Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘other sides to this life’ Category

It’s a beautiful pre-summer day and there were some fresh looking sardines at Intermarché in Realmont.

A bit early to be thinking “summer lunches” but we need cheering up, so I bought three each–juicy ones–and butterflied them.

We had them baked with a simple fennel salad which cuts the richness of the sardines.

Butterscotch is still not well–in fact poor mite–she’s worse and so thin.

Butterscotch aka little Mother

She wants to eat and to go on as usual and doesn’t understand why she can’t.

She came out into the garden this morning while we did the exercise routine with our friend Flo and was “with us”–as cats often like to be.

Going over to Flo she did one of those wonderful cat “rolls” they do for you– “it’s a greeting” Meredith says.

She managed it and even did a return roll–that lifted our spirits.

She is twelve now and some systems seem to be failing her.

“On s’attache”–“you grow fond”–of your pets and it’s hard.

Here’s the recipe to cheer you up after reading this!!

For 2

6 firm and fresh sardines–butterflied (see below)

100gms/4 oz wholewheat breadcrumbs

1 tablespoon parsley–chopped

2 garlic cloves–chopped fine

1 tablespoon of capers–chopped

a pinch of dried oregano

3 tablespoons olive oil

salt and pepper

Heat the oven at 180°C/350°F/Gas Mark 4 if using.

Butterfly filleting is a bit of a business but rewarding.You’ll need a
chopping board and plenty of kitchen paper. Have a pair of
scissors to hand and a plate to receive the fillets. Make sure

there are no scales left on the fish, then with the head in your

left hand and the body in your right, gently pull the head off
and as much of the innards as possible from the tail end. Use
the scissors to snip along the belly, then with your left thumb
coax out the rest of the innards. Place the fish, belly down, on
the board and press gently up and down the backbone with
both thumbs. Flatten the fish as much as you can with three
fingers of both hands. Lift and snip off the small fin, then snip
the backbone at the tail end and, with the left hand, draw it
carefully away from the body, taking care not to take too
much of the flesh with it. Voila! You have a butterfly fillet.

  • Wash and dry the fillets
  • Place a sheet of foil on a shallow baking tray
  • Using a brush if you have one it spread it with a tablespoon of oil.
  • Place the fillets on the tray.
  • In a bowl combine the breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic, capers, oregano and season with the salt and pepper.
  • Pour over a tablespoon of olive oil and mix it all together thoroughly.
  • Spoon the mixture evenly over the fillets.
  • Drizzle over the remaining olive oil adding a little extra if you feel it needs it.
  • before baking

  • Bake for 15 minutes.
  • and–after baking

I let them have a minute under a hot grill this morning to finish off.

Read Full Post »

“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!”

…and so it did for two days, needing no exhortation from a King Lear heading for madness.

It’s called le vent (wind) d’Autan–the name is obscure but seems to suggest a bye-gone age (autrefois–other times); its force is primeval, outrageous, unreasonable. It blows from the south-east and in principle is a warm wind–but that implies some degree of benevolence on its part.

It doesn’t feel that way as it tears into the newly-leafed trees, shaking them so violently that our judas (redbud) for one, lost a large branch, in a brutal unnatural pruning.

They put up with it, survive and stand today uncomplaining while Nature is admitting nothing.

“Moi?” she seems to be saying.

It drives people mad (ça peut vous rendre fou), like the Mistral, (it’s better-known cousin in Provence) and can blow for a week.

According to our neighbour, René (brother of Alice the beekeeper), old folk say that if it blows on Palm Sunday it will be a windy year.

This year it blew on Palm Sunday.

The countryside is calm again–but the wind has blown so deafeningly for two days that  hearing a cuckoo and the percussion of dueling woodpeckers on my morning walk was a shock!

I had grown accustomed to the “rage”.

Read Full Post »

Diabetes is in my family.

My mother, Molly–who’d be 96 today–died of a diabetes-related heart attack at 9 a.m. on December 2nd 1982, while dressing to go shopping. Perhaps a good way to go–but hard for the rest of us. She was 68.

