The Red Gate Farm Life, or “Recovery from London”
Here we are, for another glorious month at Red Gate Farm. We’ve taken a collective deep breath, our blood pressure has returned to manageable levels. My stress level has plummeted in just a couple of days. Why was it so high before now?
Well, let’s back up for a brief look at my other life, my London life.
I was my usual reluctant self a few days ago, tied up in knots packing my suitcase, anxious as always at the thought of leaving home, leaving Avery, leaving the cats. And yet for weeks I’d been tied up in knots just with the challenges of normal life: sorting through unhappily inconclusive results with my Home-Start family, ringing my bells rather badly, handling the mammoth task of organising 80 university ladies to come to a talk by the incalculably charming Nicola Beauman of Persephone Books…
It’s a life lesson to myself. I spent months struggling with the required meetings, emails, bank transfers, dietary requirements, phone calls, in order to bring this event off, and I spent no time at all looking forward to what was a brilliant 30-minute talk about bringing the work of forgotten women writers to life again. Surely there’s a way to balance the stress of planning something complex and challenging, with the fun of being in the presence of such an inspiring person.
Life in London since I saw you last in October (remember Venice?) as been an insane pick ‘n mix of activity, a positive beehive, filled with and enlivened by dinner parties…
Avery’s graduation from Oxford…
Thanksgiving with Martha’s family…
The Christmas season in London…
New Year’s in Connecticut…
… visits to my darling former Home-Start family, now firm friends…
… Long-awaited visits from dear friends to dinner, Tate Modern, the ringing chamber…
… trips to our plot of dirt by dear visiting friends…
Design meetings with architects to get closer to having a HOUSE instead of a plot of dirt!
Of course, trickled in here and there are visits from absolutely countless friends, endless new dishes invented, tested and tweaked, Cooking Club on Fridays with my little sprouts and their chatter, naughtiness and confidences, not to mention my obsession with a television and book series called “True Blood/Southern Vampire mysteries.” Do try them, for a certain ancient Viking vampire, if nothing else. Never a dull moment, over the long winter in London.
Finally, spring was here, and we fast-forwarded through life at a completely frenetic pace.
I got a new job! I was nominated to be one of two Members Communications Director of the Guild of Food Writers, and it has all come to fruition over the winter and spring. As such, as a true member of “The Press,” I was invited to a “British Charcuterie” event at our local Borough Market, where I met the incredibly charming Tom Whitaker and Dhruv Baker of Tempus Foods…
In a gesture of crazy generosity, Dhruv later turned up at our flat (I had to fangirl a bit, at hosting the 2010 Masterchef winner for a cup of tea in my very own home) to donate a huge platter of hams, salamis and a completely insanely divine mortadella, for me to take to our Guild AGM that evening. He is charm personified.
The AGM itself was a new experience for me — being accepted onto the Committee was something I would never have dreamed would happen to me when I joined the Guild over ten years ago. I’ve always been too intimidated to attend any events, but with my new Communications job, I felt brave enough to go, after having attended a couple of Committee meetings (very exciting!).
After all, every month I’m managing a Facebook Forum with nearly 4000 posts, comments and reactions on every possible food-related subject you can imagine (how to pitch an article without an agent, whether to snap or cut asparagus, where to eat in Lyon, what to do with 24 unexpected eggs, the best way to set marmalade, how to make pesto without nuts, you get the idea). I felt pretty confident of my reception on the Committee. Armed with charcuterie, of course, and my own curried chickpeas.
It was very exciting to describe to everyone on the Committee that our Facebook Forum (of whom I’m kind of the mother, camp counsellor, babysitter) has been an unexpected and complete success: a supportive, incredibly intelligent community for us all to love and learn from. It’s all a joy, but equally, so much work.
