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Earlier this month I returned from a week away to find two timely reminders that Christmas was, indeed, a-comin’. There was a pile of cards on the doormat from those who are infinitely more organised than yours truly, and a story in the papers suggesting that we give Christmas cards a miss – and that from a man of the cloth, the Right Reverend Bishop of Reading Dr Stephen Cottrell.
And for a moment, I was torn.
The Right Rev had a point after all, with his claims that the hustle and bustle, stress and strain of the season of goodwill to all men takes its toll on all and sundry, and clouds the real meaning of Christmas. And yes, cards do gather on the mat, multiply in the hall, and take over mantelpieces, shelves and walls. We, at Orgill Towers, are so short of those aforementioned resting places that ours end up Blue-Tacked on doors, even though every year I visualise them cascading from scarlet velvet ribbon, or nestling in a purpose-designed holder shaped like a Norwegian spruce.
Anyway, that moment of indecision was short-lived. After all, I’d actually made the effort and already spent the cost of a few of bottles of gin on some three-for-the-price-of-two charity designs (I missed last January’s sales), given himself instructions to revise the computer-printed addresses, which was something to do while I was away, and his sole contribution to anything bordering on the Christmas build-up. And then there were all those people out there who we never see from one year’s end to the next, expecting the usual missive.
So I girded my loins and set to with a will. Well, at least the first dozen or so were approached with something bordering on enthusiasm. But doesn’t it pall? I’m not sufficiently organised enough to compile that new-kid-on-the-block, the Round Robin, so it behoves me to write little messages in each – even though I’ve probably seen or spoken to the recipients the day before they plop through their letterboxes. I run out of witty/deep and meaningful/clever things to say, can rarely refer to their family members such as grandchildren because I can’t remember their names, and at our age, there’s always the danger that somebody on the receiving end has died, and nobody’s thought to let us know.
Then there’s the price of the postage, which amounts to a few bottles of Schweppes, and the worry that the Scouts know their way around Derby when you’ve contributed to their dyb-dyb-dyb and woggle fund. Oh dear, against my better judgement, I’m warming to Dr Cottrell’s advice by the minute. But then, he also made an almighty faux-pas by suggesting : "Instead of expensive presents, why not hand out a jar of home-made marmalade or pickled onions?"
I may take his point, though I’d rather settle for a luxurious, if useless, frippery any day, and clearly, the man has never suffered the mess the making of marmalade produces, or sat at the kitchen table, eyes and nose streaming, as he’s peeled a few pounds of shallots. So for this year anyway, I’ve dismissed him in bah-humbug mode, and taken advantage of the credit crunch crisis and every up-to-50-per-cent-off offer in pursuit of that Christmas gift list I am, one day, determined to trim.
I won’t, though, any more than I’ll stop the annual chore of card-writing, because although the spirit of Christmas may be lost in the mists of time, there is no greater joy than giving. Or, in fact, receiving. May I wish our readers not only a merry Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year, but also say to those not on our card list, I trust the grandkids are thriving, your piles are receding, your new dentures fit, and your home-made pickled onions never go soggy. Or is that a Round Robin too far?
end
Monday 29 December 2008
Tuesday 16 December 2008
Home Alone by John Orgill
John Orgill’s column for December 16.
Holilo…1
How many holidays does a woman want in a year?
I knew she was getting a bit twitchy a couple of weeks ago. It all started with murmurings about the credit crunch – not that Ower Luce knows what she’s talking about – and how much cheaper it was to do the big Christmas shop in foreign markets. Not just more economical, she reckoned, but well, you know, gifts with a difference, some imagination. Although to my mind a copy Chanel belt, for the niece-in-law-once-removed, or Louis Vuitton wallet from a Mallorcan market (never mind the quality – just cop the price) for a great-nephew we never see from one year’s end to the next, is hardly worth the cost of the economy-price air fare.
That’s her trouble, you see. My missus buys for all and sundry. And then some.
