Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay
Words... What are they but letters that come together,
Joining forces to bring communication to those who would hear.
Letters of varying shapes and sizes,
Some lazily hanging below the line,
Others standing tall, erect and even chunky.
Some are not heard, silent letters that sneak in between others unawares.
Not so those that double up to get your full attention.
Then the capital letters, there to state the importance of their word
And indeed the whole sentence.
When one word isn’t enough, they join with a friend and a hyphen.
Some words are sooo long, they really do make a point, if you can get to the end of it.
And too many of them can take over a chatty conversation.
Enquiring words may ask a puzzling question and demand an answer in return
Yet commanding words are to be strictly obeyed and not ask why.
A list of instructions is there simply to direct, constituting words to keep you busy,
Hopefully they’ll suffice for the ensuing task.
The use of abbreviations may save time in the process.
What about all the lovely greetings we use
To communicate our feelings and acknowledge others?
Polite words we employ for social acceptance and foreign ones thrown in from afar.
Poetical words may be enlisted in rhyme or song
Set to music to carry them to the heart, with tender words included for endearment.
Familiar words will help you belong,
Such as baby’s first simple words in its’ big world.
Or codes that contain mysterious secrets.
Sometimes whispered and changing in transit,
Other times shouted in urgency or lacking altogether, frozen in fear,
Taking you to the sound of silence.
Then there are doing words, that get things moving
And describing words that make your eyes pop
Proper nouns that take their rightful place
In labelling people and places, often placing them in boxes.
And words that replace them such as you, that, he or she.
Words in bold that really stand out, italics that are still on the fringe
And those in brackets that are just the side dish.
There are funny words that make you laugh
And silly ones that help you to relax, but don’t always make sense.
Rude, harsh words can really hurt
And careless ones that didn’t engage the brain.
Deceiving ones that cloud your mind
And downright lies to keep you from the truth.
Yet inspiring words reach deep inside the spirit and impart life.
Endless passwords that unlock doors in a modern world
And technical ones that belong to those who know.
Many words that together tell a story,
Some printed, some written, some spoken,
Some remaining in the mind where images accompany them,
In the wacky world of wonderful words.
We pulled our van into a large Aire, with basic facilities at Cap d'Agde on the French Riviera, near to the town, beach and Marina. The Marina had much going on with cafes, restaurants, shops and boat trips. We wondered around, ordered the largest mango sorbet ever and bought "Savon" from a large soap shop. There were lots of opportunities to try out our rusty French, which was beginning to feel more familiar. It was a pleasant place with lots of palm trees, even if not much sun, but warm nevertheless. We decided to stay an extra night, opting to go back to the Marina again.
Driving on through Italy we were spoilt with amazing views of the mountains. After stopping for lunch we started off again and soon started to see Lake Garda along the west side, where the road was full of roundabouts with various amenities on each side. By mid-afternoon we arrived at a tiered motorhome parking place overlooking the lake.
The weather was now very warm. After parking, we walked to the lake and sat at a cafe on the water's edge for coffee.
In the evening we enjoyed a walk along the lake promenade, arriving at a restaurant, where we had a pleasant meal ending with tirimasu and an espresso, before walking back to the van for the night. We appreciated the insect netting.
Growing up in the 70s, like most families in the UK at that time, our food choices were influenced by all the newly available packets and tins that were on the market. These included various flavours of Blanchmange, Instant Whip, Angel Delight, Dream Topping, Quick Jel, jelly cubes, tinned pie fillings, tinned vegetables, fruits and soups and of course packets and boxes of many kinds of breakfast cereals, that replaced eggs and bacon and gave them a bad name in the process.
My parents did their best to supplement our diet with plenty of fresh vegetables from the garden, but the packet and tinned foods were cheap, stored well and were readily available. This also included desserts that were quick and easy to complete most of our meals. So it was no surprise when my mother made the Seven Layer Dish that became a favourite and consequently made it’s way into the Family Recipe Book. Many times my three sisters and I would come home on a Saturday lunch time with hungry appetites from playing outside, and be greeted with the familiar smell of Seven Layer Dish. One by one layers of sliced onions, carrots and potatoes would be joined by layers of tinned peas, rice, tinned soup and finally sausages would be arranged on top. This would all be cooked in a hot oven for two hours and “hey presto!” dinner would be served. If Instant Whip was served for dessert, it would only have taken a few moments to whip up the flavoured powder with some milk and cool in the fridge in time to bring it out at the end of the meal. All that would be needed was to pop a glace cherry on top and who would have known?
