Well, it’s happened again.
I’ve gone so long between blog posts that now it’s completely overwhelming and I’m exhausted by the idea of how much ground I have to cover. But for the sake of posterity, and for the fun of being able to look back over the last six weeks or so with a sense of disbelief that so much has happened in such a short time! Visitors, travels, parties, cooking, ringing, art, art history, more visitors! Let’s get started.
One of the joys of living in London is that it’s a destination. Of course some people come specifically to see us, which is lovely. But even more common is a dear friend or relation dropping in on their way to somewhere else, or making time to see us in a crowded London schedule. Such was the delight when our dear friends Becky and Anna popped in.
Anna’s spending a semester in Oxford, and because they both lead absolutely insane lives, her and Avery’s paths had not yet crossed. Anna had memorably visited us here in London, and she was happy to come back when Becky, her beautiful mother, came to visit her. We lit every candle in the house, and brought out a stack of photo albums filled with pictures of Avery and Anna as they were, little girls of 9 years of age when they met, so long ago. “Remember Sylvanians?” they chortled. “And American Girl dolls, and Webkins?” The passions of little girls, not to mention the rather more drastically expensive habit of horse-back riding! It was heaven to catch up, but also to see them as proper adults, ready to make the world a better place.
Then it was off to Gatwick for our family, Avery headed to Budapest with her friends where she had a marvellous time (I think this was an unusual moment when they were not all in the luxurious hot baths!).
For our part, John and I swanned off to Innsbruck, a first for both of us, specially in search of snow for me (I am a bit obsessed, and Lord knows we never get any in London). We found snow!
Of course we had to take a funicular (so so scary!) up to the top of the highest local mountain to find it, but hey, it was an adventure. I was so glad to get some wear out of my super-cool Danish boots!
Of course pride goeth before a fall, literally in my case. Shortly after this action-hero shot was taken, I slid down a muddy hillside, nearly ending it all right there, and spent the rest of the day shivering in my dirt-encrusted jeans!
Our hotel was called a Best Western, but there was nothing chain‑y about it. Simply charming.
We walked and walked, checking out every grocery store (for me) and estate agents’ windows (for John), had average sushi and very, very good pizza with the crispest crust in the world. Due Sicilie it is, should you go. Delightfully authentic, warm and friendly, determinedly Italian in the face of Austrian dignity.
We took ourselves off to the Tyrolean Folk Museum, on the advice of my ringing friend Elizabeth who had been as a child and never forgotten it, in particular its collection of rescued panelled homes. Simply magical!
We dropped into Innsbruck Cathedral, or the Dom of St Jakob, which was hung with an exhibition of beautiful sculpted clothing by artist Minu Ghedina.
And because I’m me, we found a bell museum. Seriously. The Grassmayr Bell Foundry, simply filled with fascinating displays and in fact, one giant bell in the making as we were there!
The most memorable Austrian food? At a hilltop tavern called “Bierstindl”, Tyrolean chicken bouillon with parsleyed, cheesy dumplings. Rich, simple, authentic: magical.
There were also traditional Bavarian sausage simply poached in water. Delicious.
Three days in Innsbruck was just right.
Home to London to visit the
Royal Academy with my little partners in crime and superb art critics, Freddie and Angus. They are growing frighteningly fast.
It was their wonderful mum Claire’s first outing on a bus without the buggy, and the boys were so good (she is very brave). It was hilarious to walk around the Russian exhibition with them and hear their whispered questions. “Why is that big man trampling all over the little people?” As good a question about the Soviet era as any!
Continuing with the art and culture theme, John’s sister Cathy and her husband David squeezed in a lightning-fast visit to us on their way home from a European holiday. We met at
Tate Britain ostensibly for the David Hockney show, but to my mind the current
neon show by Cerith Wyn Evans is the real draw, simply spectacular. Taking the ferry home was fun.
We repaired back home to cook dinner together.
And then our new party trick: a visit to Tate Modern viewing platform (in
all its political controversy) for a look at the night sky and a silly elevator ride.
