Hunt the recipe

As I might have mentioned I collect cook books –avidly. Currently I have about a 140 (if I count the ones about wine as well, which I do). It’s ironic because I once swore I would make do with Delia Smith’s complete cookery course and that would be enough to see me through. This example of youthful silliness was my attempt at rebellion, my mother has a far more impressive recipe collection and I foolishly thought I could deny what is clearly a genetic imperative...

I held out pretty well until a vegetarian boyfriend coincided with a job in a bookshop, searching for things to cook escalated into searching for cookbooks. The vegetarian is long gone, but the books remain and multiply, hopefully to give helpful council in situations like the one I find myself in today.

A mini clan gathering is in the offing I have offered to cook, and mum has offered some gift wrapped Partridges she’s just been presented with. Neither of us has cooked them before, but it seems a shame to look a gift bird in the beak and somewhere amongst the cookbooks lays the answer. With uncharacteristic restraint I’m only consulting three of them; otherwise I’m most likely to end up balancing a stack of books over a foot high and run out of time to actually cook in.

I love to cook, and generally the results are positive, but I am reliant on good clear instruction to achieve anything above the (very) ordinary. The more I learn about food the more I realise how much the little tips and tricks matter, and frankly I don’t trust people who don’t follow recipe’s – fine once you’ve mastered something. Time then to tinker to your hearts content, but I lack the natural genius which makes the throw it together and hope for the best approach work. I also lack the training to make books by professional chefs anything other than intimidating, but I do live in a city blessed with an excellent daily market which means a great range of cheap ingredients.

This naturally means a need for more cookbooks, which seems to be as seasonal as the produce I buy. From now until February is open season on game books. I found quinces for sale this morning which has given me the opportunity to use Prue Coats ‘The Poacher’s Cookbook’ (bagged late last season) I’m going to try braised partridge with quince and honey which looks reasonably uncomplicated and sounds good. I’m feeling pretty pleased that the obvious recipe turned up in this newish book, a little vindication never goes amiss, and it’s such an appealing book. No colour illustrations, but instead really nice woodcuts of bits of wildlife, nature and country pursuits. Each chapter deals with a separate beast and finishes with a suggested pudding or liquor generally based on hedgerow foraging. All sound good, but for me the most appealing thing about game and country cooking is the sense of tradition it brings. Most of the recipes in here sound like they’ve been handed down for generations and I like my food to have roots.

Rafael Sabatini and the House of Stratus

I discovered House of Stratus publishers about seven years ago, attracted by the really poor cover design I picked up a Dornford Yates, found the back blurb intriguing and became hooked. After that I kept an eye out for House of Stratus who kindly pointed me in the direction of Edger Wallace, and from there to a whole host of other classic crime writers.

When I’m browsing in larger bookshops it’s my habit to look for publishers rather than authors, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a slightly lazy approach, but it seems to work in terms of turning up interesting bits and bobs and so it was with Sabatini. The covers were as unappealing as anything else from Stratus, but apparently that’s no way to judge a book. I have a soft spot for swash buckling adventures and for a long time was reliant on Georgette Heyer to provide them in easily digestible form for me. For some reason I find it hard to turn up books from this particular genre (any suggestions will be gratefully received) so the how could I resist this introduction:

“Italian-born Rafael Sabatini ranks among the likes of Robert Louis Stevenson and Alexandre Dumas for his tales of high adventure, swashbuckling antics and valiant heroes. He is perhaps best loved for his books, ‘Scaramouche’, ’Captain Blood’ and ‘The Sea Hawk’...”

Could it be possible to imagine better Sunday afternoon reading? Well I thought not anyway and can promise I wasn’t disappointed. House of Stratus is an odd concern, I’m never quite sure if they’re still in business or not, (although it looks like they are at the moment). I notice that a lot of their list seems to have been appropriated by other publishers; lush facsimile copies of Edger Wallace now abound, and Vintage seems to have taken over Sabatini. If Stratus has gone I’m sorry for it, they had a delightful quirky list equal parts nostalgia, classic and pulp which provided me with many hours reading pleasure.