Most of these are of course still available today, but perhaps we have grown wiser to preferring fresh, natural ingredients that have become more readily available, to ones that we often didn’t really know what they were or where they came from. I have found myself sliding back to the days of my Grandparents and the recipes from their foraging and local, home-grown food. Much of this information has been lost, but slowly, for some of us it has been a journey away from chemicals and drugs and a return to nature and the consequent health improvements we are rediscovering.
For this reason, the Seven Layer Dish recipe has laid dormant and faded in the The Family Recipe Book for some time now, but it does remind me of those bygone days and so will be allowed to remain, at least for now.
It had been a busy six years, working full time and being active in our local church. To add to that, I had married and set to in making a home in our first house, which we managed to buy as a result of hard earnings and generous friends.
After one year of marriage I decided to go part time, at which point my husband unexpectedly received a welcome wage rise. After two years, our first baby came along and I gave up work to look after him.
Now I was at home with a new baby and more time on my hands.
Although my parents lived nearby, I was glad of friends who were at a similar stage of life to me. Very soon we were meeting at each other’s houses. These times were so valuable as they gave me much appreciated encouragement and tips from other mums who knew more than I. At 22 years of age I had much to learn. These one to ones expanded to a small regular lunch group and then forming The Free Time Club, which enabled us to take turns at leaving our pre-school aged children in one of our homes, whilst we went off and had some much-needed time for ourselves.
One thing I enjoyed was baking and so when a friend came round for coffee, out would come the home-made cookies. The children would happily play or take their morning nap, whilst we enjoyed a good chat. The walnut cookies that were first made for such an occasion, were the favourite and so went into the family recipe book. They have graced many a coffee morning since, including some for charity and those at a later date that were a part of my Party Planning Consultancy, selling kitchen items. It proved to be a good way to get to know the neighbours as well, and in time the cookies expanded to other varieties too.
Gradually over the years, we had three more sons and when the youngest two wanted to sell some of their unwanted toys outside our house, to make way for new ones, the walnut cookies were on offer, drawing the neighbours in and contributing to their income!
Coffee morning trends and fellowship with friends are still valuable ways to keep the community alive and well. Home-made cookies provide the icing on the cake! Long may it continue!
A casual walk in the woods
Awakens you to the familiar smells of Spring.
In particular the prevalent perennial plant, pervading perimeters
And coating the floors of forests and woods.
By now a favourite foragers food,
Aided by it’s long season and widespread abundance.
The long, spear-shaped leaves wafting in the breeze
Keeping other predators away with their pungent smell.
But us humans have grown to enjoy it’s stronger flavours
And the pretty star-like flowers that poke up in white purity.
Who can resist?
All from a tiny bulb that can be eaten along with the rest of it.
And so the pungent smells pervade kitchens throughout the land,
As this plant is used in pestos, salads and butter.
No wonder it used to be named Stinkers or Dorset’s Devil Posy.
Today we settle with Ramsons or Wild Garlic.
But just a minute, you might say.
For those who prefer a milder smell for the senses,
Indeed a milder taste to the cuisine,
Jack-By-The-Hedge is waiting for you.
No need to say where you’ll find him!
Although some may know him as Garlic Mustard,
The cabbage family leaves are unmistakable.
Kidney shaped, with serrated edges,
The perfect addition to any salad or sandwich.
The sun arose before me
Today the clouds made way
For my light, my warmth.
We were outside together
I was still
But it was rising, slowly rising.
I hugged my mug of hot tea
More from habit than anything
For the sun gave me
The warmth I needed today
I knew it couldn’t stay long
So I remained there
To receive the life it offered.
My heart unravelled
From the darkness of the night
It warmed and drank in this new life.
Today it’s light was uninterrupted
It never fought the clouds
Just gave way when necessary
Today that wasn’t the case
It was just the sun and I
I wasn’t alone.
Unlike some people I’d known
This friend wouldn’t hurt me
It was always there
To sustain my whole world
It’s just that I didn’t always see it
But it was there and I bathed in it.
Gradually it moved over to the other side
I moved also to find it’s full strength
For I didn’t want it to leave me
Until eventually it disappeared
Not behind the clouds this time
But behind the rock, the big solid rock
That was always there, it never moved.
Oh but my sun did,
It came and went every day
It never let me down
I know it’s still there somewhere
Though I don’t always see
I can almost feel it
Then the darkness of the night comes
And I must wait until the morrow.