She gets in a heck of a state at this time of the year. Although she has collected stuff throughout the past ten months, by way of sales, three-for-two-, BOGOFS, and must-haves, by the time Chrissy prezzie time arrives, she’s either forgotten for whom she has bought what, or lost a bag full of "bargains" in that wilderness known to normal folk as a wardrobe. It’s a stressful time for yours truly. So I’ve just waved her a cheery farewell on EasyJet – and came back from East Midlands International shouting "Yippee. I’m free."
But honestly, I wish it was just that simple. Most times when she disappears into the wide blue-ish yonder on a get-out-of-my-space break, my social life perks up. Isn’t it odd how people feel sorry for a man alone? Mates ring up and suggest nipping out for a quickie at the local. Their wives cotton on, and insist I return to their house for a bite to eat. Sisters-in-law who barely give you the time of day for the rest of the year, suddenly take pity on home-alone John and invite you not just for sustenance, but for the entire weekend.
The trouble is, most of these charitable folk have suddenly decided to "do a Lucy". And they, too, have gone on a sun-run to far-flung outposts courtesy of booze-cruises, the Costas, Guernsey, Malta even, leaving me high and dry, and a diet of takeaways, and, in the words of she-who-must-be-obeyed, a poke about in the freezer.
Not only that, Lucy made, as usual, great play of her panic over the dreaded Christmas card list. Oh, she’d bought them – together with the ones she bought in the 2008 January sales, but couldn’t locate at the estimated time of departure. So, would I attempt the honours this year, and at least give her a head start for when she returns from her exhausting sojourn by at least putting pen to card, so that she has but a few stragglers to attend to? Oh, and by the way, it appears you have to write down a bit of a personal missive, just to let friends and acquaintances know that they’re a bit special.
Which is a timely moment to those recipients who received a formal : "Yours sincerely, Lucy and John" that this was nothing personal. Merely a lazy lapse on my part.
Because not only was I deprived of free food and drink, plus the usual home comforts of cosy nights with her by my side but also I was left with instructions to record Strictly Come Dancing, X Factor, I’m A Celebrity .. and all the other dross that dippy women indulge themselves in.
But I am making a stand. I will NOT record any of the above appalling shows. Because a couple of days before she left we had a blockage in the upstairs loo. So for the entire week of her absence I’m having my rubber-gloved hand down the bog. There’s only so much a pre-Christmas martyr can do….
end
Holilo…1
How many holidays does a woman want in a year?
I knew she was getting a bit twitchy a couple of weeks ago. It all started with murmurings about the credit crunch – not that Ower Luce knows what she’s talking about – and how much cheaper it was to do the big Christmas shop in foreign markets. Not just more economical, she reckoned, but well, you know, gifts with a difference, some imagination. Although to my mind a copy Chanel belt, for the niece-in-law-once-removed, or Louis Vuitton wallet from a Mallorcan market (never mind the quality – just cop the price) for a great-nephew we never see from one year’s end to the next, is hardly worth the cost of the economy-price air fare.
That’s her trouble, you see. My missus buys for all and sundry. And then some.
She gets in a heck of a state at this time of the year. Although she has collected stuff throughout the past ten months, by way of sales, three-for-two-, BOGOFS, and must-haves, by the time Chrissy prezzie time arrives, she’s either forgotten for whom she has bought what, or lost a bag full of "bargains" in that wilderness known to normal folk as a wardrobe. It’s a stressful time for yours truly. So I’ve just waved her a cheery farewell on EasyJet – and came back from East Midlands International shouting "Yippee. I’m free."
But honestly, I wish it was just that simple. Most times when she disappears into the wide blue-ish yonder on a get-out-of-my-space break, my social life perks up. Isn’t it odd how people feel sorry for a man alone? Mates ring up and suggest nipping out for a quickie at the local. Their wives cotton on, and insist I return to their house for a bite to eat. Sisters-in-law who barely give you the time of day for the rest of the year, suddenly take pity on home-alone John and invite you not just for sustenance, but for the entire weekend.
