Pam the Jam's Piccalilli

 

I used to get Haywards Piccalilli but find it really difficult to get anymore - tastes change. I now make this a few times a year and it is superb. It is a complete faff to make and it won't be ready for more than a month. But I love it and I will be the God of sandwiches.

There are lots of recipes out there but I like the one from Pam the Jam in River Cottage. Remember to cut the vegetables into tiny pieces - about the size of a baby finger nail.



Inredients

1kg washed, peeled vegetables –  cauliflower; green beans; cucumbers; carrots; small silver-skinned onions or shallots; peppers. You can substitute if you like. BTW - I scoop the watery 'core' out of the centre of the cucumber as it gets a bit mushy.

50g fine salt

30g cornflour

10g ground turmeric

10g English mustard powder

15g yellow mustard seeds

1 tsp crushed cumin seeds

1 tsp crushed coriander seeds

600ml cider vinegar

150g granulated sugar

50g honey

Place chopped vegetables in a large bowl and sprinkle with the salt. Mix well, cover the bowl with a tea towel and leave in a cool place for 24 hours, then rinse the veg with ice-cold water and drain thoroughly.

Blend the cornflour, turmeric, mustard powder, mustard seeds, cumin and coriander to a smooth paste with a little of the vinegar. Put the rest of the vinegar into a saucepan with the sugar and honey and bring to the boil.

Pour a little of the hot vinegar over the blended spice paste, stir well and return to the pan. Bring gently to the boil. Boil for 3–4 minutes to allow the spices to release their flavours into the thickening sauce.

Remove the pan from the heat and carefully fold the well-drained vegetables into the hot, spicy sauce. Pack the pickle into warm, sterilised jars and seal immediately with vinegar-proof lids. Leave (if you can) for 4–6 weeks before opening. Use within a year.

Oranges make a landscape look more beautiful.

Each day I would walk North along the old Roman roadways, the stone, humpbacked bridges, and forest paths that have brought pilgrims from Porto for thousands of years. Limestone flags have been worn down by legions of feet before me. The road has changed little. Through the vineyards and eucalyptus forests, through the farmyards and bucolic peace, through the North of Portugal in the water-colour, wintry, sunshine. The land was devoid of young people – they have left for Brazil and the hope of prosperity – they have left a land melancholy, bordering on Gothic. Black, arthritic, vines twist behind ornate, wrought iron, rusting gates. Decaying protection for valuables long gone.

In the evening I would eat baked pike or tench or the ubiquitous salt cod bacalao, drinking bottles of Super Bock and cold sweet glasses of Porto Brancho. I would be packed and on the road before seven each morning and be moving well before the grey light of dawn showed my first yellow arrow.

There is a Portuguese word, Saudade, for which there is no direct translation but it broadly means the love that remains after someone has gone. This was melancholia with knobs on. I am tempted to tell Portugal to stop socializing with other depressed countries.

After five days on the road I walked down the hill in Valenca in Portugal, across the big metal Eiffel
Bridge and into Tui in Galician Spain. Bridges had become an important aspect of my journey and they resonated with the historic importance they would once have had. Crossing a bridge normally meant a change in landscape, a change of people and this time a change in language. And, as bridges over water are at the lowest point in the vicinity, the road that leads out is invariably uphill.

And so I walked into Spain in early December and Spain was beautiful in the tourist free winter. There is a man roasting chestnuts and the smoky, wintry smell is carried along with the strains of a busker playing a set of Galician pipes. Evocatively named towns like Pontevedra, Redondela and Padron signpost good times ahead. There is a big copper, bas relief, commemorating members of the Quinta Brigada slain in Tui and, skateboarding past the symbols of their recent history, tanned boys in white t shirts leap in a timeless dance before pretty young girls. 

Incongruously, there are orange trees along the street, I bend to pick a fallen fruit from the grass verge. I peel it, going down the street and marvel at the different plump sections packed together in one orange nation. I steal off Galicia and taste it – it is both bitter and sweet and irrepressibly fresh.

For the day that's in it . . .