The kitchen floor was full of bags containing different stages of dishes and food that were to be served over the holiday period. I checked my lists for the final time and we loaded it all into the car, along with our personal bags. Eventually there was a sigh of relief as we drove off on the journey from the south eastern corner of the UK to Wales on the other side. This was a repeat trip from the year before that we had enjoyed so much, that it had to be repeated. The boys were no longer children and to spend the time together in a different manner seemed fitting.
It was a cold Winter’s afternoon when after several hours, we arrived at a house standing at the end of a lane in a small village. It was surrounded by a garden with a pond and trees. A bit overgrown, but it was December after all and we didn’t see ourselves wanting to be outside much. We unloaded the car and walked down the path to the door and felt an instant welcome as we entered. The smell of wood brought back memories of the previous year. The house felt more like a cabin, with parquet flooring covered in cosy rugs, an open wood fire and in the corner a family sauna. The house was owned by a Finnish man, who was renting it out through airbnb. His deceased parents had built the house some years ago and the sauna was an important feature. The pond in the garden had served as the plunge pool.
As soon as we had unpacked our bags, we lit the fire. Our elderly mother was made comfortable in the fireside chair whilst we sat in the sauna and chatted about the day, catching up with recent news with our sons. We felt as though it detoxified us from the worries of the world and we could be cocooned here for these few days in the warmth and cosiness this place afforded. After showering, we joined mother by the fire that was now burning brightly in the grate. We were refreshed and relaxed with growing appetites, as I went into the well-equipped kitchen to prepare dinner.
The next morning we awoke to Christmas Day. The fire had died down, but the pretty lights were now illuminating the living room as we gathered around the grand piano to sing our favourite carols. When we were sung out, we sat around the large dining table for dinner. Out came the gifts, the wine and the candles. We completed the meal with the traditional sherry trifle, with soft layers of sponge soaked in sherry, fresh raspberries, egg custard and topped with cream and almonds. The family recipe had served us for many Christmas celebrations over the years, and would for many more to come.
With our bellies full we migrated back to the glowing fire and played silly games like many family gatherings that day. Afterwards the sauna was again our destination to stave off the Winter chills.
The following day we took ourselves off for a short walk, but were relieved to get back to the cosy hideaway that had been home for those few days.
Driving home later, we knew that this would not be our last visit and were already looking forward to next year.
The sherry trifle would of course come along again too.
I felt tears of gratitude as I knew that we had come home at last, after eight years of living in less suitable accommodation. I couldn’t speak at first in answer to my opinion of it, nor quite take it in, that this beautiful house could be ours to live in and the place to bring up our young family. But then the words came out of my mouth.
It was YES, a thousand yesses!
The solitary house stood there at the end of a long, narrow road. We came around the bend past a farm where a large dog barked as we drove through it’s territory. There it was standing in the warm early summer sun, in the middle of two fields that enveloped it on each side. We drove up and parked outside a small farmhouse at one end and climbed out of the car. The two older boys were busy looking around them as we eased young Jason out in his baby seat. We were greeted at the door by a friendly Bavarian couple, who had clearly lived there many years and were now wanting to rent out the other end of the building, that had been converted from a barn into a three bedroom house. They led the way through the adjoining door from the large cellar, up into the main house. The stairs were shiny marble and the wood around them made the building appear fresh and light. We ascended from the front door to the main floor, where the hallway led into the living rooms. A large wood burning stove with a chimney that went up between two of the rooms, opened into the hallway outside them. From the lounge and kitchen, the ample balcony that snaked around one side of the house offered plenty of room for dining and sitting. From there we could admire the glorious views of fields, forest and mountains, that were now topped with white, like icing on the whole package. Not that the resident cat much appreciated it all, but did rather approve of being made a fuss of, gracing us with her presence on the balcony.
We immediately knew that this was the place for us. Little Jason dutifully smiled as usual as we seated ourselves around their Eckbank to sign the contract, their eyes being diverted to the baby that won them over.
Before long we moved in and the couple next door became like grandparents to our children, their own being many miles away in another country. We would sometimes find the older two downstairs in Sepp’s workshop, watching him as he busied himself with upholstering different bits of furniture, whilst Frieda would be found more often than not, in her beloved garden. Every summer their son and family would arrive to help with ploughing the fields. No longer a thriving farm, but what they harvested was useful fodder for horses. The boys were thrilled to ride with them on the tractor.
