I declined a lift from Mr. Gruffudd. He insisted. I declined again, but he near enough bundled me into his shiny silver Jaguar. To be honest, I welcomed the comfort of the short ride, barely ten minutes, back to my house. Plus, I had never been driven anywhere by a Voodoo Priest before. I half expected to find one of those dreadful shrunken heads swinging from the rear view mirror, but instead there was merely a tree shaped air freshener. He carried my bags to my door and shook my hand warmly, holding it with both hands.
"You will talk to her," he implored. I agreed, purely to get away from the man and allow my head to clear. I was exceptionally pleased to close the door and draw in a lung-full of the lavender in my hallway. I had missed Egg Heads, but with all the buzzing in my head after my hour of intrigue, I knew I would not have been able to concentrate on the questions, or on stopping Daphne or CeeJay from irritating me. As such, I went into the kitchen and baked.
Voodoo Priests indeed! No wonder poor old Betty was half-crazed with it all. I can't blame her for having her head turned by the man, he is rather excessively masculine, after all, though I didn't really know if I wanted to encourage a happy communion of the pair. How would I feel about having an old friend and a Voodoo Priest sitting in my window seat every morning? Perhaps I'd have to bake biscuits with crushed human bones in? No, I was getting hysterical. Voodoo is a religion isn't it? A real life one, like Catholicism, or Bingo. Anyway, the result of my mental fidgeting was a delicious carrot cake, complete with cream cheese fondant topping. It was large enough to serve at least twelve pieces from in the shop, but I have altered the quantities to make something more managable.
Carrot cake
DISCLAIMER: any improved vision (or lack thereof) as a result of this cake is purely co-incidental.
170g golden caster sugar
180g softened butter
3 eggs
250g self raising flour
250g grated carrot
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
20g grated fresh ginger
100g chopped walnuts
1 vanilla pod
For the topping
100g full fat soft cheese
150g icing sugar
50g chopped walnuts
1. Preheat the oven to 180°C (Gas 5) and grease and line a 8 in loaf tin
2. Cream together butter and sugar. Beat the eggs in a separate bowl and sieve flour, nutmeg and cinnamon together. Slice open the vanilla pod and add the seeds to the mix.
3. Add a third of the egg and a third of the flour, beating well and repeat until all combined. Add the ginger, walnuts and carrot. Mix until well incorporated. If the mix is looking a little too stiff, add some milk to loosen.
4. Pour batter into the tin and bake for 30-40 minutes, or until springy to touch.
5. Leave to cool for 15 mins before making the topping
6. Cream the cheese and icing sugar together until thick and soft. Spread generously on top of the cake with a palette knife. Sprinkle chopped walnuts on top to decorate.
I had left Mr. Gruffudd with a sincere promise to help sway Betty's feelings, despite my better judgement. I have to admit, I hoped the cake to act as a sweetener, to make the job a little easier.
Little did I know at that moment that my horrid clandestine tea and lift had been witnessed.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Through the mist, through the woods...
There has been a development.
I close the shop at five thirty, prompt, as I like to clean the shop before Egg Heads is broadcast. It is not a suitable alternative to Countdown, but after Des Lynam left, I must say there was very little in it for the ladies. This evening, however, I had to pop to the supermarket for one or two essentials. I was dithering over brands of washing up liquid (my usual was not on offer, you see) when I instinctively felt a pair of eyes staring into the back of my head. In such cases as these, the options are simple:
"Miss Mortimer, isn't it?" said the man as he placed the bottles in my basket. I must say, I thought this very forward.
"Yes?" I said, my mouth suddenly dry and unable to close properly. I accepted the hand that was offered. It was warm, rough and gripped me firmly, though without pain.
"Owain Gruffudd," he said. I recognised the faint Welsh lilt to the accent. "I have heard so much about you."
"Have you?" I said, surprised.
"Betty is effusive in praise of your florentines." I coloured at this, and looked at my shoes. Fifteen florentines in one sitting. Maud, you should be ashamed of yourself.
"That is very kind," I mumbled.
"I hope you don't mind my troubling you like this," he continued, holding a timorous hand out that appeared to be torn between offering me a friendly arm-pat and grabbing his keys and running for the door. I wished he would do the latter. "Its just..." He sighed. I pulled a face. "I seem to be terribly good at ruining things."
