A wee droppie o’ scotch

This morning I was munching away on a warmed delicious, tenderly crispy butter bun, a half dozen having been purchased from The Courtenay Country Grocer a couple of days ago. Freshly baked when we bought them, and still as soft as though they had come from the oven this a.m. I was deciding whether to coat my next one with strawberry jam or marmalade when I had one of those sudden flashbacks that come during such contemplative moments.
It  was many years ago, at a Saturday morning farmer’s market on Salt Spring Island and I was taking photos of my son Martin and his younger brother Dominic behind a stall, (No not a horse stall! I love my children, they only get oats during the winter months). I often sold my pottery at the market  - set out for viewing and purchasing (hopefully) by the crowds making their weekly pilgrimage to the island for this much lauded event -  but that day I was there with Dom to help Marty raise enough money so he could attend a summer music camp in Courtenay. (It was being held at a school not far from where we now live. Oh my, the vicissitudes of life)!  Anyway, at home there had been a lot of head scratching going on as we pondered on a way for Martin to raise the wherewithal he needed. Finally we focused on a way, the short and sweet of it being that Dad, me, would make lots and lots of pottery jelly jars and together we’d fill them with marmalade; which Dad would also make. Lucky me! The truth is I loved it!  Fussing over a hot stove? Count me in! As a professional potter it wouldn’t take me long to make about 50 small jelly jars, and I had a great recipe for real Scotch Marmalade, I’d made it before, and knew it was a winner. So with a cry of, “Let’s go for it!”, we put our plan into action.
First things first, I had to get into the studio and get the pots out of the way. The quickest part was the actual making of them. First  they would have to be thrown (don’t go there!), then they had to dry before being subjected to the heat of the kiln - the hot sun quickly did its part. All in all it took about 6 days to throw, turn, dry, fire, cool, glaze, design, fire again and then at last the final cooling. Now into the kitchen and the next stage..

 The oranges, previously purchased and waiting, were washed, scrubbed  and hauled over to the chopping block. Each of us fellows, knife in hand, began the juicy cutting up of a chock-a-block full box of oranges. Martin and Dominic were really into it, and together we managed to do three large batches of marmalade in record time, (including the soaking period ), each batch containing a generous portion, yea liberal, of real Scotch Whiskey (the magic ingredient). The sweet hot marmalade was now ready to be ladled into their spanking new jars. When the syrupy jam was about a quarter of an inch from the top of the jars melted paraffin wax was poured in to create a seal. The boy’s mother Janet, my wife, using crimping scissors, had cut from many different pieces of floral patterned cotton more than 5 dozen 6" circles which the boys, when the marmalade was cool, placed over the mouths of the pots, tying them down with brightly coloured string. Everything was now ready. Early on the following Saturday morning boxes filled with the jars of the newly made marmalade were loaded into the car, and off we went.. 

They were so proud, those boys, as they set up their stall, studiously arranging the five dozen or so many patterned jars around the table. Martin set out a poster he had made to announce the product he and his brother were selling.  The poster, suitably mounted and eye catching, stated  prominently the important purpose of the sale. Positioning themselves behind their wares they settled back to wait for buyers.
There was, most appropriately set out, a sample pot of marmalade, a spoon for dipping and spreading, and small portions of torn French bread to spread it on. An invitation to try their product, and it certainly worked.
It didn’t take long before the jelly pots began disappearing from the table, and another jar was sacrificed to

the taste buds of eager buyers. It was clear that the purpose of the sale was the main reason people were attracted to the stall, and the boy's initiative a great selling point, but the ‘magic ingredient’ in the marmalade was the clincher. Every jar sold, some people taking two or three pots. Let’s face it, not only had they purchased the most delicious marmalade they had ever tasted, but also a lovely little pottery jelly jar that would probably hold many other spreads for years to come.A real bargain, too. I think they went for $5 dollars each! But mainly, they had helped a young man fulfill a dream. Anyway it worked. Helped along with a part time job, Martin  managed to get to the camp, and have a few dollars left over to jingle in his pocket.

                                    Martin plays his licorice stick at the Courtenay Music Camp
                                                               +  +  +  +  +  +  +  + +
Here’s the recipe. It’s certainly not difficult, and I have never known  it to  fail, either in the making, or the pleasure of the tasting. If you don't happen to have a wheel and a kiln never mind, there’s always those attractive little glass jelly jars. They also  make great gifts. Oh! And remember, when you open the bottle of Scotch its supposed to go into the marmalade! Do give it a go, lassies (or laddies), ye’ll nae b' sorry!