But of course the real star of Tate Modern, for a sadly short period of time, was The Fog. An installation by Japanese “fog artist” (did you know there was such a thing, or more than one of them? I didn’t.)
Fujiko Nakaya. Simply stunning, to go through it.
We went every single night it was open, for about two weeks, and in the daytime too. The view from our bedroom was sublime. I really miss it, now it’s gone again.
Cathy and David had no sooner got on their plane than we were dressing up for dinner chez Gustavo and YSL, kings of the silly elevator ride. What fun, and to meet their brilliant friends Patricia and Graham.
What heavenly food: smoked mussels and salmon from the incomparable
Loch Fyne in Scotland, then rack of lamb and couscous, and poached pears and ice cream. Such a treat to be cooked for: it almost never happens to me!
Of course the holiday was hugely dominated by Avery’s and my work on our exhibition, set to open in Lower Manhattan later this month. Oh, the wall text…
Such a challenge to describe but not prescribe, to interpret but not be bossy, to be intelligent but not pompous. I hope we’ve got it right. I go over on the 25th, to stay for what promises to be The Most Insane Five Days In The World.
Being me, there is always ringing, of course. I’m not quite as scared as I have been in the past, am gradually gaining in confidence. And so naturally there had to be a party to celebrate. Beforehand, we had had a specially intriguing “silent” practice, with the bells stilled in observance of Holy Week. The ringers gathered here afterward, after a spectacular walk across the Wobbly Bridge, to be fed and to make merry. The video of “silent ringing” was much admired by all.
It’s so hard to believe that just about 18 months ago I didn’t know any of these wonderful people, whom I now count among my most appreciated friends. Sunday mornings, and the Coffee Club after, and Monday evenings and the Pub Club after, have become cherished parts of my life. The walks home late Mondays are so welcome.
In a wonderful blast from the past, my friend Alastair, who introduced me to the idea of ringing nearly seven years ago, came to London on a flying visit and took the time to have coffee with me. I insisted on introducing him to the cafe where Coffee Club meets, just to tie things up neatly.
It is a marvel to me that a chance meeting at Salisbury Cathedral so many years ago has grown into a lasting friendship. We are always happy to hear from each other, and an in-person visit, discussing the Magna Carta, his brilliant grandchildren, ringing exploits and NHS business, is a perfect treat.
All too soon, Avery’s holiday was over. As always, our missing her is set alongside being so very proud of her. It has taken some getting used to, the saying goodbye, but it’s wonderful to know that eventually, she’ll be back for another fun-packed visit.
There has, of course, been cooking. I am increasingly concerned about how I’m going to produce Volume Two of “
Tonight at 7.30″ (what on earth to do about illustrations, since my photographer has moved on to greener pastures?). There has to
BE a Volume Two, because more and more frequently our dinners involve recipes that aren’t in Volume One, and so they deserve an outing, to be shared.
High on the list is authentic carbonara — no cream! unlike my bastardised version in Volume One, with not only cream, but asparagus and chicken as well. This one is sublimely simple. You must buy the finest guanciale (
here in the
US,
here in the
UK), which is smoked and preserved pig jowl, that you can. With so few ingredients, they must all be insanely high quality. If you can’t wait to mail-order it and you can’t find it where you live, in a pinch pancetta will do.
Guanciale Carbonara
(serves four)
2 tbsps extra virgin olive oil
350g guanciale, cut into pieces about the size of your fingernail
100g grated Pecorino, and a bit extra for garnish
3 large eggs
lots of fresh black pepper
500g fresh spaghetti
Heat the olive oil in a large frying pan, then add the guanciale and cook gently until completely crisp. Do not be disturbed by the large amount of fat that is rendered – this will provide your sauce. Leave to cool.
Whisk together the Pecorino, eggs and black pepper. Add the cooled guanciale and mix well.
Cook the spaghetti according to package directions and drain, reserving about 3 tbsps of the pasta water. Toss the spaghetti into the guanciale mixture and add the pasta water, mixing well. Salt to taste and serve garnished with extra cheese.
