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Jam, Jerusalem, Judges and maybe a little chutney

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Apparently the entry must be all your own work. Back to the cupboard for this one then…

Some time ago, Edie, a staunch Margot supporter, set me a challenge and I have found countless ways to evade that particular gauntlet, as when it was thrown down, it made me rather nervous.  The challenge: to enter a Real Jam Festival competition.  Dear Reader, you will realise my fear straight away.  Jams, jellies, chutneys: staunchly Barbara’s territory.  Margot, making jam?  Whatever next?!  Growing vegetables and knitting my own yoghurt….. I stewed on it, for want of a better word.  I couldn’t let Edie down and after all, this is all about my journey from townie to bumpkin.  I simply could not pass up this opportunity to try my hand at some real  ‘Jam and Jerusalem’.  With the deadline for entries looming, I felt that maybe little old Margot might be welcomed into the billowing bosom of the Women’s Institute with this little challenge.  I so dearly wished to  see myself clutching a winning entry with its WI seal of approval.  Oh to have an awardwinning chutney!

I had a brainwave.  I would make a chutney and make it Christmassy.  There is nothing like the smell of Christmas and I thought I might just be able to capture that in a chutney.  Christmas is all about aromas for me.  Those which bring back powerful memories like the heady scent of oranges and cloves, brandy in the mincemeat, fresh pine needles…. I could go on for hours!  I had already gone slightly stir crazy buying Frankincense and Myrrh scented candles much to Jerry’s glaring disapproval.  To try and get back in Jerry’s good books, I did splutter that I could enter the competition and then, in the spirit of all things ‘Margot tries etc’, I could even pass off the leftover jars of chutney as Christmas presents.  This, of course, appealed to Jerry’s frugal nature.

Just reading the entry requirements alone made me quiver with anxiety.  I hadn’t realised quite how seriously these things were taken and perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew.  I had half thought that these jam jousts were the preserve of ladies in lavender and little old biddies in hand-knitted cardies.  Still, always up for a country challenge, I set to work.

It seems that chutney had its origins in India (in Hindi, chatni).  Generally a relish or pickle made with fruits and spices, it was brought home in the days of the Raj by the British.  No doubt it raised eyebrows at dinner when produced by footmen in silver pots and accompanied by a large clove-studded roast ham.  Through the haze of time, I could just make out guffawing monocle-wearing gentleman crying “By Jove, what is this?” “The Indians call it chatni mi Lord.” “Chutney you say Dawson?  A spicy number what what!”  Scouring through hundreds of recipes ancient and modern, it was clear that coming up with my own unique recipe was going to be tricky.

I decided the only way to safeguard a good entry was to create my very own scent of Christmas.  Haphazardly, I threw all the ingredients on to the kitchen table and approached the making of Christmas chutney with careless abandon.  Chopping all the fruit and the onions took an age and I only thought of the food processor when I was on the last onion…  Plopping it all in my giant pan, it looked awful.  No.  It really did.  Take a look for yourself.

Not very appealing at this point

I was beginning to feel a little light-headed from the fumes of the cider vinegar (no recipe seems to mention that a gas mask may be needed) when I realised that making chutney was going to need one other ingredient.  Patience.  Something which, dear Reader, I have never had much of.  After the 2 hour mark, I stirred and tasted.  CRUNCHY onion.  Oh dear.  Not sure a chutney should have crunchy onions in it.  Hmm.  Most of the liquid was gone too.

Is it supposed to look like this?

Right, time to improvise a little more.  Adding enough water just to loosen the slop, I then left it to simmer away with the pan lid on.  In the end, it simmered gently for 4 hours.  I know, I know.  Far too long for chutney but I had to do something to stop the judges choking on onion slivers.  Sniffing the wafts from the chutney cauldron, it did have a faint whiff of Christmas.  It would have to do.  Sterilising the empty jars in the oven for 10mins, I then filled them and cut a greaseproof circle to cover the top.  (The jars had been a rigmarole in themselves.  I made Jerry, Primrose and Poppy devour their contents to cries of “Not jam again!” so that I could reuse the jars).  Carefully going through the last of the instructions, I readied my jar of passable Christmas chutney.  Entries must be plain – no labels, logos or ribbons.  They do take entries from young jam enthusiasts but I wasn’t sure I would get away with passing the jar off as Primrose’s work!  So there it was, my entry.  I wondered if they might give me some extra marks for the quirky jar?  I had, after all, recycled an old Indian pickle jar for good karma!

Could this be the winning chutney entry?

