Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

The biggest test of any woman’s cookery skills (as well as her patience and tolerance for alcohol) is luncheon for a group of her own sex.
The best advice, honestly, is to never allow oneself to be inveighed into hosting what can only be accurately described as a bitchfest.
Should you be foolish enough I have a few words of consolation.
However badly the occasion falls out there will always be worse in living memory – with the proviso that you remember the three golden rules.
Never serve chicken (by some intervention of Beelzebub it will always be raw in the middle)
Never run out of booze
Never allow your husband/offspring/brothers within shouting distance (they will find it terribly funny to cause mayhem and leave you apologise for them)
So, ladies, to our muttons. Now might indeed be a good time to break out your finishing school cookery. Or it might not. Perfect salmon en croute may be the normal order of the day for you, but with fifteen arch-critics at the door, failure is guaranteed. Burned pastry with raw fish inside is the best you can expect. Do. Not. Attempt. Anything complicated. If you must show off your culinary talents I strongly suggest a casserole which can be perfected the day before and merely heated on the day.
But. Having, unbeknownst to me, been made a member of a group of ‘ladies who lunch’ (I believe my unlamented mother-in-law to have been responsible) I have developed a coping mechanism which I am prepared to share here.
The food.
Tapas. Consisting of whatever you can find at your nearest German supermarket (not Waitrose, or Samantha, Lucinda et al will even be au fait with the price). Shove your purchases onto the best Coalport serving platters and smile your best humbly self-satisfied smile.
The booze.
Unlimited amounts of sangria and/or Agua de Valencia. Shakes head at puzzled young women. These drinks are both ironic and carefully lethal.
Mix as follows.

Sangria

2 litres red wine
1 litre Fundador or similar sherry-based brandy
2 tablespoons muscovado sugar
2 large oranges sliced
1 large lemon sliced
2 punnets strawberries
1 cinnamon stick
2 star anise
1 litre lemonade
Mix all ingredients except lemonade in large jugs at least three hours prior to luncheon. Add lemonade at the last minute.

Agua de Valencia

2 litres orange juice
4 sliced oranges (blood oranges for preference)
1 bottle cheap gin
1 bottle cheap vodka
4 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 bottles cava
Mix all ingredients except cava beforehand. Add cava just before the wenches descend

And there you have it. A no-fail luncheon for your natural enemies.

Just one last thing. Make no attempt to hide the supermarket packaging the food came in. If you do, your husband’s ex-girlfriend will seek it out and parade it about the room. Which bitchery there is no point to if you leave the packets in a neat pile on the kitchen worktop. Benefit two of this strategy is that when a mildly intoxicated young woman demands to know if the king prawns were prepared to Mary Berry’s recipe or Nigella’s you can recommend her to go and read the packet.

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Profundity

1. (noun – pronunciation note: pro-fun-ditty) A song much in favour of, and used to advocate the enjoyment of, ill-advised jollity.
   Example: The whole pub broke into a profundity.
2. (noun – pronunciation note: prof-fund-itty) An extremely small academic research grant.
   Example: Professor Smith visited a food bank as she was unable to live on her profundity.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

Above,
On wings,
A flight achieved

Beyond
The reach
Of human scope,

Clouded
Skies embrace
The solitary spirit.

Dreams
That lift
The humbled mind

Endure,
And ride
The silent wind

Forever,
Through clouds
Imbued with gentle grey.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider what to do when your pony is unwell…

***** ***** *****

Ends of wool in multicolours
Memories of projects made
Shades and tones recall the hours
And the games our fingers played
Gathered in a box together
From a child, a girl, a wife
Wind and rain and summer weather
Scraps of wool reflect a life

©️jane jago

Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…

The train huffed and puffed across the quiet countryside and Piglock sat huddled in one corner of the carriage. He was obviously deep in thought, and Bearson managed to ignore his rumbling stomach while hoping Homes would remember Mrs Miggs’ pies before they went cold. Fortunately for Bearson’s  temper, Homes lifted his face from contemplation and thrust a trotter into the bag and passed out an oozing pie.

Bearson sunk in his teeth into the pastry and groaned silently as the gravy ran down his chins. By the time he had finished his pie, Homes was halfway through his. The great detective belched discreetly and threw the second half of his pie to Bearson. 

The rattle and groan of the express train lulled Bearson to sleep, while Piglock Homes pondered the problem they were speeding towards.

The great train groaned and shrieked its way into the station concourse at Brizzle. Homes leaned out of the window and studied the press of humanity on the platform.

“I say, old chap,” he ejaculated. “If it isn’t our old friend Yore.”

The inspector was pushing his way through the crowd towards the train, but the guard was already slamming the doors closed.

