Warning: This recipe may blow up in your face, or, How Not to Make Lancashire Hotpot

Quick & Easy Lancashire Hotpot

1. Slice the potatoes to about the thickness of a magazine (half a cm). Cook in boiling water for 8-10 mins until tender. Meanwhile, heat an ovenproof frying pan or shallow casserole on a high heat. Dry-fry the lamb for 5 mins until browned, letting the meat release itself from the base before you turn it. Heat the grill to medium.
2. Tip the onion and most of the rosemary into the pan and fry for 3 mins until the onion is slightly softened and takes on some of the colour from the lamb. Stir in the gravy, then season with black pepper.
3. Drain the potato slices and lay over the meat, each one overlapping slightly, then grill for about 5 mins, until the potatoes are golden.

This recipe promised me ease and convenience. Just what I needed on a day when I was feeling less than brilliant. The two-day-a-week commute to London, teaching keen American undergraduates, had finally taken its toll. Venturing out in the world, unprotected without my annual flu jab, I had succumb to the first cold of the season.

Things always (and always) seem worse when you have a cold. Damp weather seems wetter, the wind, windier, and melancholy moods, moodier. Feeling sorry for myself -- and wanting to prove to myself that at least my domestic prowess had not waned -- I drag myself from off the settee, and shuffled to the kitchen with the goal of preparing a Lancashire Hotpot for my Darling English Boy. 

Truth be told, I was feeling guilty. The poor DEB has done double duty in the kitchen these days, what with my traveling back and forth to London, and now being poorly/ill. I needed to reclaim my territory. So, armed with my favourite pyrex casserole dish, I set about this simple three-step recipe. How hard could it be? A cheat, really. A doddle, really, even with feeling under the weather. 

Famous last words... 

I got half way through Step #2, added the onion, began to stir, and BAM! And explosion of seared lamb, roasted onion and blackened glass. I stood there for a moment in shock. What had just happened? I stepped back and realised, to my surprise, that I was okay. There was glass everywhere. 

Clearing up the mess, I thought: How could something so simple have gone so wrong. As I stared at the shattered bits and pieces, I realised that the same may be said of my new life in Britain. How could something so seemingly simple have gone so wrong? Or, at least, not quite as well as it should have?

The past four years have been full of great joy and a great deal of struggle. And I know I am not alone in feeling that I am not exactly living to my fullest potential. I know that these are hard times, all round. Millions are struggling to secure and stay in full time work in Britain, not just me. Redundancies are common place. Why should it not happen to me? Receiving my 'walking papers' this week from the popular, regional magazine that has hosted my monthly column for over 2 years was a real blow. The new editor was kind and gracious, she acknowledged the popularity my column has enjoyed, and her reasons were the buzzwords of the day: cuts, budgets and costs. I, of course, understood. But not without feelings of hurt and resentment.

The hardest part about this is that my column, although it never paid me much, gave me joy and real sense of purpose, drive, hope, direction and definition. It was a monthly challenge, that gave me a real sense of achievement. An identity (beyond that of Wife) that I could cling to and amble about in socially. In essence, it gave me everything that had seemed all but lost for me. In the midst of a sea of (endless) rejection letters from colleges and universities up and down this country, my column was my anchor. It held me fast whenever I felt I just might drift away in a wave of depression or anxiety. And now that anchor is gone. I'll have to start again.

What are you meant to do when you have tried every trick you can think of, every thing that you know how to do to succeed? How do you 'give up' when giving up isn't really an option? Am I discovering that there is only a superficial openness here, and the Britain is in fact a deeply closed society? 

This was the first moment in four years when I seriously doubted my decision to move here. And, the first time I ever seriously considered wanting to leave. (Taking the DEB with me, of course!) But where we would be go? What would we do? Who would we be?

And how much would we be leaving behind? I know I wax lyrical about our beloved Barford, but it truly is a special place. We have family near by, and good friends now, who feel as close as family. 

