Ready, Steady, Bake!

“Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up…”

 –  Julius Caesar

To overstate the obvious, Britain is baking mad. Although it has always been a nation of bakers, Britain is now a nation that is baking obsessed! The British baking industry is worth more than £3.4 billion, and the effect is evident in the high street. Marks & Spencer have reported sales increases of up to 20% for baking ingredients, particularly in specialist sugars and cake decorating equipment. At John Lewis, purchases of cake tins and muffin trays have increased by 15%, while sales in vintage-style cake tins and stands have more than doubled.

This chain of events is due largely to the phenomenal success of the BBC’s baking competition show, “The Great British Bake Off”.  Each week, some four million plus viewers tune in to watch the dynamic duo of Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood critique the calibre of contestants' cupcakes and croquembouche. But, this you know – unless of course you have been living on the planet Mars for the past four years!

What you may not know is that there was a time in Britain when baking could land you in prison! In 1664, Olivier Cromwell’s Puritans banned Christmas pudding, along with mince pies and a whole host of other festive holiday foods (and beverages, church services, and…!). The humble Christmas pudding became the focus of Puritan attack on the “lewd” and “debauched” festive celebrations that were "unfit for God-fearing people". Anyone caught making a fruit-studded, brandy soaked dessert was carted off and punished severely.

King George I (1714-1727) reestablished the custom of serving it as part of the royal holiday feast in 1714. That is, despite objections voiced by the Quakers, who regarded Christmas pudding as "the invention of the scarlet whore of Babylon". We have that great guardian of Victorian family values, Prince Albert, to thank for returning the lowly and much-maligned Christmas pudding, much as we know it today, back on to the holiday map.

Recently, I discovered another great, British, Christmas Pudding tradition that has come down to us from the time of Albert and Victoria: “Stir-Up Sunday”. Stir-up Sunday is the last Sunday before the season of Advent. (This year’s date is 23 November.) The term “Stir-Up Sunday” comes from the opening words of the Collect for the day (the "The Twenty-Fifth Sunday After Trinity", or, the fifth Sunday before Christmas) in the Book of Common Prayer:

Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen

This exhortation was apparently a timely reminder to the ladies of the congregation of their need to bring forth their plenteous fruits (suet and brandy) and to get stirring! What a wonderful way to enter into the spirit of the season of Advent – a time of expectant waiting and preparation before the festivities of Christmas and the Nativity.

Traditionally, Stir-Up Sunday was a family affair, with parents and children gathering in the kitchen to make the Christmas pudding together, every member of the family taking a turn stirring the bowl, whilst uttering a wish. The puds and wishes were then carefully wrapped in brandy soaked cloths to mellow over the coming weeks until Christmas Day.

It is a sad truth, thanks to the ease, convenience and quality of store-bought Christmas puddings, that two-thirds of British children have never experienced stirring or making a Christmas pudding.

Getting everyone huddled in the kitchen for Stir-Up Sunday is a Victorian fantasy, to be sure. But, one well worth reviving, I think, particularly, in the midst of our avid Baking madness.

                                                                                  ***** 

Prince Albert's Christmas Pudding

For 8 helpings: 1 Ib prunes; 1 pt water; 1 lemon; 1 oz Barbados sugar; butter for greasing; 2 large eggs; 4 oz butter; 4 oz soft light brown sugar; pinch of salt; 4 oz soft wholemeal breadcrumbs; 1 oz semolina; brandy butter (Guard Sauce) made with 3 oz butter; 4 oz icing sugar and 1 oz ground almonds.

Steep the prunes in the water overnight. Grate the rind of half the lemon and pare the rest. Squeeze the juice. Simmer the prunes with the water, pared rind, juice, and Barbados sugar until soft. Drain. Cut the fruit in half and remove the stones. Crease the inside of a 2 pint pudding basin thickly with butter. Press enough prunes into the fat, cut side down, to line the basin completely. Shred any prunes left over. Separate the eggs.