Of course, I had no idea what to say in such a circumstance. I could see, indeed it was patently obvious that some sort of heartfelt confession was about to pour forth from the man. Did he not know I was a spinster? Could he not tell that my sixty odd years of singlehood had not prepared me for such an outburst? Was there no sense of decorum in the fellow that he did not notice the Morrisons detergents aisle was not quite the place for this conversation. He must have read my thoughts, as at that moment he asked if I would join him for a cup of tea in the cafe.
Reader, I parried him.
"I must get home, really..." I prattled.
"Please?" Maybe it was the fluorescent light accentuating the sadness in his eyes, or the fact that despite running a successful tea shop, I rarely had time to indulge in a cup myself, or perhaps it was due to my feeling as awkward as a child on a first day in a new school, and being introduced as Jack Schitt. I relented. I put my washing up liquid in my basket and followed him to the cafe area. I noticed with a sneer they served only two types of tea, from a terrifyingly small steel tea pot.
As we sat, he gave a small mirthless laugh and commented on the irony of him bringing me to an establishment such as this, given my own "delightful" enterprise. I batted the compliment, however patronizing ('delightful', indeed), away with a wave of the hand. As expected, the tea was awful.
"I suppose you think me quite mad, Miss Mortimer." I brushed the treacle tart crumbs away from my lips and replied that I did not. He smiled. "I am not mad. They say that love is a madness, don't they?" My eyes widened. "I disagree."
I have to admit, during his confession my mouth hung open like one of those children with runny noses who stare at my glass cabinet of cakes as if it possessed magical properties (it does, of course, but they don't know that). I only noticed this indecorousness when a small piece of pastry fell from my lips and bounced off my fork, onto the table. I snapped it shut, though, thankfully, Mr. Gruffudd did not seem to notice. He was too busy cataloguing Betty's charms and virtues to care about licentious old spinsters who allow food to fall out of their mouths. And, to be honest, he did go on a bit. I was starting to tire when he attempted to find the particular shade of grey to liken her eyes to ('periwinkle' apparently, though I'd have plummed for 'glaucoma raincloud') and, I cannot deny, I did drift away as he progressed to her cheeks and lips. Before he could venture any further south, I raised a hand.
"I'm aware of her capacity for ensorcellment," I lied, finding his wide, Betty-adoring eyes rather too saccharin for my palate. "What I cannot see is any particular problem."
"Ah," he said. "My problem. My problem. Oh Miss Mortimer!" I suppose it would have been pertinent at that point to tell him to use my Christian name, but, after the agitation he'd caused, I was feeling peevish.
"Betty and I were childhood sweethearts," he continued. "We were to be married, though before we did, I decided I must travel. I am a surgeon, you see. I take my work very seriously. I did not think it enough to fix the hearts of those whose diets and respiratory habits procured for themselves an sickly denouement. Smokers and drinkers and men whose lives were full of vice and torpidity did not deserve my skill. My hands were not made to pick up the pieces of their inactivity. And so I took my hands abroad, to help those who were not so fortunate as us, to save the lives of hard working folk who had no other choice."
"India, was it?"
"No, New Zealand." Oh. I frowned in confusion, but he continued. "As such, I lost Betty. She would not come with me. Her mother was sickly and needed constant care. She felt abandoned. I felt betrayed. My compunction to help was so strong, so important, it was a slight to me that she would not follow. It was stronger, it seems, than my love. As it was, I married a fellow surgeon in Christchurch, Alana her name was, and Betty, well you know what happened to her. My wife died three years ago and I made it my quest to find my first love and finish what I should have finished all those years ago."
"And she said no?"
"On the contrary," he said, looking at his shoes. "She was delighted to see me. We went out on little jaunts, we fed ducks, we discussed times gone by and hopes for the future. We promised ourselves to each other once again." His face darkened. "And then..."
"And then?"
I suppose I was expecting some sort of surprise-my-wife's-not-dead tale, or some unidentified skeleton in Betty's cupboard, a secret child perhaps, or a filthy habit, or some such like. What he said next was definitely not on my expected list.
"And then, Miss Mortimer," he sighed. Again I refrained from allowing him to call me Maud. "And then I made the terrible decision to disclose some information pertaining to my occupation."
"You're not a vivisectionist, are you?"
"Good Lord, no!" He chuckled and patted my hand. I found myself blushing, stupid old woman that I am. "Dear me, no. I'm a Houngan."