Just as I begun to doubt this place and this choice, this place once again revealed itself to be 'right'. Over the past four sick days I have been shown such loving tenderness. Friends and neighbours stopping by to drop off 'sick day supplies' (boxes of tissues, magazines and chocolate); or home remedies ("My mother picked these elderflowers this summer, make two cups of tea and drink it daily. I swear by it with my boys."). My sweet friend, Kate, who insisted on foregoing her well-deserved day off lay-in to drive me to the doctor's, sat with me in the surgery (doctor's office) and treating me to a hot chocolate after; cheering phone calls from my brother-in-law; and a warming plate of dinner delivered straight from the Harvest Supper in the Village Hall.

These are the things that matter, these are the things that round out our lives. The rest are merely incidentals. That is what I have to remember, whenever I feel the urge to weep, to wail, to give up, or just plain run away.

Few things in life that are truly worthwhile are hardly ever "quick" and are certainly rarely "easy". Next time I attempt Lancashire Hotpot, I shall opt for a different recipe. One that may require a bit more effort and more time, but one that will hopefully give better results. I've learned one thing though: when, even after all your very best efforts, things blow up in your face, all you can do is clear it up and start again.

Sunshine on a rainy day

Between grey skies, sunshine and showers it’s glorious summer in England. Wimbledon. Sun tea. Strawberries. Champers. And, gardening. Doesn’t get much better than this.

Currently prepping for a lecture in London in July, on Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, Richard III and Macbeth. Devils, witches, hunchbacks and murder. Fantastic. stuff. Nice to see the work trickling in - slowly, but surely. At last.

Had a go at making one of the DEB’s all-time favourite summer time puddings (desserts): Eton mess. I was intimidated at first, but by golly! It’s a doddle to make! As my chums at the National Trust would say, it’s definitely a “quick win”!

And, an absolute joy to use fresh mint straight from the garden!

            

Eton mess

Ingredients

                300ml whipping cream

                8 x 15g meringue nests

                350g strawberries
            
             200g raspberries and/or blackberries and/or blueberries

                4 tablespoons strawberry jam

                Sprigs of Mint

Method

In a mixing bowl, whisk the cream until just peaking. Lightly crumble the meringue nests into the cream and set aside. Wash the strawberries. Reserving four for decoration, hull and roughly chop the remaining ones. Gently fold the crushed meringues, chopped strawberries and jam into the cream. Pile on to serving plates, decorate with reserved strawberries and mint. Serve immediately.

Cook's Tip: This mixture does not keep for long. Do not refrigerate, the meringue will dissolve.

Not so little things

Lancashire hotpot

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil

800 g lamb neck fillet, cut into 5-cm pieces

1 onion, diced

2 carrots, diced

4 celery sticks

2 leeks, thinly sliced

2 tablespoons plain flour

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

800 g potatoes, unpeeled

sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

serves 4-6

Heat the olive oil in a large, flameproof casserole dish, add the lamb and brown all over. Transfer to a plate. Reduce the heat under the casserole, add all the vegetables, then sauté for 10 minutes, stirring frequently.

Remove the casserole from the heat, add the meat, then sprinkle in the flour and mix well. Pour in just enough hot water to cover the meat and vegetables, stir well and return to the heat.

Preheat oven t 180° C (350° F) Gas 4.

Bring the casserole to the boil, stirring frequently as the gravy thickens. Season and add the Worcestershire sauce. Remove from the heat.

Slice the potatoes thinly by hand or with a mandolin. Layer them carefully over the meat and vegetables, covering them completely. Place in the oven and cook for 2 hours. The potatoes should be golden on top and the gravy bubbling up around the sides.

__

Cooking success is so good for the soul. I made this recipe last night, and it was fantastic! The end result looked JUST like the picture in my Easy British Cooking cookbook. For me, that is real achievement!