     SCOTCH ORANGE MARMALADE

6 navel oranges                          1 cup lemon juice
10 cups water                              1 Tbsp. butter
10 cups sugar                              1/2 cup Scotch Whiskey

Shred the oranges, discarding the tough centre fibre. Put them in a pan with the water and soak overnight. The next day cook covered until tender.

Let cool, then stir in the sugar and lemon juice until dissolved. Boil until mixture reaches 220 degrees F. Remove from heat, skim the froth and stir in the butter and whiskey. Pour into jars and seal.

Makes 12 jelly glasses.                                               
                                                  Mary Dzielak-  Calument, Quebec

                                                                   
The Harrowsmith Cookbook, Volumes 1 and 2. The above marmalade recipe is in volume one, along with numerous other wonderful jam and jelly recipes. Not to forget the oodles of other great recipes. My volume one is dog-eared from so many years of use, number two is more recent and much less worn. I f you haven't come across these volumes do give them a look see, you will certainly not be disappointed!

     Chocolate Island -  Salt Spring Island in the background.

in the beginning -

Well, can you imagine - ‘The First American Cookbook’! It may be a facsimile of the original “American Cookery,” 1796, by Amelia Simmons, but it is true facsimile, looking the same as when it came hot of the press so many years ago.

This copy was published by Dover Publications in 1984. I’d like to quote from part of the description of it on the back cover of this edition which states that -

‘This facsimile of the first American-written cookbook published in the United States is not only a first in cookbook literature, but an historic document. It reveals the rich variety of food Colonial Americans enjoyed, their taste, cooking and eating habits, even their colorful, language’.

The style of the writing is a joy to work through, forgetting to read "f"' as "s" occasionally tripped me up.  But the manner of writing itself is charming. The gracious style of relating to the reader in a type of common sophistication that has long gone, and which we find, in this age, amusing. But this is a cookbook, and as such is filled with homely advice, interesting methods of preparing many foods and a keen observation of the seasons and the produce available during those times.
I’m going to quote two recipes, and forgive me if I infringe, but the bravery of the cook and the quantity of ingredients in many recipes, particularly in baking cakes etc., would be highly intimidating to most cooks of today.
                                                                     Diet Bread

     One pound of sugar, 9 eggs, beat for an hour, add to 14 ounces of flour,  spoonful of rose water do.(ditto) cinnamon or coriander, bake quick.

Beat for and hour!?!

and                                                   Soft cakes in little pans

     One and half pounds of sugar, rubbed into two pounds of flour, add one glass of wine, one do. rose water, 18 eggs and a nutmeg.

No further advice or cooking time given

 This delightful and historic cookbook is a must have for anyone truly serious about cooking and the history of cooking – especially in America.

Myself, I love cookery books. I read them like novels. What could be nicer than lying in a hot bath, luxuriating in its comforting warmth as the soothing scent of pine (pick your favorite) wafts over you. All the while sipping a glass of Merlot, or perhaps a Shiraz, as you peruse a thick - possibly newly acquired  - cookbook, chock-a-block with recipes and luscious photographs.
I have a great number of them, as well as  stacks of recipe oriented magazines. Scores of collected recipes, gleaned from here and there, burst the seams of their respective folders. Then there are the stuffed notebooks and weighty ring binders filled with recipes from sites all over the internet which have been gathered over many years. Although I am fully aware that it is a miniscule collection compared to many other recipe aficionados.
A while ago – oh! dear, trying to remember when certain things happened and recall them accurately makes one feel like a suspect in a police interrogation room, time too often lives in the nether world of limbo. Two months ago, two years ago, who knows ago, anyway a long time ago I became a fan of of cooking Blogs. There are the most amazing amount of them out there. Thousands and thousands. Talk about blowing the mind. But! And here we go, some are so far removed from others by their layouts, their descriptive patter or just their friendly, inviting attitude and honest affection for their readers they lead the pack. Or (I prefer what I said in the last sentence, though the following one has merit), maybe it’s simply because their recipes and in your face pictures leave you salivating like any canine who finds a luscious, juicy bone dangled before it.
                                        