Part of the otherwise open garden was fenced off in an endeavour to keep hungry deer out, and Frieda succeeded in growing many types of vegetables. Knowing we had five mouths to feed, she would sometimes present us with her produce, whatever was in season. On this occasion, she had so many zucchini and they were fast becoming marrows. As she handed one over, I asked her what she normally made with them and she trotted off, returning with the Zucchini Kuchen recipe written out by hand. The cake recipe that made it into our family book and has remained a favourite ever since.
The good size cake used not only courgettes, but nuts, spices, cream and jam to complete it. That Summer our son had his birthday celebration, planning to camp out in the neighbouring field with his friends. Unfortunately the stormy weather prevented that happening outdoors and so they reverted to camping in the big garage, not wanting to admit defeat and come indoors. Fortunately the stored logs had not yet been replenished from the previous Winter.
The cake was served to cheer them all up, as they sat huddled together, playing games and making the most of it.
It was a warm summer evening and the sun was low in the sky, but still illuminating the large lake Chiemsee as we drew up in our faithful campervan. Most of the day’s visitors had gone home and the resident ducks and swans were happy to have the water to themselves, as it lazily pulled in and out over the shoreline shingle. In the distance there were still a few windsurfers, enjoying a final sail before the sun disappeared. Every now and then a couple walked past hand in hand, admiring the view. The last of the families could be seen walking back to their cars carrying bags, sunshades, deckchairs and dishevelled children, looking tanned and tired. In the distance, the mountains stood proud and looking down on the world at their feet, as the day was drawing to a close.
We found a parking space with the best view of the lake and mountains beyond, as we opened the big, heavy side door, releasing the appetizing aroma of beef stroganoff. The stillness of the evening air invited peace and tranquillity from our busy day. We had invited our friends for dinner, only telling them of a mystery location, not far from home. The table was laid with the slow cooker pot, herby scones and salad. Out came the wine, candles and serviettes and we were ready to begin our lakeside dinner. Sitting around the bench we chatted and admired the view, feeling at ease with these American friends with whom we had shared many happy hours together. Their four children were a similar age to ours and so we exchanged stories of our ever-evolving parenting journeys, love of music and living in Bavaria as foreigners. The meal was completed with the crackle cake, that despite it’s chocolate-coated corn flake layers, held together with cream and strawberries, had survived the journey in the van fridge. Not a difficult recipe but, like the beautiful view from our windows; what was there not to like?
After a couple of hours the light faded and the door was closed to keep out the pesty gnats. All we could hear now was the music from the van stereo, gently playing in the background. The candle was getting low when we decided to blow it out, signifying the meal had come to an end. After securing everything into it’s proper place, the engine started up and we headed for home, after another happy experience in our campervan.
That was many years ago and our children have long grown up. The campervan is no more and we have now acquired a larger motorhome. Sadly we have not seen the friends for many years, having moved back to the UK. But who knows whether the new van will take us back to old places and friends again, before too long.
The family recipe is still there to remind us of the happy memory.
We began the day full of anticipation for the foraging that lay ahead. A few days earlier I had noticed the fruit beginning to ripen and knew that it was going to be a race between us and the hungry birds. My friend was keen to accompany me to gain some foraging experience.
We drove up the windy lane, leading to Kingsdown Woods.
We had almost reached our destination when there was a loud bang and bounce from the left side of the car. Looking out of my side mirror, I noticed that we had just passed a row of boulders, outlining the perimeter of someone’s front garden. They appeared hefty enough to do damage to my tyre. And then bump,bump, bump until we came to a welcome standstill on the outskirts of the woods. Even before we had climbed out of the car, a passer-by was giving us her verdict of a badly punctured tyre, for which we showed our thanks by getting out to survey the damage. It was a matter for the RAC.
I came off the phone, and having ascertained that they were not likely to arrive before a good half hour had gone by, we decided to stick with our original plan. Picking up the containers we strolled down the rough path to where ripe, red cherries were beckoning us. Ensuring that we could see when our rescuers arrived, we slowly walked up and down the path, reaching for the fruit that the birds had left us. The summer sun that had ripened the fruit was warming us also, so that we were glad of our sunhats. Sturdy shoes ensured that we could wade in and reach the ones that were further back. After some time of stretching, bending and balancing, we stopped to quench our thirst and rest our aching limbs. Every now and then a car would be seen slowly approaching, but it wasn’t the one we were hoping for.
Eventually it arrived and I ran back up the path to greet them and explain our predicament.