Well, Jerry gave it the thumbs up and I was quite proud of my first attempt so Dear Reader, we shall just have to wait and see what the WI judges think….  You never know, dear old Margot might just manage a little mention!  Well one can hope, can’t one?  In the meantime, Edie darling, at least you know what you are getting for Christmas and have time to rush out and purchase a jar of trusty Tracklement’s to replace it!

Margot tries…..chutney (and REALLY this is all my own work….I can’t blame any chefs, cooks or foodie bloggers for this concoction)

1kg apples, plums, fresh cranberries (mix all the fruits and then see if they collectively weigh a kilo)

2 onions (I think they weighed 400g in total)

200g raisins

half a reasonable knob of ginger

around 250ml of cider vinegar

around 300g soft brown sugar

3 star anise

1 tsp black peppercorns

1 tsp salt

1 tbsp cinnamon

1 tsp cumin (although it felt like more as the aroma was evocative of sweaty Londoners’ armpits on the tube.  Beware of this)

Plop it all in the pan and then wait a serious number of hours.  Improvising required.

Are you game?

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Dear Reader, if you are of the vegetarian persuasion, you may wish to look away now.  I have no wish to offend but this one is for my carnivorous chums and I shall make no further bones about it…..

Watching a recent Great British Food Revival programme on the BBC, I was reminded of the wonders of game by one of my cooking and countryside heroines, Clarissa Dickson Wright.  Inspired by her fervour for wild meat, I set to work on finding a suitable recipe and fell upon this.  Apparently, November is Game to Eat month.  How glorious!  Deciding to indulge my ‘wild’ side and always up for a culinary challenge, I thought that I would attempt some gamey gastronomy this week.  I suppose as a countryside offering, it doesn’t get any more authentic than game.

First things first, where to find a feathered or furry friend to eat?  Jerry and I have often wondered about the deer culls in Richmond Park and where the meat goes as it is certainly not on any of the gastropub menus in our little corner of suburbia.  Thinking that local venison would probably not be in the pot and not wishing to pick up any roadside offerings from our jaunts to the country, I began my quest at beloved Waitrose.  I found, to my surprise, that they did have a good selection of all the usual gamey items: partridge, pigeon and even wild mallard.  Thankfully all plucked and ready for roasting.  Not so long ago, I did find myself in a feathery mess when a brace of pheasants were brought to the door by a member of the family.  I had been expecting them in more of an oven ready condition….

Moving on from the great plucking incident of 2011, I decided that perhaps birds should not be part of my  dabbling on this occasion.  I can still hear Jerry reciting the ‘Pheasant Plucker’ ditty and we had to explain to a wailing Primrose that they were very naughty birds who had eaten all the farmer’s crops.

Remembering a delicious meal Jerry and I had in a charming little osteria in Florence some years ago when we were footloose, fancy free and sans children, I thought how wonderful it would be to recreate the roasted rabbit we had had that evening.  No feathers to worry about there.  I was out of luck at Waitrose so went in search of a butcher.  Dear Papa has an excellent butcher down on the South Coast whose shop is beautifully adorned with the heads, skins and feathered carcasses of all sorts.  A delight for the meat lover’s eyes but not one for the vegetarians….  I continued my ‘townie’ search for the elusive wild bunny to cook but no fluffy bunny could be found.  To be honest, at one point I thought that I would have probably had more luck trying to bag one myself with a shotgun.  I pondered, for a brief moment, my friend Minty (Araminta) and her recent dilemma of how to rehome her domestic bunnies but thought that she might not appreciate my idea of ‘rehoming’.  Well, after all during the Second World war, rabbits were bred for the pot…..

One of Minty’s temptingly chubby bunnies….

Three butchers later and I found what I was looking for.  One wild rabbit ready for roasting.  Primrose wept at the thought of eating dear old Peter Rabbit or Benjamin Bunny (Beatrix Potter, you have a lot to answer for, in my opinion).  She was convinced that the butcher would present the rabbit with its dinner jacket still on.  Mercifully for all, he did not.  I did try the old “He ate all the farmer’s crops” story but no amount of white lies would persuade her to sample the end result.  She even hid her toy bunny in fear that I might just cook that too.

Looking down at the rather large rabbit on the meat board, I did feel a little out of my depth trying to follow Clarissa’s instructions on jointing.  I wasn’t too sure what to do with Peter Rabbit’s heart, liver and kidneys either.  Perhaps I had become a little squeamish by this point?  Jerry did remind me that it is not the done thing in the country to name one’s food…..  Bolstered with a good glass of Barolo, I soldiered on.  The effort was worth it.  Memories of Florence wafted back with each mouthful of Coniglio Arrosto con Patate which I can only describe as heavenly.  Signor Antonio Carluccio, I salute you.  I can only say that with a recipe as good as that, even dear fluffy-tailed Peter might not mind being eaten!