Beat the 4 oz fat and soft brown sugar until creamy, and beat in the egg yolks and salt. Mix in the grated rind, breadcrumbs, semolina and any shredded prunes. Whisk the egg whites until they hold firm peaks and fold them into the mixture. Turn into the basin, cover tightly with greased foil and steam for 2 1/2-3 hours.

Firm in the basin for 6 minutes, then turn on to a warmed serving dish. Serve with chilled brandy butter and whipped cream. Note: If you wish, make the steeping liquid of the prunes into a sauce with 1 teaspoon arrowroot and 1 tablespoon brandy to each 1/2 pt liquid.

Close to home

My thoughts today are with Our Wonderful Vicar who is presiding over the funeral of James Cooper, one of the two young Britons murdered in Florida.

James Cooper and his family are from Hampton Lucy, a tiny village in our six parish community. 

I have no doubt that Our Vicar will do a beautiful job; he has been quite diligent in seeking God’s wisdom and grace for what he should say.

Of course, addressing loss is always a challenging task, however, in extreme circumstances, such as this, it is all the more troubling.  

And, of course the media do not make this any easier. Our Vicar has been hounded by local and national media for details. I hope the families have been shielded from this onslaught.

As walked together from Morning Prayer, Our Vicar shared with me a remarkable Prayer that was added to the Book of Common Prayer in 1979 (I think), to address the loss caused by violent death.

This prayer – as I’m sure Our Vicar’s sermon will – addresses quite remarkably not only loss and grief, but touches on the incomprehension, the anger, doubt and disillusionment we can/do/may feel in these circumstances.  

Far from ‘airy-fairy’, this beautiful prayer validates the complex of emotions the grieving feel, but also provides a clear direction for moving forward.

After a violent death

God of love,

we thank you that N is in your gentle and loving hands,

far from the cruelty, violence and pain of our world.

When the trouble was near,

we could not understand how you seemed to remain far away.

And yet it is to you we turn;

for in life and death

it is you alone whom we can trust,

and yours alone is the love that holds us fast.

We find it hard to forgive the deed

that has brought us so much grief.

But we know that, if life is soured by bitterness,

an unforgiving spirit brings no peace.

Lord, save us and help us.

Strengthen in us the faith and hope that N

is freed from the past with all its hurt,

and rests for ever in the calm security of your love,

in Jesus Christ our Lord. 

The Archbishops' Council of the Church of England

A farewell to Autumn, and recent developments

It snowed! Yes, snow. In October. And, yes, I did have washing out on the line as the snow began to fall. I can not believe that winter is upon us, already. Perhaps, this is just a fluke and autumn will return.

Can't believe with how cold it is now, that the D.E.B. and I were out having a lovely, sunny, autumnal trek through Elliot's Meadow just this past weekend. 

Our "walking license" had just arrived in the post (I applied for it about 6 weeks ago), and we were keen to use it! With our license, we are free to take our darling hound, Lucy, and range about the south side of the River Avon, through Elliot's Meadow, around Sherbourne, to Ogg's Farm. Of course they tell these detail in the letter that accompanies the license, but do they provide a map? Of course not. So along the way, we were sure we were in danger of trespassing, and very possibly upsetting poor Mr. Ogg ...    

Road sign in Sherbourne Village

The D.E.B. and the Princess Puppy about to cross the stream

(I had dashed across right before them, only to discover my Western Chief wellies had sprung a leak!)

Another interesting development this weekend - we attended All Saint's Church in Sherbourne, very nice indeed. Especially as services there start at a reasonable hour (11:00 am), and next Sunday they will be using the Book of Common for the Sunday service. This could be it! And as an added bonus, the All Saint's Church-warden is a lovely American woman called Gayle who has lived here over 20 years. Funny how those American connections keep happening in such wonderful ways.

 All Saint's Church (C of E), Sherbourne

The Barford Village Shop is set to open this coming Saturday!!!! The official ribbon cutting ceremony (bring your own scissors) is set for 12 noon, 1 November. 