Strange are the ways of life. I had just finished writing that last bit when I decided to say a word or two about my favorite food Blog, TasteWithTheEyes and of its founder and chief, Lori Lynn, the whiz behind this really great site. Sooo I stepped into my RSS feed to have a gander (I get it in my Google Reader each day) and lo and behold I find that Blogger Blog had just chosen Taste With The Eyes, as the Blog of Note for today, Thursday, November 26th, 2009!  Kudos, kudos, kudos and double kudos because Lori Lynn is herself a woman of note, certainly to the hundreds of people who regularly follow her blog, and to me especially. And here’s why:-
few months ago I had written to Lori;  it was a request for Julia Child’s Yorkshire pudding – the photo of it looked so great. (Forgive me one and all, it’s true, I do not have Julia’s cookbook on my shelf, mia culpa, I will make amends). I also make this festive dish - a few times each year - and collect all kinds of recipes of same. I have a couple that are really good, (so many variations of so few ingredients), but Lori Lynn’s photo did such great service for above said humble but delicious pud  that I wanted to give it a try. To make a long story short, this lovely, very busy lady took the time to email me the recipe. Her reply to my query was not one of those very short get this over with replies but, though not long, had the sense of the sender having taken time to write it, and answer with thought and care. Lori finished her reply with a request of her own, to let her know how it turned out. Well, I certainly shall. It is on the menu for Christmas dinner and I’m sure it will be scrumptious. A toast to Julia! And a warm thank you to Lori, most generous of bloggers.    

                                                        Fruits of the Seasons!

  

  Just Joey,  the most beautiful of roses and my favorite of favorites.







             

The Music of Life

And so the seasons

Why did summer go so quickly, was it something that I said? etc.,. . . may be an old song but it keeps coming back like a. . . (should I risk it?). . .ahem. . . song. Well, look at it this way; I'm in the 8th decade of my life and suddenly summer, having blazed across the weeks of its allotted season, slipped by me when I was looking the other way, leaving only a few sad, brave roses to remind me she had been. Autumn came along, stepped  over the  doorstep and stood beside me as I looked out from my window, admiring her  handiwork. I wondered again how this new season came into my embrace while my arms still ached to hold, if but for a day, the deserting love of summer past. Oh! the beauty and scents of summer! Oh! the colours and forms of autumn! The seasons! How infinitely lovely, how infinitely lucky we are who live each one in its entirety. Autumn, as we watched together suddenly left me without comment, surprising in her haste. I glanced at the door she passed through, shrugged and looked again towards the sea and saw no longer the glorious colours  of a moment before but mountainous waves, stinging slanted rains blown in mad confusion by the wind. What a devil this Autumn was leaving us to contend with such unwelcome and unfriendly days. Ah! Well, coming soon to a garden near you, stroking his frost woven beard, waiting impatiently around the next corner is Old Man Winter, ready to slam the door on Autumn and eagerly blow upon one and all his fiercely white and terrible winds. Frosting trees and shivering lands with crystals of snow he pokes his icy fingers into every unprotected nook and cranny; laughing as we dream of warming fires and season's cheer shared with friends and family. But at last, his time run out, the Old Man  slips and lags behind, unable to hold back the racing child who leaps and bounds ahead, happily thawing ice and snow with eager sun and warming April rain. Joyous Spring, full of boisterous youth, bursting with the promise of renewal, scatters his cornucopia of wonders over a waking world. Though all the seasons of the year are loved in their fashion, and some hold a place more dear than others, it is Summer, the maiden of light, who wears the crown.

                                                   Summer is a-coming in,                               
                                  Sing a loud "cuckoo!"
                                  The seed grows, the mead blows
                                  The wood springs anew.
                                  Sing, cuckoo!

                                  For her calf lows the cow;
                                  For her lamb bleats the ewe;
                                  The bull rouses, the buck browses,
                                  Merrily sing, cuckoo!

                                  Cuckoo, cuckoo, O, sing you well, cuckoo;
                                  Nor let your song be through:
                                  Sing cuckoo, now, sing cuckoo;
                                  Sing cuckoo, sing cuckoo, now.
                                                             (An ancient English song)

Oh, glorious summer, you've been, you've gone and how dearly we long for your return, but your siblings who bring in the seasons must have their day; and as always, they lay the way for your return.

And now - forgive me but I must  give due where it is due. The above tribute to the Wonder of the Seasons was brought about by the remembrance of a certain  poem by Ezra Pound, an American poet of the early years of the 20th century. I will not go into his varied history but with the freeze of winter coming my memory launched said poem into my tottering mind.

                                                                    Ancient Music
                                                                                  by Ezra Pound
                                         Sing goddamn, damn. Sing goddamn!
                                  Sing goddamn, damn. Sing goddamn!
                                  Winter is i-cumin in,
                                  Lhude sing goddamn!
                                  Raineth drop and staineth slop
                                 A nd how the wind doth ram
                                 Sing goddamn!

                                   Skiddth bus and sloppeth us,
                                An ague hath my ham
                                 Freezeth river, turneth liver,
                                Damn you, sing goddamn.
                                Goddamn, goddamn, tis why I am goddamn,
                                So gainst the winter’s balm.

                               Sing goddamn, sing goddamn, DAMN!