(Note: I replaced the Lancashire lamb with Warwickshire Hogget, fresh from Charlecote Park. Hogget is is an age of sheep. It falls between lamb and mutton. I thought had something to do with pigs/hogs, initially. I also added parsnips and more leeks.)

My Warwickshire Hotpot was a delicious victory. A small victory, but a victory all the same.

As much as I love Autumn, it is a time that prompts reflection and introspection - the last things I need any encouragement to do! And, perhaps as residue from my years of teaching and lecturing, my sense of Autumn as the start of a new academic year still plays upon my mind. As I find myself no longer on the academic treadmill, I feel a little at sea without the purpose and drive of the academy. But, I‘m trying to find the purpose and drive in myself.

Having an editorial deadline for my column in Warwickshire Life each month certainly helps. Had a funny experience with that recently. Not so much funny “ha, ha”; but, rather, “you’ve got to be kidding me, oh my god, what am I going to!” funny…

Following Lucy’s demise, I languished (still am, though getting much better...) and struggled to find motivation for most things. My editor graciously offered me an extra week for my November deadline. I took every bit of it.

When I finally pulled myself together enough to write something, I submitted it, only to find that I had inadvertently traversed the same terrain as the magazine’s other columnist.

I mean, what are the chances that he and I would hit upon the very same topic – from very different vantage points, of course – at the same time? Since he got his in first, could I be a darling, write something else, and save this piece for later?

I was floored. It had taken everything I had within me to muster up the original piece, and now I was being sent back to the drawing board. Oy vey!

Oh, and it was needed ASAP...

I’m struggling now to recall the person who once said that we are each capable of so much more than we give ourselves credit for, or imagine possible. I certainly felt that to be true.

I had a not-so-quiet word with myself, grabbed my laptop, put away the tissues, and typed as if my life depended on it. Sure, this wasn’t life or death, but a commitment is a commitment.

In the end, the piece that I came up under duress was much better than the original one. Perhaps, the pressure even helped the creative process?

I believe that every opportunity no matter how seemingly small to others, is a gift, and not to be squandered or taken lightly. I approach my column with sincerity and seriousness, and try to put my heart and soul into it every month.

A few days ago, two sweet rewards arrived. First, an unexpected parcel from a dear friend in New England. The contents were a treasure trove of goodies from one of my favourite shops in Northampton, Massachusetts. The present reminded me of golden autumns, beautiful fall foliage, and days spent indulging in a wonderful Earl Grey and lavender flavoured ice cream called “Hearts and Flowers”…

And, a kind message from a reader, sent to me via my editor. The reader expressed her sympathy at news of Lucy, and commented that she looks forward to reading my column each month. My page is the first one that she turns to every time. Nice. That really meant a lot.

Lancashire Hotpot. A special parcel from a faraway friend. And, a fan letter. Sometimes, it is the little things that mean the most.

Coffee mornings

Glorious morning full of sunshine – at last!

Yesterday, after a quick swim, I went along to the Coffee Morning at the Machado Gallery. Sue Machado’s “first-Friday-of-the-month” Coffee Mornings are an institution in Barford, and yesterday was no exception.

I arrived around 11:30 AM to find a gathering of familiar faces. Sue Machado maneuvering graceful in her wonderfully bright and hearth-y kitchen area. Her formidable AGA was working at full tilt producing an array of beautifully baked breads, and goodies. (I opted for the spelt & ricotta pancakes with rhurbarb & maple syrup and homemade vanilla ice cream – yum!)

Out in the garden, the “Old Barfordians” were basking in the sunshine. The Old Barfordians are a group of ladies who re-unite at the Machado every month. All roughly in their 80's, these women grew up together in Barford, went to school and were in "Girl Guides" (British equivalent to "Girl Scouts") together. They have seen many changes of live together over the ways, some of them now live far away, but make the journey to Barford every month to reminisce over coffee and nectarine flan. They shared some of their old photographs with me.