Sabatini was writing from the 1890’s to the 1940’s and his attitudes reflect his times. I find it hard to read modern historical fiction after contemporary classics, current re-creations generally feel a little off to me, because of this I tend to avoid them, but old historic fiction is another matter altogether – Heyer, Orczy, Sabatini – all delight me. I think it has to be because their books are old enough now to bridge the gap between the present and the past they attempt to conjure.

I read Richardson’s ‘Pamela’ once, it’s a terrific story but I found it very heavy going and so I find it with a lot of 18th century fiction, however hard I try with it. 19th century writing on the other hand is far more accessible to me, 20 pages or so seems to be all it takes to get in the right frame of mind and find an ear for the dialogue. The details of Sabatini’s 17th century may not bear close scrutiny but the combination of pace, old fashioned manners and even old fashioned prejudice make it easy enough to suspend disbelief and enjoy a cracking good yarn.

THE TORTOISE AND THE HARE

I dithered a bit about writing on this because I know it’s a book that’s been widely discussed recently. On the other hand I’ve found myself thinking about it a lot since I finished it, not least because I felt it had some of the same disturbing qualities as Elizabeth Von Arnim’s ‘Vera’ which remains one of the most disquieting novels I have ever read. ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’ has been on my shelf for years in a semi read state, but the combined forces of Cornflower and Book Snob made finally made me pay it proper attention.

I found the breadth of opinion on this book taking me by surprise. It shouldn’t have. I must have acquired it in my early twenties, but it makes much more sense to me now. In brief this is an examination of the breakdown of a marriage explored from the point of view of an increasingly wronged wife. Imogen Gresham is fifteen years younger than her husband Evelyn. It’s explained that she was initially attracted to his personality, good looks, and passion for herself; he has demanded sympathy, usefulness and complete devotion.

After 12 years of marriage to a successful and above all forceful man, especially one so much older it’s hardly surprising that Imogen’s sense of self has become so wrapped up in pleasing her husband. It’s easy to read her behaviour as passive, but I don’t feel that it’s a fair assessment, or what Jenkins meant us to see. Evelyn Gresham is almost monstrous, entirely selfish and self absorbed in the importance of himself and his career. Having presumably chosen his bride for her ornamental and pliant qualities it seems hardly fair that he should later object to her lack of force, but this would be excusable if it wasn’t for the way he consistently undermines her.

Early on there is a reference which suggests married relations are not as satisfying for Imogen as they could be, something that Evelyn clearly resents far more then she. Later it becomes one of the most mortifying aspects of his defection – what could be more devastating to a wife’s self esteem then the realisation that her rival’s response is more flattering then her own.

Blanche Silcox at first seems such an unlikely rival, middle aged, physically unattractive, dogmatic in her opinions, solid in every way. It confuses me a little that she is constantly referred to as kind, thoughtful certainly, but as her consideration is mostly directed towards getting what she wants, kindness seems an odd description for it. Her attractions are based on her wealth, self assurance, and a lack of femininity; she is a jolly good sort. Imogen doesn’t blame her for annexing Evelyn, so neither will I; however questionable her behaviour it pales into insignificance compared to his. The insistence that wife and mistress should exist on terms of friendship, the amount of access Blanche is given to Imogen’s son and household affairs is outrageous, and yet so blatantly done it is hard for her to protest.

This is where the similarity with ‘Vera’ is most apparent. Evelyn refuses to acknowledge any fault in his actions, as the weaker personality Imogen is forced to conclude the fault lies with her, but because it doesn’t she can’t possibly fix the problem. I think towards the end there are hints that Blanche and Evelyn’s relationship will prove disappointing to both parties. Imogen’s almost unconscious revenge is to leave them with joint responsibility for sorting out her future; Evelyn has already started to impose his will on Blanche, who will clearly turn out to be his match. I think it unlikely they will be happy.

