-
14 Oct ' 08:47
Goodbye sweet figs, hello golden crabapples,
September 26, 2010
This summer I crack the way to open oysters using our potentially very lethal oyster knife without severing wrists or any other important parts of the body . The trick is a gentle prising and levering at the hinge part of the shell. Simple, but the fussy mother part of me decides it would be tempting fate to give the job to one of the teenage gang having got off lightly with only one case of sunstroke, so far. Oh, and a 3am posse of ardent local bronzed and base-ball capped Romeos outside my front door. Where are their London beauties? Luckily high up in the Room on Top, and well out of reach.
I must say, that when they aren’t all ironing their hair, pouting in the one mirror we have in the house and changing their outfit five times before supper, the girls are pleasingly enthusiastic in the kitchen even with the frisky snails which slide up and over the colander and all over the work top when let free from the net bag.
The oysters, the snails , all garlicky and succulent after being steamed in my big pot, and fat sweet figs, as full and heavy as the intoxicating heat of of Olhao afternoons seem like pin pricks in the memory now that school timetables and boiler servicing are frontal lobe concerns. I’m not really complaining because the warm still lull of a Indian summer has allowed me to bask under the apple tree, and the tomatoes to ripen.
I make a batch of crab apple jelly from a bagful of crabs that I surreptitiously pick from a tree in Dulwich park. The lurking guilt is because I’ve never quite recovered from the shouty park keeper’s display “You can’t control your animal ..etc etc” when the dog had an unauthorised dip in the lake earlier this year. Happily there is no job’s worth to come and spoil my fun.
Back home with the red and golden spoils, I give them a quick rinse and bundle them into a large pan, covering with plenty of water. After boiling for twenty minutes or so I scoop the mushy pulp in to a muslin bag and let the juice drip into a bowl. This takes a few hours, and even though you not supposed to give it a helpful squeeze because it clouds the juice, I do, and don’t notice any discolouring. I then boil it all up again with sugar,( 500g sugar per 500ml of extracted juice ) stirring all the time until setting point is reached.
I spoon the hot mixture into six clean glass jar. They look as if they’re on fire so rich is the orange colour of the jelly. The appley sweet but tart taste is great with the mutton I roasted last night.I like crab apple jelly spread on toast with butter, too.
The garden seems to be squeezing out the last dregs of summer colour, too , with a flush of pink roses, and sweet peas, with their old fashioned English country garden fragrance. I cut as many blooms as I can cram in glasses and jugs to put around the house and defy the shadows that come with the ever shortening daylight hours
This is the time for some interior escapism, such as the uplifting and quirky spaces in Selina Lake’s Romantic Style . Actually, I also can’t wait to escape to one of the modernist houses that are for rent from writer and philosopher, Alain de Botton’s collective , Living Architecture. I particularly want to try the new barn style house covered in shiny metallic panels, projecting out into thin air and overlooking the Suffolk countryside. Or how about a break in the Dune house (opening in January) on the Suffolk coast , which is partly pushed into the beach with an open plan ground floor lit by banks of glass looking out to the sea?
And for more gloriously spare and simple design, I’ve got my eyes on the beautiful oak country stools and settles from ex Wallpaper Editor, Tyler Brulee’s Another Country.
I hope that I’m going to be equally inspired by visions in design during tomorrow’s visit to Decorex, one of the major design shows of the season.
The other day, I was sitting on the tube opposite a woman who stares at me intently. I veer between mainly fussing that it’s someone I’m supposed to know, and allowing a small fantasy that she’s thinking how marvellous I look for my age. As I make for the sliding door she thrusts her face into mine and demands ” where did you get that lipstick, it’s adorable ?”. I should have realised. My Barry M 52 lip paint in electric fuschia pink, gets more compliments than a new season Prada handbag, if I had one. This little stick of magic colour is under a fiver and is a wonderfully cheap way to brighten up the da
I am feeling a huge sense of loss. There are no furry plates festering under the bed, my I phone charger has vanished and there are no frustrating waits to get into the bathroom. Yes , middle back- packing daughter has left for university . But it will mean more me-time: eating apples, cooking (and eating) shortbread and reading. I can’t wait to move on from The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas It’s one of those books that was given bags of book review puff ‘ now and than a book comes along that defines a summer’ and all that sort of thing. The story is centered on one day at an Australian suburban barbecue when a man slaps a child who is not his own. Although it’s a rich examination of modern living, the disagreeable characters do not stay with me after I put down the pages and I am bored by the tedious chunks given to bedroom activities. Pass another piece of shortbread.
Search the Site