The trouble is, most of these charitable folk have suddenly decided to "do a Lucy". And they, too, have gone on a sun-run to far-flung outposts courtesy of booze-cruises, the Costas, Guernsey, Malta even, leaving me high and dry, and a diet of takeaways, and, in the words of she-who-must-be-obeyed, a poke about in the freezer.
Not only that, Lucy made, as usual, great play of her panic over the dreaded Christmas card list. Oh, she’d bought them – together with the ones she bought in the 2008 January sales, but couldn’t locate at the estimated time of departure. So, would I attempt the honours this year, and at least give her a head start for when she returns from her exhausting sojourn by at least putting pen to card, so that she has but a few stragglers to attend to? Oh, and by the way, it appears you have to write down a bit of a personal missive, just to let friends and acquaintances know that they’re a bit special.
Which is a timely moment to those recipients who received a formal : "Yours sincerely, Lucy and John" that this was nothing personal. Merely a lazy lapse on my part.
Because not only was I deprived of free food and drink, plus the usual home comforts of cosy nights with her by my side but also I was left with instructions to record Strictly Come Dancing, X Factor, I’m A Celebrity .. and all the other dross that dippy women indulge themselves in.
But I am making a stand. I will NOT record any of the above appalling shows. Because a couple of days before she left we had a blockage in the upstairs loo. So for the entire week of her absence I’m having my rubber-gloved hand down the bog. There’s only so much a pre-Christmas martyr can do….
end
Home Alone
Lucy’s column for December 16.
Holilo…1
How many holidays does a woman want in a year?
I knew she was getting a bit twitchy a couple of weeks ago. It all started with murmurings about the credit crunch – not that Ower Luce knows what she’s talking about – and how much cheaper it was to do the big Christmas shop in foreign markets. Not just more economical, she reckoned, but well, you know, gifts with a difference, some imagination. Although to my mind a copy Chanel belt, for the niece-in-law-once-removed, or Louis Vuitton wallet from a Mallorcan market (never mind the quality – just cop the price) for a great-nephew we never see from one year’s end to the next, is hardly worth the cost of the economy-price air fare.
That’s her trouble, you see. My missus buys for all and sundry. And then some.
She gets in a heck of a state at this time of the year. Although she has collected stuff throughout the past ten months, by way of sales, three-for-two-, BOGOFS, and must-haves, by the time Chrissy prezzie time arrives, she’s either forgotten for whom she has bought what, or lost a bag full of "bargains" in that wilderness known to normal folk as a wardrobe. It’s a stressful time for yours truly. So I’ve just waved her a cheery farewell on EasyJet – and came back from East Midlands International shouting "Yippee. I’m free."
But honestly, I wish it was just that simple. Most times when she disappears into the wide blue-ish yonder on a get-out-of-my-space break, my social life perks up. Isn’t it odd how people feel sorry for a man alone? Mates ring up and suggest nipping out for a quickie at the local. Their wives cotton on, and insist I return to their house for a bite to eat. Sisters-in-law who barely give you the time of day for the rest of the year, suddenly take pity on home-alone John and invite you not just for sustenance, but for the entire weekend.
The trouble is, most of these charitable folk have suddenly decided to "do a Lucy". And they, too, have gone on a sun-run to far-flung outposts courtesy of booze-cruises, the Costas, Guernsey, Malta even, leaving me high and dry, and a diet of takeaways, and, in the words of she-who-must-be-obeyed, a poke about in the freezer.
Not only that, Lucy made, as usual, great play of her panic over the dreaded Christmas card list. Oh, she’d bought them – together with the ones she bought in the 2008 January sales, but couldn’t locate at the estimated time of departure. So, would I attempt the honours this year, and at least give her a head start for when she returns from her exhausting sojourn by at least putting pen to card, so that she has but a few stragglers to attend to? Oh, and by the way, it appears you have to write down a bit of a personal missive, just to let friends and acquaintances know that they’re a bit special.
Which is a timely moment to those recipients who received a formal : "Yours sincerely, Lucy and John" that this was nothing personal. Merely a lazy lapse on my part.
