Sep­tem­ber blessings

Yes, bless­ings, even lit­er­al­ly, because last Sun­day saw us at that most touch­ing of all Sep­tem­ber hap­pen­ings in Lon­don, Horse­man’s Sun­day, or “The Bless­ing of the Hors­es” at St John’s Church in Bayswa­ter.  Dozens of hors­es from the two sta­bles in Bathurst Mews gath­er around in con­trolled chaos, lit­tle girls in bright blue jumpers and jodh­purs, big­ger girls con­trol­ling their ponies with deter­mined tugs on bri­dles, girls step­ping behind with giant buck­ets and shov­els and brooms, clean­ing up the inevitable mess.  All the sidling, whin­ny­ing and clap­ping of hooves that means Sep­tem­ber is here, the school year has begun, and it’s time for the hors­es to be blessed.

The vic­ar, who is known to be ter­ri­fied of hors­es, waits until the last pos­si­ble minute to be hoist­ed, in his green cer­e­mo­ni­al cas­sock, onto the back of some pony deemed to be the calmest on the day.  Once in place, the poor cler­gy­man fix­es a deter­mined smile on his face and rides around the block to the church, where all the girls, plus dig­ni­taries (not the Pope, we were dis­ap­point­ed to see) and vis­it­ing hors­es from all over the UK, gather.

And they are blessed!  They are thanked for their ser­vice through­out the year, and for their com­pan­ion­ship, and fun­ny sto­ries are told.  The vic­ar tells about a horsey col­league of his who named his favorite pony “Parish Busi­ness,” so that when parish­ioners came to claim him for some annoy­ing task, his wife could in all hon­esty report that he was “out on parish business.”

Avery is one of the big girls now, and as such is not on horse­back but is giv­en a lit­tle girl to lead around the fes­tiv­i­ties.  The sun shone on them, because it would not dare to do any less on Horse­man’s Sun­day.  Mr Nye, the beloved 85-year-old own­er of the sta­ble, held tight to his micro­phone as befit­ted the organ­is­er of the event for the past 43 years and held sway, telling many ques­tion­able anec­dotes and caus­ing all the oth­er adults to hold their breath at what might be com­ing next.  Every year, exact­ly the same.

After the bless­ing, but before the gymkhana in the park, John and went for a com­plete­ly spec­tac­u­lar meal at the near­by French bistro Angelus, quite sim­ply one of the taste sen­sa­tions of Lon­don.  Foie gras creme brulee, if you please!  I have tried to make it, to no avail.  Creamy, del­i­cate mousse of foie gras under a crack­ling, slight­ly sweet lay­er of pop­py seeds and Demer­ara sugar.

The lux­u­ry!  My favorite dish in all the world, I think.  And com­plete­ly sat­is­fy­ing to eat it in the only restau­rant in the city that makes it, all the more because I’ve been defeat­ed in mak­ing it myself.

But I can come home, after a long after­noon watch­ing Avery on Wick­ham, buck­ing and rear­ing in the foxy sun­light, and make:

Roast­ed Root Veg­eta­bles with Chilli Oil and Sage

Sim­ply peel and cut in bite-size pieces the root veg­eta­bles of your choice: beet­root, but­ter­nut squash, car­rots, parsnips.  Driz­zle them with chilli-infused olive oil, sprin­kle with chopped sage and dust with salt and pep­per, and roast in the oven at 200C/400 F for 30 min­utes, then toss in the oil and serve.  Autumn on a plate.

And for com­plete per­fec­tion in a soup bowl, there is:

Creamy Red Pep­per Soup

(serves 6)

2 tbsps butter

6 red pep­per, chopped roughly

1 shal­lot, chopped roughly

4 cloves gar­lic, chopped roughly

3 tbsps Marsala wine

sprin­kling of fresh thyme leaves

chick­en stock to cov­er, per­haps 3 cups?

1/2 cup dou­ble cream

For­get the fid­dly busi­ness of roast­ing the pep­pers: it does­n’t mat­ter.  Sim­ply saute the pep­pers, shal­lots and gar­lic in the but­ter, then add the Marsala wine and sim­mer high for a bit.  Sprin­kle on the thyme leaves and cov­er the whole lot with chick­en stock.  Sim­mer for 20 min­utes until pep­pers are soft, then pul­ver­ize with your hand blender and run through a sieve into a clean pot.  Swirl in the cream, and get out your straw: this is the best soup ever.

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Then it was onto the real busi­ness of life: the arrival of our dear New York friends Olimpia and Tony.  Olimpia once worked with John, and for that rea­son she has his num­ber.  All of them.  She has seen him at his best — a gen­er­ous and kind-heart­ed cowork­er — and at his worst — prob­a­bly blam­ing every­one in sight for a plane tick­et gone wrong, or in the depths of despair over a deal he’d worked his heart out for that was not going to pan out.  In short, she knows him. And still loves him, which is real friendship.