Trying to Spend

  Tagging along with a teaching friend who was ostensibly looking for stationary a good chunk of Sunday afternoon was spent in our local branch of B*****s. After fortifying cups of coffee and associated gossip I hit the shelves in search of something excitingly shiny and new. A job interview on Saturday has made me optimistic about future budgeting, regardless of outcome the occasion seemed worth celebrating and I thought a book would be nice...

  Specifically I was looking for Barbara Pym’s ‘Some Tame Gazelle’, Muriel Spark’s ‘The Comforters’ or Frank Baker’s ‘Miss Hargreaves’, indeed almost any of the Bloomsbury Group range would have done. All new books, none present. Then I looked for ‘Tarka the Otter’, recently reissued by penguin modern classics, avoided in the past because I assumed the otter died, but apparently the ending is ambiguous enough to be hopeful - so it’s on my list, but was not in stock.

  Whilst nobody was looking I browsed along paranormal romance trying to remember when this became a genre that deserved its own section. I found myself in front of a book rejoicing in the title ‘Mr Darcy, Vampyre’ and decided I was very much in the wrong place. In the end I bought nothing, the whole experience was deeply disconcerting – if a major retailer fails to take the money I want to spend its doing something badly wrong.

  Fortunately I have plenty to read at home, I spent the evening very happily with ‘The Talisman Ring’ (for the umpteenth time) but I find it very hard to understand why nothing I wanted was available. Generally when I come away from a bookshop empty handed it’s because I want something very specific and possibly obscure, or have no clear idea of what I’m after, but not when I have a longish list of recently published titles from major houses.

  This experience illustrates everything that seems wrong to me about bookselling today. Mountains of unsold, heavily discounted Dan Brown and Jamie Oliver demonstrate just how much faith is placed in a few big names to turn a profit, but can they do it? It’s impossible to avoid either author at the moment; they’re in every supermarket never mind bookshop and cheap with it. By Thursday when the Christmas books come out finding a tempting paperback beyond the massed legions of celebrity biography will become even more of a challenge, but why?

  Of course if the customer wants these titles, and sometimes they do, they should be stocked, but surely not to the exclusion of so many other things. Deep discounting isn’t helping profit margin, and lack of choice is driving people like me who would rather support the high street to Amazon. Price is a factor but so is choice, I miss the days when I could walk around almost any bookshop and find something that excited me, now I only rarely find that level of variety and imagination, generally in independent and second hand stores. The frustrating thing is that the books I want to read are being published, and I know I’m not alone in my enthusiasm, so why are we being ignored by so many retailers?

  I am a River Cottage convert, somewhere in the dim and distant past I vaguely remember sneering dismissively at Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, but those times are gone. I think it’s the get your hands dirty approach which won me over in the end - I really don’t want to own a pig, much less kill one, but should the situation arise and I prove equal to it, I think it would be only right to take the nose to tail attitude of waste not want not. I truly do enjoy making my own bread and preserves (although the mincemeat’s looking a bit disappointing at the moment) partly because people who don’t are fooled into thinking I’m doing something impressive, mostly because it’s deeply satisfying at some very basic level to produce this stuff.

  I discovered The River Cottage handbooks when I was given ‘Preserves’, and absolutely loved the Bread Book when it came out, so much so that I took it on holiday with me – but that’s another story. After that it was a foregone conclusion that I should have the full set, and at last I do after picking up a pristine second hand copy of handbook No1 - ‘Mushrooms’ by John Wright.

  Now is definitely the time to admit that I’m not that keen on mushrooms, I like the ordinary available in every supermarket safe kind, but can happily avoid the more exotic adventurous possibly killer variety. They are the wild food I am least likely to forage for, in truth if I can’t say with confidence that it’s a field mushroom I wouldn’t touch it, and all of this is why ‘Mushrooms’ was the last book to join my collection. Indeed if I hadn’t seen it second hand I still wouldn’t have it which would have been a huge loss because it’s a wonderful book.