Because not only was I deprived of free food and drink, plus the usual home comforts of cosy nights with her by my side but also I was left with instructions to record Strictly Come Dancing, X Factor, I’m A Celebrity .. and all the other dross that dippy women indulge themselves in.
But I am making a stand. I will NOT record any of the above appalling shows. Because a couple of days before she left we had a blockage in the upstairs loo. So for the entire week of her absence I’m having my rubber-gloved hand down the bog. There’s only so much a pre-Christmas martyr can do….
end
Holilo…1
How many holidays does a woman want in a year?
I knew she was getting a bit twitchy a couple of weeks ago. It all started with murmurings about the credit crunch – not that Ower Luce knows what she’s talking about – and how much cheaper it was to do the big Christmas shop in foreign markets. Not just more economical, she reckoned, but well, you know, gifts with a difference, some imagination. Although to my mind a copy Chanel belt, for the niece-in-law-once-removed, or Louis Vuitton wallet from a Mallorcan market (never mind the quality – just cop the price) for a great-nephew we never see from one year’s end to the next, is hardly worth the cost of the economy-price air fare.
That’s her trouble, you see. My missus buys for all and sundry. And then some.
She gets in a heck of a state at this time of the year. Although she has collected stuff throughout the past ten months, by way of sales, three-for-two-, BOGOFS, and must-haves, by the time Chrissy prezzie time arrives, she’s either forgotten for whom she has bought what, or lost a bag full of "bargains" in that wilderness known to normal folk as a wardrobe. It’s a stressful time for yours truly. So I’ve just waved her a cheery farewell on EasyJet – and came back from East Midlands International shouting "Yippee. I’m free."
But honestly, I wish it was just that simple. Most times when she disappears into the wide blue-ish yonder on a get-out-of-my-space break, my social life perks up. Isn’t it odd how people feel sorry for a man alone? Mates ring up and suggest nipping out for a quickie at the local. Their wives cotton on, and insist I return to their house for a bite to eat. Sisters-in-law who barely give you the time of day for the rest of the year, suddenly take pity on home-alone John and invite you not just for sustenance, but for the entire weekend.
The trouble is, most of these charitable folk have suddenly decided to "do a Lucy". And they, too, have gone on a sun-run to far-flung outposts courtesy of booze-cruises, the Costas, Guernsey, Malta even, leaving me high and dry, and a diet of takeaways, and, in the words of she-who-must-be-obeyed, a poke about in the freezer.
Not only that, Lucy made, as usual, great play of her panic over the dreaded Christmas card list. Oh, she’d bought them – together with the ones she bought in the 2008 January sales, but couldn’t locate at the estimated time of departure. So, would I attempt the honours this year, and at least give her a head start for when she returns from her exhausting sojourn by at least putting pen to card, so that she has but a few stragglers to attend to? Oh, and by the way, it appears you have to write down a bit of a personal missive, just to let friends and acquaintances know that they’re a bit special.
Which is a timely moment to those recipients who received a formal : "Yours sincerely, Lucy and John" that this was nothing personal. Merely a lazy lapse on my part.
Because not only was I deprived of free food and drink, plus the usual home comforts of cosy nights with her by my side but also I was left with instructions to record Strictly Come Dancing, X Factor, I’m A Celebrity .. and all the other dross that dippy women indulge themselves in.
But I am making a stand. I will NOT record any of the above appalling shows. Because a couple of days before she left we had a blockage in the upstairs loo. So for the entire week of her absence I’m having my rubber-gloved hand down the bog. There’s only so much a pre-Christmas martyr can do….
end
Tuesday 9 December 2008
Jean Charity
Lucy’s column for December 9
Jeanlo…1
Derby daughter Jean Charity fell in love with Palma, Mallorca, from the top deck of a cruise ship docked in its magnificent harbour.
After the break-down of her marriage to a Derby businessman, and the death of her two precious Maltese terriers, Jean had long felt the need to pick herself up, dust herself down, and start all over again. After all, as she claims, she couldn’t live her life on the edge of her many friends, however supportive and kind they were in her hour of need.