They arrived late at night, with John and me wait­ing for them in the spit­ty, Lon­dony rain (Avery annoyed that we had vetoed her stay­ing up as well!).  Wild­ly wav­ing through the car win­dows, smil­ing with excite­ment, they arrived.  We hus­tled their suit­cas­es up to the serene guest room, all white bed linens and soft blue walls, the green beau­ty of the back gar­den hid­den in the dark, a can­dle lit on the fire­place man­tle, pic­tures of Avery every­where, a stack of books — the lat­est Ian McE­wan, an old Lau­rie Col­win, a Gladys Taber, an Agatha Christie — on the bed­side table.

Thurs­day morn­ing dawned wet and gray.  “This is what we should expect of Lon­don weath­er,” Tony said brave­ly, but it seemed TOO bad when the weath­er had been gor­geous all month.  Noth­ing, how­ev­er, could stop us from our adven­tures, so we piled hilar­i­ous­ly into the Fiat (“next time you do that, Tony, I need my video cam­era!” Olimpia crowed as he squeezed him­self in, shov­ing the seat back and near­ly break­ing her knees), and drove off to Bor­ough Mar­ket, where the tar­pau­lins and ancient roofs pro­tect­ed us from the downpour.

We bought every­thing in sight.  Eggs, creme fraiche, Nor­mandy but­ter with huge flakes of sea salt in it, and the cured Ital­ian meats!  Don’t even get me started.

And the pro­duce!  I bought cele­ri­ac, basil, Ital­ian pars­ley, and a bright orange pump­kin from the most per­fect pro­duce stand, exchang­ing wis­dom with the pro­pri­etor on why my pump­kin soup of last week turned out so un-pump­kiny.  “Love, you need a bright orange squash for that, and roast­ing it ahead of the soup would­n’t hurt none either,” he allowed, so I am in his debt.  If the soup turns out to be some­thing oth­er than creamy chick­en stock, as it was last week, you’ll be the first to know.

To Sill­field Farm, final­ly, after scop­ing out all the oth­er butch­ers for Olimpia’s gift to us, that after­noon.  For WILD BOAR.  The shop­ping high­light of the after­noon.  What fun we had.

You will nev­er eat any­thing like it, until you have cooked with Olimpia.  I am offer­ing you the elixir of the gods, here, by shar­ing her inim­itable, peer­less recipe.  Enjoy.

Olimpia’s  Meat­balls

(makes 24 palm-sized meatballs)

800 grams/ 1 3/4 pounds Sill­field Farms wild boar mince

3–4 slices whole wheat bread, soaked in bread and squeezed dry

½ cup grat­ed Parme­san cheese

3 eggs

salt, pep­per

4 cloves gar­lic, fine­ly chopped

8 leaves basil, fine­ly chopped

hand­ful Ital­ian pars­ley, fine­ly chopped

olive oil for frying

In a large bowl, mix the mince with the squeezed bread, shred­ding the bread as you go.  Sprin­kle in the Parme­san cheese and mix very well.

In a small­er bowl, whisk eggs ful­ly and mix in all oth­er ingre­di­ents except olive oil.

Pour egg mix­ture into meat mix­ture and knead well with your hands until com­plete­ly mixed, at least 5 min­utes.  Shape into 1 ½ inch balls and set on a platter.

Heat a very large fry­ing pan with enough olive oil to cov­er the bot­tom and come up the sides ¼ inch.  Fry the meat­balls in a sin­gle lay­er, in batch­es until browned and ful­ly cooked inside, turn­ing twice and if nec­es­sary brown­ing on the edges as well.  Serve with…

Olimpia’s Mag­ic Toma­to Sauce

(makes 6 cups)

olive oil to coat bot­tom of pan (approx­i­mate­ly 2 tbsps)

6 sausages of your choosing

4 cloves gar­lic, fine­ly chopped

1 large shallot

6 leaves basil, cut in half

½ cup good red wine, like Chianti

4 soup-size cans or 2 large cans crushed tomatoes

hand­ful Ital­ian parsley

salt and pep­per to taste

Heat olive oil in large saucepan and fry sausages until brown on all sides.  Add gar­lic, shal­lot and 1 leaf of basil and fry till gar­lic and shal­lot are translucent.

Pour in the red wine and cook down till reduced by half.  Add toma­toes.  If you can­not find crushed toma­toes, sim­ply put whole or chopped toma­toes through the Cuisi­nart until smooth.  Add pars­ley and the remain­ing basil leaves, then sea­son to taste.