This is the best and biggest news ever for us Barfordians. The new shop is fabulous! (Those in the know have already had a sneak peek and a preview.) They carry a wide selection of fresh veg, produce and diary, baked goods – all local. Newspapers, greeting cards, and the new post office will be there. But, with the same hours that Jane was doing when the post office was in the Memorial Hall: Monday, Tuesday and Thursday from 2:30-5:30 p.m. (Yes, you have to be very organized with your mailing and other post office business in these parts.) There is a loverly selection of wines and beers on offer, including my new favo(u)rites: Ubu (a local Warwickshire brew), and Timothy Taylor’s Landlord – Madge’s (Madonna’s) brew of choice.

Beer is not only a national obsession in this country, it is a national hobby and pastime. And a pastime I have come to enjoy. Immensely. There are few things finer than a yummy fish and chips dinner washed down with a pint (or two) of Ubu. Carbs, with a side of carbs. Heaven, absolute heaven. My waistline and the training ambitions for my “Women’s 5K Fun Run” in Helsinki, Finland next May have all fallen by the wayside.

Did I mention that the new village shop will also have a coffee bar with wireless internet!!! That’s even better than our super Sainsbury’s in Warwick. They have a Starbuck’s, but without wireless internet. I think that it is possibly the only Starbuck’s on the planet that doesn’t have wireless internet.

The D.E.B. and I have done our civic duty as upstanding community members and purchased a share each in the shop. In addition to being “shareholders,” many of my W.I. chums are also volunteering to help run the shop. I have been thinking about it, and perhaps I should. I will certainly support it as a customer.

Other big news in Barford includes: the U.S. Presidential election, and the whereabouts of my absentee ballot, which has yet to arrive. “Remember us when you exercise your right to vote,” someone said to me the other day. It is a privilege that I don’t take lightly.

Searching for the Mother Ship

Sunday.

In the garden, writing. D.E.B. cleaning out the garage, making room for the arrival, tomorrow, of all the stuff I shipped from New York six weeks ago.

387 cubic feet. The metric measurement of my entire life. Of everything I own and hold dear. Five years of living in Manhattan, joy, pain, bliss, sorrow, heartache and achievement, crammed tightly into card-board boxes and bubble wrap. Funnily enough, the D.E.B. and I spent the evening last night watching the Sex and the City movie. I was prepared to be weepy, expecting to be saddened by sights of the Much-Beloved City, but what I had not been prepared for was the striking resonances between Carrie Bradshaw’s fiction and my present reality: the way in which she changes her life to be with Mr. Big, mainly in the form of packing up her life, and giving up her apartment to set up house with him. I knew how she felt as she walked around her empty apartment that one last time…

Life is never without risks, even when we don’t pursue or willingly take them. Another apt adage: change is the only constant.  What I think is also constant is our innate and very human reluctance to change. “I like, what I like; and I want, what I want.”

Sundays are the in some ways the hardest days for me here in England. Especially today after seeing the familiar sights of NYC last night. What do I miss? Very specific,  “Sunday” things: Indian Buffet Brunch at Taj, with my best and dearest friend, Christopher (a.k.a., “The Boy Genius Playwright”); my daily gallop around Washington Square Park; and long, lazy Sunday afternoons at my favorite nail salon – God bless Cindy and the girls, Lord knows I never appreciated them enough until now! (Question: Why, oh why, is it completely and utterly impossible to get a decent manicure, pedicure or waxing in this country???!!) But, most of all, I miss the Church of St. Luke in the Fields, where I served as a Chalice Bearer, Acolyte, Reader and Week Day Mass Assistant.  I miss St. Luke’s more than anything else. I feel something very close to actual physical pain when I think of St. Luke’s, and how I cannot be there.

My spiritual history and religious biography are far too complex to outline here, so suffice it to say that this point in my faith journey, I am proudly Episcopalian. I had thought that being here, in England, attending and joining a Church of England (Anglican) parish would be like coming home. Entering the Mother Ship. Not so. Over the past month I have “church shopped” at two of the parishes in and near my village: St. Peter’s at Barford and St. John the Baptist at Wasperton.

