Lavender Hill Mob

Yesterday afternoon we went to the movies with a DVD of “The Lavender Hill Mob”. The Fox chose the film.

 

At first I was disappointed, thinking it was “The Ladykillers”, another excellent Ealing comedy, starring Alec Guiness, but which I have watched so often I’ve got to the stage of being too familiar with it. However, as the film started in South America I realised I was on the wrong film. Even more so when a very young Audrey Hepburn appeared.

 

As the film went on I couldn’t help thinking how more realistically the film caught the feel of life in the 1950s in England. Even filming in black & white seemed appropriate. It was very monochrome time, with any colour being muted. Colour didn’t really arrive in this country until the 1960s. The film seemed a more realistic portrayal of the times than the many documentaries we’ve watched which have purported to give a feel of life in those days. I’ve sometimes ended up thinking they should consult with some of us who lived through those days rather than some of the young social historians they do consult who base their knowledge on books, documents etc. rather than actual experience. Those of us who had school meals then still shudder at what we were fed. In theory, on paper, they were well balanced meals. The reality was they used the cheapest ingredients they could find & then didn’t cook them well. I still wonder where the purple fluff arrived from that seem to pervade cooked cabbage at my school or how they managed to get raw potato to sit on some very watery potatoey liquid & call it mash.

 

As the two main characters, played by Alec Guiness & Stanley Holloway went off to Paris other memories arose. They went up the Eiffel Tower & I was reminded of my first visit to Paris when I had done the same. They descended down the steps rather than use the lift as I had done, both up & down. They seemed endless, a heady sensation.

 

As they tried for a hasty entry onto the ferry to England, they were stopped to go through all the procedures – passports, customs, & then the money. Some of these you still have to contend with as anyone queueing up to get through the formalities to get on a plane will know, as bags are searched for explosives, knives etc. some terrorist may carry. However, these days you no longer have to show how much cash you are carrying. In those days you did. I wonder if that will return now we are entering a post-Brexit world. Hopefully no, as we’ve never encountered such controls when we’ve visited countries out of the EU.

 

I thoroughly enjoyed the film. It was lovely to see a young, but unmistakable Sid James. I even recognised a young Alfie Bass.

 

Altogether I really enjoyed the film even though it was interrupted by a phone call, admittedly from a friend ringing to check we’d had a good Christmas. Or maybe it was more a case of getting some of the frustration off her chest as her nearly 90 year old husband had over-indulged over the Christmas period, causing her much anxiety. However, it did not stop us enjoying the film.

 

 

 

Foody thoughts

It was with relief we got back to a big shop at the supermarket yesterday. It was a relief partly because it was sign of life getting back to normal, partly because it meant we had something other than minced beef in all its various forms to eat.

Today we’re going back to old fashioned tastes.  The Fox has decided to have a go at “Kipper & Egg Filled Jacket Potatoes”.

This takes me back years. This is a recipe that dates back to our early married years. At the time we lived at Crag Foot on the edge of Leighton Moss Bird Sanctuary. In many ways it was an idyllic spot. Crag Foot consists of no more than about a dozen houses nestled at the foot of Warton Crag. The scar from the quarrying on Warton Crag can be seen from miles away & is very distinctive. Here we rented a cottage for the first 18 months of our married life.

This recipe comes from a cookery book we’d bought on our honeymoon. Along with our world famous Kipper & Egg Kedgeree is found this recipe for filling jacket potatoes with a not dissimilar mix of (tinned) kippers, boiled eggs & a bit of mustard. Some cheese goes on top when the filled potatoes go into the oven to warm up the fish.

The other half of the tin of kippers I’m going to use tomorrow for the other intervening recipe. This is for Aberdeen Eggs. They are rather like Scotch Eggs, only instead of sausagemeat to enclose the boiled eggs, there is a very thick white sauce with the broken kippers mixed in.

My present dilemma is deciding what wine to have with today’s meal. To me, kippers suggests a good white sauvignon blanc, possibly even a New Zealand one with all its gooseberriness. However, the baked beans which will accompany the potatoes suggest a red wine, possibly something Spanish, Italian or even a Côte du Rhone. I shall have to think about this. At the moment I’m inclined to the idea of a white wine. In the days when we were at Crag Foot & had this meal regularly, we didin’t have the money to have wine with a meal. It wasn’t until some twenty odd years later we really discovered the joy of wine on a more regular basis.

Lamb curry

It is amazing how evocative food can be. Today my mind is off to La Rochelle in France once more.

First I'll tell you the meal that's plopping away at the moment is a Bhoona Gosht, a lamb curry. The last time I remember cooking this recipe was in France when we were staying with our French friends. Their son had been to stay with us a year or so before. While he was here we took him along to our local Indian restaurant & he discovered curries, a new experience for him. So when we visited them next in France, he was keen for us to make a proper curry. He hadn't been able to find anything like it in France. So I agreed to do this lamb curry.

While the son located some spices, Marie, his mother, our friend, took me along to the butcher.It was just a small suburban establishment on the outskirts of La Rochelle. There we utterly bemused the butcher. Not only was I very definitely English, a rarity in those parts, but I was clearly a friend of a Frenchwoman - the French seem to regard this as an impossible concept. He was even more amazed when he realised that I, the Englishwoman (& therefore obviously a hopeless cook as no English person knows how to cook), was going to cook for Marie (a professional chef, which he knew) & her family &, what was more, I was cooking an Indian curry!!! This was internationalism gone mad for him. Still we managed to get the meat.

