… In which Mrs Raffald plies her |
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It was one former King of England, the unfortunate Charles the First, who defined for all time the nature of a Summer spent within these shores. ‘Three fine days and a thunderstorm’ was his description, and apt indeed it was.
Taking up my pen anew, and disregarding the passage of two hundred years and more, I find that in the year of our Lord Two Thousand and Seven the rain still falls in plenty upon England’s green fields. Indeed, the fields they be not so green at present, the rain having fallen in such very estimable plenty that the crops languish beneath many feet of reddish water, giving the country hereabouts the sense of being lost in the vastness of a great and dirty sea. The effect upon my kitchen of such an ample drenching is that the tree fruits have come upon us in such glut that urgency is required In times of deluge, all ripened fruits must be harvested at an instant, for they swell and crack, straightway rotting, with the sudden intake of quantities of rain. And yet the lack of any sunshine to warm their flanks means also that these bursting fruits contain but little natural sugar, so that the cook must put their keenest faculties to work in adjusting the sweetness of any such thing as should be prepared. First to my hand came the Morelloes, plucked from a small and friendly tree by the small and friendly Johnny Greenfinger, whose skill in supplying the table is unsurpassed by any I have known. These dark and juicy cherries give every appearance of sweetness, looking for all the world like the succulent giants produced by our cousins down in Kent. Yet a warning is in order! For the Morello or Mayduke variety yields only the most fiercely sour fruit, and these must needs be cooked with ample sugar before their exquisite and particular flavour may be enjoyed.
First I constructed some delicate tarts in the mediæval style, placing a quantity of these inside the freezer (a startlingly helpful device which brings the function of ice-house or underground produce store into the very pantry!) so that they may be consumed during the cooler months. The remainder were fallen upon by the ravening Johnny and several of his rustic friends, still warm from the oven, and liberally doused with cream. Their enjoyment was evident, but my pantry was by the feasting of the men much depleted. These tarts, made with a sweetened shortcrust pastry, provide an excellent means whereby any sharp-tasting fruit may be transformed with little labour into a delightful and nourishing treat. The cheese straws I then created with the scraps of sweetened pastry proved a delight to the children of the house, and further provided an inexpensive alternative to the thinly-sliced potatoes, deep-fried and salted, being sold to children all about these days.
Next, some several pounds of fruit remaining, I elected to prepare a delicious cherry jam. Sifting through my store of recipes, I chanced upon one favourite in which the cherries are combined with the red dessert gooseberry to create a greater bulk of jam than otherwise, and one in which the rich, fragrant flavour of the cherry is carried through the entirety, much improving the deliciousness of the gooseberries contained therein! The quinces, the apples and the later plums hang yet green upon the tree, and for this I am thankful! The young Mirabelle has this year yielded up its very first crop, and it was with some excitement that Johnny and I watched the fruit grow fat and red. So sweet and fragrant are these plums that the problem of bottling or cooking the fruit has barely been presented. The children were enlisted in their picking, and they smartly despatched a fair quantity before ever the fruit reached the bowl. Young Johnny further aided in the Mirabelles’ disposal, and yet I am left with a delicious handful which now sits upon the kitchen sill producing a fragrance which approaches that of the peach in its richness. A few of these plums will no doubt find their way into a tart, and I will myself endeavour to arrange the swift disappearance of any remainder. The Mirabelle is rarely grown in English gardens, its origin in southern France meaning that its early blossom and desire for warmth preclude the setting of fruit at a time when English nights are still prone to frost. This year’s Spring proved unseasonally warm, and so the fruit set well.
Like the torrents of rain which have now submerged the ripening grain, the flourishing of so southerly a fruit in this northerly location is, so I am told, a sign that the globe has grown unnaturally warm in this past century or so. And so to supper. In cool, wet summer weather, salads are more like to bring a fit of the shivers than pleasure to the eater. A light chicken stew sustains and comforts – yet more wintry recipes can prove too heavy and rich when the weather is not yet quite cold. I have been much impressed with the ranges of spices and herbs offered in little sacks of sensible size by the many small groceries of East Indian origin which have sprung up in the towns of England during the centuries since last I wielded a pen – and so, selecting from those offered by use of my own experience in cooking for both my noble mistress at Arley Hall, and for my many guests at my two coaching inns, I have devised this recipe which has met with loud approval from young Johnny, his rustic companions, and the many children who cluster about this happy household from time to time. Mr Greenfinger, a seasoned taster of ready-made curries, informs me that an apt title for this summer stew would be ‘Chicken Garam Masala’, something named ‘Chicken Tikka Masala’ (which I have yet to try) having become a ‘traditional English dish’ during my absence from these shores. Since the quinces are yet small and green, my promised examination into marmalade-making must needs wait until next I write. I commend to you my summer stew, my jam, my cheesy straws, and fruity tarts, and trust that my endeavours will meet with your good opinion. Until our next appointed rendez-vous (but one month hence), good friends, adieu! In English Kitchen 2: |
if the crop is not to be entirely lost. Strange it is indeed that I should have returned to the page in such times, when the skills of an Experienced English House-keeper are so much in demand – and yet, it would appear, so very much in want among the working people of this land.
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