Homes poked the top half of his body out of the window.

“Guard,” he shouted. “Hold the train. There’s a guinea in it for you if my friend there catches the train.”

The guard slowed his progress along the train while Yore increased his efforts to reach the express before it slid out of the station. Homes threw the carriage door open and, as Bearson dragged the inspector aboard, flicked a coin into the guard’s horny palm.

Yore just about collapsed onto the faded plush of the seat. He was obviously exhausted, his limbs were shaking and his face was grey and drawn. Although, to be brutally honest, Yore’s face was always grey. He appeared to be struggling for breath and Bearson hurried to feel his pulse.

Homes looked concerned, but Bearson smiled. 

“He’s fine. Just over exerted.”

Bearson reached into his pocket and brought out his hip flask. He put it to Yore’s lips. The inspector drank deeply.

“Ye gods Bearson, what is that?”

“It’s creme de menthe and Irn Bru.”

“It’s vile. But I’ll have another belt if it’s all the same to you.” He drunk again. “I’ve been waiting for you. Homes. But I’m afraid we’re too late…”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

Yes. I know. Unlikely. However, sometimes one needs to make the effort. Men can be very simple beings, treat them kindly and they will do what you require. Hence…

To succeed you really do need to move your mind away from salmon en croute with baby vegetables. And why is this, so I hear you cry? Remove your nose from whatever luridly illustrated cookery book you are currently espousing and consider the creature to whom you are wed.
If, like the Hon. Rodney and most of his chums, your husband is the product of nanny, minor public school, and the armed forces, he has much less refined appetites than he would like to admit to. Chateauneuf-du-Pape is wasted on him: give him own-label red from one of the German supermarkets in a big glass, or a pint of old stumpblaster, and he’s a happy man. Similarly with food. Do not waste your time and effort on some delicate, complicated, small thing on a pretty plate. He. Will. Not. Appreciate. It.
No. The way to his heart is beef stew. With dumplings. Followed by jam roly-poly.
Now you’re stumped aren’t you? Your cordon bleu classes didn’t prepare you for that one.
Very well. In the spirit of female solidarity. I shall divulge.
The stew.
In a very large saucepan place the following. Diced beef (skirt for preference, or rump). Chopped onion. Diced carrot. Three or four potatoes cut small these will cook down and thicken the gravy. Cover with stock (cube stuff is perfectly fine). Do not be tempted to add herbs, spices or seasoning. This thing needs to be bland. Place on the range and bring to a simmer. Cook very gently for at least two hours. After which add more potatoes, peeled and chunked. Add more stock to cover potatoes. Cook gently for as long as it takes to cook potatoes until they are good and soggy.
In the meantime prepare dumplings and roly-poly.
You need 2lb self-raising flour, 1lb shredded suet (from a box, do not be bothering to shred your own). Add two beaten eggs and enough water to make a softish dough. Halve the dough.
Make half into balls about testicle size.
Roll the other half into a rectangle about a nine by six inches. It should be quite thick. Spread thinly with strawberry jam and roll up. Liberally butter a bit of tin foil large enough to enclose and seal your jam roll. Dump the roll on the foil and seal carefully.
When the potatoes in the stew are satisfactorily soggy, bring the pot up to a gentle boil and lob in your dumplings. Lid on and they will be done in about half an hour.
And now to boil the roly-poly. Here is where grandmother’s fish kettle comes in very handy shove about three inches of water in that blasted thing and when it comes to a rolling boil throw in the foil-wrapped delicacy. Do not let the water come off the boil and don’t let it boil dry. Otherwise it can be safely left to its own devices.
Call your spouse to the table and dish him up a large bowl of stew. Once he is outside that carefully get the roly-poly out of the boiling water and unroll it from its foil coffin. Serve a thick slice accompanied by a jug of custard. From a can if you like, although the most brownie points can be accumulated by making very thick custard (no, not the eggy sort, the yellow cornflour sort) and allowing a skin to form.

Normally one would offer an alternative menu, but in this case there is none. All that remains to be done at this point is to either confess to the dent in the Range Rover, or mention the bracelet you have seen in a certain jewellery emporium.
Either way I have provided you with the tools to ensure your ‘lord and master’ is but putty in your hands.

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Metronome

1. (noun, pronunciation note: metro-nome) Garden ornament travelling on the Paris underground railway, usually sending ‘witty’ postal communications from famous landmarks as it travels. Notable for exquisite timing.
   Example: The metronome arrived just in time for Roger’s big bash.

2. (noun, pronunciation note: met-rown-home)
A type of dating app for those seeking to gondola-share in Venice.
Example. Luigi relied on a metronome to manage his love life around his career.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.