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Words cannot adequately describe this excellent, so-simple dish. Rich, smoky, salty, perfect.
And then there was the duck burger. Yes, a duck burger, inspired by the great British chef Michel Roux.
Duck Burgers with Triple-Creme Cheese and Mushrooms
(makes two generous burgers)
3 duck breasts
3 tbsps triple-creme cheese (like Doux de Boulogne or Vacherin)
2 tsps butter
handful chestnut or button mushrooms, sliced
fresh tomatoes, red onions, avocado, arugula, for garnish
Remove the skin from two of the breasts and discard (or do something clever with it, let me know if you do). Trim the breasts thoroughly of all membrane and blood vessel and cut into manageable chunks to put through your mincer. Do not be alarmed at how very soft and almost texture-less the mince is. I was worried but it was perfect.
Form the mince into two balls and press 1/12 tbsps of cheese into each, then form the balls into burgers. Fry for about 4 minutes a side or until the burger is the doneness you want. You can always finish them in the microwave for a minute if you need to.
Meanwhile, melt the butter in a frying pan and add the mushrooms. Fry until lightly browned. Pile these onto the burger, along with any other fresh garnishes, and enjoy.
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So luxurious! And yet not any more expensive than beef. We preferred these in fact to both beef and lamb, both of which I love in a burger. But the duck was unusual — sensual and slightly foreign-tasting.
And then you’ll need chocolate. For this I offer my dear friend Orlando’s treat.
Orlando’s Amazing Chocolate Fridge Cake
(makes about 30 brownie-shaped portions)
300g dark chocolate
125g butter, salted or not
200–250g mixed dried fruit (sultanas, raisins, cranberries, blueberries)
100ml liqueur, like Grand Marnier, citrus brandy, sweet sherry
3 tbsps golden syrup
13 broken digestive biscuits (not crumbed, just broken)
100g toasted nuts (peanuts, walnuts, pecans, hazelnuts)
Melt the chocolate in a bowl over a pot of simmering water and mix the butter with it. Meanwhile soak the fruit in the liqueur. Mix the chocolate, fruit biscuits and nuts well. Pack in a foil-lined or paper-lined tray and refrigerate for a few hours. Lift out of the tin, unwrap, and cut into brownie-sized pieces.
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Do not be swayed by any person’s suggestion that you should add marshmallows to this recipe, nor any added sugar. The biscuits and fruit are quite sweet enough, and marshmallows are the devil’s invention. These are very good “brownies” to take, as it turns out, to a ringing practice peopled by very hungover ringers, eager for the hair of the dog.
Oh, and an eggplant/aubergine dish to delight all the senses. It’s
Ottolenghi, naturally, although I’ve left out the pomegranate seeds that I think he’s contractually obligated to include in every dish (I just don’t like them very much). Feel free to add the handful of them that he suggests. I’ve just reworded things a bit here to make the instructions readable for both English and American cooks.
Roasted Aubergine with Saffron Yoghurt
(serves 4)
3 medium aubergines, sliced as thick as your finger
olive oil for brushing (it takes a lot, perhaps 1/2 cup in total)
2 tbsps toasted pine nuts
20 basil leaves
sea salt and black pepper
a small pinch of saffron threads
3 tbsps very hot water
180g/3/4 cup plain yoghurt
1 garlic clove, grated
the juice of a lemon
3 tbsps olive oil
Lay the aubergine slices on a foil-lined tray, brush with plenty of olive oil on both sides, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and roast in a 220C/425F oven for 20 or so minutes, or until beginning to brown. Let them cool down.
For the sauce, infuse the saffron in the hot water in a small bowl for 5 minutes. Combine the infusion with the yoghurt, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil and a pinch of salt. Whisk well to get a smooth, golden sauce. Chill.
To serve, arrange the aubergine slices on a plate and sprinkle over the pine nuts (and pomegranate seeds if using). Drizzle with the sauce and lay the basil leaves on top.
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In a match made in heaven, I served this beautiful dish with my barmy but delicious Chicken Tonkatsu and some lovely steamed basmati rice. What a dinner!