By the time they had changed the tyre, our containers were full of delicious cherries, ready to enjoy. We climbed back into the car, happy with our afternoon of foraging. After I had dropped my friend off, I drove home and placed my bounty on the kitchen worktop. Our son and grandson were arriving soon and so cherry pie would make the perfect dessert. I carefully turned the pages in my old book to find the recipe and set to work. Later on in the season I would use the blackberry and banana pudding recipe, which would mean another few days of foraging. But today it was cherries.
It was a lovely sunny evening when we stoked up the barbeque in the garden and settled ourselves on the patio. After the burgers and steaks had been eaten, the cherry pie was served with lashings of cream.
A perfect ending to a day of foraging, and despite the puncture, all was well that ends well.
One moment we were making good headway as we drove along the busy German autobahn, the next the car was juddering and slowing down. Something was amiss. Eventually it came to a halt on the central reservation. The cars coming around the bend were speeding past us.
We had been travelling for most of that day, when the traffic on the autobahn slowed down until we were stationary in the middle lane. The children were hot and hungry and our final destination still seemed far off. We were looking forward to a holiday staying with relatives in Bavaria, but now, all we could think about was when we were going to be able to stop for our picnic supper. After some time of realizing we were going nowhere, I climbed out of the front seat, went around to the boot and opened the cool bag. The people in the car behind us were watching with interest to see what I was doing on the middle of the autobahn. There seemed to be enough time, so I opened the large tupperware and promptly dished out the pasta salad onto four plastic picnic plates. I quickly walked to the side of the car and handed the plates over to our hungry family. Closing the boot, I climbed back in and started eating. We didn’t quite have time to finish it before the traffic started moving again. But our favourite pasta salad had saved the day!
A few hours later we were sitting ducks again. The car was clearly not going to start. Fortunately we were able to phone the police and we all tentatively climbed out whilst waiting for them to arrive. In the meantime, a car with an empty trailer pulled up and a friendly man stuck his head out of the window and asked whether we needed any help. Didn’t we just! Not wanting to reject such timely help, our vehicle was pulled onto the trailer, and all of us piled into the driver’s car, just as the police arrived. They took their notes and seeing that we were in good hands, left us to it. After a short while we drew up at a service station and climbed out. The two men peered into the bonnet. The driver happened to be a car mechanic and therefore was able to see that we needed a new part. As they were looking, we heard a voice say in English, “excuse me, but would you like a cup of tea?” A friendly looking lady was peering out of the door of a motorhome parked up next to us, and seeing our predicament, decided to act. The English couple provided some welcome refreshment.
Refreshed and informed, the kind mechanic offered to drive us on to the next town, as the day was drawing to a close. We needed to find somewhere to overnight. We drove around for a while, looking for available rooms, until we eventually managed to convince the owners of a closed Gasthof that these weary travellers needed somewhere to sleep, so they opened up specially for us. The accommodation certainly wasn’t first class, but despite the clock from the next building chiming on the hour throughout the night, we were able to get enough sleep.
The next day we were pleasantly surprised that our car started and kept going long enough to get us to the garage just around the corner. As we drove into the garage, it gave out again. We sipped coffee as we waited for the part to be fitted there and then, and after a short while were able to complete the remainder of our journey to our holiday destination.
There were things and people that “saved the day” on that trip. Firstly the pasta salad from the old recipe book, that provided a ready meal that wouldn’t otherwise have been available. Then the mechanic with the empty trailer. I told him that he was our angel as we rode in his car to the next town, but it made me laugh when ash from his cigarette was blown onto my lap behind, from the draught through the open window. The English couple who happened to be parked next to us at the German service station and finally the car that started again when it was needed to get us to the garage and the helpful garage people who were able to fit the part there and then.
The remainder of our trip was less eventful, but full of good memories.
The pasta salad will forever remind us of the motorway jam.
I welled up as I looked at the worn recipe and thought of my dad and how he had suffered in his last years, eventually dying at the grand age of 94. He had been a good father, despite having much to overcome from his past. He spent the prime part of his youth in the bottom of a merchant ship during the war, coping with seasickness each time they set sail and then ending up with a serious case of TB as a souvenir at the end of it all. After several years of convalescing, he lived the rest of his life with only ¾ of his lungs, the ¼ being replaced by balls the size of table tennis balls, that remained there until the end. A new remedy at the time. He was never quite the same again, but nevertheless managed to faithfully provide for our large family.
Sundays were always busy mornings in our home and so my parents had to be organized with Sunday lunch. Before leaving the house for church, the potatoes would be put into the oven to slowly bake during our absence. When we eventually arrived home, the appetizing aroma called for a quick salad with whatever cold meat was left from the roast of the previous day.