  Even ignoring the excellent recipes at the back, the useful advice on fungi hunting and the law, or the useful guides to different methods of identification, and perhaps overlooking the excellent colour photos with guides to habitat, season, and distinguishing features this would be a wonderful book. It’s certainly a useful size and weight to slip into a jacket pocket, and seems to have all the necessary information to make it an excellent field guide, I am actually almost tempted to try mushroom hunting now, but the best thing, the very best thing about this book is the text.

  I was absolutely entranced by John Wright’s style and humour, so much so that this has become bedside reading. The tone is slightly deadpan, but not distractingly so. It’s fair to say there are bits which are intentionally humorous, but underlying that is a deep respect for how dangerous inedible mushrooms can be - In the section on poisonous fungi there are dire warnings about what will happen if you eat one, and exactly why it works on your system the way it does. I’m inclined to like any book which encourages me to look more closely at what’s growing around me, it’s a definite bonus that it could conceivably be a life saver.

Georgette Heyer

When I was eleven I was lucky enough to get a really excellent English teacher, she managed to make her subject come alive for me in a way that none of her successors ever did, and she introduced me to Georgette Heyer, for all of which I am very grateful.

Heyer became and has remained my favourite author, her books have been there to escape into whenever I’ve felt in need of a lift, and have never yet let me down. A quick check suggests I own about forty nine titles all but one of which I bought in my early teens. That one is ‘The Unfinished Clue’ which doesn’t seem to have been in print back then. I stumbled across it about a year ago in the new arrow editions and couldn’t quite believe I had found something unread from such a favourite writer, but so it was.

‘The Unfinished Clue’ turned out to be a nice cosy sort of murder mystery with the typical country house setting and Heyer cast of characters, it was thoroughly satisfying, and I loved every moment of it, but it’s not her very best work. A little bit of research revealed that there are a handful of titles that Heyer had repressed in her lifetime, either because she felt they were too personal or not up to scratch. I wondered if ‘The Unfinished Clue’ was originally one of these, I see that she intended to repress another crime novel ‘Footsteps in the Dark’ which is arguably a better book.

Heyer’s first manuscript was written when she was 19, and since it was published in 1921 I don’t think she’s ever been entirely out of print. Still writing up to her death in 1974, she must have produced on average a book a year. Her earnings supported herself, her husband and her younger siblings so there would have been tremendous pressure to keep on publishing, despite this all her research is meticulous; people, places, things, events, slang, costume, it’s all spot on. The level of detail was criticised at the time, but I think it’s what makes the books live and breathe now.

A search on Amazon disclosed that all the repressed titles I found mentioned are available, expensive but not really outrageously so, and with fairly positive reviews. I am curious to read them, extremely so, but at the same time slightly uncomfortable about it. Having considered the books and by extension the author to be friends for such a long time I can’t help but feel like I should respect her wishes and leave well alone, even more so as I learn how private a person she was. Yet on the other hand she initially chose to publish these books, so at what point does an author get to choose their legacy? Can they choose to delete parts of their own canon? I think the answer is probably not, but for now I’m going to respect Heyer’s wishes, after all she’s done for me it seems the least I can do in return.

A nice cup of tea and a sit down

Afternoon Tea Parties by Susannah Blake

  ‘Afternoon tea parties’ was the result of a holiday in the Scottish Borders; we had the use of an Aga and something that could fairly be described as a drawing room coupled with the sort of weather that encourages you to stay indoors. I found the book in a foray into Melrose, we had spent the morning at Abbotsford and where very much in the right mood for tea, so it felt like serendipity and had to be bought.

  My partner in tea is very much of the opinion that it’s an excellent institution sadly neglected in the modern age. I don’t quite share his evangelical passion for the scone, but on the whole agree with him. I definitely think tea has become an under used social occasion, my first thought on reading this book was how much more fun it would be to cook for a tea party then lunch or dinner, cake is a very acceptable left over and there’s such a lot of room for creativity.

