Herbs And Spices

Despite - or more likely, because of - a lack of money in their early years of marriage, my mum was always a marvellous, inventive cook - we lived off the recipes in the free Fray Bentos cookbook for years, where corned beef was revealed each meal in a different guise.  As far as I remember no herbs or spices were involved. That would have been a step too far for good old Fray Bentos, whose red and cream flecked block of meat, complete with the odd tube, epitomised post war Britain.

The only herbs that saw the light of day in our house were the sage in the packet of dry sage and onion stuffing - just add boiling water and shove into the cavities of a floppy pink chicken - and the mint In the jar of bright green mint sauce that accompanied our lamb on a Sunday.  Occasionally, a few mint leaves would be plucked from the only herb that survived in our garden, and thrown into a pan of boiling new potatoes. The smell was of late spring with a hint of the summer to come. Pans boiling, lids clattering, kitchen windows steamed up and streaming, this was Sunday in the Carrington household.  When cooked, add a generous amount of butter to the pan and savour the aroma of buttery, minty potatoes.

In those days salt came in large packets, pepper was a grey dust and mustard a powder to be mixed with milk or water - and bring you to excruciating tears if you happened to put too much on your meat.  Herbs and spices were for the Asians, the Chinese and the Jamaicans who were beginning to filter into our towns and cities.

In 1976 the husband and I, newly married, moved to Leeds for a year so he could do his PGCE. The city was a multicultural novelty to me, with its tiny corner shops crammed with their displays of unusual fruit and vegetables. The smell of herbs and spices wafting from the doorway as I walked past on my way to work, led me to peer in, nosily, but I had no idea what I'd buy or, more importantly, how on earth I'd use it, so the shops remained an exotic mystery to me.  Women would emerge, in their brightly coloured saris, chattering in an unknown tongue, baskets overflowing with pungent smelling packages, misshapen fruits and dark, drooping leaves.  This was a world of which I knew nothing, but as a keen cook, I was anxious to discover the secrets of those dingy shops.

The opportunity arose when I saw an advert in a shop window for an Indian cookery evening class. I turned up on the first night in an old school Domestic Science (remember that?) room.  We were a motley crew, both sexes, all ages, all white British, keen to learn.  The teacher was a strikingly beautiful young Indian woman, dressed in a sari. Her long tapered fingers, expressive hands and soft voice were mesmerising.  We all watched as she calmly talked us through our first dish, adding handfuls of flour and other dry ingredients, abundant pinches of aromatic spices and bowls of chopped and grated vegetables. She gave us their Indian and English names, and waited while we wrote them down in pristine notebooks.

This was a new experience for most of us. Nothing was weighed or measured, the bowls, handfuls and pinches of ingredients were the products of years of Indian cuisine (although that was probably far too grand a word back then) passed down from generation to generation until it became second nature. Now, we inexperienced British were to learn this method, which meant using our senses in place of the scales. She showed us how to look and smell and feel if a dish was right, dipping our fingers into bowls and sniffing at the spices. She even taught us to listen for the correct sizzle as something small and tasty was dropped into hot, bubbling ghee.

There  was such an art to this lovely lady's cooking, I felt I could have sat all night just watching as she mixed and stirred and threw ingredients into pans, all the while talking softly and repeating the Indian names  I remember walking home that first night with a still warm pan, puffs of aromatic steam escaping into the cold night air, excited to taste this exotic dish when I got it back to our basement flat.

I had my list for the following week and on my way home from work the next day, instead of walking past the Indian shop with a quick glance, I ventured in. It was the smell that hit me first, sweet, spicy, pungent, rich with promise. No tiny jars or packets here, but huge bags and sacks of cumin, turmeric, garam masala, cardamom seeds bursting out of their woody pods, fresh chillies of every size, shape and colour, huge onions and tomatoes.  My goods were expertly wrapped in twists of paper and small bags, aromas escaping as I placed them in my basket.  It will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I still have some of those spices in my cupboard to this day. The cardamom pods smell as sweet and musky as the day they left the shop.

At the end of term we planned a banquet, each of us cooking a different dish.  Partners were invited, and we sat in the domestic science room with tables pushed together and a makeshift cloth, while the table groaned with every Indian dish imaginable. Sadly, mobiles and cameras were not a necessity and no record remains on that night. My one abiding memory is of someone's wife innocently biting into an unbearably hot chilli. The look in her face as she struggled to cool herself down will stay with me forever.

Over the years I've worked my way through many an Indian cookery book, as well as referring to those original recipes in my little blue notebook.  Maybe it's time I finally released the few remaining cardamom seeds from their pods and made us all a banquet to celebrate the night I was first introduced to Indian cuisine over forty years ago.