She developed Type 1 diabetes in the early fifties–the result, we were told, of shock at the sudden death of her own mother at our home in north London. Molly was in her mid-thirties. Diabetes was in her family–her Uncle Harry had it.

Enough was known about the disease by then to allow her another thirty years of life–she would often cite  Drs. Banting and Best (http://nobelprize.org/educational/medicine/insulin/discovery-insulin.html ) as her saviours, for their ground breaking work on insulin (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Insulin).

When she was pregnant with my youngest brother Jack, the doctors at St. Thomas’ Hospital over the Thames from the Houses of Parliament, were uncertain whether to allow the pregnancy to continue. They went ahead–praise the Lord!–and Jack Ellis (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Ellis_%28actor%29) thrives to this day!

She injected insulin twice a day for the rest of her life without any song and dance. I was in awe.

From time to time she would have what she called a”reaction“.
http://www.emedicinehealth.com/wilderness_diabetic_reaction/article_em.htm

This usually happened as result of a low blood sugar level.

If she hadn’t got her insulin balance quite right–at a cocktail party perhaps (this was the fifties!), she’d start acting strangely, sometimes appearing to be the worse for drink. My father would delve into her handbag for the lump of sugar he knew was there and with some difficulty persuade her to swallow it.

At first it struck us ignorant kids as odd that a person whose body couldn’t absorb sugar normally would swallow some to save her from a coma or worse!

These “reactions” would occasionally occur in the middle of the night–a real danger. Miraculously my father always woke up in time to administer the sugar lump–though a couple of times I remember Ma being taken by ambulance to St. Thomas’ in a comatose state.

Witnessing first hand the damage diabetes could inflict, I needed no persuading to take it seriously when my diagnosis came a dozen years ago.

Ma set a great example. She was steadfast, brave and determined to enjoy life–despite her difficulties.

Molly

Read Full Post »

I’d bought fish fillets today for lunch–but wasn’t sure what to do with them–spice ’em up?–have ’em in tomato sauce?–season ’em well, grill ’em and eat them with little gem lettuce and spring onions?

Meredith arrived with ripe avocadoes and a firm penchant for an avocado salad with spring onions, lettuce, lightly sautéed bacon bits, a few juicy black olives and a poached egg on top—-AND she was offering to make it–no contest, win-win, I thought!

poached egg and dressing to come!

and so it was.

I drizzled some of our best olive oil over the crisp looking salad with a sprinkling of salt; while Meredith added a spoonful or two of the everyday dressing (see below) to hers–and that was lunch.

Gives me time to think what to do tomorrow with the fillets resting in the fridge.

Everyday vinaigrette (from Delicious Dishes for Diabetics)

1 clove garlic–pulped with a pinch of salt

1 tblsp balsamic vinegar

1 tsp dijon mustard

6 tblsps olive oil

  •  mix the first three ingredients thoroughly
  • add the olive oil and whisk to a viscous delight

Read Full Post »

This recipe–inspired by one we ate at our friends and neighbours Julie and Richard–reminds me of meals round the kitchen table at home in the fifties. It’s simple and inexpensive and would possibly stretch to a second meal–important factors for my mother, with a husband and  three children to feed and limited means.

Nevertheless she could be an adventurous cook. The dishes she tasted on the trips to Europe we enjoyed as a family with Dad’s concessionary rail tickets (he worked for the LMS–London Midland and Scotland), encouraged her to experiment in a modest way. Nothing very exotic about this–except its little kick from the chillies and the olives and peppers added at a later stage; comfort food really but none the worse for that.

She would would have celebrated her ninety sixth birthday this Saturday–so this is for her too.

Ma with a Morris dancer!--on 'is way to the 'obby 'oss festival perhaps..