 

Hot Cross Buns made today for Spy Wednesday. Are we the only country to call it Spy Wednesday? I'm not even sure why we call it that. Anyway HCB's are traditionally made at this time of the year - normally Ash Wednesday, Spy Wednesday and Good Friday. I'm not at all religious but there is a Faustian element that brings me back to childhood.

There are lots of recipes out there, this one has evolved for me.

Ingredients

500g strong bread flour

1 tsp salt

75g caster sugar

300ml milk 

50g butter, soft

7g sachet fast-action or easy-blend yeast

1 egg , beaten

100g mixed fruit

zest 1/2 orange

1 apple , peeled grated

1 tsp ground cinnamon

1. Make a dough with everything but the fruit. Cover in bowl  with cling film and allow to double in size - An hour-ish. Then stretch and fold a few times, Repeat this a few times then cover in the fridge overnight.

2. The following morning add the fruit and knead in well. Some bits may fall out but stick with it. Separate into about 15 pieces and do your best to get them into tight 'rounds. Place them on a line baking tray and cover to allow to double.

3. Crosses - 75g flour and some water. In a small bowl mix flour and water until you have a paste like a thickish paint. Pipe crosses.

4. Bake at 200 degrees for less than 20 minutes.

5. Make a stock syrup (100g sugar, 50g water, boiled and cooled). Paint this on the buns as soon as they come out of the oven. Enjoy.

Y Blew

 1967 was the Summer of Love.  It was born and nurtured in the Haight-Ashbury neighbourhood of San Francisco but spread nationwide and internationally as the hot summer progressed.  Originally it was a musical phenomenon but it quickly grew to include drug use, anti-war movements and a general free-love counter-culture.  It expanded and it spread but music was always at its core.

That summer Bob Dylan released Blonde on Blonde, the first Rock double album, blending blues, country, rock and folk into a unique dense sound.  Hendrix released Are You Experienced and The Velvet Underground released an eponymous album and although they only sold 10,000 copies, it was said that everyone who bought it formed a band.

Meanwhile, in London, The Beatles released ‘Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band’.  It came out on the first of June and remained at Number One in the charts, for the rest of the year.  Probably one of the greatest albums ever, it is seen by many as a cultural turning point.

The world was changing, culture and attitudes were changing, and music was at the core.

 

In Aberystwyth, South Wales, Maldwyn Pate decided to give music one more go.  The previous summer he had formed a band with some fellow students but their first public performance in Aberafan saw them booed off stage. They were known as the Branches and their musical adventure was short-lived. In 1967 Pate found a new friend in Dafydd Evans and they formed a band called the Hairs, or Y Blew in Welsh.

1960s music in the Welsh language was still largely influenced by male voice choirs, chapel and traditional singing.  Pate and Evans set out to change all that and to create the first Welsh speaking pop group. They were both native speakers but their motive wasn’t political or educational. They simply wanted to sing in their own language and they thought there was a market for it.

There was a mixed response from those who felt Welsh children wanted to listen to pop music so they might as well do it in Welsh versus the musical purists who felt electronic instruments and amplification had no place in Welsh music.  Pate and Evans and their new band cared for neither view and just wanted to play music.

Pate was the wordsmith and he penned a few of his own songs but the majority of their set was translations of popular hits. The band would start by shouting ‘Mae eisiau i bobol sgrechian mewn Cymraeg sâl - We need to get people to scream in bad Welsh’, before going straight into a Welsh cover of ‘Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band’. They played ‘os ydych chi'n mynd i San Francisco’, some songs by Cream and some by Jimi Hendrix and timeless classics of their own like “Come with me to see the fairies and hear the town clock strike thirteen”.

Y Blew met with spectacular local success that summer and completed three tours of South Wales.  There were accusations of a lack of ambition and a fear of crossing the A470, to hotspots like Barmouth and Wrexham.  But Pate and Evans said they were earning their stripes.

Later that summer, on the 8^th of August, Y Blew played their first serious gig at the National  Eisteddfod which was held that year in Bala.  The Eisteddfod was a big cultural gathering celebrating Welsh literature, music and performance. Dafydd Evans had tried for months to arrange a gig but had failed, then almost at the last minute they were offered a slot at a session that would be held at the Literature Tent. It was uncertain how Y Blew would be received but to many peoples surprise it was met with some praise as well as criticism.