Both were filled with kind, warm, friendly, welcoming, earnest people. Both parishes are ancient and stunningly beautiful. First, I tried St. Peter’s. Of course, the Sunday we attended – the D.E.B. came along too, in support – was a christening day. (Never a true gage of any church.) At any rate, I was scandalized. No smoke, no bells, no pomp, no circumstance. No Book of Common Prayer.  That’s right - BCP had been displaced by a new text called Common Worship. I was mortified. Then, two of the choristers left their places to perform a “new hymn” on guitar and bongos... Again, mortified.

In an instant, I became, to my mind, the very image of an old, Episcopalian grande dame dowager, scowling at the modern, new-fangled changes of today, loathing this youthful exuberance of expression. I must just say that I have always, always, ALWAYS loathed that "chinga, ching, ching," happy-clappy, Christian music sound! Even in my brief, Evangelical, “Wouldn’t-you-just-die-without-Amy-Grant” heyday, that jingle-jangly, “Aren’t we hip, cause Kevin brought his guitar to church” sound drove me nuts! I am well aware that liturgically, and perhaps in other ways as well, I would probably have been better suited living in the 19^th century.

It is surely no surprise that today’s service at St. John the Baptist at Wasperton was at the opposite extreme. Well, that would be a dramatic twist to my tale, but one that would not be entirely true. Yes, The Book of Common Prayer was the source text for the service, but still no bells or smells. The congregation consisted of 14 faithful souls – counting and including myself, the vicar, the organist and the two mass assistants. I was the youngest person present, by a significant divide. The hymns were somber and sincere; the sermon, earnest and heartfelt. But, I should have known there would be trouble, as at the moment I arrived, I struggled fruitlessly for a good 5-7 minutes just trying to open the heavy, ancient, wooden door to get in.  Ironically, the “trouble” on this occasion was not the presence of too much modernity, (i.e., guitars and bongos), but the complete and utter lack of any modernity at all! 

The sound of my beloved BCP is always a comfort, but in this case, it seemed that we were using the Book of Common Prayer circa 1661! Don’t get me wrong, Shakespeare scholar that I am, I love my thee’s, thou’s, beseech’s and vouchsafes more than the next person, and I relish the fact that when we pray from the BCP, we are praying/speaking in common or “communion” with all the people who have heard or said these words in the present and in centuries past.  I tingle when I think that Shakespeare could have heard the very same words I heard today, as he sat on a Sunday at Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-on-Avon.  As an Episcopalian, I’m a part of that continuum of faith. But, here is the rub. Here is where it all came to a screech halt for me: Inclusive language.

“…who came down from Heaven for us, men, and our salvation…”

Instead of actually meditating upon to these great declarations of faith, I found myself counting how many times throughout the service we referred to the entirety of the human race as “man” or “men.” I could feel my blood slowly begin to boil. Where have we gone?  What century are we in again? I always find these sort of moments painfully ironic, because of course, when one actually stops, and takes a look around at the actual congregation – and I guarantee whenever I have done this the result is always the same --  there are always, always, always more women present than men.  ARRGH!

This was not an easy pill to swallow for a girl who is quite used to the heady and steady tide of progress at her much-beloved Manhattan parish -- where she once got into a rather heated debate over the decision some folks had made to start referring to the Holy Spirit as “she.” (My view, briefly: I don’t, at present, see or feel the need to refer to the Holy Spirit as “she.”)  

From all of this, I have surmised that my faith life is far, far, far more complex and complicated than even I had imagined. Tradition or progress? I don’t see the need to choose. I want them both. I want it all. I want the magic and the music. I want tradition, ritual, all the bells and whistles. (Bells, literally; whistles, figuratively.) But, I also want progress and forward-thinking. 

It has just occurred to me that this, my own, private spiritual dilemma and religious "crisis" in its on small way, mirrors what is happening today in the larger Worldwide Anglican Communion, and it’s current, on-going struggle to between tradition and progress. 

I have no answers for the Worldwide Anglican Communion, nor for myself. But I think the crux for me, in trying to find a new spiritual home here in Warwickshire, is deciding whether I’m looking for God, or just searching for St. Luke’s.