Category: British Stuff

A Clean Break

 

I always enjoy my house being clean but I’ve never been able to become excited about the process or to schedule reminders connected to doing certain things. (And I have known these people – though not well, perhaps tellingly.) They have laminated sheets and clipboards; Sunday morning stove scrub-downs and allotted days for vacuuming and laundry. I do not aspire to be part of this group.

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A New November

Each year I dread November. As well as unconsciously shuffling through tightly compressed memories of my mother’s death (43 years ago) and all the associated bleakness both outside and within, I can hardly bear the early darkness that creeps in after a five o’clock sky, flecked with pink. I am flooded with memories of living in Britain and that particular deep reaching dampness that can only really be remedied with a large Scotch in a steaming bath. (And at seventeen, as now, I don’t even drink Scotch …)

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Open Love Letter to The Victoria Sandwich Cake

 

Just for a moment, can we forget about the news and the state of the world and instead talk about cake? I know this seems shallow and possibly verging on the politically incorrect but honestly, it’s starting to turn a bit chilly outside and somehow even the sunlight itself is becoming harsh and brittle – certainly, no longer gentle.

So I need cake.

A Victoria Sandwich cake is a simple iconic sponge cake. ‘Sponge cake’ in itself is a troubling term, since a true ‘sponge’ has little or no butter and relies on egg whites to be poofy which is definitely NOT the case here. Many sources suggest that this cake was Queen Victoria’s favourite and was served at tea parties to help with her endless grief after her husband’s passing. But to me, it was simply the go-to, working class cake of my childhood and was made from my mother’s only cookbook as seen here – a hilarious cookbook in retrospect too, almost Monty Python-ish at times but quite unconsciously so, which of course makes it even funnier.

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Sea Glass I Have Known

 

When my parents decided that we would move to the UK when I was but a blossoming ‘tween, one of the (many) propaganda stories they hinted at (along with the acquisition of a pony, our own stables and a chuckling brook round the back) was that many young Brits-by-the-sea enjoyed “beachcombing” as a very suitable pastime.  (I expect that these badass individuals spent the rest of their time modelling cabled sweaters on knitting patterns … just saying). The allure of a metal detector may or may not have been mentioned at this time but even at the advanced age of 13 I realized that this was severely uncool and was just not going to happen on my watch.

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Talkin’ About My Maceration

 

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It’s become very fashionable to make a big statement about eating “locally” and “seasonally” but many of us have been doing this as a matter of common sense for years. Strawberries, for example; obviously, they are available year round but how to compare a strawberry that arrives in the grocery store pale and grumbly from all that travelling with the sweet, deeply red jewels we’re savoring this month?

(And, unlike their winter counterparts, these summer fellows do not have the unfortunate texture of a raw potato).

Even within the (almost daily, I confess) samplings of strawberries that I have been eating there’s a wide swoon factor between local and really local; these are the almost black-red, luscious little pillows that have no hint of tartness and adding cream or cake or anything else seems to impinge on their pure, clean taste.

There’s nothing like them is there?

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