My mother often needed to go to work soon after lunch, and so her dinner duties were minimal. On those occasions, as soon as he had removed his shoes and coat and slipped into his homely slippers, my dad would reach for his signature pudding recipe. Then out would come the electric whisk as ground rice, coconut, butter, sugar, egg, baking powder and almond essence were mixed together and sliced apples added on top of the sticky jam that had been spooned onto the base of the dish. The crispy part was finally placed on top of everything else and it was all put into the oven to bake whilst we ate our first course. Then custard would be made and the apple crisp brought to the table, where none would ever go to waste. There were rarely left-overs in their house, but rather us four sisters had to take turns at scraping out the pudding bowl after everyone had been duly served their rightful portions. Woe betide if they tried to steal someone else’s turn! My dad was firm, but loving in the challenge of bringing up four girls.
I don’t remember him making any other desserts, but this was certainly his favourite and always served on a Sunday. I suppose he found the making of it a good way to unwind after a busy morning.
He would also show his hand in the kitchen by cooking breakfast for the family, before going off to work on his bike. It was usually baked beans on toast on Tuesdays and eggs in different forms on Thursdays and Sundays. Routine helped to keep the wheels of family life turning.
My dad’s signature pudding dish is still in the old recipe book, scribbled on plain paper, not only because I still make it, but as a memory of a loving father. It had come from the days of economising just after the war, when ground almonds were replaced by ground rice.
My mother was a good cook, but latterly as her strength failed, she gradually handed over the kitchen to Dad, who even learned to make good pastry in the process (what man doesn’t love his pies)!
Nowadays, apple crisp is a delicious keto friendly pudding for a cold winter’s day, with only slight adaptions needed.
My sisters and I piled into the car, throwing sleeping bags and holdalls of weekend provisions into the boot. All except one tin, that I held tightly as I climbed onto the back seat. I gave it the prime place on my lap as I wriggled to a comfortable position next to my younger sister. Only my eldest sister had the job of fiddling with her seat belt at the front, before Dad climbed into the drivers seat next to her. He turned around to check that we were all three present and correct at the back, before driving away from our house.
The annual youth club camp was the highlight of our teenage years and this was the first time that it had included the youngest of us four, who had just turned 11 that year. So our parents were about to have a weekend on their own. A treat after many years with us around. As we were getting our things ready, our mum had handed over the usual tin of sweet contribution. With a twinkle in her eye she would warn us not to eat any on the journey, but hand them over to the leaders as soon as we arrived. Well, there wasn’t much chance of that, with three pairs of sisterly eyes watching me and the tin. They were well guarded as we engaged in excited chatter in the car.
Eventually we arrived at a narrow track, snaking off from the main road. We opened the windows to let in the cool air, as the car slowed it’s pace a little. Doing so we were greeted with the sweet smell of bluebells that lined the woods on the side of the track. We arrived to a group of friends that were piling out of cars and traipsing off to find the designated tents that were waiting for them. We quickly climbed out of our car and said goodbye to Dad as we grabbed our bags and ran across the field. Only Grace, the youngest lingered a little. Dad helped her with her bags and said goodbye. Noting her quivering lip, he called me back and transferred the precious tin into her hands. “Here, you take Mum’s tin of goodies and hand them over to share.” At this, she perked up and took the important task in hand, happily waving goodbye as Dad drove off.
We had a great week, full of outdoor activities that created a healthy hunger to enjoy even the smash, spam, beans and similar fare that belonged to camping. We girls learned to sew, by sewing up the boys pyjamas, stuffing and hanging them in the trees and denying all knowledge at bedtime. The treasure hunts sent us exploring in the nearby woods, with maps and compasses, with no prizes for getting lost.
On the final evening we all sat around the camp fire, tired but happy, cooking sausages and singing Kumbaya along with the guitars. Young Grace could just about be seen in the twilight, handing a tin around and a voice sounded in the distance, “Oh look, here are the yummy chocolate oat bars again, that Grace’s mum makes.”
I smiled as I remembered that day and so many others all those years ago. Now we all make the same chocolate oat bars for our children and grandchildren. They never last long. We also carry on baking the family almond slices, which have remained a firm favourite too.