On Saturday 30th September, they went into the BBC studios in Swansea to record a single. Most of Y Blew’s repertoire were translations of current chart records, but ‘Maes B’, the A side of the single, was an original Welsh composition by Dave Williams and Maldwyn Pate that they had composed only the day before the recording.

This is how Dafydd describes the recording session at Swansea:

            ‘We went through the new song once. It was so new that we had to read the chords from scraps of paper in front of us. To a great extent, then, the song was an improvisation on the part of everyone. We then went through the song once more and that was the recording.’

            ‘The second side was quickly recorded as we had a dance in Aber’ and we had to be back by eight o’clock.’

The record was released in early November and sold shockingly few copies.  Their one air play on the BBC was described by the DJ as ‘A bit of a gimmick record’.

In his 1968 diary for 1st January Dafydd wrote, ‘It’s obvious by the way, that Y Blew are now over. We’ve decided to sell all the equipment. The van is on the road outside. There’s a ticket on it as the tax has expired. I wonder how much the fine will be…’

The Summer of Love was over for Y Blew, their moment gone, the village clock had struck thirteen.

 

 

Beware the ides of March.

 I wrote a piece two years ago for Sunday Miscellany about the first Black man I saw playing rugby for England. Chris Oti came out of nowhere, scored three tries and decimated a confidant Ireland in Twickenham.

That was the first day the crowd sang 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot' in his honour and to see 65,000 White men in sheepskin coats sing a slavery anthem to the only Black guy there was quite something.

It was a good story and nicely written (ahem), but 12 hours before broadcast (9.30 Saturday night) I got an email saying the producer lost her nerve and had taken out one single line. The line was 'He was the first Black man I saw playing rugby for England'. 

The entire point of the story was lost and all over the country people must have been staring at the radio saying 'what the fuck was that about?'

Here is a link to the Sunday Miscellany

Ghraybeh - Arabic Cookies

I was writing a story recently based in Libya and I did a lot of research into the food eaten there. One of the ubiquitous Arabic cookies is the Ghraybeh (Pronounced “gry-bey,” but it is said like you have a moth in your throat. Ghraybeh means “to swoon” or “faint” in Arabic so make what you will from that.)

They are pretty much a variety of shortbread with the addition of pistachios or apricot jam. I made the jam version and sprinked some chopped pistacios over.

They are the simplest thing on earth to make and have more of an adult taste than a kids taste.

Ingredients 

1 cup butter softened

1 cup powdered sugar

1 teaspoon rose water

2 ½ cups all-purpose flour

Apricot jam for topping

Preheat the oven to 350°F and line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.

In a large bowl of a stand mixer or using an electric hand mixer, cream together the softened butter and powdered sugar. Add the rose water and beat until dissolved.

Add the flour, one cup at a time, and use a wooden spoon or rubber spatula to mix until well combined. You may want to use your hands because the dough can feel crumbly. Chill the dough in the fridge for one hour.

Divide the dough into 1 ½ tablespoon-sized balls using a spring-loaded scoop or your hands. Makes 20-24 balls.

Place the balls on the prepared baking sheet, arranging them so they’re about 2 inches apart.

Use your thumb to make an indent in the center of the cookie and add about half a teaspoon of the jam inside.

Bake for 8-10 minutes or until cookies are firm, slightly expanded and the bottoms are lightly golden.

Cool on the baking sheet for 10 minutes, then transfer to wire racks to cool completely.

 

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Strictly Cuba

It is hard to convey just how fascinating Cuba is. You are expecting the Caribbean heat and the salsa beat, the big cigars and murals of Che, icy mojitos and Ernest Hemingway. That’s a gimme. You love to see the pristine 1955 Chevy Bel Air in its original art-deco green, the boot steps of conquistadors echoing down narrow streets, transport you back through the centuries. It is an astonishing place to see, but then, you knew that before you came.