Another regular feature of the Machado Coffee Morning is Di Hadley from Middle Watchbury tempting us all with lists of her farm offerings: locally raised and reared beef, pork and lamb. Her “Mutton and Mint” sausages are to die for. I ordered a pack of these, and put in a tentative order for a small Goose for Christmas.

Orders for Christmas, in August? Good grief, but, it will be here before we know it. I’d love to have a go at cooking a goose. Reminds me of one of those old English carols we use to sing in Choir, in junior high school.

For my life, I can’t remember the title of the song, but one of the refrains is: “Christmas is coming, the goose is going fat. Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat.”  I used to love that tune! And whenever we sang it, my thoughts would drift away to this blessed isle, and images of happy, English Christmases with plump roasted goose, steaming puddings, hats and Christmas crackers.

Last year, the D.E.B. and I had another English classic, a sexy alternative to traditional roasted fowl for Christmas dinner: “Sirloin Steaks and Stilton.” It was absolutely gorgeous, but this year, I’m thinkin’, “Bring on the poultry!”

 My thoughts about Christmas are only fleeting at best, I’m one of those people who likes to hang on to summer till the bitter rainy end. The D.E.B. is dying for us to go for a camping holiday in our little camper van. We should be away to the Cotswolds this weekend, but we feared that the weather wouldn’t cooperate, and of course, it’s sunny instead.

Ah, British weather you have to love it!

Our holiday plans have also been complicated by the fact that we were recently invited to a wedding in Spain. (One of my former students is getting married.) I’d love to go – any excuse to wear a hat – it falls at a somewhat awkward time for us to get away.

But, if we don’t go to Spain, we could delay our summer holiday to September instead. The weather here may in fact be better then, than it is now. We’re thinking a trip to visit the rellies in the Lake District, or a road trip on in search of my ancestors in the mountains of Wales.

For now, morning cups of tea in bed… 

Curds & ways

Being a “Domestic Goddess” isn’t easy.

I have spent the past week neck-deep in cranberries, oranges and lemons. High from my Thanksgiving successes, I volunteered to make some cranberry relishes and lemon curd for the St. Peter’s Church Christmas Fayre.

“Lemon curd? You’re brave.” said Hilary, the Barford W.I.’s reigning “jam & preserve making” Queen. Hilary is my hero. She can do more things with rhubarb than I can even imagine!

I’d gone round to Hilary’s to collect some spare “jam jars”. In America, we’d call them “canning jars”. Regardless to what you call them, they are virtually impossible to find. (Not even at Sainsbury’s! I was shocked.) Hilary graciously gave me a dozen jam jars to play with. As I ‘clinked’ my way back home, faithful hound in tow, through the Barford allotment gardens, and up passed the playing field, I found myself thinking about the very thin line between bravery and foolishness, and the fact I was undoubtedly about to cross it…

My new favorite cookbook calls ‘Lemon Curd’ the “quintessentially British preserve.” However, that is only part of the reason why I’m utterly smitten with it. Lemon Curd is sunshine in a jar.  It is tart, yet sweet and buttery all at once. It has a texture like velvet. Used as a sweet spread for morning toast, or freshly made scones, it tastes of fresh, English summer days. And, it is also a major feat of British culinary engineering. If I could replicate this divine substance, what could I not do?

Here’s the recipe:

Lemon curd

Ingredients:

2 large unwaxed lemons

125 g unsalted butter, cut into cubes

180 g caster sugar

3 eggs, beaten

Finely grate the zest from the lemons into a heatproof bowl. Squeeze the juice and add that to the bowl with the butter and sugar.

(Now the tricky part) Place the bowl over a pan of just-simmering water, making sure the water doesn’t touch the base of the bowl. Stir until the butter melts, add the eggs and, using a wooden spoon, stir for 10-15 minutes until the mixture thickens noticeably and takes on a translucent look.

Well, try I did, and fail, I did.