"Pardon me?"
He smiled at me, a strange thing. I saw a flash in his eyes. "My dear Miss Mortimer, I am a Voodoo Priest."
Well, what do you say to that? All I managed was: "Oh, do call me 'Maud'."
Ridiculous.
I close the shop at five thirty, prompt, as I like to clean the shop before Egg Heads is broadcast. It is not a suitable alternative to Countdown, but after Des Lynam left, I must say there was very little in it for the ladies. This evening, however, I had to pop to the supermarket for one or two essentials. I was dithering over brands of washing up liquid (my usual was not on offer, you see) when I instinctively felt a pair of eyes staring into the back of my head. In such cases as these, the options are simple:
- Mock ignorance and walk away blithely
- Turn and confront the starer
- Fling the Morning Fresh at them and run
"Miss Mortimer, isn't it?" said the man as he placed the bottles in my basket. I must say, I thought this very forward.
"Yes?" I said, my mouth suddenly dry and unable to close properly. I accepted the hand that was offered. It was warm, rough and gripped me firmly, though without pain.
"Owain Gruffudd," he said. I recognised the faint Welsh lilt to the accent. "I have heard so much about you."
"Have you?" I said, surprised.
"Betty is effusive in praise of your florentines." I coloured at this, and looked at my shoes. Fifteen florentines in one sitting. Maud, you should be ashamed of yourself.
"That is very kind," I mumbled.
"I hope you don't mind my troubling you like this," he continued, holding a timorous hand out that appeared to be torn between offering me a friendly arm-pat and grabbing his keys and running for the door. I wished he would do the latter. "Its just..." He sighed. I pulled a face. "I seem to be terribly good at ruining things."
Of course, I had no idea what to say in such a circumstance. I could see, indeed it was patently obvious that some sort of heartfelt confession was about to pour forth from the man. Did he not know I was a spinster? Could he not tell that my sixty odd years of singlehood had not prepared me for such an outburst? Was there no sense of decorum in the fellow that he did not notice the Morrisons detergents aisle was not quite the place for this conversation. He must have read my thoughts, as at that moment he asked if I would join him for a cup of tea in the cafe.
Reader, I parried him.
"I must get home, really..." I prattled.
"Please?" Maybe it was the fluorescent light accentuating the sadness in his eyes, or the fact that despite running a successful tea shop, I rarely had time to indulge in a cup myself, or perhaps it was due to my feeling as awkward as a child on a first day in a new school, and being introduced as Jack Schitt. I relented. I put my washing up liquid in my basket and followed him to the cafe area. I noticed with a sneer they served only two types of tea, from a terrifyingly small steel tea pot.
As we sat, he gave a small mirthless laugh and commented on the irony of him bringing me to an establishment such as this, given my own "delightful" enterprise. I batted the compliment, however patronizing ('delightful', indeed), away with a wave of the hand. As expected, the tea was awful.
"I suppose you think me quite mad, Miss Mortimer." I brushed the treacle tart crumbs away from my lips and replied that I did not. He smiled. "I am not mad. They say that love is a madness, don't they?" My eyes widened. "I disagree."
I have to admit, during his confession my mouth hung open like one of those children with runny noses who stare at my glass cabinet of cakes as if it possessed magical properties (it does, of course, but they don't know that). I only noticed this indecorousness when a small piece of pastry fell from my lips and bounced off my fork, onto the table. I snapped it shut, though, thankfully, Mr. Gruffudd did not seem to notice. He was too busy cataloguing Betty's charms and virtues to care about licentious old spinsters who allow food to fall out of their mouths. And, to be honest, he did go on a bit. I was starting to tire when he attempted to find the particular shade of grey to liken her eyes to ('periwinkle' apparently, though I'd have plummed for 'glaucoma raincloud') and, I cannot deny, I did drift away as he progressed to her cheeks and lips. Before he could venture any further south, I raised a hand.
"I'm aware of her capacity for ensorcellment," I lied, finding his wide, Betty-adoring eyes rather too saccharin for my palate. "What I cannot see is any particular problem."
"Ah," he said. "My problem. My problem. Oh Miss Mortimer!" I suppose it would have been pertinent at that point to tell him to use my Christian name, but, after the agitation he'd caused, I was feeling peevish.