Those forty year old Cardamom pods

Just to redress the balance with herbs as well as spices.....

Scarborough Fair - one of my favourite Simon and Garfunkel songs

Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt (deep forest green)
Parsley sage rosemary and thyme
Without no seams nor needle work (blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine (sleeps unaware of the clarion call)

Tell her to find me an acre of land (a sprinkling of leaves)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (washes the grave with silvery tears)
Between the salt water and the sea strand (A soldier cleans and polishes a gun)
She'll be a true love of mine

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather (War bellows blazing in scarlet battalions)
Parsley sage rosemary and thyme (General order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather (And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten)
Then she'll be a true love of mine

Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine

Written by Arthur Garfunkel, Paul Simon

Thanks for reading, Jill xx 

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Red Letter Day For The Feet

When you have a family as large, as close and as long lived as mine is you're bound to have a fair few Red Letter Days (RLDs) along the way.

 

One suffers, we all suffer, one celebrates, we all celebrate.  In style.  So far, touch wood, I've been incredibly lucky in my life, with far more happy, celebratory days than sad ones. 

 

There are the obvious celebrations - births of children and grandchildren, weddings, anniversaries, graduations, special birthdays, including one ninetieth - but I suppose if you have too many celebrations they stop being RLDs and start being a bit run of the mill.

 

Don't get me wrong, all those celebrations have been special in their own different ways, united by the common thread of family and friends, but the real RLDs are the ones that had been either long awaited, painfully achieved or unexpected.

 

When our daughter left school, declined university and insisted she wanted to work in Superdrug for the foreseeable future we reluctantly accepted her choice and never imagined we would be watching her throwing her brand new police hat in the air a few years later, alongside those of her newly qualified colleagues.  The pride we felt in her that day was matched only by the pride we felt in her two brothers a short while later. 

 

We had always said we were proud of our children whatever they chose to do, we just wanted them to be happy. This sounds like a cliche - and it probably is - but it doesn't make it any less true. Ask any parent, they want their children to be happy, above all.  It's just that sometimes the child doesn't really know what will make him or her happy. 

 

We were quite laid back parents in that we never really pushed our kids. We encouraged them (and I do remember a fair bit of shouting during the GCSE and A level years - it did little, if any, good) so when eldest son Joe got himself to uni, graduated and then drifted about before setting to work laying carpets we kept our mouths shut.  The day he passed out from RAF training, complete with low flying planes and dramatic music was on a par with Laurey's Police passing out. Both times I fought back tears and felt as though my heart would burst with pride.

 

Still to come was number three child's graduation - slightly less dramatic than the pomp and ceremony involved in RAF and police events but an equally proud day nonetheless.  To see Dan in his cap and gown, with a First in Sports Science under his belt was another tear jerking moment. 

Three children, three very different paths, three uniforms, three fantastic results, two happy and proud parents, definitely three RLDs.

I mentioned birthdays earlier, and although they are great things to celebrate, they're not really achievements, not until you reach about eighty, when everyone tells you what a great achievement it is - which I would imagine makes you feel very, very old, and as though you should somehow be grateful.  I would guess it also makes you feel a little insecure - as though you've peaked and you might never reach that next great milestone.

My dad's ninetieth birthday, which I mentioned in a previous blog, was a great celebration for lots of reasons, not just that he'd achieved those nine score years and was still here, relatively unscathed, confident and competent enough to make a brilliant speech, but also because he was here surrounded by wife, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, brother-in-law, nephew, great niece and all the other halves that came with the above.  Not only were we there, we wanted to be there, celebrating those ninety years.

Another RLD.  

As a family, we are all great celebrators. I could go on and on, listing all the occasions we have got together and celebrated some milestone in our lives. I won't, it would take far too long, but before I go I must mention a day that stuck in my mind as my own personal RLD and that's the day I went for reflexology on my feet. 

You need to understand that although many people dislike their feet, I had a real hatred of mine. I think it stemmed back to the days when my mum used to take me to the Clark's shoe shop as a child. What I really wanted was a pair of dainty little sandals that I could clean with the natty tube of white paste with a sponge at the end, that we used on our plimsolls.  What I got was clodhopping black lace ups or a thick soled loafer if I was lucky.

How I hated those visits to the shoe shop. I was sulky and miserable and my mum was equally cheerful and determined.  I'll never forget the occasion that I was forced to try on a particularly ugly pair of dark brown loafers. I winced as I squeezed my feet in and hobbled across the shop, moaning.  The elderly male assistant took one look at me and my feet then turned to my mum and said haughtily, 'perhaps, madam, they'd fit her better if she liked them.'  If looks could kill that man would have collapsed in a heap beside me.

