An Island In The Sunlight

A couple of books crossed the table recently, and as often is the case one leads on to the other.

First up was Islands, a grand piece of research by Canadian J Edward Chamberlain.  He takes us through time, from Formation to the Origin of Species; and around the globe, from Galapagos to Rockall, Jamaica to St Kilda.

From there he dips into island tales, inevitably touching on Defoe and Stevenson and so much more.  A short book, packed with goodies.

Another island beckoned.  As my addiction to Saturday night sub-titled drama grows I found myself in Iceland for a few weeks.  Unlike the Danish dramas it is particularly difficult to pick up the gist of the Icelandic without those words at the bottom of the screen.  But it managed to bring a series of darkness and gloom, long nights and harsh days, to brighten  a Scottish winter.

I came across Sarah Moss’ Names For The Sea during the school holidays, urged by Urchins to drop into a bookshop, for them of course.  Right from the opening pages I knew I was going to enjoy Sarah’s tales.  Planning to move the family to Iceland for a year, and arriving at the same time as the IMF, she packed some essential boxes.  From the kitchen came the sort of ingredients that have the drool rising, from pomegranate syrup to sumac, cumin too; and the one box of books allowed left thousands on the shelf.  Instantly appealing.

And so to Iceland we go, family of four, children young, for a year.  Long summer days; hot pools; long dark winter; unpronounceable names; and an economy in a bit of a crisis.

We learn early on that our guide is a Professor of Creative Writing, raising expectations of the read in store.  She is teaching in Iceland for a year, including on travel writing.  Higher still.  She does not disappoint.

Between taking the job and arriving the crash of Icesave has done untold damage.  The purchasing power of a local salary makes much of the little that remains in the shops unaffordable, and immediately the family is on the back foot, whilst trying to integrate and to learn.  But they are welcomed, and help is at hand.

The boys pick up the language, as their parents struggle and the locals revert to faultless English.  The cycle of the seasons rolls on and light becomes dark; layers added to the clothes.  Eventually walking and cycling is impossible and they succumb to driving.  It seems that indicators are surplus to requirements on the city free-for-all.  The lava roads through the hills bring other challenges.

There are sagas to hear, and knitting to marvel at.  And there are elves and hidden-folks which makes me think of a dear friend who would love those tales and pick up those vibes.  The local customs are different, from speaking on the out-breath to food; from studying to raising families.  The Yule Lads sounds to be my sort of winter festival.

During those post-crash years Iceland suffered, as foreign currency mortgages became unaffordable, and the diet went back to local produce with limited imports within the purchasing power.  But from there the country grew, as we find out later.

As the time on the island draws to a close there is another event.  Remember The Ash Cloud?  Well that keeps people stranded, visitors away, departures delayed.  Eventually the family gets back to England, to move house again, from Canterbury to Cornwall.  And as the summer tourists flock to the south west a holiday is due, and back they go to Iceland; to old friends and familiar places, to parts unvisited too.  The boys lose the language as quickly as they picked it up.  But they have purchasing power this time, and prices are affordable.

I think I’d like to spend time in Iceland, and certainly enjoyed reading these well-told tales of the Moss family’s year.  Could you do it, if you had the right job opportunity?

So with islands to the fore, and dreams of summer, I’ll sign off with the current ear worm;  enjoy The Island:

 

Love Cake

Most of us do, but this is a love cake, Persian Love Cake, and it comes from Yasmin Khan’s The Saffron Tales, popping up on t’interwebby.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we have to make room for The Saffron Tales before long.

Boy Urchin it was who prompted a wee spell with the mixing bowl, keen to extend his lessons, or more likely keen to eat cake.  It’s largely his own work, finished off before breakfast.  Sadly I’ll have to wait until the school bus returns before sampling, so no tasting notes just yet.

Firstly, as always, the essentials:

200g unsalted butter; 150g caster sugar; 4 eggs; 12 cardamom pods; 100g plain flour, sifted; 275g ground almonds; zest and juice of one unwaxed lemon; 1 tbsp rose water; 1 tsp baking powder; pinch of fine sea salt.  And for the drizzle topping – 2tbsp caster sugar; juice of half a lemon; half tbsp rose water.  Finally the icing and decorations – 150g icing sugar; juice of a lemon; handful of pistachios, roughly blitzed; scattering of rose petals.

Pre-heat oven to 160C/Gas3.  Grease and line a 22cm springform cake tin.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter and sugar, then when thoroughly combined beat in the eggs.

Place the cardamom pods in a mortar and work with pestle.  Discard the pods and grind the seeds finely before adding to the mixture, along with the flour, almonds, lemon zest and juice, rose water, baking powder and salt.  Mix well.

Pour the mixture into the cake tin and bake for 45 mins, checking the middle before removing.

By the time the cake is due out you will have prepared the drizzle topping.  Melt the caster sugar, in the lemon juice and rose water.  Put the hot cake on a wire rack, still in the tin, and poke holes over the surface with a cocktail stick before drizzling with the syrup.

Once completely cool make the icing and spoon over the cake before finishing with the pistachios and rose petals.

Wait patiently for school bus.  Go on had a bit of love cake to the smiles round the kitchen table when the family gathers for tea.  It’s as easy as it sounds.