"Betty and I were childhood sweethearts," he continued. "We were to be married, though before we did, I decided I must travel. I am a surgeon, you see. I take my work very seriously. I did not think it enough to fix the hearts of those whose diets and respiratory habits procured for themselves an sickly denouement. Smokers and drinkers and men whose lives were full of vice and torpidity did not deserve my skill. My hands were not made to pick up the pieces of their inactivity. And so I took my hands abroad, to help those who were not so fortunate as us, to save the lives of hard working folk who had no other choice."
"India, was it?"
"No, New Zealand." Oh. I frowned in confusion, but he continued. "As such, I lost Betty. She would not come with me. Her mother was sickly and needed constant care. She felt abandoned. I felt betrayed. My compunction to help was so strong, so important, it was a slight to me that she would not follow. It was stronger, it seems, than my love. As it was, I married a fellow surgeon in Christchurch, Alana her name was, and Betty, well you know what happened to her. My wife died three years ago and I made it my quest to find my first love and finish what I should have finished all those years ago."
"And she said no?"
"On the contrary," he said, looking at his shoes. "She was delighted to see me. We went out on little jaunts, we fed ducks, we discussed times gone by and hopes for the future. We promised ourselves to each other once again." His face darkened. "And then..."
"And then?"
I suppose I was expecting some sort of surprise-my-wife's-not-dead tale, or some unidentified skeleton in Betty's cupboard, a secret child perhaps, or a filthy habit, or some such like. What he said next was definitely not on my expected list.
"And then, Miss Mortimer," he sighed. Again I refrained from allowing him to call me Maud. "And then I made the terrible decision to disclose some information pertaining to my occupation."
"You're not a vivisectionist, are you?"
"Good Lord, no!" He chuckled and patted my hand. I found myself blushing, stupid old woman that I am. "Dear me, no. I'm a Houngan."
"Pardon me?"
He smiled at me, a strange thing. I saw a flash in his eyes. "My dear Miss Mortimer, I am a Voodoo Priest."
Well, what do you say to that? All I managed was: "Oh, do call me 'Maud'."
Ridiculous.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Until the last petal falls...
This morning, as usual, I opened at eleven. This morning, as usual, Betty arrived; woollen hat intact, "good morning, Maud" intact, the table by the window chosen for her morning coffee. I have to say, I was quite unable to return the greeting, nor arrive at the table with my usual practised swiftness. I did not bring florentines as (as threatened) I had eaten all fifteen the afternoon previously. Betty did not notice for six sips of coffee. On the seventh, she looked at me under her hat and frowned.
"You're terribly quiet today, Maud."
"Am I?"
"Is anything the matter?"
Honestly!
"With me?" I am ashamed to say I shrugged. Betty looked at me as if I had just announced I was to move to Bognor Regis with an itinerant painter. "Why on earth should there be anything the matter with me?"
I sipped my coffee demurely.
"No florentines, today?" she asked, a little sadly.
"No," I said, hurriedly. "No almonds."
"Really?"
"It's because of the troubles, you know. In Egypt." I prayed silently her knowledge of the global production of almonds was as sketchy as mine, and offered her a toasted tea cake.
"Don't go to any trouble dear." And then we sat in silence for some time.
"I suppose you were at the doctors yesterday," I said, when the silence became too much. Betty coloured slightly.
"Er...yes. My, you know. Rheumatism."
"Did Dr. Porter prescribe green-lipped mussel extract? It did wonders for Gertrude White."
"Did it?"
"Indeed," and we went on like this for some time. You know, I have never been so pleased to see the egg man in my entire life. As I busied myself collecting the delicious bantam eggs into my attractive, though impractical, wire egg holder, I noticed Betty's expression had descended into serious melancholia. I also noticed the slink of a silver car glide past the window, and the furious glare of a large bearded face searching for a woollen hat.
"You're terribly quiet today, Maud."
"Am I?"
"Is anything the matter?"
Honestly!
"With me?" I am ashamed to say I shrugged. Betty looked at me as if I had just announced I was to move to Bognor Regis with an itinerant painter. "Why on earth should there be anything the matter with me?"
I sipped my coffee demurely.
"No florentines, today?" she asked, a little sadly.
"No," I said, hurriedly. "No almonds."
"Really?"
"It's because of the troubles, you know. In Egypt." I prayed silently her knowledge of the global production of almonds was as sketchy as mine, and offered her a toasted tea cake.