Cooking is much easier alone, it turns out, than when I try to teach the finer points of chopping, stirring, mixing and slicing, to a group of extremely energetic children at my after-school cooking group. Guess what happens when one of the little boys discovers that a flick of the spoon can practically wallpaper a kitchen with couscous?
Still, they are adorable. How I wish I could show you pictures of their cheeky, naughty little selves. I was so pleased, too, last week, to receive an award for 100 hours of service to
Home-Start Southwark! What fun to celebrate with one of my fellow volunteers, in a ceremony next door at Tate Modern. How I love that job.
I ran into dear friends from my Friday playgroup as well! It was really an inspiring, heartwarming evening. When so much in the world seems to be going in the wrong direction, leaving so many vulnerable people behind, I felt encouraged to be in a room full of hundreds of people who try to do good.
To soothe your frantic spirit in these busy days, make your way to the
V&A for the Rachel Kneebone exhibition. It stretches over two galleries, one putting her work in juxtaposition with Della Robbia and other ceramic artists from the Renaissance, and another with Rodin’s 19th-20th century figurative sculpture. Both comparisons work.
These porcelain depictions of rather apocalyptic fragments of human figures, tendrils of ivy and bits of floral suggestions are really worth a long, hard look, both up close and from a distance. So unusual! The show is up through January, so you have no excuses to miss it, if you live in London.
It wouldn’t be the end of April without the
annual gathering of nutty food writers known as “The Gathering of Nuts in May.” We spend this weekend in a gluttonous state of satisfied appetites, and just as much in a state of extreme appreciation of our friendship, the product of an unlikely group of aspiring food writers in Devon,
one week in October many years ago.
The Friday arrival is always a high point, this time at the seaside in Saxmundham, Suffolk.
We were missing our Susan until Saturday afternoon, but the first-night celebrations were lovely anyway. Cocktails in hand, we all gathered on the beach for a spot of silliness.
I repaired to the kitchen to concoct, as is our tradition, Friday night supper. Some years it’s been a crab tart, some slow-braised duck thighs. This year was “Chicken Meatballs Pojarski,” a family favorite and now I’ve converted my friends. The star of the show? Handmade Hungarian paprika given to me by our doorman, Attila. Made by his grandmother! It was sublime.
Naturally we tucked greedily into Orlando’s fridge cake, describe above, for afters. But actually the real greed was in our friendship, once a year for the seven of us, although two or three manage to see each other throughout the year. Sam, in particular, quite often makes it to London, to join us for a sublime lunch at
Padella, the hippest pasta spot in London.
Getting us all together under one roof, in one kitchen, is the annual treat to which we start looking forward on our train journeys home at the end of the weekend.
There were the usual running gags about doorways (someday we will find out where Orlando developed this particular obsession); for the time being it’s just deliciously ridiculous, and somehow always gets a laugh from us, whether it’s dashing in and out of the door to the stairs or to the kitchen, or his equally nutty game with “Push” and “Pull” in public places, to the befuddlement of all around us. Rosie, the Silver Fox, appreciates us all with her gentle gaze, as always.
We woke up Saturday morning to the quite (to me) unbelievable sight of what Pauline had concocted seemingly in the middle of the night.
Filled with crispy bacon kindly provided by Sam, these little beauties ensured that we were well fortified for the drive to Ipswich to collect our Susan, so recently so ill she thought she couldn’t join us. No worries once we saw her!
I have been craving fish and chips for months, and have been unable to get my family to cooperate, so it was but the work of a moment for Orlando to guide us to
The Aldeburgh Fish and Chip Shop, arguably the best in England, in the darling little seaside town of Aldeburgh. Heavenly hake!
The stunningly beautiful afternoon found several of us intrepid spirits in a scull in the middle of the boating lake smack in the middle of lovely little
Thorpeness, a perfectly magical village. It was revealed shortly after takeoff that only one of was even remotely capable of steering the boat, and what’s more, she was an Oxford rower! Who knew, dark horse Katie! Thank you, Orlando, for this beautiful photo, captured from a silly and lovely video. He was the only one of us seafarers brave enough to bring along a phone!