Did I mention I am learning Italian? John gave me ten lessons with my precious Elena, for Christmas, and she comes each Saturday to inculcate me in the ways of il vocabolario, il condizitionale, i verbi. I learned to speak fairly well 35 years ago, but boy, was it buried under untold layers of picture book text, bell-ringing methods, and recipes. To find my Italian heart again has been a glorious mind-busting challenge. I can speak it now, to a degree.
I have made two fantastic friends on Facebook who allow me to message them with my conversation and questions, which they generously correct for me. And I listen endlessly to Andrea Bocelli, to my family’s frustration, because it’s such a great way to learn. The only downside to my learning Italian, which I approach with my usual “intermittent feverish compulsion” attitude, is that for a time, I dreamed in Italian, and as a result, sleep-spoke in Italian, to John’s chagrin. Ma, posso parlare.
Add to this the weekly craziness of Monday evening bell-ringing practice, and Sunday mornings trying desperately to be a functioning member of my ringing band, at my beautiful Christopher Wren church in Foster Lane…
When I look back on the winter and spring, it’s no surprise that I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed. It’s all, or nearly all, good, but it’s a lot. And it all takes such energetic preparation. I know it’s ridiculous even to think of complaining about having so much good stuff happening in life.
Arriving, finally, this week at Red Gate Farm after the long journey across the pond, I could feel myself stretch, relax, breathe, slow down, immediately.
Morning brought a beautiful, and very early, sunrise in our little country bedroom, complete with stuffed hens.
Since we were up insanely early — even for John, 5:30 is early! — we got a head start on the day, grocery shopping, unpacking, raking leaves, weeding — and by lunchtime were more than ready to stop for a crispy grilled cheese sandwich, some juicy American watermelon, and the first of the visit’s guests, in the shape of darling Lauren and Elizabeth!
It’s the most time I’ve ever spent with Elizabeth on her own, and she is the funniest and most talkative of three-year-olds. She was happy to explain to me that her brother Gabriel had handily cut her hair for her. It shows!
Some time on the trampoline ensued, of course, and then they were off. Life at Red Gate Farm had been launched. We popped by later in the day to play with bubbles…
And to pick up a chicken. By this, I don’t mean a roasted one. I mean a loaner chicken.
Do you remember the Summer of the Chickens? I do, and I missed them, so Lauren was happy to pack up a chicken we’re calling Charlotte, and let her live in our chicken house for the duration of our stay.
And that’s just the way life goes here. A lobster dinner to celebrate our arrival (I wish I could tell you the corn on the cob was American-wonderful, but it’s too early. Still, it’s corn, so I’ll eat it.)…
There was time to visit the new veals (I mean calves, sorry) in the pasture who have been born since our January trip.
I have christened them Vitello, Scallopini, Tonnato, and Fegato.
But by far the best thing about life at Red Gate is sitting on the terrace in the cool May breeze, pretending to work on Volume Two of the cookbook, but in reality just looking around at the “red of the barn, the white of the fence, the green of the grass,” and this year, the gorgeous reflecting ball that has been lost in our shed for ages.
Then the true joy of life here steps into action. The visitors!
When you live, in London, on the fifth floor of a glassy high-rise with a band of doormen on the ground floor, there isn’t much chance of a drop-in visitor. Who knows where I live, to begin with, and everyone is terribly occupied with schedules and commitments. Here at Red Gate Farm, it is my fondest moment to look up from whatever is occupying me in my terrace moments, to see a car pull up in the driveway and out pops Taylor!
Somehow she is almost 14 years old, charming and poised, funny and affectionate. “I’ll be your Connecticut Avery,” she offered, when I admitted that I miss my little girl that was.
Her father, Mark, one of my favourite people in the world, was not far behind. His smile lights up everything around him.
We catch up madly, talking horseback riding, fire marshal training, the weather this spring in Connecticut which was predictably, inevitably, awful. The weather, in fact, is so predictably awful every spring that I really wonder who has a memory of that ONE good May.
With a sense of the last shoe dropping, one more car pulls into our driveway, and to my joy it’s Judy.
