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.

My way

Yesterday was my day of reckoning: my official “first fitting” at Eternal Bride in Warwick. It was the end point of a journey that began a little over 10 weeks ago.

Expectations were high, and not just mine. Oh, no, this has been a group, nay, village effort from the beginning. I’m not kidding when I say that everyone I know—and even a few people I don’t know—helped me in this. Yes, it does indeed “take a village” to achieve some goals.

From Sonya, the Barford “Lollipop Lady” shouting: “C’mon, get joggin’, then!” across the road at me, as I walked (or crawled some days) to the gym every morning, to “the Monday-Wednesday Swim Club” (Beryl, Judy, Julia, Jackie 1 and Jackie 2) keeping me honest in the pool, I have had a dedicated team of supporters.

I’ve had overwhelming support and encouragement from people I didn’t even think were paying attention. One morning, as I dashed to the gym between cloud blasts, I ran into a very stately Barford resident who I refer to as “The Gentle Gent” – because he is. In his mid to late 60s, he is absolutely lovely. I adore the way that whenever I encounter him around the village, he dips his head ever so slightly, and touches the brim of his hat as he says, “Good Morning” or “Good afternoon.” (That’s from a different time and place, isn’t it? Someone should start a campaign to bring back some gracious manners.)

“How are the fitness efforts coming along?” the Gentle Gent inquired, softly puffing on his pipe. “Very well, thank you.” I said politely, more than a little surprised that he had had any notion of my “Dress Quest.” (Clearly, news travels fast in Barford.)

“Well, keep up the good work. I have no doubt that you shall be even more beautiful and radiant on your special day than you already are every day.” A smile, a slight nod, and another touch of his hat brim as he walked away. I smiled to myself all the way to the gym.

Of course, I have already mentioned my wonderful gym mates who have been there quite literally, all the way. Eva wasn’t letting me off easy on “Fitting Day,” no way. This was our last stand, and she wasn’t joking.

“Did you come in on Tuesday?” she said, meeting me at the gym door. Eva has Tuesdays off, and I think she fears that I might slack off when she’s not around. I reminded her that on Tuesday I go to Pilates at the Village Hall, do a bit of work on my arms in the gym, and then go for a swim.

“And besides,” I explained, “Mireck gave me some exercises to do as well.” “Mireck?!” Eva said with surprise.  I closed my eyes and nodded. Mireck is one of Eva’s compatriots, a brick wall of a man who covers the gym when Eva’s off duty.

Mireck is another “I-had-no-idea-he-was-even-paying-attention” person in the Dress Quest. I went in on Tuesday, after getting my butt kicked at Pilates, only to have Mireck stop me as I grabbed a towel and headed for the changing room: “Wait, you want to work arms for dress?” he said. I was speechless. Mireck is towering, Polish body-builder. His muscular arms are roughly the size of my legs. I was hesitant at first—I don’t have any body-building ambitions—but then I thought, if anybody knows about arms, it would be him. So, I let Mireck put me through my paces with free weights in preparation for Fitting Day.

On the day, Eva had me huffing, puffing and sweating like never before in our last ditch effort before my afternoon fitting.

“Today’s the day!” the “Monday-Wednesday Swim Club” chimed in unison as I sank into the nicely heated pool. “And haven’t you done well? I think you’ve lost a bit of weight, haven’t ya?” Judy said in a kindly mothering voice. “Just be careful, lovey, I reckon you’re not going to have any energy left for your honeymoon if you keep up at this rate!” cheeky old Beryl said slyly, giving us all the giggles. I just blushed and dove under the water… 

So, D-Day had finally come. I rushed home from the gym to get ready for my trip over to Warwick. I was gleeful because I knew I’d worked hard. And besides, I had a back-up plan for extra support: Trinny & Susannah’s “Magic Knickers.”

But, like so many things I have assumed throughout this Bridal Quest, my best laid plan, came to nothing. I ripped open the box of my T&S magic pants, and tried them on excitedly. I caught sight of myself in mirror, and it struck me. I had huffed, puffed, panted, sweated and cried my way to today.