Spurred on by her disillusion with life in the UK, her love of the sun, and itchy feet, the independent and feisty Jean made the decision, there and then, to relocate to this island paradise. For just a couple of years, maybe…. That was eight years ago. And she’s still there. And what’s kept her there? Well, actually, a touch of cancer.
And "A Touch of Cancer" is the title of a book she has written during the past gruelling six years since she was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphona, at a very advanced stage. Jean, former secretary to Geoff Lambert at Frank Innes, self-confessed party girl, well known in Derbyshire for her charity work, put down one of the initial symptoms – severe fatigue – to her penchant for partying most of the night at her "somewhat advanced age". She was, in fact, only in her early 60s. There was neither rhyme nor reason for the hair loss, but the diarrhoea she blamed on climatic and dietary changes. And the itching was nothing to do with vagabond shoes feet, but the invasion of weird and wonderful insects which her apartment harboured.
This is no maudlin amble through the trials and tribulations of diagnosis, treatments, prognosis. In the true, up-beat Jean Charity style which her many Derby friends and acquaintances are more aware of than I am, she shows a fearless spirit and acceptance of all that life has thrown at her and her fellow-sufferers. And her humour knows no bounds. She leaves not a stone – good or bad – unturned. But there is a chuckle or a belly-laugh on every page.
Let’s face it, there’s nothing light-hearted about such unsociable conditions as diarrhoea, wind, bladder weakness, but Jean takes them by the throat and squeezes amusement out of them all. Her section on sexual activity is positively side-splitting. But there’s an overwhelming sense of fight, peace, acceptance, throughout.
A lot of it’s down to attitude, apparently, a fact borne out by her Spanish oncologist – and here, we have to bear in mind that Jean was being treated in a foreign land, relying on translators most of the time – who assured her at the time of diagnosis : "You will get through – you have the right attitude". Jean admits a positive attitude is hard to maintain when you’re sick and in pain. But by comparison it serves to make the better days even more precious.
Jean may be far from her Derby roots, but her many friends here have proved a supportive influence on her problem. Indeed, we learned about the book from her old pals Gill Maynard (senior stylist at Keith Hall’s hairdressers, and I’m not saying for how many years!), and that gastronomic host-with-the-most Joe Waldron, when we met them, quite by chance, when they were staying at the smart and expensive La Residencia Hotel, in Deya, Mallorca, where we’d popped in for a drink. They were over there to see Jean, and waxed lyrical about their brave and inspirational friend. I’ve since spoken to her. They didn’t underestimate her courage, compassion and comedy.
Jean will be in Derby in the New Year to launch, and sign, her book. She can be contacted by e-mail at jean@ginales.com. A percentage of the royalties will go to a cancer charity.
end
Jeanlo…1
Derby daughter Jean Charity fell in love with Palma, Mallorca, from the top deck of a cruise ship docked in its magnificent harbour.
After the break-down of her marriage to a Derby businessman, and the death of her two precious Maltese terriers, Jean had long felt the need to pick herself up, dust herself down, and start all over again. After all, as she claims, she couldn’t live her life on the edge of her many friends, however supportive and kind they were in her hour of need.
Spurred on by her disillusion with life in the UK, her love of the sun, and itchy feet, the independent and feisty Jean made the decision, there and then, to relocate to this island paradise. For just a couple of years, maybe…. That was eight years ago. And she’s still there. And what’s kept her there? Well, actually, a touch of cancer.
And "A Touch of Cancer" is the title of a book she has written during the past gruelling six years since she was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphona, at a very advanced stage. Jean, former secretary to Geoff Lambert at Frank Innes, self-confessed party girl, well known in Derbyshire for her charity work, put down one of the initial symptoms – severe fatigue – to her penchant for partying most of the night at her "somewhat advanced age". She was, in fact, only in her early 60s. There was neither rhyme nor reason for the hair loss, but the diarrhoea she blamed on climatic and dietary changes. And the itching was nothing to do with vagabond shoes feet, but the invasion of weird and wonderful insects which her apartment harboured.