  My passion for cookbooks was born from the realisation that I was falling into the trap of using the same key flavours in everything with the end result that regardless of the key ingredient it all tasted similar. It’s the same with menu planning – all too easy to fall back on old favourites, and that’s the pleasure of a book like this. Susannah Blake has outlined twenty different themed teas, mostly following the formula of three sweets and a savoury, with a different tea blend used each time. I don’t think there’s much that I couldn’t find amongst the many other cookbooks I share my kitchen with, but none of those other books have the same clarity of purpose.

  I have it on good authority that both the Russian and French teas are authentic. Suggestions for a Champagne tea, or a winter wonderland spread in frosty white and silver, or a floral garden tea (with subtle use of rosemary, lavender and rose flavours) enchant me. The gentleman’s tea that we made was perfect for the occasion (fortunately it included scones, but we would have had them anyway).

  It’s also a very pretty book, beautifully styled, which thoughtfully includes a directory of places to hunt for china and linen depending on how seriously you want to take the cause, I have long coveted a nice tea set and one of those tiered plate affairs and am hoping yet again that this will be the Christmas, but even if it isn’t afternoon tea is becoming a fixture.

Valley of the Dolls

I first picked up 'Valley of the Dolls' in a bookshop when I was about 6 attracted by the cover, and was promptly told to put it down. Checking when it was written this morning I realise it had already been around for 15 years by that time. Since then it’s a book I’ve been vaguely aware of, and associated with all things trashy. I don’t think I was alone in being slightly surprised that Virago had chosen to reprint it, but I notice it has run into several editions for them.

Having moved through dismissive I picked it up several times without buying before Virago published it again as one of their anniversary hardbacks after which I was firmly intrigued so when I found a second hand copy it had to be. When I mentioned it in my reading group reaction was almost universally negative, and this intrigued me more. What is it that makes a classic?

I enjoyed ‘Valley of the Dolls’, despite the quality of the writing, plotting, and characterisation, and also perhaps because of those same deficiencies – it was such an easy read, and okay, more than a little bit trashy, but that only made it more irresistible. The sex seems tame by 2009 standards which is a definite bonus when I consider what’s alluded to and then glossed over, and in some ways the drug taking seems tame too when held up against contemporary tabloid excess, but at the same time the whole thing seems very current. I feel like I should be saying it’s second rate, and yet somehow I can’t.

The hook for me is that it feels true. The relationships between the women, attitudes towards sex, physical attraction, fame, youth, the price of success, marriage treated as a financial safety net, I recognise all of it. All the disappointments, compromises, pain and desperation in these women’s lives is depressingly familiar, in our celebrity obsessed society this book reads as entirely relevant. I suppose the details might feel more commonplace after 40 odd years but the implicit criticisms of how women are treated, and treat each other have remained desperately powerful.

I read this book about the same time as ‘The Women’s Room’ and ‘Peyton Place’. Of the three of them it’s probably going to be ‘Valley of the Dolls’ which sticks with me, the one that notwithstanding its faults felt like it had most to say about how we live now. I do wonder how it will read in 40 years time; if it will still have a claim to being a classic? I think it might, which goes to show how hard it is to pick what will last and what won’t. I don’t imagine that back in 1966 it seemed likely that it would last in the way it has, the blockbusters that followed from the likes of Danielle Steel or Jackie Collins certainly show no sign of having the same longevity.

Under Employed

  Over the past year I’ve had altogether more time on my hand than I’m used to, the end result is that I’ve also had a lot less money then I’m used to. Not having money has been something of a mixed blessing (fortunately not a total disaster as yet) clearly there are a lot of things impossible without it, but mid recession my situation is not unusual. There are social obligations that I can say no to with a clear conscience which is a tremendous luxury, and time to read in a way I’ve missed since responsibility for bills took over my life. Definitely not all bad.