So back we went & set about making the curry. Marie watched eagerly, always keen to learn new culinary techniques. She was impressed by the Fox's knife skills as he diced up the onions. She was quite content as we sweated off the onions & garlic, but then came the spices. As I was cooking for 6 people in went 9 teaspoons of curry powder plus a teaspoon of chilli powder to give it a bit of extra oomph. Marie's eyes grew bigger & bigger, her mouth dropped further & further open, as I counted out the spoonfuls of spice. In France we discovered their idea of a curry for four people involves a quarter of a teaspoon of curry powder at most.She wasn't much reassured when she saw no liquid going in the pot except a tablespoon of vinegar & one of tomato puree. Nonetheless she let us get on with it & prayed the meal at the end would be edible.

After it had all plopped along we sat down for the meal. By then plenty of juices had come out of the meat to give a rich sauce. Nervously Marie took her first mouthful, expecting her mouth to burst into flames. She was somewhat surprised to discover it was really rather good. Her husband is a lot more conservative in his likes. He tried it, said it was good, but clearly found it overwhelming. The son & his girlfriend loved it.

So here we are again, once more with a bhoona gosht. And our memories return once more to that day in France & our friends - good times

Fish again

It's fish again. Only today it's going to be salmon, crusted with couscous & baked in the oven. I've just coated the fillets with the couscous already to just go in the oven this evening.

Couscous I find a strange item. We first encountered it in France when were staying with friends just outside La Rochelle. We were left feeling dubious. I suppose it's no more bland than plain boiled rice or pasta, even than boiled potatoes. It's the sauce that lifts these staples. I think what really gets to me is the texture - so granular.

Then one year we tried a Moroccan restaurant in Le Mans on our homeward journey from a holiday in the Pays d'Oc. Yes, plenty of flavourings were added to the couscous & yet we still didn't like it.

Since then I've had a go at cooking(?) it myself. I've come to the conclusion it can work reasonably well as the basis of a stuffing, for chicken for example. A small portion can be an interesting addition to a salad. But I still wouldn't have it in place of our usual staples of pasta, rice or potatoes. Spelt I would consider, couscous no. I just can't get away from the texture. So our tagines continue to be served with rice or potato, much to our preference.

This is the first time I've tried using couscous as a coating. I'm hoping it's going to give an interesting crispness to the fish whilst still protecting the flesh from the fierceness of the heat. We'll find out this evening.

Further memories

Yesterday while we were at the Pub we were joined by a couple who lived in the same part of Manchester that I grew up in. We reminisced & mentioned shops etc that had changed over the years. They had moved there in the 1960s & were surprised to find someone here who remembered it in those days.

Memories were further prompted by watching " Words of the Blitz" on ITV1 last night.

We were both born in the 1950s. Our earliest memories involved the sight of the rubble of bomb-damaged buildings. I remember going into Manchester (we lived on the outer edge of the city, then a fairly rural area) on the bus. We passed vast areas of rubble. Throughout the 50s & 60s there was a huge clearing & re-building programme. Even when I left home in 1972 for university there were still areas where the rubble had been cleared but which remained a wasteland.

Considering all this, it's hardly surprising so much of our cities today are modern. Indeed it's more surprising so many old buildings have survived. And this applies throughout Europe.

It also made me realise how long the after a war the effects of war last. Earlier, in the summer, an unexploded bomb from the World War Two was found just outside a school playground here in Morecambe. Presumably it was dropped on the way to or from bombing the docks at Barrow, the other side of the Bay. And this is 70 years after the blitz.

I can't help wondering when countries such as Korea,Vietnam, Afghanistan, large chunks of Africa, will once more be really safe. Even if the wars have finished, the bombs & mines remain for some unsuspecting person, or child, to come across, setting them off, & so to be killed or maimed, possibly for life.

War is a terrible thing. In my mind it should never be indulged in lightly. I can justify the defensive need to have fought in the last World War or, for that matter, in the Falklands, but it should always be the last resort & as a defensive measure. No matter how New York or London were bombed, I still cannot see the justification for the use of fighting in Iraq & Afghanistan. Words should have been the first weapon, not the gun.

Sunflowers

In the pot of sweet peas near the back door, a huge sunflower has appeared, self-seeded of course. It has been a source of great frustration to me. I've often fancied growing some sunflowers. They're big, bold and cheery. They also would provide plenty of free seeds for the birds. But, and this is a big but, whenever I've planted some seeds, the birds have as quickly dug them out & eaten them then & there. So it is with great amazement I view this specimen. It stands several feet tall. The flower is just opening up. It will be several inches across, cheery indeed.

Sunflowers I associate with two places above all. The first time I really appreciated them was when we were staying in the Loire valley. We drove up a hill to gain a view of the river below & of Chinon. Up there there were fields of sunflowers. It was autumn so they were starting to turn brown & dry, ready for harvesting for their oil. This was clearly a farmed field. The lines of flowers were just too regular for anything else. In French, we learnt, sunflowers are called "tournesol", because they turn (tourne) to the sun (le sol) throughout the day.

My next memory of them was at Gouda in the Netherlands. They have regular colourful markets there. One of the most spectacular stalls sold flowers. The sunflowers were splendid. Everyone seemed to be buying them. Homes throughout the area must have been decorated with them.