Stir Up a Christmas Pudding, O Lord!

Yesterday was the first Sunday of Advent and was therefore Stir-Up Sunday.  This is so called because the collect on the Sunday before Advent begins “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded.” 

For those of us more focussed on our tummies, this prayer acts as a reminder to stir up fruit of the dried variety and reward ourselves with a delicious Christmas Pudding.  I always get anyone in the house at the time to take a turn at stirring and make a wish while they do so.  My recipe makes enough pudding to feed a small market town, as it is a variation on my grandmother’s recipe from a time when they made two puddings, one to be eaten this year and one to be kept for next.  I don’t hold with this as a year old pudding strikes me as being fairly pointless and a tradition too far.  If you are determined to do it, simply double the quantities listed below.

If you have nut allergists in the house, leave out the almonds and add an extra ounce of raisins or cherries.

And don’t forget, a home made Christmas Pud. makes a lovely and welcome gift, wrapped in a muslin cloth with an attractive ribbon, so think ahead.  Imagine the delight of receiving a bottle of home made Sloe Gin and a round fat pudding; it stirs me up, to be sure. 

And another thing.  Do remember to put some choking hazards in the pudding before you serve it.  A silver coin or a lovely charm are absolutely necessary in your Christmas Pudding and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Utensils:
1 x very large mixing bowl
1 x chopping board
1 x vegetable peeler
1 x grater
Greaseproof paper
String
Scissors
1 x large pudding bowl suitable for steaming -  if you have a pudding bowl with a pierced lid, you won’t need the greaseproof, scissors or string
1 x large pan for steaming

Ingredients:
¼ lb / 120g self raising flour
¼ lb / 120g wholemeal or granary breadcrumbs
¼ lb / 120g suet
¼ lb / 120g currants
¼ lb / 120g raisins
¼ lb / 120g sultanas
¼ lb / 120g glace cherries – quartered
3oz / 90g dark brown sugar
2oz / 60g flaked almonds
1 apple – peeled cored and finely chopped
1/8 tsp mixed spice
¼  tspn cinnamon
1/8  tspn nutmeg
the juice and grated rind of ½  lemon
2 large eggs (or 3 small to medium)
1 tablespoon black treacle
1/8  pint / 75ml brandy
¼ pint / 150ml bitter beer

Method:
Mix the flour, breadcrumbs and suet together
Add the dried fruit, almonds, apple, cherries and spices and mix well
Add the eggs, treacle, brandy, bitter beer and lemon  and mix thoroughly
Cut a circle of greaseproof paper about 4″ / 9cm larger than the circumference of the pudding bowl
Make a pleat in the middle of the greaseproof paper (to allow for expansion)
Put the mixture into the pudding bowl and flatten the top, leaving at least 1″ / 2.5cm between the mixture and the rim of the bowl
Place the greaseproof paper on top and tie onto the bowl with string
Place the pudding into the large pan and fill with water half way up the pudding bowl
Bring to the boil, turn down the heat, cover and simmer for 8 hours, constantly topping up the water.
When the pudding is cooked and cooled, wrap it in greaseproof paper, then wrap it again in a muslin cloth
Hang it in a cool place in your kitchen until Christmas
When you come to eat it, it can be steamed again for 3 hours or heated in the microwave for about 4 minutes!  The decision is yours.

Sunday Poem 15

During the death-defying act of bringing order to my children’s bookshelves, I came across a copy of ‘When We Were Very Young’ by A.A. Milne (the famous roadside rescue poet).  This particular copy was given to me in 1986 by my, then, boyfriend; the inscription suggests that the gift was an apology for a ‘misunderstanding’.  We are still chums.

It is high time that Mr Milne appeared as the Sunday Poet.   There are many favourites which are possibly a bit too obvious; ‘Disobedience’, ‘Lines and Squares’, ‘Rice Pudding’ are possibly a few, so I went for one I can usually remember bits of.

Jonathan Jo – by A.A. Milne

Jonathan Jo
Has a mouth like an “O”
And a wheelbarrow full of surprises;
If you ask for a bat,
Or something like that,
He has got it, whatever the size is.

If you’re wanting a ball,
It’s no trouble at all;
Why, the more you ask for, the merrier -
Like a hoop and a top,
And a watch that won’t stop,
And some sweets, and an Aberdeen terrier.

Jonathan Jo
Has a mouth like an “O,”
But this is what makes him so funny
If you give him a smile,
Only once in a while,
Then he never expects any money!