A few days later though, and the mask starts to drop and you start to see the reality behind the make-up. Here are a few facts you did not know. The monthly salary is $25 (if you are a doctor or a bin-man). Cuba has 0% illiteracy and the highest percentage of doctors in the world. You cannot buy Coca Cola and a pint of milk is given to school children every day but is virtually unavailable to anyone else. There is no private internet here and mobile phones are close to useless. Boats and marinas are guarded by razor wire and soldiers as Miami is only 90 miles north and the temptation is huge. There are no shops you will recognise and no international restaurant chains. Don’t even think of a McDonalds.

The politics are complicated here. Those whose family members have ‘escaped’ to America are seen, at some level, to be traitors. And yet, if those escapees send back $100 a month to their family in Havana, these traitors are now quite wealthy. This causes division. If you work in the tourist industry you will get tipped in dollars. A good tour guide will earn more in tips in a day than an engineer earns in a month. This causes division. There is a split currency, where a local pays 5 pesos for a beer and you pay 5 dollars for the same beer. There are 100 pesos to the dollar. This causes division.

It was a relief to get out of Havana, get a bit of space to process all we have seen. We are on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline when we are approached by a group of soldiers. They are a rag-tag bunch of teenagers with ill-fitting uniforms, but the Kalashnikovs casually over the shoulder guarantee they have our attention.  “Where are you going?” one asks with a heavy accent. “West,” I said “To Pinar del Rio”. 

Transport in Cuba is limited. There are very few cars on the road, in fact, fewer than in 1940’s Great Britain. There is very little public transport and to have a half empty car is considered sinful. It is against the law for a state owned vehicle to pass a hitch-hiker. And so we end up with 4 armed child-soldiers accompanying us on our trip west. You can smell the oil on the guns, the socks and the old cigar smoke. You can smell what they had for lunch. It is quite a heady mix and, in the tropical midday heat, it proves too much for my wife and she gets quite sick out the passengers window. The remainder of the journey is very unpleasant.

We arrive in Aguas Claras, a state run resort in the tobacco mountains, that promises mud baths, saunas, massage and relaxation. Our bags are taken by a young man, Rodrigo, and he guarantees fantastic times as he brings us to our cabin in the woods. Rodrigo is the barman as well that night and also the chef, although, as he explains, the lorry has not come from Havana this week so the only option on the menu is pork and beans, Maybe chicken next week?

The following morning, before the sulphur baths, we are required to see the doctor to ensure we are fit enough. Like a low budget play, Dr. Rodrigo enters complete with this morning’s costume of a white coat, stethoscope and broad smile. He tells us disrobe for our physical and just as I start to object I realise my wife is already togging off in the corner. And all to lie in a clammy bath off eggy, sewagey, mud.

That evening we had booked Tango lessons up in the bandstand but my wife still had a tummy bug and was confined to bunk. Undeterred, I went alone (our hut was stinking), although when I say alone, I mean no one apart from me and the instructor turned up.  I was a bit freaked out, but Rodrigo was committed and not at all uncomfortable with a bit of man-on-man dancin’.   As the lesson progressed an electric storm broke low over the Caribbean beneath us. There was fork lightning, religious in its theatre, and thunder like the roll of an immense and remote drum beating the charge of the gale. Palm trees swayed and gyrated giving background drama as we danced La Cumparsita.  

Was it the worst place I have been to? No, of course not, I’ve been to Birmingham. I’ve been to Lanzarote. But it was challenging and bewildering and truly foreign. I also think that, with a bit of practice, Rodrigo and I could have really gone places.

Getting There: You can fly Dublin to Havana for a little more than €600 return with Air France. Go from Cork via Paris for a little more.

Don’t Forget To Pack : Outside of Havana food can be scarce and scary. You will always get bread so pack some tins of tuna/salmon/crab and when times get tough at least you can have a sandwich you recognise. Bring a good guide book and some maps. Phones are useless. Credit Cards are rarely accepted. There are a few ATMs but carry cash. Remember cash? 

My Alternative : Trinidad & Tobago at the other end of the Caribbean archipelago has a similar unique atmosphere with a little less communism and a language you can understand.

¡Hasta la victoria siempre baby! 

A pink car-nation

Our Man in Havana

Last Tango in Cuba