"Don't go to any trouble dear." And then we sat in silence for some time.
"I suppose you were at the doctors yesterday," I said, when the silence became too much. Betty coloured slightly.
"Er...yes. My, you know. Rheumatism."
"Did Dr. Porter prescribe green-lipped mussel extract? It did wonders for Gertrude White."
"Did it?"
"Indeed," and we went on like this for some time. You know, I have never been so pleased to see the egg man in my entire life. As I busied myself collecting the delicious bantam eggs into my attractive, though impractical, wire egg holder, I noticed Betty's expression had descended into serious melancholia. I also noticed the slink of a silver car glide past the window, and the furious glare of a large bearded face searching for a woollen hat.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Betty and the Beast
Nothing is as calming as routine. No tonic so soothing to the soul as repetition of a task or mode of behaviour, however mundane or inert, until it becomes a comforting blanket and, without which, a sense of disorder reigns. So it was with Betty Garfield and her morning coffee.
I open the shop, as a rule, for elevenses. It may be considered old fashioned nowadays, what with the rise of the contemptible 'brunch', but I feel 'elevenses' resurrects a sense of the Victorian opulence that was lost with Oscar Wilde, the demise of the Comic Opera and taking the waters at Bath. Betty Garfield would tinkle the door open at precisely 11.15, giving me time to brew the water and put out the cakes, and refresh the posies on each little gingham-dressed table. She would look out at me under her woollen hat, smile and wish me a 'good morning, Maud', taking her usual place by the window. There she would remove her anorak and brush her brown plaid skirt and remark on how desperately she needed the china cup and cafetiere of coffee to revive her spirits. I usually joined her for a cup and a florentine (more of which, later), and we discussed the goings-on at the house across the road. She was alarmed and mildly amused by a lesbian couple who had recently moved in, who had taken to discussing business that was best left 'in the boudoir', as she mouthingly put it, in grisly detail as they pruned their roses (this is not, I repeat NOT, an euphemism). I believed them to be doing it purely for the benefit of my small, woollen-clad friend, who pulled amusing faces when the word 'flap' was mentioned in any context. I refrained from pointing out any obvious homophobia, as I doubt she knew what it meant.
Anyway, as usual, I digress.
Three mornings ago, it was twenty five past eleven before I realised Betty had not yet appeared. I was concerned, obviously, but was in the process of making a delicate blueberry confection and was anxious about my egg ratios. At eleven fifty, however, I had begun biting my lip.
My disquiet worsened; I gave Mr. Taplin the wrong change. My blueberries boiled over to form a terrifying sort of jam at the bottom of my favourite Le Creuset. The egg man knocked at the kitchen door for five minutes before I realised he was there. At half past one, with my brow far more furrowed than I generally allow (one has ones elasticity to think about), I gave Eileen my apron and walked briskly up the hill to Betty's home. She was not there. I (and I am not proud to divulge this) crept around the rear of the property and peered through the kitchen window. There were pots drying on the draining board. I fancied my worst fears realised.
I decided immediately that some sort of calamity had befallen Betty. I am not normally prone to bouts of hysteria, nor do I indulge in capricious imaginings, but at that moment I saw vividly the body of my friend on the bathroom floor, smelling of patchouli and bergamot, a torn shower curtain evidence for a fatal fall. As soon as the tears arose in my eyes (again, all fully uncharacteristic; I can only blame a recent change in my energy supplier) I heard the cry of an elderly gentlewoman from the front of the house. It was worse! An attacker! I looked about me furiously for a cane or garden hoe and found nothing but a rather sickly looking miniature conifer. It was better than nothing, so I picked up the pot and held it aloft, poised to bring it down upon the head of whomever was causing my friend to shout so. I edged past the wheelie bins, past the messy Citroën Dyane she insisted upon keeping despite the imploring looks of her mechanic, towards the front of the building, trying to keep myself as invisible as possible. I halted as I caught a glimpse of my friend, her expression grim, her cheeks rouged...
This gave me considerable pause. Betty's cheeks were rouged? I imagined the dried, cracked pot of Elizabeth Arden discovered at the back of a drawer and the decay of consistency after being left for at least a decade. Betty never wore rouge. I doubted she even used Nivea. But there she was, fumbling in a black, sequinned (sequinned!) handbag for her front door key, the lace gloves she wore making the task all the more difficult. And then I saw him.