Next week a verse from R.A.C. Browning…

The Wartime Housewife Sings Again

This will only be a short message as I am rather tired.

Last week, I trundled along to the Village Hall for a meeting about a new musical which is going to be performed next year and to which I felt I could make a contribution.  Unfortunately the hall was in darkness as the meeting had been postponed and no-one had let on. 

There was, however, a choir practice in the church and when the choirmaster arrived, he cunningly suggested that as I was already dolled up and out, I might as well join in.  He has been trying to get me to join for some time now, so I gave in and pulled up my singing trousers. 

I used to be reasonably good (2000 years ago) and was even considered to be quite promising, had lessons as an outpatient at the Royal College of Music etc but for one reason and another I never carried it on.  This was, then, the first choir practice I had been to since 1983 and I can’t tell you how much fun it was.  We are practicing furiously for a Christmas concert in four weeks time and I don’t know half the songs, but the joy of singing again is beyond words. 

So now, with a piece of toast and a mug of Ovaltine, I am climbing the wooden hill to Bedfordshire a Happy, if slightly Hoarse, Housewife.

Good night!

Michelle Obama – I Salute You!

Michelle Obama making an unforgivably sexist comment

One of the great things about getting older, is that you realise that you don’t have to compromise in the field of relationships.  One has the confidence to say things like “I deserve better than this”, “It is reasonable to expect good manners”, “I am not feeling happy therefore I withdraw”, I am with you because I want you rather than because I need you” and other personally empowering things. 

Last week, Michelle Obama was in the news saying that she thought that young women sometimes chose men for the wrong reasons.  Despite frantic Googling, I have not managed to find the exact quotes, but if memory serves, she said something along the lines of:

• Don’t chose a man for his looks or his money
• Choose a man with intelligence and a desire to succeed
• Look at how he treats his mother

I’m with her all the way on this although I would naturally extend the criteria to women as well.  I would go further:-

• Ask yourself “Do I like who I am when I am with this person?”
• Incredibly good looking people almost always know it
• Do they like your friends?
• Do they introduce you to their friends?
• Choose someone IN their potential, not WITH potential (c.Lady Somerset)
• Does this person treat you with courtesy and good manners?
• Do they make an effort with their appearance when they go out with you?
• Do they fit in with your family?
• (For older people) are they at ease with your children?
• Are they interested in what you do and who you are?
• Are your values and ethics compatible?
• Do they like you for who you are now, not what they want you to be?
• Do you want a project or a relationship?
• Never, EVER mess with someone who doesn’t know what they want.  You will never succeed
• Love is not enough on its own

Relationships are potentially much more complicated as we get older, because there are so many more variables.  When we are 20, everyone is on the prowl, everyone is playing the same game.  When we are out there second or third time round, it is not just us with whom they have be compatible. They have to get on with your children, your family, your long established friends and probably even your ex (or indeed ex-es). 

I have stayed friends with quite a few of my ex’s, because I firmly believe that just because you don’t want to carry on a ‘relationship’ with them, it doesn’t mean you have to lose all the positive aspects of a friendship that has simply changed dynamic.  Also, if you have children, it is really important to demonstrate to them that grown-ups can be civilised and that break-ups don’t necessarily equate to break-downs. Obviously this can’t always happen; it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

I once asked Lady Marjorie to what she attributed the success of her sixty year marriage.  After much thought she came up with this: tolerance, flexibility, starting with nothing and building something together, mutual goals and a sense of humour.  Can’t argue with that.

I am clearly an expert on relationships.  Despite more boyfriends than I care to mention (admittedly over a thirty year period), and a twelve year relationship, at 44 I am a single mother of two children, starting all over again.  However, having rigidly applied my own rules to my recent relationship of ten months, I have just presented my Former Favourite with his P45, and I only spent one day eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the tub.

I remain obnoxiously cheerful.

PS.  If they’re rubbish in bed and refuse to improve, I leave it to your discretion, but make sure they have some seriously compensating qualities.

Confessions of a Wartime Housewife

I like to think that when I am writing articles for my blog  I am among friends; friends in whom I can confide, to whom I can bare my soul.  It is in this spirit that I have decided to make my confession. 

To put today’s disgrace into context, I will first confess to something that happened in 1973.  School was difficult for me for many reasons and, because other parents felt sorry for me, I was frequently required to go and play with girls from school who I did not like, one of whom was Rebecca, who never stopped telling me that her house had formerly belonged to Dicky Valentine (a well known British entertainer in the 60’s and 70’s).  She was bossy, girly and patronising, even at age 8, and we had nothing in common.  