Margot tries Carluccio’s delicious rabbit dish

Rabbit well and truly polished off, Jerry and I settled down by the fire with a box of chocolates and I discovered a recent interview with Clarissa DW in The Telegraph.  She seems to have caused quite a stir with her calls for us to eat badgers to solve some of the proposed cull problems.  Mmmm.  Rabbit, venison, partridge, pigeon..all a resounding yes.  Badger….sorry CDW, not sure even I am game enough for that one!

A ‘Hearth’warming tale

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This weekend heralded the long awaited trip to Tom and Barbara’s dear little country pile.  Setting off on my 3 hour journey in the car with Primrose and Poppy, I dutifully set the sat nav (Nancy).  I can’t travel without it.  I have no idea of how to read a map (really!) and I find Nancy’s calm robotic voice strangely comforting on long journeys.  All was going well until I came across one small problem…. It appears that people in the countryside do not have proper addresses, there are no proper road names and one must look out for clues in order to get anywhere (past the chevron, look out for the orange ribbon)!  Not far from Barbara’s hilly home, Nancy directed me down a small bumpy lane and then into a very boggy field, promptly adding and with a rather satisfied tone of voice I might add, “You have reached your destination”.  It would seem that I had not reached my destination and was heading in the direction of Wales.  Turning the car round in a very muddy field had its challenges but mission completed, I finally reached the farmhouse before nightfall.  I realised from the moment I exited the car that this would not be a weekend for wearing my little suede pumps and Boden trench.  Strictly wellies and waterproofs only.

The warmth emanating from the kitchen drew me in and there it was, Barbara’s pride and joy: the Aga.  Draped in the washing, it not only proved itself to be a thing of beauty but an essential part of country living.  The sound of the whistling kettle heralded the all important cup of tea, another countryside staple, and an unctious casserole was bubbling away in preparation for supper.  I will admit to a touch of the green eyed monster at this point.  I have always dreamed of an Aga and I feel that no countryside home would be complete without one.  Never mind that it can be temperamental, that it takes a little longer to boil the kettle, that most people who have an Aga also have another electric oven too.  Oh no, what could be more perfect than toasting bread on the Aga top, leaving meat to stew for hours in the low oven and even being able to bring newborn lambs and pigs back to life on the warming plate?  It is THE countryside status symbol and I LOVE it.

The ubiquitous Aga

Waking next morning to the sound of tractors in the nearby fields, I looked out of the farmhouse windows and was rendered speechless.  Unusual, as I sure my dear Reader, you can imagine.  It struck me that the view alone would be enough to render one a hermit, never leaving the house except to forage for food.  Dear old Barbara even has her very own Downton on the doorstep (we could hear the guns on our walk across the fields) and a heavenly orchard at the bottom of the garden.  Turns out the orchard doesn’t really belong to the garden and Primrose was appalled as I gingerly vaulted the gate to ‘scrump’ apples, snagging my cashmere cardi on the barbed wire as I went over.  ‘Scrumping’ is the countryside term for filching apples from someone else’s land.  As I landed on the forbidden side of the fence, I had visions of myself sketched on a Wanted posted (looking rather delightful in tweed) and half expected a farmer to come over the brow of the hill with a shotgun yelling “Gerroff my land”….. I have always enjoyed indulging my rebellious side.

Apples well and truly scrumped, I even managed to bag some delicious rosehips whilst shredding my hands into the bargain.  What one will do for a good foraged hoard!

Safely back on Barbara’s plot, she told of plans for chickens, showing us her homemade coop all ready for the imminent arrival of her feathered friends.  Knowing her, there will even be a donkey just in time for Christmas.  A new puppy is also on the horizon.  Although, Barbara has had her fair share of dogs of late and was babysitting her very own canine ‘criminal’.  One of the most entertaining and seriously comedic moments of the weekend was the sight of dear old Tom running through the orchard after Shropshire’s answer to Fenton had escaped the farmhouse boundary and was heading for the next county!

Butter wouldn’t melt….
Shropshire’s answer to Fenton!

Returning to the business of Margot learning all about the countryside…. You would be proud, dear Reader.  I found myself imagining walks with my liver Spaniel wearing a tweed shooting jacket, pulling on the wellies in my Liberty tea dress to collect eggs from the dear Burfords and even preparing game pies in the Aga for the shoot lunch.  I even caught Jerry eying up Tom’s muddy and robust Land Rover, having a country day dream all of his own.With a roaring fire in the snug, a wee snip of Barbara’s homemade Damson gin glistening ruby red in my hand and visions of myself smothered in the warmth of the Aga living in perfect domestic bliss, I felt that our move to the countryside couldn’t come quicker.  This is what the countryside seems to be all about.  They say that home is where the heart is.  I would disagree: home is where the hearth is.  What could be more perfect than toasting one’s bottom on the trusty Aga after a wet and windy walk?