100gm/4 oz  bacon/pancetta–diced small

3 sticks or a heart of celery– chopped small

1 medium onion–chopped small

1 clove of garlic–chopped

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 free range chicken–cut into 8-10 pieces and washed and dried

1 sparse tablespoon flour–I use chickpea

125ml/4fl oz white wine

125ml/4fl oz of stock–I use organic vegetable stock cubes

8oz/250gms tinned tomatoes–chopped roughly

3/4 sprigs of rosemary

3 small fresh red chillies

1 red pepper–cut in thin strips

a handful of juicy black olives–stoned if you have the time

a handful of parsley–chopped

set the oven at 160c/320f

  • Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a large frying pan and sauté  the onion, celery, bacon, and garlic gently for about 20 minutes allowing them to colour–concentrating the taste. Spoon the mixture into an oven-proof casserole.
  • Season the chicken pieces and heat another spoonful of oil in the frying pan.
  • Sauté them on a highish heat–turning them as they brown.
  • Transfer them to the casserole.
  • Tuck in the whole chillies and the rosemary sprigs and pour over the wine and the stock.
  • Sprinkle over the flour and add the wine and the stock.
  • Turn over the contents, cover the casserole and bring to a simmer on the stove.
  • Transfer it to the oven and cook for 30 minutes.
  • While this is in the oven, heat the third tablespoon of olive oil in the pan and gently sauté the strips of pepper.
  • Add these to the casserole with the olives after 30 minutes and cook, uncovered, for a further 15 minutes in the oven.
  • Sprinkle over the parsley and serve over brown basmati rice or quinoa

Read Full Post »

We were filming the second series of Poldark in spring 1977 and were based for a while near the seaside town of Padstow on Cornwall’s north coast.
On May 1st the town is taken over by the ‘Obby ‘Oss (Hobby Horse) Festival–an excuse for a day of communal good natured madness and merriment, with obvious origins in traditional fertility festivals that pop up everywhere at this time of year.
This is the account of it I wrote in my book Making Poldark .
 We’d finished filming the expedition to France,

"Operation Rescue"!

 and it was May Day;  a group of us decided to go to Padstow for the Festival.
We arrived at about 7 pm, and from far away we could hear the beat of the drum and the music.It had been going on for at least twelve hours and the atmosphere was “jolly” –you might say. We rounded the bend and came into a square and there it was! The umpteenth parade of the hobbyhorse in full swing.
The drumbeat was mesmeric and the man inside the hobbyhorse never stopped moving–round and round he went, tempting and teasing the circle of young maidens. A pagan ritual full of fun and danger. Not English at all.


Someone in the crowd recognised me and although George Collins, my dresser, insisted I was his cousin Fred, and not Poldark,  they weren’t convinced!  So we moved on quickly to a pub down the hill.
The beer and the cider were flowing freely, and it happened again and again.
I was bought pasties and pints everywhere. 
A man in one of the pubs came up and said, “You’ve put Cornwall on the map. Thank you.” I was amazed and flattered, a  little embarrassed and by this time somewhat stewed.
We settled down in a corner to listen to the accordionist. We sang and we danced and everyone forgot about Poldark. It was a great night.
I suppose I was naive to think I could go to a big Cornish festival like this and remain anonymous–television is a powerful and popular medium–but as for “putting Cornwall on the map”– on the evidence of this particular evening–it later occurred to me that it might be the other way around.

The Poldarks enjoying a previous 'Obby 'Oss fayre?

Read Full Post »

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked,
I cried to dream again.”

We are a couple of hours from the Mediterrenean here, so this is no island paradise; but Caliban’s friendly welcome to Ferdinand in Shakespeare’s Tempest flooded into my mind as I set  off on my walk at 7.30 this morning.

The birds had been up betimes–taking over from the cicadas we heard last night.

Cicadas in April..?, we asked ourselves.

The golden oriole scolded me for being late, but the rest were happy talking among themselves, sounding like:

“a thousand twangling instruments–hum{ing} about mine ears!”.

Things get going early here–a few neighbours had dropped by already.

Early callers!