My victory was going to utterly sweet, and I deserved for it to be utterly mine. I looked myself in the eye and I realized, that there was no way I was going to give this victory to (or even share it with) Trinny and Susannah. I did this.

Okay, I hadn’t lost as much weight as I’d hoped (5lbs in total lost), but I am leaner, meaner, stronger and fitter than I was 10 weeks ago, and maybe that’s all that really matters. I’ve also dropped a full dress size, on my own, and without a latex body suit.

I did it my way.

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!”

Jam and Jerusalem

A few weeks ago, I was invited to join the Barford W.I. (Women’s Institute). And last night, I did just that! At a cost of a mere £29 (@ $60)—and two jars of homemade preserves—I aligned myself, for the next 14 months at least, with what has always been to my mind the quintessential establishment of British womanhood.

The Womens Institute (www.womens-institute.co.uk) was first formed in 1915. At that time, it was established with two objectives: “to revitalise rural communities and to encourage women to become more involved in producing food during the First World War.” Since that time, the W.I.’s aims have broadened to “play a unique role in providing women with educational opportunities and the chance to build new skills, to take part in a wide variety of activities and to campaign on issues that matter to them and their communities.” The W.I. is the largest women’s organization in the United Kingdom with 205,000 members. Plus one!

Of course, to the rest of world England’s W.I. was immortalized in the popular imagination by the film Calendar Girls, starring Julie Walters and Helen Mirren, as two best friends, leading a heady brigade of plucky women determined to give cancer a run for its money. Central to the plot is their controversial—and highly successful—idea of producing a calendar with teasingly provocative portraits of their local W.I. membership.

What impressed me most about the women in that film was their incredible sense of community, and their willingness to tough it out together. The cause that spurred them on was immediate and personal - one woman’s loss became the community’s crusade. I remember vividly how I cried at the end of that film, when the Calendar Girls’ ‘representatives’ returned to their tiny village after a somewhat fraught trip to L.A. They arrive back home, as the monthly W.I. meeting is about to start, they rush into the hall shyly, but are enthusiastically gathered into the fold, just in time to join in the singing of “Jerusalem.”

Unlike my mother, two sisters, and even my sister-in-law, who are all proud sorority sisters, I never had the good fortunate to join a sorority in my undergraduate or post-graduate days. And, truth be told, from what I could see, and I confess my experience is limited, the sorority scene that I have witnessed over the years had more to do with partying with frat boys and being “the pretty clique,” than supporting or engendering community. So, perhaps, at this stage in my life, I am searching for sisterhood, beyond the standard bonds of family or friendship - an “incorporated sisterhood,” or sisterhood with a mission statement.

It’s about community. And I above all else, I want to be a part of my little community here in Barford, and not just live and breathe in Barford. As I learned in my wonderful, wonderful, blessed community at St. Luke’s back in New York, the only way one can feel and truly be a part of a community is to get involved. So, I have rolled up my sleeves and joined the Barford W.I.

When I told my dear friend and mentor, Sue (a.k.a. “Greatest Directing Teacher on Earth”), that I’d joined the W.I. she chuckled and said, “How English of you. You must be settling in well.” Indeed, I think I am. However, I don’t intend to just settle into my new status as a Barford W.I. member. (I don’t need to state that I was the youngest person in the room last night, do I?) I refuse to be merely a casual observer, I intend to get involved.

The Barford W.I. is a group of terrific, dynamic, engaged and engaging women. I think I shall come away from this experience with far more than just two jars of green tomato chutney and blackberry jam.

Post Script -

Shall hopeful see a few of my new “W.I. chums” at the “Harvest Supper” tonight at St. Peter’s Church.  The D.E.B. just phoned, he has dutifully completed a short Sainsbury’s run for us. He had to also gather a few things for us to take along to the Harvest Supper tonight. The Harvest Supper is a fundraiser for St. Peter’s Clock and Bell that both need repair, and a means of gathering goods for the winter for those in need.