Reluctantly driving back to London, Jerry and I mulled over our own quest for a slice of countryside heaven.  I longed for Barbara’s Aga (do you think that they make one in green with white spots?) and Jerry coveted Tom’s mechanical green giant.  Exiting the car, I muddied my Boden trench (reminding me of the contrast of our jaunt in the countryside and my mud-free existence in town)and Jerry summed up the countryside in one fell swoop: “Well I suppose one gets used to always being covered in mud and having a dirty car”.  Indeed!  Oh to be by the Aga now……

Woodland walks in wellies

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Magical Morgaston woods

Following some sage relocation advice, we decided, on a dank and miserable day,  to try and get the feel of our new countryside home in all weathers.  Countryside pursuits come in many forms and I confess to being pretty keen to join the hunting, shooting, fishing set as those countryside activities appeal to my more primeval instincts of getting food on the table.  Somehow walking doesn’t have the same pull and especially in the rain.  Walking in town always has a purpose: going to my favourite boutiques, popping out for a coffee, lunching out…. Even when Jerry and I take the girls to the park, it is usually with a view to letting off steam rather than specifically going for a walk.  Walking for walking’s sake – who ever heard of such a thing?  With our visit to Tom and Barbara’s hilly home nearly upon us, we braved the inclement weather for a romp through Morgaston Woods to improve on our walking skills.    Shedding our London look, Jerry and I donned ourselves in our ‘country’ gear and I even dusted off the unused Barbour.  I was overcome with envy at the sight of Jerry’s new flat cap and woollen welly socks and I found myself disappointingly lacking in tweed.  Something which must be remedied.

Putting on our wellies, stomping through the leaves and squelching through the boot sucking mud made me appreciate how autumn is so much more beautiful in the countryside.  Perhaps one just allows oneself more time to stop and admire the seasonal changes in the landscape?  This time of year Morgaston Woods are alive with fungi and we had a lot of fun spotting various delicious or deadly treats.  Sadly, having missed the seasonal fungi foray walk, we had no idea of what we could or shouldn’t pick.  I am yet to find a good book for mushroom dummies which helps with identifying the edible varieties and poisoning my nearest and dearest is not high on my list of country to-dos.  We had to make do with just….a walk.

Delicious or deadly?

A walk.  “What could be more glorious!”, some might say.  However, the walking, grey drizzly weather and quagmire of mud shone some light on our ability as a family to adapt to the countryside and all its earthiness.

Primrose is renowned for her inability to use her God-given limbs.  She hates walking and gives up, asking to be carried after the first five minutes.  To solve this problem, she acquired a bicycle.  Cutting a long story short, on this occasion, we were persuaded that she would walk some of the way if we took her bike along.  If only we could have predicted the untold muddy disaster which followed!  Primrose took a turn too fast on her bicycle, skidded off the path and then promptly fell forward, face down into the mud.  Tears flowed shortly after.   It would seem that our dearest Primrose does not like mud.  The idea of mud?  Yes.   But in reality, when her hands, trousers and hair were covered, it was all a bit much.  Jerry remarked that at least it wasn’t a cow pat.  Calls for dear Primrose to ‘toughen’ up and “This is what it is like in the countryside!” did not abate the weeping either.  She could only be persuaded to finish the trek with the lure of a hot chocolate.  I have to say we did bump into some locals and did see a few raised eyebrows….the bike was perhaps not the best idea we have had!

Once crisis resolved, we forged onwards, kissing gate successfully negotiated with Primrose on foot, Poppy in the backpack carrier with Jerry and me dragging the bloody bicycle, cursing as I went.  (Dear Reader, I have already thrown the bicycle into the mud prior to this point, shouting that it would have to be binned if Primrose was not going to ride it.  God only knows what the locals were thinking at that point)!  We ended up in a field of beautiful black cows.  Calming and so very sweet.  Despite Jerry’s best efforts to stop me, I decided that maybe I was going to be the next Dr Doolittle and would try to see if the cows would come over to us.  Surprisingly they DID!  Finally, Margot at one with nature!  My prize…being licked by a baby cow whilst I stroked its nose!  Here is the little beauty.

My latest country friend!