They seemed a little nervous when I appeared and moved on to a quieter part of the meadow.

The pheasant hopped into the undergrowth when he spotted me–his squawk sounding like an steam train on its last journey to the breakers’ yard.

I played Ferdinand  in 1965 at Salisbury Repertory Theatre–my first professional Shakespeare.

I’d been Prospero too, the exiled Duke of Milan, in a school production a few years earlier and seen John Gielgud play it at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. The play is an old friend.

Ferdinand is hardly one of the great parts in the repertoire–his main job being to look convincingly awed throughout. Awed by the island, awed by Prospero’s daughter, Miranda–well and truly AWED!

As I descended into the little valley, surrounded by these magical sounds, I felt a touch of Ferdinand’s awe rising unashamedly in me!

Read Full Post »

Walking Country by Hope James

I hear a sound  as I set out for my walk at 7.30, I haven’t heard in months—the warble of a golden oriole–(always an early riser).

Watching the walker...

Keen to let me know he’s back, he tracks me as I go–at least that’s how it seems; it’s good to hear him again.

There’s a pheasant in the meadow that we think is courting Madame Arkarti, our eccentric looking hen.

lurking pheasant...

She seems–as yet– oblivious of this. He circles the house, always at a safe distance, squawking his squawk–why else would he do this?

Two hares in a field bound away into the nearest cover when I stop to look–as far as they know, I might have a gun I suppose.

A farmer goes by on a tractor with spraying equipment on the back–off to work a nearby field. The smell as I follow reminds me of lavatory cleaner. It’s a miracle we have as much wild life as we do.

The garlic is growing fast encouraged by the recent rain.

Garlic grows apace

They’ll start to lift it towards the end of June ready for the garlic festival in Lautrec on the first Friday of August. Ten thousand people mill through the narrow streets and there’s free garlic soup at noon.

Read Full Post »

Homemade MINT SAUCE with apple and onion (goes well with roast lamb or lamb chops):

Meredith and I both grew up in houses in the fifties with mint in the garden.

Chicago and London–little did we know…!

The homemade mint sauce that went with the lamb roast at our house was tasty–my mother was a good cook!

Made with the traditional ingredients, as I remember–fresh mint, sugar and malt vinegar.

In this version an apple (not sugar) provides the sweetness in the sweet-and-sour sauce, which cuts the richness of the lamb.

This is included in my book Delicious Dishes for Diabetics, to be published in the UK in August and the US in November.

Leaves from a large bunch of mint

An apple–peeled, cored and roughly chopped

A small onion–quartered

Mix these ingredients in a food processor–not too finely; it should have  texture.

Then add salt and a good splash cider vinegar.

Taste it for balance before leaving it in the fridge to marinade for an hour.

Bring it back to room temperature and taste again before serving.

Read Full Post »

She’s “the cat in the hen coop” from the previous post…

The guilty party exits the scene.

…and sister of Marmalade–both “gingers” of course, and never been separated; also known as “little Mother” because she had a litter at 11 months.

She’s fearless and is sometimes found in the meadow behind the house sitting in the centre of a circle of cows.

“I called you all here today….”.

She loves to drink from a source of running water and will balance on the rim of a sink, leaning in to drink from the swan-neck tap.

Once when we were having a new septic tank dug, the man with the digger sliced through the water mains and the back was flooded.

As we stood calculating the damage, a face peeked round the corner of the back door….

“I hear there’s been a bit of an accident!”

There’s always a silver lining …

She can be a solitary soul–expert at finding a quiet corner to curl up in.

"I want to be alone..."

She loves a clean-smelling cardboard box, a woolly pullover just back from the cleaners or a cherished bowl.

Most of her 12 years she’s been a plump pussy–too plump we’ve often worried–always keen to do a celebratory roll for you.

On an evening stroll up to the farm she’ll join with a headlong dash.

But lately the tail is down and she’s light to lift.

“She’s not well”, the vet said yesterday and prescribed her a course of antibiotics.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »