dough bread mix.  It’s dead easy to make, and worth the pounding as you curse Paul Hollywood.  But it’s fab in the soup.

Now if you like that one with a bit of spice, I might just let you know my current lentil recipe, which is on a similar theme.