Gooseberry - Humble Goosegog

As far as I remember, I’ve only seen green gooseberries. Now I find they come in assorted shades from yellow to purple. Yellow and green can taste sour, the rosy ones are naturally sweeter. They can be eaten raw, but they are nicer cooked and sweetened. From what I’ve read, they have what is described as ‘gentle’ laxative properties, so, enjoy in moderation.

Gooseberry puree was and still is a welcome accompaniment to a roast pork dinner. I loved this on a Sunday at the home of my wonderful (fairy) Godmother. Trifle for afters, then later on, for anyone hungry, pork sandwiches with more goosegog. I wouldn’t be hungry, but I’d always manage a delicious sandwich. Appreciated, with much love, thank you.

Gooseberry fool is crushed fruit mixed with whipped cream and served chilled. There are various ways of achieving the end result. Some involve cooking the gooseberries first and adding other fruits and nuts.

The meaning of ‘gooseberry bush’ made me smile. Babies born under a gooseberry bush is an old wives tale, except ‘gooseberry bush’ was 19th century slang for female pubic hair, apparently. Well, we learn something new every day. Let’s keep that information in the 19th century where it belongs.

The term ‘playing gooseberry’ refers to a third person accompanying a couple – a romantic couple – who wish to be alone. Gooseberry in this context is a shortened form of gooseberry- picker, meaning a chaperone who would go off picking fruit to allow the couple time alone. I can’t help but wonder where these meetings might have taken place. I’d rather have a full story than a snippet.

Here’s one of my favourite poets,

Gooseberry Season

Which reminds me. He appeared
at noon, asking for water. He’d walked from town
after losing his job, leaving me a note for his wife and his brother
and locking his dog in the coal bunker.
We made him a bed

and he slept till Monday.
A week went by and he hung up his coat.
Then a month, and not a stroke of work, a word of thanks,
a farthing of rent or a sign of him leaving.
One evening he mentioned a recipe

for smooth, seedless gooseberry sorbet
but by then I was tired of him: taking pocket money
from my boy at cards, sucking up to my wife and on his last night
sizing up my daughter. He was smoking my pipe
as we stirred his supper.

Where does the hand become the wrist?
Where does the neck become the shoulder? The watershed
and then the weight, whatever turns up and tips us over that
razor’s edge
between something and nothing, between
one and the other.

I could have told him this
but didn't bother. We ran him a bath
and held him under, dried him off and dressed him
and loaded him into the back of the pick-up.
Then we drove without headlights

to the county boundary,
dropped the tailgate, and after my boy
had been through his pockets we dragged him like a mattress
across the meadow and on the count of four
threw him over the border.

This is not general knowledge, except
in gooseberry season, which reminds me, and at the table
I have been known to raise an eyebrow, or scoop the sorbet
into five equal portions, for the hell of it.
I mention this for a good reason.

                                                                              Simon Armitage

Thanks for reading, Pam x