A large, grizzled-face chap, all hair and shoulders, stood some way off. He wore a forlorn expression, his body language was pleading. Betty found her key, opened the door and disappeared without a word. The man loitered for a minute or two, before returning to a large silver car and driving off. I barely drew a breath.
I found myself unable to face Betty. Instead, I replaced the conifer and hurried back to the shop to make more florentines. So here they are.
I must give credit where credit is due; this recipe was given to me by an excellent lady who had visited once, tasted mine and decided I would benefit from a little alteration. She was right.
Makes 12-14
50g plain flour
30g chopped walnuts
30g flaked almonds
30g chopped glace cherries
30g raisins
30g butter
50g soft brown sugar
200g dark chocolate, broken into small pieces
1. Preheat the oven to 180°C (Gas mark 4). Line 2 baking sheets with baking parchment.
2. Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, stir in the nuts and fruit.
3. Melt the butter and sugar into a small pan over a low hear. Stir well, until all the sugar has dissolved.
4. Stir the butter mixture into the dry ingredients. Don't overstir or the nuts will lose their texture.
5. Drop the mixture a dessertspoonful at a time onto the baking sheets, leaving 5cm between each one. Press each down gently with the back of a spoon to form a round.
6. Bake for 8 minutes, then remove from the oven. Press down again if necessary to form a round with a palette knife. Leave to cool on the tray for 5 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack.
7. Melt the chocolate in a heatproof bowl placed over a pan of simmering water.
8. As soon as the chocolate is fully melted, use the palette knife to coat the side of the Florentines thickly. Allow to set in a refrigerator.
As I mentioned, I usually enjoy one of these with a morning coffee, but after today's shock I may have trouble not scoffing the lot in a fit of madness.
I open the shop, as a rule, for elevenses. It may be considered old fashioned nowadays, what with the rise of the contemptible 'brunch', but I feel 'elevenses' resurrects a sense of the Victorian opulence that was lost with Oscar Wilde, the demise of the Comic Opera and taking the waters at Bath. Betty Garfield would tinkle the door open at precisely 11.15, giving me time to brew the water and put out the cakes, and refresh the posies on each little gingham-dressed table. She would look out at me under her woollen hat, smile and wish me a 'good morning, Maud', taking her usual place by the window. There she would remove her anorak and brush her brown plaid skirt and remark on how desperately she needed the china cup and cafetiere of coffee to revive her spirits. I usually joined her for a cup and a florentine (more of which, later), and we discussed the goings-on at the house across the road. She was alarmed and mildly amused by a lesbian couple who had recently moved in, who had taken to discussing business that was best left 'in the boudoir', as she mouthingly put it, in grisly detail as they pruned their roses (this is not, I repeat NOT, an euphemism). I believed them to be doing it purely for the benefit of my small, woollen-clad friend, who pulled amusing faces when the word 'flap' was mentioned in any context. I refrained from pointing out any obvious homophobia, as I doubt she knew what it meant.
Anyway, as usual, I digress.
Three mornings ago, it was twenty five past eleven before I realised Betty had not yet appeared. I was concerned, obviously, but was in the process of making a delicate blueberry confection and was anxious about my egg ratios. At eleven fifty, however, I had begun biting my lip.
My disquiet worsened; I gave Mr. Taplin the wrong change. My blueberries boiled over to form a terrifying sort of jam at the bottom of my favourite Le Creuset. The egg man knocked at the kitchen door for five minutes before I realised he was there. At half past one, with my brow far more furrowed than I generally allow (one has ones elasticity to think about), I gave Eileen my apron and walked briskly up the hill to Betty's home. She was not there. I (and I am not proud to divulge this) crept around the rear of the property and peered through the kitchen window. There were pots drying on the draining board. I fancied my worst fears realised.
I decided immediately that some sort of calamity had befallen Betty. I am not normally prone to bouts of hysteria, nor do I indulge in capricious imaginings, but at that moment I saw vividly the body of my friend on the bathroom floor, smelling of patchouli and bergamot, a torn shower curtain evidence for a fatal fall. As soon as the tears arose in my eyes (again, all fully uncharacteristic; I can only blame a recent change in my energy supplier) I heard the cry of an elderly gentlewoman from the front of the house. It was worse! An attacker! I looked about me furiously for a cane or garden hoe and found nothing but a rather sickly looking miniature conifer. It was better than nothing, so I picked up the pot and held it aloft, poised to bring it down upon the head of whomever was causing my friend to shout so. I edged past the wheelie bins, past the messy Citroën Dyane she insisted upon keeping despite the imploring looks of her mechanic, towards the front of the building, trying to keep myself as invisible as possible. I halted as I caught a glimpse of my friend, her expression grim, her cheeks rouged...