The evening found us at a concert at the nearby Snape Maltings, a gorgeous hall set in a field of waving grain. It was a beautiful evening.
Katie and I, traditional roommates, kept everyone up with our late-night chatter, and so I definitely needed the long, luxurious walk on the beach the next morning with dear Pauline. I always relish a good discussion with a member of the mental health profession, and especially with sensitive Pauline, who is a marvellous listener. The combination of her wisdom, the tough exercise under the warm sun, and the thunder of the sea was intensely calming.
All too soon, after a fishy lunch, it was time for me to depart. Everyone accompanied me to the station, because… that’s just the sort of friends they are. Goodbye for another year.
The train journey sped by as I remembered all our fun — the silly shared jokes, the long conversations about our families, our hopes, our woes, our plans and dreams. The delicious food, the windswept convertible rides with Orlando and Sam bickering about the passenger seat and crushing my knees behind, the reminiscences about the past eight reunions and debate over what to do to celebrate next year — 10th anniversary!
I was happy, though, to arrive home to this sight, the always-precious St Paul’s, our dear neighbor and scene of so many lovely walks for John and me, righting the world’s wrongs.
We’re all caught up. Here’s to a slightly less manic May than April has been, but… I’m not holding my breath!
Why is Orlando wearing a Foxcatcher sweatshirt? And I was in Innsbruck as a young man with the Hogans and the Brauns. That I wasn’t? Fake news!
Ah ha ! Well spotted! Of course Rosie is the Silver Fox, hence the need for a catcher! And ok, forgot about your trip to Innsbruck BEFORE I knew you!
Oh Bliss, utter bliss to be invited into just a corner of your life in full frontal glorious technicolour.
I fully understand as well as appreciate the time it takes to produce a well-written piece of work Kristen, so rather selfishly from me, please, please, continue with the blog posts and recipes. The joy, the balance and the promise it brings to one who is caught in a life less lived, provides the foodstuff, the fuel and the otherwise easily forgotten memories into another world that, like Narnia, lies in waiting for the door to be opened.
Your stay on GNIM is always too short but provides a heady joyfulness by its brevity. For your friendship, I thank you with all my heart. x
Love Fox x
Lovely posting — you and John and Avery certainly live life to the full. I made the duck burgers and — having lived in France — never waste a morsel of duck, let alone the skin. Cut it into strips, put it in a small pan over a low heat and leave until the fat liquefies, shaking occasionally. After ½ an hour or however long it takes, you will have bits of dried up skin sitting in a pool of liquid. Strain it into a little dish and Hey! presto, fresh rendered duck fat (which has a dozen uses, including of course roasting potatoes). As for the chewy bits of skin left in the strainer, the French would make them into something or other but I feel by this point they’ve done their bit, and chuck them.
The burgers were gorgeous!
Lovely reading all about your adventures. So jealous that you meet up with your Arvon chums once a year, I so wish that I did that too. One of the people I met at Arvon on a food writing course was Joan Ransley who you may know from the Guild. Also an amazing weaver Ptolemy Mann — perhaps I’ll see if I can organise a get-together sometime…
I’m planning a Bette Davis Dinner and a Movie session with your Lillian Hellman Chicken with Dashiell Hammett Spinach on Saturday night — can’t wait!
Love from your cyber-chum — Jenny x
Oh my lovelies! Rosie, it is always a pleasure to try to capture our blissful times together, as well as all the other adventures in a rather too-crowded (at times) life. I miss you terribly, but luckily GNIM will come again! Orlando, of COURSE I should save my duck fat for FAT. For “Orlando Potatoes” if nothing else! How could I have been so wasteful. I will do that next time. Jenny, what an awesome name Ptolemy Mann is, and you read my mind. My new obsession is “Visible Mending,” so I will google your friend right now! Please report back to me about your dinner… they enjoy each other’s company so much. Crab tart here tonight. xx