This is no maudlin amble through the trials and tribulations of diagnosis, treatments, prognosis. In the true, up-beat Jean Charity style which her many Derby friends and acquaintances are more aware of than I am, she shows a fearless spirit and acceptance of all that life has thrown at her and her fellow-sufferers. And her humour knows no bounds. She leaves not a stone – good or bad – unturned. But there is a chuckle or a belly-laugh on every page.
Let’s face it, there’s nothing light-hearted about such unsociable conditions as diarrhoea, wind, bladder weakness, but Jean takes them by the throat and squeezes amusement out of them all. Her section on sexual activity is positively side-splitting. But there’s an overwhelming sense of fight, peace, acceptance, throughout.
A lot of it’s down to attitude, apparently, a fact borne out by her Spanish oncologist – and here, we have to bear in mind that Jean was being treated in a foreign land, relying on translators most of the time – who assured her at the time of diagnosis : "You will get through – you have the right attitude". Jean admits a positive attitude is hard to maintain when you’re sick and in pain. But by comparison it serves to make the better days even more precious.
Jean may be far from her Derby roots, but her many friends here have proved a supportive influence on her problem. Indeed, we learned about the book from her old pals Gill Maynard (senior stylist at Keith Hall’s hairdressers, and I’m not saying for how many years!), and that gastronomic host-with-the-most Joe Waldron, when we met them, quite by chance, when they were staying at the smart and expensive La Residencia Hotel, in Deya, Mallorca, where we’d popped in for a drink. They were over there to see Jean, and waxed lyrical about their brave and inspirational friend. I’ve since spoken to her. They didn’t underestimate her courage, compassion and comedy.
Jean will be in Derby in the New Year to launch, and sign, her book. She can be contacted by e-mail at jean@ginales.com. A percentage of the royalties will go to a cancer charity.
end
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Comfort Food
Lucy’s column for December 2
Foodlo..1
Ooh, it was a gourmet delight, and one we hadn’t savoured since Adam was a lad.
We’re talking rabbit pie. And it was on the menu at my friend Pauline Phillips’s house the other night. That, along with a huge dish of lamb’s liver and onions. And I was spoilt for choice. I could have been picky and settled for some of each – one or two people did just that, so overwhelmed were they with the options – except it would have meant a smaller piece of pie. But when it comes to rabbit, I’m a bit of a pig. And rabbit is so much tastier than pork, not to mention cheaper.
Indeed, this particular rabbit was free, I understand. It fell off the back of a Landrover, somewhere in the wilds of Derbyshire, making it a well-bred English young buck, which hadn’t so much as glimpsed a supermarket shelf, let alone originated in foreign parts.
In the same week, we dined at our friends the Skivos – Julie and Rob Skivington, who are equally as lavish and imaginative with their hospitality as Pauline. And Julie isn’t behind the oven door when it comes to conjuring up dishes to make your juices run. After all, with five children, four of them strapping lads, she’s had enough practice. But on this particular night, she excelled, with bangers and mash, mushy peas, and onion gravy.
It could be just him and me, but when it comes to food, we go for comfort. Show us a bowl of caviar, and we’ll settle for the home-made tuna pate. Try the temptation of a T-bone, and I’ll be howling for egg and chips. And the one oyster I once attempted didn’t even reach the back of my throat before nausea took over, so there’s not much comfort in that embarrassing dash to the loo.
So you see, with the credit crunch, we’re well prepared on the cheap and cheerful, tasty and nourishing, gastronome front. And I write this in a week when foodies announce, with a great fanfare of trumpets, that beef suet is back on the menu. To be honest, I’d never realised it had been off, because there’s always a packet lurking in our fridge, not just for dumplings, but baked, as a pie crust, in the oven, and so much simpler to make than pastry.