Anyway, back to my feet. They were wide with fat big toes and ugly nails. My daughter called them trotters and she wasn't far off.  So it was with some trepidation that I approached the lady who was offering free reflexology at a conference I was attending.  Whipping off my shoes and socks and drawing breath to apologise for them, the reflexologist picked up my feet and ran her fingers around them.  'Lovely feet,' she said. I looked up, thinking I'd misheard. I frowned at her.  

'Lovely feet,' she repeated, continuing to massage them. 

'You're joking?' I laughed, 'they're horrendous!' 

'Ah, but they're not,' said the reflexologist, squeezing and prodding, 'these feet are good, solid, walking feet. No callouses, no bunions, a bit of dry skin but nothing we can't deal with.  These feet,' she continued, looking at them fondly, 'get you from A to B don't they?'  

I nodded, 'I love walking,' I offered, as she continued to pummel.

'Good,' she said, 'keep walking and you'll always have lovely feet.' 

 

Something happened to me that day.  My relationship with my feet changed. I started to love them. They might not look glamorous, with dainty pink, sparkly nails, they might not be happy squeezed into a four inch heel, but by golly, those feet got me places.  They took me up mountains and down into valleys, they marched me along the prom with my camera, they whizzed me round the weekly shop, they stepped purposefully up stairs instead of standing still in a lift, and they turned the pedals on my bike.

 

I'll never forget that day with the reflexologist.  That was the day my feet and I made friends. Now that was a RLD.

 

The Red Letter Day That My Feet And I Made Friends by Jill Reidy

We were enemies

My feet and I

They were fat, ugly

And out of shape

No sparkly pink nails

Skin rough, flakey

Little toe squashed

Fighting for attention

Open toed sandals

Four inch heels

Never!

I was ashamed 

Until I heard those words

'Lovely feet'

Shocked, is that what she said?

Looked at them again

'They get you from A to B'

She was right

These feet take me everywhere

Up hills, down dales

Into town, along the prom

They pedal my bike

Lead me tiptoeing upstairs

Past slumbering babies

I look at them again

It's a Red Letter Day

We're friends

My feet and I

 

Thanks for reading, Jill

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A Very Private Place

For as long as I can remember I’ve loved to hide away in a quiet, cosy corner, preferably with a book and a drink (back then, orange juice, these days, tea or coffee) and, if possible, some sort of calorific snack.   

As a child, there’s something particularly enticing about a den, especially one cobbled together out of old bits and pieces – blankets, tablecloths, scarves, discarded cushions – and all held together with safety pins and sellotape.  I always went for HCF  (High Cosy Factor) so warmth, low lights and a hidden view into the real world were all points high on my agenda.  That little area under the stairs was always good, so long as I had a cushion to sit on, a blanket to throw over me and the door was left slightly ajar for spying purposes.

I’m not sure where, when or quite how this obsession with these very private places started but I know it goes back a long way.  I remember when my brothers and I received transistor radios for Christmas.  We were thrilled.  It was certainly the best present I’d ever received and promised endless excitement, preferably within some sort of den situation.  The bottom bunk, with a blanket as a screen was a speedy solution, but even better was to take the radio under the covers at bedtime and wait, with escalating excitement, for Midweek Theatre, the highlight of my week.  Of course, this was a Wednesday night and I had school the following day.  I was supposed to be sleeping, so this was definitely a covert activity.  One night the play was so frightening that I was scared to open my eyes.  Worriedly, I turned off the radio, missing the grand denouement, and called for the comforting presence of my mum.  Needless to say, I never admitted to what I’d been doing, but whimpered something about a nightmare.  It didn’t stop the bed/den activity but it did make me a bit more choosy about what I listened to.

At about this time I was considerably in awe of my granddad’s shed, which was his little haven from the stresses of normal life (and my grandma).  It was small, jam packed with old jars and tins holding an assortment of nails, screws and washers, and had its own unique shed smell: wood shavings, glue, creosote and granddad’s Old Virginia roll ups.  Often, when we visited, grandma would be bustling about in the kitchen and granddad would be making something in his shed – tiny chairs made of pegs, crude picture frames, little boxes with ill-fitting lids.  Always a man of few words, he loved to be on his own, which probably explains his actions one day when my brother, then aged about three, was sent out to ‘see granddad.’  As young children are wont to do Geoff started giving granddad imaginary objects.  This went on for about ten minutes until granddad opened the shed door, put a tin on the ground, instructed his grandson, “Here, put everything in that,” and swiftly shut himself back in his shed.