But going to her house had one utterly, heart-stoppingly redeeming aspect.  In her attic, she had a 1950’s Hornby “00″ gauge train set.  As soon as I discovered this, I was happy to go to her house as often as I could; she played with her wretched dolls downstairs or galloped about the house pretending to be a Palomino and I sat alone in the attic, laying out track, inventing villages and station names, timetables, de-railings, running the beautiful GWR locomotives and carriages round and round in total bliss.

Rebecca had absolutely no interest in the railway.  She thought I was weird for wanting to play with it and made sure that she made my life even more miserable at school by telling everyone that not only was I an oddball, but that I was sad and weird and played with boys toys.  I couldn’t have cared less, but one afternoon in the attic I exacted my revenge.   Before I left her house, I picked up the metal level crossing with perfectly hinged gates and slipped it into my schoolbag.  At home, I only had a red plastic train set, so it was no earthly use to me, I just wanted it.  I wanted some part of that beautiful thing to belong to me, to belong to someone who really loved it. 

I saw one just like it at the Harborough Antique Fair recently, and the whole sordid story came flooding back.  I almost certainly still have it, probably in some deep cupboard at the Aged Parent’s house.  I’m ashamed to admit that my only guilt is that the level crossing should have stayed with the set.

My second confession is as different as can be.  I have had a bit of ‘challenging’ weekend, followed by a morning where everything I did went wrong or couldn’t be finished, concluding with my dropping a glass jar full of baking beans from a high cupboard, which sent shards of glass into the main course and pudding I was preparing in advance for dinner, into the toaster, the butter dish, the kettle, the floor and my hands.  It took me two hours to clear it all up and I was forced to go into Harborough to buy more food.  I was tired, cross, hungry and miserable.  I saw something on a shelf that I have not eaten in 20 years, picked it up, took it home and added the 300ml of boiling water required for its preparation.

Ladies and gentlemen.  This lunchtime I ate, without undue influence, a pot of Tiger Tiger Cup Noodles, Thai Spice Satay Style (less than 5% fat!).  Apparently it was exciting and had an authentic Thai taste.  I don’t have the words to describe the glutinous, malodorous, repellent mass which I chose to eat with the foldaway fork included in the pack. 

I am so very, very sorry.  I have let you all down, after all my brave talk of home cooking and locally sourced food.  Most of all I have let myself down.  And I can tell you that my guilt about The Great Train Set Robbery pales into insignificance in comparison.

Sunday Poem 14

Walking Away – by Cecil Day Lewis 1904-72

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day -
A sunny day with the leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled – since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away

Behind a scatter of boys, I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free
Into the wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem,
Has something I never grasp to convey
About nature’s give-and-take – the small, the scorching
Ordeals which fire one’s irresolute clay.

I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still.  Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show -
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved by letting go.

No sign of a Woodcock

I like something hot inside me on a cold winter’s day and Scotch Woodcock is a tasty variation on scrambled egg on toast.  If you haven’t had Gentleman’s Relish before, it is made from anchovies and is therefore quite salty, so go easy with it at first.  I have no idea why it’s called ‘Scotch Woodcock’ any more than I know why a Wartime lentil dish could be construed as ‘Mock Duck’, but that is the joy of British cookery.

I confess now that I make scrambled eggs in the microwave because I cannot bear washing up eggy pans.  You do it just the same as you would in a pan, you just have to keep taking it out and whisking it periodically with a fork to keep it fluffy.  You have to watch it quite carefully to make sure it’s not overdone, but that’s the price one pays for meddling with Satan’s Stove.  I have never had anything but low, spaniel fawning from people over my scrambled egg, so don’t get sniffy about it.

This recipe serves 2.

Utensils:
1 x heavy based saucepan or a microwave safe bowl
1 x whisk

Ingredients:
4 slices of wholemeal or granary toast – buttered
1 small tub of Gentleman’s Relish
4 eggs
1 tblspn milk
1 oz (30g) butter
1 tablspn double cream
A bit of fresh parsley to garnish if you’re feeling posh

Method:
Spread the toast generously with Gentleman’s Relish
Melt the butter with the milk in the saucepan
Add the eggs and whisk well to blend
Cook over a low heat, whisking periodically until the egg is just setting nicely.
Remove from the heat, season with a little back pepper and whisk in the cream
Pile onto the toast, garnish if you’re going to and serve immediately.