  Before this happened I liked second hand book shopping, but I was more inclined to buy new, pristine paperbacks straight off the shelf in Waterstone’s or Borders and order exciting packages of half a dozen volumes at a time from Amazon. New books are currently pretty much outside of my budget though, which has meant something of a readjustment in buying habits. Yes I miss being able to buy all the exciting new things amazon are so helpful as to bring to my attention - but they’ll keep. In the meantime a whole new world of second hand wonder has opened up.

  Despite an upwards trend even in charity shop pricing a book compares well with a weekend paper, and very well with a chain shop coffee, so should there be a spare fiver at the end of the week it’s a bit of a foregone conclusion where it will end up. I find it slightly ironic that despite being poorer than I’ve been since leaving university, I’m acquiring more books than ever. Ironic but deeply satisfying.

  Beyond the price second hand book shopping has other attractions; namely the fast vanishing pleasure of browsing with the real possibility of turning up treasure. I can’t say that it’s really extended my reading horizons, but my collection of Virago’s has expanded significantly, I’ve turned up a variety of books by authors I love long out of print, and It’s let me chase recommendations from likeminded readers that I might once have thought twice about.

  I think it’s also made me a much more discerning buyer, a totally inflexible budget means no room for mistakes, experiments and speculation certainly, but not outright mistakes. So I’ll take a chance on ‘Lady into Fox’ despite mixed reports, or 6 different E. H. Youngs confident that I can put my trust in Virago, but will pass up dozens of other titles that only half tempt. If I come out of this experience with nothing else I will at least have a larger, better chosen collection of books – the beginnings of a library with a coherent theme to it - and know that I’m much better read on those themes, in short the time will not have been wasted, and that’s very comforting some days.

Loving Without Tears

  This is the Molly Keane book I was so obsessed about not having on the shelf. A nice well cared for copy arrived from amazon late last week, and I spent yesterday reading it. The first thing that I thought of was Verity’s post in The B Files because the book has a neat little address sticker in the front complete with a rather old looking phone number. Clearly this book started off as a keeper, well read, well treated, returnable if lost and tagged against unauthorised borrowing, so what train of events led it to me I wonder?

  Having read the introduction - by Russell Harty (which seems slightly incongruous somehow) the book sounded desperately unfamiliar. When I started reading the book proper it placed my rereading/book hoarding dilemma in a new light. I discovered and read Molly Keane in my very early 20’s and the best part of 15 years have passed since she first came my way, the only thing from this book that had stuck with me was one very specific description of a window, but it was enough to make me sure I had read it before. That said it might as well have been an entirely new book to me, I realise it’s certainly a different person reading and judging it. Doubts about taking the time to reread have been significantly diminished.

  A sense of familiarity was compounded by similarities with Noel Cowards ‘Easy Virtue’, I only know the play from last years film, but the plot of Loving without tears is roughly the same. Most of the action is crammed into a single day, the final few chapters play out in an hour or two on a quayside 3 weeks later, the whole thing reads like a play complete with stage instructions, the dialogue is very slangy and dramatic, with an embarrassment of snappy one liners. Spoken it would work as a drawing room farce, written it strikes a false note.

  Molly had a successful career in the 1950’s as a playwright, so I’m guessing that this 1951 novel is probably an adaptation of something originally done for the stage. I can’t say that I feel it’s her greatest work; it lacks the corrosively acidic element that makes her best comedies so black, or the pitiless insight that make many of her novels so compelling, but on the other hand a definitely happy ending is no bad thing. Angel, the villain of the piece is a wonderful portrait of selfish motherhood, and a lot of the one liners are very funny. There is a sense of Elizabethan romp about plot and subplot, Angel herself is a sort of virgin queen, Finn her half tamed butler definitely has a puckish quality, neither can be trusted an inch - even the house of Owlbeg seems an unlikely place, a sort of fairy tale castle perched on a cliff and wreathed in enchantments.

  All in all a fun read which has made me want to re-explore Keane, and now I’m more than happy to spend the time on it, unread Trollope be damned.