Next door to grandma and granddad lived a family with two girls around my age.  My envy knew no bounds when I opened the connecting gate one day to discover that their dad (a bit of a whizzkid in the DIY stakes) had built them a proper brick wendy house, complete with furniture, rugs, crockery and fancy curtains at the windows.  How I loved to play in that wendy house.  My dad, although capable of basic DIY, could never compete with Ernest Truslove.  Only recently, dad told me, with a voice full of incredulity, that years ago Hazel Truslove had revealed they were moving as ‘Ernest had run out of jobs to do in the house.’

The thing about private places is that they have to be just that – private.  They’re not places for crowds of people.  In my opinion, two adults could be one too many.  It’s private, it’s secret and therein lies its appeal.  The summerhouse we received as a Silver Wedding present several years ago is the culmination of a lifelong wish to have my very own private place.   I’m sure that desire had its seeds in Ernest Truslove’s wendy house, and although I don’t have fancy curtains or a rug I do have two chairs, a table and a collection of old candles.  And a sign that tells me I’m ‘living the dream.’  Summer evenings and I am ensconced in a blanket, just me, a cafetiere and a good book.  And if the husband wishes to visit he has to knock….

Rio in his Den

I wrote the following poem in memory of my childhood hideaways.

My Den - Jill Reidy

Pull the blanket right across

Secure with pins and sellotape 

But leave the smallest gap 

To peer through 

View the outside world

As it goes about its business

Whilst I, in my tiny den,

Nestle down into the cushion

Like a mouse in straw

Wrap the rug around my legs

Nibble at a biscuit

And turn the pages of my book

My mother passes, humming

I hear the strike of match 

And flare of gas on hob 

Water splashing in a pan

And the chop chop chop of knife on board

Sunday's leftovers 

Are whipped into shape 

Bubble and squeak, cold roast beef

Peas, and pickle on the side

Aromas mingle, waft towards me

Finally...

I am lured from my tiny hideaway.

Thanks for reading,    Jill 

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Beg Pardon?

As I repeat my request for the fourth time I feel the frustration bubbling up inside my chest. Does he realise his loss of hearing is becoming a huge problem to me? Luckily I am finally heard and the request acted upon (I only wanted something passing to me, for goodness’ sake) but my frustration takes a while to dissipate. 

The husband is a man in denial. It's the way he deals with any indication that he might be getting older.  It was the same with his eyes.  Despite the fact he couldn't read a newspaper or see small objects, he assured me his sight was fine. At some point, after eating a raisin that turned out to be a small piece of rolled play dough, he must have succumbed and secretly slunk along to the opticians.  I found him looking worried and slightly guilty every time I entered the room, and eventually discovered, much to my amusement, he was a closet glasses wearer, only donning them when alone, and swiftly whipping them off if anyone approached.  To be fair, one of the kids had spotted him wearing them and started calling him Roy Orbison, which can't have helped.

We seem to be following the same path with his hearing. The volume on the TV means that any conversation in the same room is impossible. Maybe that's his plan. I've noticed he's started putting the subtitles on every programme now, which could have been a problem with the 'closet glasses wearing' but I'm happy to say he quickly progressed to contact lenses, saving the need to whip his Roy Orbison's on and off - which must have been a great relief for him. Although the changing of the contacts only takes place once a month, it's quite an event, involving two people, two pairs of eyes (he can't see the lenses to apply them), four fingers and a lot of shouting.

Back to the husband's hearing.  Phone conversations take on a new dimension as he bellows into his mobile.  He goes out into the garden to make or receive all calls so our neighbours (at least four houses each side and the same number opposite) know every detail of Dave's life: arrangements for a drink, how he played at golf, the state of his broken arm, and probably how much his wife is annoying him.  Each time I broach the subject of a hearing test I am told in no uncertain terms, that his hearing is fine.  Actually, that's not quite true. His answer could be anything from, 'yes, it's a bit windy,' to, 'cabbage for me,' depending on what he thinks he has heard.  The hearing loss denial usually comes round about the third attempt. 

I do understand how frustrating it is not to hear properly. I've had a few episodes myself, usually mishearing something on the radio. A few years ago I spent a puzzled and indignant hour, wondering why a new law had come into force, banning stockings. It was only when I heard the next news bulletin, read by somebody with an English accent, rather than Scottish (try it) that I realised the anti-stocking law being introduced was actually an anti-stalking law. Relief all round.

My mum and dad are both extremely hard of hearing, and whilst I have a huge amount of sympathy for them it has led to some interesting exchanges. One time they were in different rooms when mum started coughing.

'What did you say, Mary?!' shouted dad from the front room.  Mum continued to cough.