This gave me considerable pause. Betty's cheeks were rouged? I imagined the dried, cracked pot of Elizabeth Arden discovered at the back of a drawer and the decay of consistency after being left for at least a decade. Betty never wore rouge. I doubted she even used Nivea. But there she was, fumbling in a black, sequinned (sequinned!) handbag for her front door key, the lace gloves she wore making the task all the more difficult. And then I saw him.
A large, grizzled-face chap, all hair and shoulders, stood some way off. He wore a forlorn expression, his body language was pleading. Betty found her key, opened the door and disappeared without a word. The man loitered for a minute or two, before returning to a large silver car and driving off. I barely drew a breath.
I found myself unable to face Betty. Instead, I replaced the conifer and hurried back to the shop to make more florentines. So here they are.
I must give credit where credit is due; this recipe was given to me by an excellent lady who had visited once, tasted mine and decided I would benefit from a little alteration. She was right.
Makes 12-14
50g plain flour
30g chopped walnuts
30g flaked almonds
30g chopped glace cherries
30g raisins
30g butter
50g soft brown sugar
200g dark chocolate, broken into small pieces
1. Preheat the oven to 180°C (Gas mark 4). Line 2 baking sheets with baking parchment.
2. Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, stir in the nuts and fruit.
3. Melt the butter and sugar into a small pan over a low hear. Stir well, until all the sugar has dissolved.
4. Stir the butter mixture into the dry ingredients. Don't overstir or the nuts will lose their texture.
5. Drop the mixture a dessertspoonful at a time onto the baking sheets, leaving 5cm between each one. Press each down gently with the back of a spoon to form a round.
6. Bake for 8 minutes, then remove from the oven. Press down again if necessary to form a round with a palette knife. Leave to cool on the tray for 5 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack.
7. Melt the chocolate in a heatproof bowl placed over a pan of simmering water.
8. As soon as the chocolate is fully melted, use the palette knife to coat the side of the Florentines thickly. Allow to set in a refrigerator.
As I mentioned, I usually enjoy one of these with a morning coffee, but after today's shock I may have trouble not scoffing the lot in a fit of madness.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Good Day
Welcome to the Village Tea Rooms! Come in out of the cold!
That's what we've been shouting all morning, it being cold as arctic stone here, with stiff February gales whipping through the street. It can be something of a wind tunnel this village, nestled (not so warmly) in the Lancashire hills, with Bolton to the South and Blackburn to the North, and the breezes shooting across from the Irish sea, like a souvenir from the Isle of Man. Anyway, I digress. My name is Maud Mortimer, sixty four years old and proprietress of the Village Tea shop for over thirty years. I choose the teas, I order the coffee, I bake the cakes and butter the bread for sandwiches (though Elsie fills them and plates the bit of greenery and plain crisps that comes with each one). And I'm not behind the door, either. I don't hold with all that twaddle about being stuck in the past like some (mentioning no names). I like to move with the times. I bought a 'DAB'. It's in the corner, next to the parlour palm and the photograph of Johnny Mathis. It might not touch those modern stations like Radio 2 (Elsie likes Classic FM, but I can't abide those rotten adverts), but it's digital. And I always try and keep my recipes up-to-the-minute, though I must say, you will never see a 'whoopie' in my shop. Not as long as we have a monarchy.
I must say though, this internet lark is the most 'modern' we'll get. Elsie's son, Peter, recommended I keep a journal of goings on here as, well, there's funny things afoot, and I can't do pen and paper anymore on account of my rheumatism, so he recommended a blog. I use the computer in the library round the corner and do my Tesco shopping at the same time, so it's fairly convenient really. I have decided to use it to record my myriad recipes I've developed and invented over the years, and impart some of the funny little stories or strange customers we come into contact with. And of course, any funny business...
To mark the beginning of this thing, then, I think it is only proper to start with the simplest and most famous of my recipes: the Victoria Sponge. I have won awards with this cake (being an ex, though previously active, member of the Women's Institute) and can guarantee it will not last more than two hours on the cake stand in the shop. I usually charge £1.75 per slice, though with the price of flour going up, I might have to raise it a few pence.