So…the walk was successful in part.  We did complete the 2 mile circuit.  Houdini Poppy (known for her abilities to escape out of anything) stayed in the backpack carrier for the duration, Jerry did look rather fetching in his cap (or farmer’s hat as Primrose has renamed it), Primrose learned a valuable lesson (that mud will come out in the wash) and I am now on my way to becoming a farmer’s wife.  If I can just persuade Jerry to buy a farm……

Baking, shaking and no stirring in sight

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Apparently, it is National Baking Week.  How do they dream these things up?  Tuning in to the Great British Bake Off this week, I found myself riveted.  Not for tips from Mary Berry on good baking as you might think…… Now that Jerry is out of earshot, I will admit that I was glued to the screen, unable to concentrate on the recipe for a Paris Brest due to a rather dishy young baker named James.  Once I dragged myself away from watching him making fondant fancies, I got to thinking about my own baking skills which, it has to be said, are rather hopeless.  I have all the relevant kit as you can imagine.  Bread scraper, cake and loaf tins, silicone moulds, palette knives, spatulas and EVEN a flour shaker!  I know I know, with all this kit, you would think that I would be able to produce something edible.  I try very hard but the cakes, bread, scones etc I have made in the past have always had the qualities revered in London brick.  I can’t help myself.  Even though I know that baking is a science and instructions must be adhered to strictly, somehow, I can never help trying to cut a corner here or adding something to the recipe there.  Dare I say it, on one occasion, I even thought that I knew better than the housewives’ staple and goddess of plain cookery, Delia.

In desperation, I turned my hand to some baking research.  Reading some serious tomes on the matter, namely Bread Matters by Andrew Whitley, it seems that soda bread is the place to start as it requires very little skill on the baker’s part!  No problems there then!  Past that, it was all sourdough starter this and proving baskets that.  Not for the serial baking criminal…..

Well in the end, after some serious deliberating over recipes, I used a classic soda bread recipe (thank you Mr Whittingstall!) and tried as best I could to follow the baking rules!  Preheat oven, weigh out ingredients, mix then knead.  I did take a turn towards inventiveness and added a few crumbled handfuls of a lump of cheese I found in the fridge, fried off some smoked bacon and put those in too.  Mixed altogether, it looked a bit like a small brain on the baking tray.  Unappealing I know.  Not even Primrose could give a vote of confidence on this one!

Not very appetising…..

Whilst it had its twelve minutes in a hot oven, I remembered a nifty bit of magic which might just steer Primrose and Poppy away from the inevitable baking failure.  Making your own butter!  About the only truly memorable thing from my prep school days other than girls having embroidery lessons on Wednesday afternoons whilst the boys went out to play sport.  Before you ask, no I did not to go to school in the 1950s but might as well have.  Just in case you want to have a go at this, here is how I did it:

At the beginning….

          • Get a jam jar and fill a third full with room temperature double cream.  (I used it straight from the fridge….and it took ages to get through the next bit so follow this even if you don’t follow any of the other instructions)!
          • Put the lid on tight and then start shaking.  If the cream is the right temperature, then you may only need to shake for 10mins.  I attempted to banish the bingo wings for roughly 20mins.  You must shake vigorously and continually.
          • The jam jar will go silent…..don’t PANIC.  In the words of the WWII propaganda poster, “Keep Calm and Carry on”.
          • Shake until the sound changes to a slosh and you have a creamy mass and some watery milky liquid in the jar.
          • Pour off the liquid (this is buttermilk and you can use it in your next batch of soda bread).
          • ‘Rinse’ the butter in the jam jar with cold water.  Keep doing this until the water runs clear.

            …and here’s one I made earlier!

          • When it does, then your butter is almost ready.  Just press out the rest of the liquid.  You can use a delightfully vintage set of butter paddles for this.  Failing your ability to procure these, your hands will do just as well.
          • Wrap in greaseproof and put in the fridge.
I mixed in a little ground sea salt into mine before putting in the fridge but I shall leave the flavourings up to you.  Anything goes really.  You won’t make enough to rival Anchor but you will have made enough to smother on a slice of soda bread.  It would seem that butter requires little culinary know-how.  Bread on the other hand….well it looks like I may be going back to the bread board again.  Sadly you could have used my efforts for shot putting.  Shame I am a few months too late for the Olympics!  Still, three loaves later and apparently if one follows the recipe and uses buttermilk instead of fat free yoghurt, a bacon and cheese soda loaf with a fluffy inside can be made.  A tiny taste of heaven with our homemade butter.  Dare we say that Margot has had success in the baking department at last?!  Dear Reader, I’ll let you decide….

A small kitchen miracle at last!