She refuses to sit down, saying she has ice cream in the car (I am pretty sure she says this every summer, at one point or another), but she stays long enough to impart plenty of news of her own, including that she will become a grandmother for the second time in the fall, a little girl this time. This makes me think, of course, of Rollie, and how overjoyed (in his quiet Yankee way) he would have been. Perhaps he is.
It makes my heart so happy to see how resilient Judy is, to take happiness in the life she has now. It’s one of the reasons I love to spend time with all these people in our Red Gate Farm life. Surely the self-sufficient, hard-working, down-to-earth, brave Yankee is a cliché, but also surely because it’s rooted in so many very real people.
Mark promises me a couple of rabbits he’s due to “dispatch” in the next few days, and rabbit liver from his freezer. I’ll try to improve on the mousse I made the last time round, which was a bit offally for everyone’s taste but mine.
Speaking of improving on delicious things, perhaps the only thing better than the first night’s steamed lobster was the insanely rich grilled cheese sandwiches we made with the leftovers for lunch. Why do we eat any other food, we wondered?
You might think that you don’t need a recipe to make lobster grilled cheese, but there are a couple of tips that might help you out.
Lobster Grilled Cheese Sandwiches
(makes two very generous sandwiches)
1 1 1/4 pound lobster
four pieces very sturdy sourdough bread
4 tbsps butter
100g/3.5 ounces mild melty cheese (Gruyère, Gouda are good choices)
Prepare the lobster by taking all the meat from the claws and tail and if you’re me, carefully wiping away any tomalley from the inside of the tail. Some people love this green pasty substance which forms part of the lobster’s digestive tract, but I am not one of them. I like my lobster clean and white and rosy.
Cut the lobster into small pieces and set aside.
Butter each slice of bread on one side, the side that will match the second slice to make a sandwich. Slice the cheese into pieces that will fit the bread and lay the bread butter side down with the cheese looking up. Pile the lobster piece onto the cheese and top with the second piece of bread, butter side out.
Grill (really pan-fry) the sandwiches low and slow, turning carefully when the cheese has melted quite thoroughly, as this will help the lobster stay in the sandwich as you turn it. Cook until crunchy and the doneness is what you like. Cut in half and serve hot.
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OMG. I got reamed by someone on Facebook for daring to mix lobster and cheese, but all I have to say to that is “Lobster Thermidor.” I know it’s an old shibboleth, the no-fish-with-cheese thing. But I was raised on McDonald’s Filet-o-Fish in my Midwestern childhood, so that sort of prohibition doesn’t cut it with me.
The only thing more delicious than our lunch was our evening and dinner with Jill and family. They just get nicer and nicer.
And Joel will always have a warm place in my heart because, readers, he COOKS for me. The barbecued kebabs and bacony potato salad were the perfect American meal. I contributed tomato mozzarella salad with fresh pesto, and may I say that since my sister is dairy-free, I made the pesto without cheese and it was heavenly. Also, because I am not a millionaire, I made it with cashews instead of pine nuts, and it was perfect. Also, the potato salad called for buttermilk, but almond milk with a bit of vinegar did the trick, Joel assured me. It was a glorious repast.
By some happy coincidence, just as for Volume One in the summer of 2012, it’s time for me to edit my recipes for Volume Two here on the terrace of Red Gate Farm. It’s the perfect place to “work,” if not the most efficient. I spend a lot of time watching Charlotte rambling around the lawn eating bugs…
But equally I buckle down and edit recipes, make notes of what needs to be tested, come up with ingenious ways of illustrating the recipes, because it’s just not going to be practical to ask Avery to take a photograph for each one as she did for Volume One. She has her own life now and it’s incredibly kind of her to work as hard for me as she is, but we’ll find other creative images this time around. I simply cannot believe nearly 7 years have gone by since proper work began here on the first book. I look a lot older!
The notes for this one are taking shape.
Next post — Indianapolis for a fabulous two-day whirlwind visit to my mother. Four flights, one enormous dinner party… watch this space!