Victoria Sponge
(For 8 people to eat at the same time)
200g butter
200g golden caster sugar
3 eggs, preferrably freshly laid (I get mine from Tim the Egg Man, who has an allotment full of hens)
225g self raising flour
1tablespoon golden syrup
A splash of milk
For the filling:
Strawberry or Raspberry Jam
1. Preheat your oven to 175°C (Gas 5) and grease two 8in (20cm) sandwich tins
2. In a large bowl, cream your butter until it looks creamy and soft
3. Add the sugar and beat gently
4. Crack the eggs into a jug and whisk slightly with a fork.
5. Sift in 1/3 of the flour and add a little egg. Beat well.
6. Repeat number 5 until all the egg and flour is incorporated
7. Divide between the two tins and bake for 30 minutes, or until golden brown and springy to the touch.
8. Leave to cool and sandwich with jam. Sprinkle with caster sugar.
A note: Some people (generally Americans) think this cake should be sandwiched with jam and buttercream, though this is not a traditional Victoria Sponge. I could have bowed to pressure and given you a buttercream option, but principles are not ten a penny these days, so let's leave it at that.
That's what we've been shouting all morning, it being cold as arctic stone here, with stiff February gales whipping through the street. It can be something of a wind tunnel this village, nestled (not so warmly) in the Lancashire hills, with Bolton to the South and Blackburn to the North, and the breezes shooting across from the Irish sea, like a souvenir from the Isle of Man. Anyway, I digress. My name is Maud Mortimer, sixty four years old and proprietress of the Village Tea shop for over thirty years. I choose the teas, I order the coffee, I bake the cakes and butter the bread for sandwiches (though Elsie fills them and plates the bit of greenery and plain crisps that comes with each one). And I'm not behind the door, either. I don't hold with all that twaddle about being stuck in the past like some (mentioning no names). I like to move with the times. I bought a 'DAB'. It's in the corner, next to the parlour palm and the photograph of Johnny Mathis. It might not touch those modern stations like Radio 2 (Elsie likes Classic FM, but I can't abide those rotten adverts), but it's digital. And I always try and keep my recipes up-to-the-minute, though I must say, you will never see a 'whoopie' in my shop. Not as long as we have a monarchy.
I must say though, this internet lark is the most 'modern' we'll get. Elsie's son, Peter, recommended I keep a journal of goings on here as, well, there's funny things afoot, and I can't do pen and paper anymore on account of my rheumatism, so he recommended a blog. I use the computer in the library round the corner and do my Tesco shopping at the same time, so it's fairly convenient really. I have decided to use it to record my myriad recipes I've developed and invented over the years, and impart some of the funny little stories or strange customers we come into contact with. And of course, any funny business...
To mark the beginning of this thing, then, I think it is only proper to start with the simplest and most famous of my recipes: the Victoria Sponge. I have won awards with this cake (being an ex, though previously active, member of the Women's Institute) and can guarantee it will not last more than two hours on the cake stand in the shop. I usually charge £1.75 per slice, though with the price of flour going up, I might have to raise it a few pence.
Victoria Sponge
(For 8 people to eat at the same time)
200g butter
200g golden caster sugar
3 eggs, preferrably freshly laid (I get mine from Tim the Egg Man, who has an allotment full of hens)
225g self raising flour
1tablespoon golden syrup
A splash of milk
For the filling:
Strawberry or Raspberry Jam
1. Preheat your oven to 175°C (Gas 5) and grease two 8in (20cm) sandwich tins
2. In a large bowl, cream your butter until it looks creamy and soft
3. Add the sugar and beat gently
4. Crack the eggs into a jug and whisk slightly with a fork.
5. Sift in 1/3 of the flour and add a little egg. Beat well.
6. Repeat number 5 until all the egg and flour is incorporated
7. Divide between the two tins and bake for 30 minutes, or until golden brown and springy to the touch.
8. Leave to cool and sandwich with jam. Sprinkle with caster sugar.
A note: Some people (generally Americans) think this cake should be sandwiched with jam and buttercream, though this is not a traditional Victoria Sponge. I could have bowed to pressure and given you a buttercream option, but principles are not ten a penny these days, so let's leave it at that.
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