Thankfully, I had much more success with my Cranberry relishes. I made a sweet one – and got creative and used tangerine juice, instead of regular orange juice, and added orange zest to finish. I also did a traditional, British, savoury cranberry relish, made with cider vinegar.

The poor D.E.B. suffered patiently through countless taste testing as my official taster. Given time, I’m sure he will have the strength to face a cranberry again. I had to make a second batch of my savoury variety, after the D.E.B. said gently (and with watering eyes): “You might want to tone down the vinegar in this one, sweetie.”  Well, I’ve never been good with math(s), and Metric is hard.

I did finally get the balance right, I think. Then, I boiled my jam jars dutifully, cut and pasted cute, little labels, and then, on Thursday night, before W.I. meeting, I delivered my wares to the Christmas Fayre drop off point. “No Lemon Curd?” organizer Alan smiled at me. I admitted my defeat reluctantly, and Alan kindly cooed over my beautifully packaged cranberry relishes to make me feel better.

The D.E.B. was and still is quite proud of my “Christmas Fayre project” and my little cranberry relishes. He was as excited as I to see them on display at the Christmas Fayre on Saturday afternoon.  I was also more than a little nervous that my wares would not sale at all, and that they would be left, poor darlings, to languish unwanted, unsold on the “Jams & Preserves” stall. Hoping to avoid this potential personal horror, I’d urged the D.E.B. that we get there early and not stay long.  (Basically, see them and run.)

Our plans were thwarted by a surprise visit from our wonderful friends, A&D. Another fantastic couple that enrich our lives immensely. To say that A&D are “foodies” would be an understatement. I think that I shall dub them “King & Queen of Cuisine.”  K&Q offered solid advice and encouragement on the Lemon Curd saga.

Then - on to the Christmas Fayre! I donned my Fool/Jester’s hat (yes, I have one, and yes, it does have bells) and feigned a holly-jolly aspect. As we left the house, I turned to the D.E.B. and said, “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?” He just smiled and said, “Never.”

When we arrived, the School Hall was a hive of activity and holiday cheer. I tried to appear calm and casual -- well as relaxed as one can be wearing a fool’s hat -- as I scanned the room for my tiny bits of treasure on the various stalls. “There she is,” the familiar, smiling voice of the Barford W.I. president called out to me from behind the W.I. stall.

I shyly inquired about my relishes, and asked if I could take a picture of them on display. “No, can’t do that.” Madam President chirped and smiled broad. I felt myself blush suddenly and redder than the silly fool’s hat I was wearing. “They are long gone!” she beamed. Another W.I. member working the stall added: “They went straightaway, they did.” I was stunned and relieved. And then very disappointed that I hadn’t thought to take a picture of them beforehand.

My W.I., and soon-to-be-formed Barford Writers’ Group chum, Diane, had heard about my Lemon Curd attempt, (news travels fast in these parts), and caught me at the mince pie stall, eager to offer me a bit of encouragement: “Never you mind, it’s a very tricky thing,” she soothed in her rolling, Scottish accent. 

I haven’t given up, and I shall have “another go.” I’m just glad I tried. Just by making the attempt, I allowed myself to be part of something new. To contribute something to this wonderful community.

After a few more mince pies, some delicious mulled wine, and a visit to Father Christmas/Santa (and yes, I did sit on his knee!), the D.E.B. and I wandered home in the crisp, late afternoon air.

When we opened our door, we found a small parcel waiting for me.  It was a copy of Mary Norwalk’s book: Jams, Marmalades and Sweet Preserves (1973). Page 99, “Curds & Honeys,” was bookmarked with a tiny note card. The note card said: “You Can Do It! A mistake may slow you – but don’t let it stop you!”

In the Land of Nigella...