The pages were delicate and worn. In places, the tape that had stuck them to the page was now brown, almost obscuring the information beneath. Nevertheless, I carefully took hold of the jagged edges to turn the pages slowly, one by one. It had been my little book of treasures, begun even before I had been married and ran my own household. Then it was just a gift for my bottom drawer. But once I set up my own home, the pages started to fill up.
The recipes were mostly cut from magazines that no longer existed, and every now and then a hand-written one appeared, taken from a packet of one of the vital ingredients or copied from a friend’s treasured recipe. The early ones were of recipes that I would have thrown into the slow cooker before going off to work, or quick and easy ones for when we got home, hungry and in need of a hot meal. Then the addition of children also meant recipes that could be prepared in advance if necessary, or child-friendly ones we could make together. Meals for me were an opportunity to give life and health to my family. I tried to show them that eating healthily was a good thing, by getting them interested and involved in the whole process, when possible. The dining table was an important place for us all, where we shared many happy meals and conversations. I well remembered the first day of school holidays, when I would take them to the library to choose books that would inspire them to cook and bake. We would then go to the shops together to choose the necessary ingredients, before the fun began in the kitchen.
The book contained family recipes handed down from my mother, that we still enjoyed, that had often accompanied us on camping trips and picnics. There was a section for vegetarian recipes, meat recipes, fish, salads, cakes and cookies and desserts. The vegetarian ones reminded me of how I often endeavoured to eat what was in season, although didn’t always manage it and some were there because they used vegetables that I later on grew myself. The cakes and desserts were reminiscent of the family being together at weekends when I would always have a home-baked cake for whoever was around. And the desserts had also been made for the adult-only evening dinner parties.
It had accompanied me over several house moves, over many miles and two countries. Some were therefore in another language, that I learned to work with. Sometimes ingredients had to be ordered from visitors arriving from England. Many times I would be found in the kitchen, with the faithful recipe book propped up in front of me yet again. No wonder it had so many stains, yet amazingly I could always read or remember what was on the pages. At other times I would be seen flicking through it’s pages at the beginning of a new week, eagerly planning the week’s menu, before the shopping trip the following day. Often times, the ideas it gave me spared me from not knowing what to cook at the last minute and ensuring that I had all the necessary ingredients.
Looking at the recipes, some of which were hanging on by a thread now, I noticed that some were stuck over the top of others, presumably those that had no further requirement. In time, our eating habits changed a little, as age, health and subsequent knowledge required different types of diets every now and then, for I knew how eating the right kind of food made such a difference.
Yes, these recipes opened up many memories, of dishes made for specific occasions with friends or family members who were no longer with us. Some had been enthusiastically made once for such an occasion, but never again.
Now what to do with this fragile book? Which recipes were definitely no longer required to take up room? And yet….maybe there will be a time and a place for them again….To throw out the whole book would be unthinkable, for then my age-old tried and tested recipes would be lost forever, along with all the notes and markings.
I had left my mark in this way and maybe that is how I would be remembered. For I loved to cook, bake and provide for my family and friends. This was what I did. A part of who I am. If variety was the spice of life, the great variety of recipes found in these pages had certainly spiced up our lives over the years, and could go on for some time yet through the recipe book.
If only the pages would hold together! I carefully closed the book and slid it back into it’s protective bag.
There was once a little girl called Ella, who wanted a new adventure.
So when she turned five, she decided it was time to explore and went with her Daddy to visit the big, old castle at Dover. It was right next to the sea and as they were early, she was excited to scramble first of all down to the beach, where she took off her socks and shoes and paddled in the water. She giggled as it tickled her toes. This made her jump up and down at the waves, but then the bottoms of her trousers got wet, so she hastily pulled them up her legs. After doing this for some time, Daddy said that they should go on up to the castle before she got too tired, for there was lots to see.
Looking behind her she found a mound of pebbles, where she plonked down to replace her shoes and socks. Daddy quickly dried her feet before she did so. Once her shoes were on she stood up and:- “OH NO!” The damp pebbles had made her bottom wet and she didn’t have any spare clothing with her. Oh well, hopefully they would soon dry as they marched back up the beach.
As they approached the castle entrance, she held Daddy’s hand tight, for it was so big, and there were so many people. They all looked very English like Daddy, although there were some who didn’t, but she wasn’t sure where they may have come from. She and Daddy had had a long journey to get here, but she was so excited to arrive at last and see this castle that a very important king of England had built a long time ago. His name was Henry the 8th. She guessed there had been seven other King Henry’s before him.