A Landscape Without Raptors Is An Unnatural One

Those are the words of James Macdonald Lockhart, from his first book, Raptor.  Anyone who has delved into the pages of recent best-seller H is for Hawk, discovered the writings of such as T H White and J A Baker, or enjoyed with me Conor Mark Jameson’s Searching for the Goshawk, will love this book.  Lockhart takes us the length and breadth of the country and introduces us to all of the 15 birds of prey that grace our skies.

He is guided by the earlier works of his grandfather, Seton Gordon, who’s Days with the Golden Eagle was recently republished, and more so by the wanderings and the writings of William MacGillivray, from the first half of the 19th century.  I’ll find out more about MacGillivray later.  He walked 838 miles from Aberdeen to London, taking extensive notes of the flora and fauna along the way.  Later he became a contemporary of both Audobon and Darwin; in short an expert in his field.

With MacGillivray as his main guide, though not alone as a 17 page research bibliography confirms, Lockhart takes us from windswept Orkney to sun-kissed Devon, meandering far and wide, spotting hawks and eagles  and telling us much more.

On the trail of the red kite in Wales he reminds us that a couple of hundred years ago one of the perils faced by the egg collectors of the day was the threat of half-killed adders in the nest.  He confesses to a touch of cryptozoology – no I didn’t know either, but it’s the study of hidden animals, the search for creatures that may not exist.  Birds of prey may, at times, seem just as elusive.  MacGillivray’s Descriptions of the Rapacious Birds of Great Britain might be interesting.

Here at Grasshopper Towers the buzzard is an everyday presence, often mobbed by crows.  I remember vividly a golden eagle, grounded at the roadside by torrents of rain, on that memorable day with the BBC’s Mark Stephen and Helen Needham.  I’m told there may have been a hen harrier on the roof; the kestrel too hunts the fields regularly.  But other than the splendour of red kites, either in the hills of Wales or further north from here, raptors have remained elusive.

That said I haven’t watched the way Lockhart watches, spending days in hedges, on cathedral roofs, or anywhere else his prey may be likely to appear.  More often than not he spots something else, and is off on another tangent.  But MacGillivray leads him on.

He gives us a hugely enjoyable read, a book well worth a place on the nature shelf, and inspires us pay more attention to what goes on all around.

One for the children

When can I learn to cook?  A plaintive call across the dinner table.  But not from Girl Urchin, oh no, for she’s quite happy with mixing bowls and beaters and licking chocolate spoons; no this was her brother.  He’d been more than a kitchen assistant for his sister’s recent easter cake – and I’m in big trouble for not getting a picture of that one and a recipe down for you.  Not content with making a cup of tea and putting milk on his cereal, he’s looking to do a bit more.

Chocolate Butterfly Cakes.  A good place to start, and one that involves some finger-licking bowl cleaning.  It also comes with more trouble for your host as the accompanying picture here is straight from the book.  There is a photo of the end result but it remains in the camera, which is now heading off to the Northern Wastes, leaving a period of quiet reflection here at Grasshopper Towers.  And they’ve taken the cakes with them.

Anyway, let’s start with the list of the necessary:

8 tbsp. soft margarine; 100g caster sugar; 150g self-raising flour; 2 large eggs; 2 tbsp. cocoa powder; 25g plain chocolate, melted; icing sugar for dusting.  And for the filling 6 tbsp. butter, softened; 175g icing sugar; 25g plain chocolate, melted.

And the instructions, ideal for your average 10 year old who of course weighs and measure precisely:

Put 12 paper baking cases in a muffin pan, or 12 double cases on a baking sheet.

Put the margarine, sugar, flour, eggs and cocoa in a large bowl and, using an electric hand whisk, beat together until just smooth.  Beat in the melted chocolate.  Spoon the mixture into the paper cases, filling them 3/4 full.

Bake the cupcakes in a pre-heated oven, 180c/gas4, for 15 minutes or until springy to the touch.  Transfer to a wire rack and leave to cool completely.

To make the filling, put the butter in a bowl and beat until fluffy.  Sift in the icing sugar and beat together until smooth.  Add the melted chocolate and beat until well mixed.

When the cupcakes are cold, use a serrated knife to cut a circle from the top of each cake and then cut each circle in half.  Spread or pipe a little of the buttercream into the centre of each cupcake and press the 2 semicircular halves into it at an angle to resemble butterfly wings.  Dust with a little icing sugar before serving.

On reflection it might be best to make your cream slightly thin and to play with a piping bag – spreading thicker cream with a knife proved tricky.  But the end result was quite delicious and I suspect they may not survive the drive north to be proudly presented on arrival.

It doesn’t end there though, for I’ve had an assistant with the soup and the rolls.  Scraping the carrots needs a bit of practice but we’ll have him peeling the tatties before long.  Bread-making too is a longer project, after recoiling at getting the hands in and getting mucky.  But anything to do with weighing and measuring is fun; as is cutting the dough into rolls.  Measuring out the spices for the soup proved much more up his street than chopping the garlic.  Thankfully the soup and rolls have been left on the kitchen table, and I can guarantee there will be none left when they return.

One day we’ll have a meal prepared and presented by The Urchins, jointly and collectively, without squabbling, and packed with flavour.  All we’ll have to do is clean up the debris, after scoffing the goodies of course.  And at this early stage I’m pretty sure we’ll be well fed.