'What?!' yelled dad.

Between coughs mum shouted back, 'I'm COUGHING!'

'Oh yes please,' called dad, 'I'll just have a small one.'

With a sigh, mum decided it would be easier to make the coffee dad was expecting than to continue the conversation.

I've related amusing incidents but I do know how debilitating hearing loss can be. My mum never complains but she did confess to me once that she finds it quite isolating. She wears hearing aids at all times, but when she attends her literature class she says background noise, combined with several people talking, is particularly hard to deal with.  In an effort to overcome this we managed to procure a special pen that she points towards people when they're talking in a group.  This works to a degree although we did have to explain to her why people were sniggering when she told them its catalogue name.  Answering, “It's my Roger Pen,” when asked about it was always going to cause a ripple of amusement. Since the explanation I believe the name has been dropped and it’s simply, ‘The Pen.’

As for me, I know my ears aren't as good as they were thirty years ago but maybe my inquisitiveness makes up for lack of hearing.  I can still listen in to conversations two tables away when in a restaurant, and detect the opening of the biscuit tin from upstairs.  When the TV stops sounding like an earthquake, and I can’t hear the husband sighing as I ask him to do something, then I’ll book that hearing test.  Until then, whisper on.

Secretly Listening In

What? (written specially for the husband in denial)

What?

Pardon?

Say again?

I didn't quite catch that

Huh?

Sorry?

What say?

I didn't quite catch that

Errr?

Say what?

Beg pardon?

I didn't quite catch that

I was looking the other way

My ears need waxing

You're whispering

I was thinking

You turned away

I had my hat on

I was eating

I was watching TV

Listening to Spotify

Cleaning my teeth

Running the tap

I didn't quite catch that

 My ears are fine....you what?

Jill Reidy

Thanks for reading,   Jill

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Volcano - The Day We Missed Vesuvius Erupting

Last week, on my early morning walk along the prom, I spotted an old, spent firework, nestled in the grass on the slope above the sea. I stopped short. It gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, something akin to excitement.  I know exactly why. When I was a child there were very few organised firework displays. Most families bought a box of fireworks and a pack of sparklers, made some tinder toffee and parkin and invited in the neighbours. My mum always went one better and made toffee apples too.

One year my dad bought the usual box of fireworks from the newsagent but was obviously lured by an extra large volcano-shaped object, sitting majestically under the glass counter.  This probably sounds strange to anyone under forty but in the nineteen fifties it was rare to splash out on luxuries. This giant offering held such fiery promise that it definitely came into the 'luxury' category. We kids were beyond excited. Scrawled on the side, in a huge red, flame ridden script, was the one word, 'Vesuvius'. Even its name promised something exotic.

Bonfire night arrived, and as was tradition, dad positioned himself in the garden (somewhat reluctantly) with the fireworks.  The rest of us sat inside in the warm, lined up at the window.  Such was the build up to the display that each year we forgot just how quickly it would be over.  Vesuvius was to be the grand finale.

Dad approached the firework with a smouldering length of twisted newspaper and some trepidation.
From the safety of the back room we watched with bated breath.  Vesuvius began to glow promisingly. Dad stepped back. We waited. There was a flicker, a splutter and then.......nothing.  The procedure was repeated several times.  The audience began to lose interest.  It seemed that the display was over. 'Toffee apples?' Said mum. We jumped down from the window and went in search of food.

Suddenly there was a flash of sulphurous light, a loud bang, a whoosh, a crash and finally the sound of a million showering sparks. Dad burst through the back door, a big grin on his face, 'See that, kids?!' he yelled, before stopping short at the entrance to the back room.  Gradually, it dawned on him that we'd missed the highlight of the evening. Not only that, we'd also polished off the toffee apples.

The following day I set about pursuing my favourite activity after Bonfire Night. Searching for the empty firework shells had always held a strange kind of appeal - I think it may be linked to my love of jumble sales - you never knew what you might find. After a quick sweep of the garden, which yielded such gems as bent rockets and mangled Catherine wheels, I ventured out, eyes on the pavement. Halfway down the road, just by Mrs Smith's front gate I spotted a squashed and blackened shape. Just visible was the red letter, 'V'. I'm not sure if it was Vesuvius but I like to think it was.

Dad took a long time to get over wasting a shilling on the 'most magnificent firework never seen,' mum played down her role in luring us away from the window for toffee apples, and I tried to reassure dad that I was just as happy with the empty black volcano shaped package.

We didn't have another luxury for years.

Vesuvius Fireworks!

Volcano Haiku

Explosion of red
Menacing silver river
Ash covers like snow

Thanks for reading, Jill

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