First of all they went down into some very long, cold, secret tunnels. She shivered as Daddy helped her to zip up her pink jacket for extra warmth. She was glad that there were lots of lamps to help them see where to go. She didn’t want to get lost down here! They turned a corner and saw a door, with a big sign that said; “World War 2 Wartime Office.” As they went in they could hear lots of funny banging noises that Daddy said were typewriters that they had to use to write letters before computers were invented. They also heard people talking about things in funny voices and then suddenly a screeching alarm sounded and whizzing noises like planes flying above them. It scared her a little, but she kept hold of Daddy’s hand and that was all right. On the walls were lots of pins and drawings of places in the world, where she guessed the planes were flying to. The tables had paper and pens and several black things with numbers at the front and handles on top, that reminded her of an old toy telephone they had found once in a charity shop. The room smelled strange, as if old things had been there for a long time and got a bit damp.
The next room they went in had lots of beds in it, because it had been where people were taken who had been hurt by the bad fighting. There were new sounds of doctors and nurses talking to patients and smells of strange medicines. Next to the beds were grey bowls and buckets, hard, not like their plastic ones at home. The people on the beds didn’t look good, so she tried not to look at them. They weren’t real, like big dolls, but she preferred her own doll. They walked out of the room back into the hallway.
The way out of the tunnels was long and sloping and she wanted to run towards the bright light at the end, but daren’t let go of Daddy’s hand. Eventually they came out squinting, and turned a corner following another sign. She didn’t know what it said, but it led them along a grassy bank to a very, very old building. It was actually so old that there wasn’t much of it left. It was high up on the hill and a bit windy, so maybe the rest had fallen down. She didn’t want to stay long as there wasn’t any indoors to give them shelter. Daddy said that it was the first bit of the castle built by the Normans, even before King Henry 8th. Perhaps that was even before Grandad and Grandma were born, but she wasn’t sure!
They walked on and found another sign, this time pointing to the big doors of the main castle, that were wide open. They joined a line of people waiting to go in and she found it hard to wait. In the meantime she looked to the side and saw a shop with a pretty pink dress hanging in the window. She wondered whether it had once belonged to the princess who had lived in this castle. Eventually they were at the door and Daddy showed the lady their tickets as they walked in. She saw lots of ropes and signs that seemed to be stopping them from going into some places, and letting them into others. There were so many signs around, she wished she could know what they all said, but Daddy could read them.
And then they went into a huge room. The ceiling was so high above her head that she could hardly see it in the distance. The walls were covered with big paintings. She liked painting too and wondered whether any had been done by the king’s children. As they came to the far end of the room they saw a gigantic chair. It wasn’t like the nice blue ones in her kindergarten, but gold. It was pure, thick gold. Above it hung a big red curtain. A boy in front of her sat on it and as he did so she heard a loud, booming voice say something. The boy quickly jumped off and everyone laughed. Maybe the king had told him off for sitting on his throne. Daddy smiled at the boy and started talking to the boys’ father when she decided to try sitting on it herself. She climbed a step and pulled herself up, deciding that this king must have been extremely big. As she made herself comfortable, which wasn’t easy as her trousers were still wet from the beach, she heard the voice again. It said: “Ella, you are a beautiful princess.” That was it. She jumped down, almost tripping on the step and tugged at Daddys’ sleeve, who was still talking to the other man. “Daddy, did you hear what the king said to me just then? He said that I was a beautiful princess. I am aren’t I? Daddy, you heard him didn’t you?” “No I heard nothing, but of course you are darling”, he said. With that he lifted her up into his arms and gave her a kiss. “And what would my princess like to do before we go?” She thought for a moment and said, “well, I would like the princess dress that I saw in the shop window as we were in the line waiting to come into the castle. If the king thinks I am a princess, I need a princess dress don’t I and anyway I do need to change out of these wet trousers”.
At that they went straight out to buy it and once she had changed, they found the perfect little tea room for a princess to enjoy her cream tea with pretty cup cakes and scones with strawberry jam and cream. She couldn’t wait to tell Mummy all about their special day.
Letter A asked letter B
What shall we do today?
Letter B said, I know what-
We’ll have a birthday!
Said letter A, what will we do
To make it nice and fun?
I know, said B, we’ll invite some friends
Beginning from A to C.
Activities, Balloons and Cake
We’ll ask them all to come,
They’ll be lots of games for Letter G
Letter F wants food and fun.
Now letter D was listening in
He wanted to come too
So Dance was duly invited
Despite a lot to do.
And then it was the turn of E
The letter stood up tall
For Ethan was the birthday boy
The most special one of all.