I was never a "Domestic Diva" but always wanted, secretly or not so secretly, to be one. This was an impossible feat to pull off in my shoe-box Manhattan apartment. My kitchen in New York was so small that two people could not stand together in it comfortably, nor was it possible to open the stove door and the refrigerator door at the same time. While my new English kitchen does present its own unique challenges, I have been granted to the gift of space: room in which to actually cook, move and navigate; and surfaces, surfaces, surfaces, at last. So now, with the time and space within which to channel my "inner Martha," I could not wait, as the locals say, to get "stuck in."

British food. A comedian once made the joke that a "British cookbook" should be merely "a pamphlet, that says 'See other countries'." Funny. But true? I don't think so. I have always enjoyed British food -- beyond my favorite Fish'n'chips. British food is the ultimate comfort food. In every British kitchen, something is undoubtedly being roasted to perfection in the "cooker," and thankfully for me there is sure to be a potato involved in one way or another.

What I noticed from watching and reading a small cross-section of Nigella Lawson, Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and the like, is that key factors in British cooking are: freshness and flavo(u)r. Gordon stresses simplicity, which works for me. Keep it simple. Quality, fresh food, cooked simply. What a way to seduce the senses.

Speaking of culinary seductions ... I recall one of my many, recent, transatlantic jaunts in the past year to visit my Darling English Boy, wherein I was treated to an exquisite culinary evening at Stratford-upon-Avon College. The Darling English Boy has a dear friend who is an exceptional chef who heads the culinary program at Stratford College, and every year they provide the students with the ultimate challenge of presenting a seven course meal to invited guests and local glitterati. Staff members from the Ritz Hotel in London are brought in and added to the mix. The evening was so divine that I wrote a short sketch about it three months later for an in-class Creative Writing assignment:

Dinner at Stratford College. Final Exam dinner for culinary students. Late May 2008. Wore my favorite "19th C-esque, travel suit". Champagne and canapes to start. Seven course meal, a different wine with each course. Favorite course: Lobster tail with a green pea puree, dressed in caviar. Delicate, cold, white and pinkish meat lounging in a pool of green, wearing tiny, glistening, black pearls. Green pea puree base. Soooo lovely. Fresh, spring peas pureed. They actually taste like Spring. Earthy. Fresh. New. I want to learn to make pea soup just to capture this taste forever.

I recently discovered the BBC's wonderful Foodie website: www.bbcgoodfood.com 

In addition to recipes and cooking tips, the site also has an excellent features section dedicated to "Seasonal and Local Food". Who knew that tomatoes, blackberries, lobster, plums, cauliflowers, aubergines, goose, garlic are all considered at their peak in Britain in September? The website also provides information, based on postcode, of nearby suppliers of fresh, organic food. It seems that the "Slow Food" movement has truly taken root quite firmly in England. I noticed an example of this when my friend Karen had me round for lunch last week. Karen -- who I have known for ages, from when I was living here before as a student -- is an excellent and fastidious cook. She prepared the most gorgeous lunch, which she said she had started cooking at 9 AM. We sat down for lunch at nearly 2 PM...Since moving here, I am learning the importance of slow downing, generally, not just food-wise. But food is a good place to start. 

So far I have tried my hand at such traditional English favorites as Fish Pie and Rhubarb Crumble, and think I've done pretty well. Last night, after what I thought was a failed, and over-cooked attempt at "Glazed Baked Gammon," D.E.B. gave me his mum's favo(u)rite cookbook. I wanted to cry. The book is Marguerite Patten's Perfect Cooking (1972), and throughout its well-worn and much-loved pages, D.E.B.'s mother, Elsie, has made copious notes, and added her own comments, critiques and thoughts to the pages. As I read and touched the pages Elsie had, I felt a connection with her. A tangible link to the beautiful woman I sincerely regret I will never know. 

Food. So much more than just the stuff that keeps our bodies going.
Facing my biggest cooking challenge this weekend: Sunday Lunch. The quintessential British meal: Roast Beef, Yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes & veg and gravy.
Thankfully, I've got Nigella and Elsie in my corner.