My name is The Wartime Housewife and I love Golliwogs

Golly Stuff

I really love Gollys, I always have and I get very indignant and grumpy when I hear people getting all pc about them.  I miss the Robertson’s Golly and the Golly out of the Noddy books and I resolutely and stroppily buy every Golly related item I can lay my hands on.

There was a programme on Radio 2 last year with Jeremy Vine, where the thorny issue of Gollys was discussed and people rang in with their views.  The responses pretty much backed up what I knew from my own friends and suspected about others: 

The Golly from Noddy

Black people don’t think they look like Gollys. 
I bet that’s come as a surprise.
It doesn’t matter how strenuously the white, liberal, middle classes hop up and down and suggest that everyone is deeply offended by them (the Gollys that is) –  I would suggest that it is only they who draw the comparison, not anyone else.

It was in this frame of mind that I embarked on a personal crusade to re-introduce Gollys back into society.  I developed a knitting pattern (inspired by a pattern I found in an Australian magazine) and set the Aged Parent and her Cronie to knitting; they knitted the pattern pieces and I made them up and ‘finished’ them.  

Two well-loved and one brand new red Golly

I decided to put a ’slant’ on the traditional style; we called them ‘Gollywiggles’ in homage to Ms Upton, and we made them in lots of different colours, some with contrasting hair and different clothes – as I write, a Girly Golly and a Ghosty Golly are in production.  I made very smart drawstring bags, and each toy had a limited edition certificate, as no two are the same, and a history of the Golly.  They were very popular, so we’re making some more.

How did Gollys begin?

Florence Upton is generally acknowledged to be the creator of the Golly.  Although born in America, she and her mother, Bertha moved back to England in 1889.  At the age of 22 Florence illustrated her first book which was written by her mother.  It was called “The Adventures of Two Dutch Dolls” which was based on her own childhood toys.  In the story there is a Gollywog, and the original Dutch Dolls and the Gollywog live at Chequers in Buckinghamshire, the country home of the Prime Minister. 

Florence Upton's original Golly

Where does the word ‘Golly’ or ‘Gollywog’ come from?

To name her character, Florence altered the word ‘Pollywog’ which was a dialect word meaning ‘wiggle head’.  This came from ‘pol’ meaning head and wiggle which over many years became waggle, woggle, wog. Gollys are tremendously popular in Australia where the Collins Australian Dictionary defines the word Gollywog as “…a black-faced, goggle-eyed, fantastically dressed doll…” .

So altogether now …

WHAT DO WE WANT?  GOLLYS!

WHEN DO WE WANT THEM?  WHENEVER WE LIKE!

(That should get ‘em going)

A reason why I live in the country

The other lunchtime, I was driving past the village of Ashley and this is what I saw.  I leaned out of my car window and clicked.  Every day I see something wonderful and new in the landscape and this is one of them.

…and Sew On and Sew Forth

This weekend I mis-spent yet another morning in the Sunday Antique Market in Market Harborough.

As I have mentioned before, sometimes one wanders around for hours, inspecting every stall in minute detail, but seeing nothing which whispers in your brain or shouts “Take me, take me” in a vaguely sexual but worryingly schizophrenic way if you attempt to walk away and have a cup of tea and a custard tart.

A Thing of Beauty

On Sunday, I walked through the doors, and the first thing I saw was a Thing of Beauty.  A 1950’s ‘Sew-ette’ children’s sewing machine.

I own three sewing machines already; a turn of the century table mounted treadle, a 1910 flower-enamelled, hand-operated Singer called Daisy (which I used for all my sewing needs until five years ago) and a brand new, Swiss-made, electric Elna machine, which has so many functions, that I can only assume that some of them are surgical.  I carried out three circumcisions before someone pointed out that the extra tool was a button-holer.

I saw it, I haggled, I bought it.  The Sew-ette is a mere 6″ long but is fully operational and can be used manually, via a miniature treadle or, most dangerously, with a simple on-off switch on the base.  I have no idea how it works, as it doesn’t appear to have anywhere to put a bobbin, but I’m sure I’ll work it out.  It is, after all, a children’s toy.  How difficult can it be?

This would never go on sale today, as the plunging needle would no doubt be considered a tiny-finger-mutilating-hazard.  And the upshot of not teaching children to use vital tools and respect the potential hazards of real life is that many grown people are no longer able to mend their clothes, turn up a hem, or run up a pair of curtains.  Or make a button hole.