Cook sauce, cov­ered, for at least 1 hour, prefer­ably up to 4 hours.  Place meat­balls gen­tly in sauce and sim­mer uncov­ered for at least 1 fur­ther hour.

Serve with pas­ta and Parme­san cheese.

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We had the time of our lives cook­ing, that after­noon.  The rain fell, Tony took pic­tures, we dis­cussed the nature of life and love.  I was Olimpia’s devot­ed slave and chopped, minced, pul­ver­ized ingre­di­ents to her sat­is­fac­tion.  We talked about wild boar.  So much more deli­cious than beef, or pork!  “And just think, Olimpia,” I said, “some­body will prob­a­bly make head cheese out of all the scraps at that butch­er,” and she laughed uproar­i­ous­ly and said, “John’s the head cheese,” which made us laugh so hard we could hard­ly break eggs or grate cheese.

John came in and poured Chi­anti all round, and Olimpia fried her meat­balls, and sauteed sausages, made sauce.  The most per­fect afternoon.

We head­ed out, then, we to pick up Avery from a late play rehearsal at school, and Tony and Olimpia to go to see “Death­trap,” then we all recon­vened late that night to hear the reac­tion (they loved it) and share sand­wich­es of fresh baguettes, shav­ings of culatel­lo with finoc­chio (lit­tle pro­sciut­to slices with fen­nel), slices of good Eng­lish Dou­ble Glouces­ter cheese, rock­et and my fresh pesto.

In the morn­ing it was rain­ing, if any­thing, even heav­ier.  But Tony was adamant.  “I pre­dict it will stop in the after­noon,” and Olimpia chimed in, “He’s nev­er wrong about the weath­er,” so we donned rain gear, packed umbrel­las, and head­ed off to some­thing I nev­er in my life thought I would see my hus­band do: climb onto a Lon­don tour bus.

On the way, we stopped off at our old May­fair house, where we moved when we first arrived lo these six years or so ago, and rang the bell of the porter, Lau­rie, an old friend.  He prompt­ly arrived and let us in so we could show Olimpia and Tony the secret gar­den, the walled splen­dor behind the hous­es lin­ing that square, undreamed of from the street.  We climbed to the roof and sur­veyed all of the Mary Pop­pin­sy roofs of May­fair, the Amer­i­can flag float­ing serene­ly above them all, strange­ly incon­gru­ous, but point­ing to the Amer­i­can embassy below.  The spit­ty rain fell, and we enjoyed the nos­tal­gic trip.  How hap­py we were there.

On to the bus, and to our tour of all scenic points of the city, stop­ping at St Paul’s Cathe­dral, where we got out and had a tour with an idio­syn­crat­ic and love­ly lady tour guide, lead­ing us from mon­u­ment to paint­ing to cof­fin.  We decid­ed not to climb to the top in such awful weath­er, and then left Olimpia and Tony to con­tin­ue their tour while we raced off to meet Avery at the skat­ing rink.  Fri­days are Fri­days, after all, and skat­ing lessons stop for no man.

Out in a whirl to The Pope­s­eye for a meat-fest — rump, sir­loin and fil­let steaks all round, plus mas­sive piles of chips (we ate them all), and four dif­fer­ent kinds of mus­tard, plus ketchup, horse­rad­ish and a divine Bear­naise sauce.  Heav­en, dis­cussing trav­el plans — Olimpia and Tony to Por­tu­gal in the morn­ing, we to Flo­rence in Octo­ber — laugh­ing, feel­ing grate­ful to have each oth­er, in the white-paper-table­clothed inti­ma­cy of the restau­rant, can­dles every­where, a gor­geous din­ner.  Happiness.

And in the morn­ing, after one of John’s famous scram­bled-egg brunch­es (roast­ed toma­toes an unex­pect­ed huge­ly pop­u­lar addi­tion!), they were off, to points south and warm.  The vis­it was over.

John and had a lit­tle adven­ture that after­noon, while Avery and her friend Lille sam­ba-ed away in May­fair: we rent­ed bikes from the new Bar­clays hire scheme and went all round Hyde Park!  What I want to know is why my legs were killing me, when we play ten­nis four times a week!  Avery informed me solemn­ly that it’s like com­par­ing horse back rid­ing to ice skat­ing.  You use com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent mus­cles, appar­ent­ly.  A real­ly love­ly, civ­i­lized way to spend an hour, even if I am total­ly con­vinced that the park is uphill all the way.  All the time.  How that can be, I do not know.  But I was puffing.

So nor­mal life has returned.  It’s Mon­day, and rainy again.  A qui­et day of home chores.  Lunch of a new chick­pea sal­ad.  Just Sep­tem­ber, wind­ing her­self down and gear­ing up for autumn.  The dark­er days are coming.