During my time as women’s editor of this paper, with a regular cookery column, it was a standing joke that Lucy knew fourteen ways with a pound of mince, and it has to be said that mince still figures largely in this household’s culinary delights, emerging as rissoles, cottage pies, the more exotic lasagnes, and easy-peasy spag bols. And casseroles and stews reign supreme, bulked out with loads of vegetables to keep the five-a-day police off our backs. These concoctions are switched on at bed-time, and next morning, what better to waken up to than the heavenly smell of that night’s dinner.
You see, I couldn’t exist without a slow cooker, which is in action at least once a week. On a tour of Derbyshire recently, we happened upon the famous Maycock’s butchers in Holloway. It was where Julie bought the aforementioned sausages, in so many flavours and varieties that she couldn’t choose – so ended up with two of each. And it was there I espied a whole ox tail, just begging to be bought. That, alongside a couple of pounds of shin beef and kidney, has made three huge meat pies, and two bowls of stew.
There should be somebody out there passing on this old-fashioned, economical fare to today’s youngsters who aim for little more than a burger in a bun. Even I’m still learning. It’s over to Pauline, because I haven’t cooked a rabbit for 40 years.
end
Foodlo..1
Ooh, it was a gourmet delight, and one we hadn’t savoured since Adam was a lad.
We’re talking rabbit pie. And it was on the menu at my friend Pauline Phillips’s house the other night. That, along with a huge dish of lamb’s liver and onions. And I was spoilt for choice. I could have been picky and settled for some of each – one or two people did just that, so overwhelmed were they with the options – except it would have meant a smaller piece of pie. But when it comes to rabbit, I’m a bit of a pig. And rabbit is so much tastier than pork, not to mention cheaper.
Indeed, this particular rabbit was free, I understand. It fell off the back of a Landrover, somewhere in the wilds of Derbyshire, making it a well-bred English young buck, which hadn’t so much as glimpsed a supermarket shelf, let alone originated in foreign parts.
In the same week, we dined at our friends the Skivos – Julie and Rob Skivington, who are equally as lavish and imaginative with their hospitality as Pauline. And Julie isn’t behind the oven door when it comes to conjuring up dishes to make your juices run. After all, with five children, four of them strapping lads, she’s had enough practice. But on this particular night, she excelled, with bangers and mash, mushy peas, and onion gravy.
It could be just him and me, but when it comes to food, we go for comfort. Show us a bowl of caviar, and we’ll settle for the home-made tuna pate. Try the temptation of a T-bone, and I’ll be howling for egg and chips. And the one oyster I once attempted didn’t even reach the back of my throat before nausea took over, so there’s not much comfort in that embarrassing dash to the loo.
So you see, with the credit crunch, we’re well prepared on the cheap and cheerful, tasty and nourishing, gastronome front. And I write this in a week when foodies announce, with a great fanfare of trumpets, that beef suet is back on the menu. To be honest, I’d never realised it had been off, because there’s always a packet lurking in our fridge, not just for dumplings, but baked, as a pie crust, in the oven, and so much simpler to make than pastry.
During my time as women’s editor of this paper, with a regular cookery column, it was a standing joke that Lucy knew fourteen ways with a pound of mince, and it has to be said that mince still figures largely in this household’s culinary delights, emerging as rissoles, cottage pies, the more exotic lasagnes, and easy-peasy spag bols. And casseroles and stews reign supreme, bulked out with loads of vegetables to keep the five-a-day police off our backs. These concoctions are switched on at bed-time, and next morning, what better to waken up to than the heavenly smell of that night’s dinner.
You see, I couldn’t exist without a slow cooker, which is in action at least once a week. On a tour of Derbyshire recently, we happened upon the famous Maycock’s butchers in Holloway. It was where Julie bought the aforementioned sausages, in so many flavours and varieties that she couldn’t choose – so ended up with two of each. And it was there I espied a whole ox tail, just begging to be bought. That, alongside a couple of pounds of shin beef and kidney, has made three huge meat pies, and two bowls of stew.
There should be somebody out there passing on this old-fashioned, economical fare to today’s youngsters who aim for little more than a burger in a bun. Even I’m still learning. It’s over to Pauline, because I haven’t cooked a rabbit for 40 years.
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