Summer's lease hath all too short a date

Make

The nights are starting to draw in, there's a slight nip in the air in the evening, and even though it's still August, my thoughts are starting to turn to the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness: prime foraging time! We went out for our first prospecting trip around the Cotswold lanes a few days ago, and were surprised to find that there were already blackberries, lusciously dark and ripe for picking. This bowl of gleaming beauty was the result, the first three of many pounds we'll pick over the next month or so. There are plenty more, still pink or green and clinging tightly to the brambles, which makes me hopeful that we'll find a good crop this year.

Last year we picked about 14lb in total, of which about eight were turned into gloriously sticky, darkest purple jam, some for keeping, and some to go into the hampers I gave as part of my home-made Christmas. I've been husbanding my stocks carefully, and still have four jars stashed away in the pantry, which should last until this year's is ready. Some of the blackberries we ate in crumbles, added to flapjacks or made into compote for porridge; but quite the best, and most popular thing, we did with them was to make blackberry vodka. So simple, but so delicious, and very, very deceptive. The recipe is easy - vodka, sugar and blackberries, muddled in a large, sterilised jar, shaken regularly for a few weeks, then strained off, bottled and left to mature. The intensity of the colour is dramatic, and makes it a very attractive gift - if you can bear to give it away! Be warned, it goes down smoothly, and it's very easy to overdo it... I think a greater proportion of this year's harvest will end up being used this way.

Last year we also managed to find some beautiful cobnuts, some of which I used in baking; some were eaten, freshly harvested, when they were still sweet and milky; and some were hardened off on the windowsill and kept to eat later. We still have a handful left, in the bowl in the photo. Adjacent to the nut tree we were lucky enough to find some sloes, small but juicy, and made sloe gin, which is still maturing. Later in the season, we found an abundant crop of much fatter sloes, but having run out of jars in which to make more sloe gin, I've kept them in the freezer, ready to make another batch. The thought of the time it takes to prick them all with a needle to release their juicy goodness is a bit daunting, but the end result is worth it.

I'm hoping that the change in the weather, with more rain, will mean that the berries get plumper and juicier in the next couple of weeks; but regardless, I'll have purple hands and prickles in my fingers until the end of September.

Capital Colour

Look

Last time I was in London for work, I took advantage of having some time off to play tourists for the day. After a great lunch at the Barbican Centre, utilising my members' discount (of which more in a future post) I had a trundle round on the buses to The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, for the express purpose of seeing their Making Colour exhibition. This fabulous show is really a collaboration between the curators and their colleagues in the scientific unit at the gallery, as it explores the history of pigments used in painting, and their development to the present day, through carefully-selected paintings from the National Gallery's own holdings, loans from other institutions and private collections; and examples of raw materials from which pigments are derived, together with their artificially-created equivalents. 

The exhibition is shown in the basement of the Sainsbury Wing, where the lighting can be carefully controlled, and with the exhibits shown, unusually, against black walls, the colours burst out at the viewer with astonishing vividity. For the less specialist visitor, there is a good introductory section, and then a room for each colour in the spectrum focusses attention on the range and glory of the pigments used to create them. Including the raw materials, and short videos on how some materials are converted to pigments and to paint, is highly instructive, and makes the viewer look at the finished work in a completely new way, appreciating the use of colour aside from the subjects. The Blue section shows the fascinating journey of lapis lazuli, which was used to create the eye-popping blues used in the Renaissance; the Red room has a lovely little display of the variety of natural substances used to create various shades and intensity of this colour, from slightly brownish reds from tree bark to more delicate, pinkish reds from insects such as the cochineal beetle. 

The paintings used to illustrate the use of the various pigments are drawn from across the spectrum of periods, places and styles, and amply demonstrate their use of colour. The hot reds of a Degas study; vivid blues for Renaissance Madonnas; earthy green nineteenth-century landscapes; delicate dabs of pure colour across the spectrum creating a Pointillist masterpiece; all are excellent examples which relate perfectly to the raw materials on show. Attention is also given to fugitive pigments, which fade over time, leaving some elements of paintings looking very far from the way that their creators intended. The final rooms examine the use of silver and gold in paintings, drawing the perhaps surprising conclusion that these often appear more realistic in their painted approximation than when the metals are applied directly to the picture.

As a former art historian, I was already familiar with some of the history of pigments, but this was the first time I had seen an exhibition which explored the subject in such depth, and with so many very fine paintings to illustrate its theory, in addition to the fascinating science of colour; I learned a lot from this excellent show, not least why so many Italian Renaissance angels have faces which are an alarming shade of green! I'd thoroughly recommend this exhibition to anyone who enjoys art galleries, or has ever wondered how painters manage to make their work appear brighter than life. It's showing until 7 September - don't miss out. Sadly, there's no glossy catalogue for this exhibition, but the NG are selling their excellent little book on colour in the gift shop, together with some well-photographed postcards, which I had to bring home with me.

After my uplifting visit to the basement of the gallery, which was blissfully cool on what was a scorchingly hot day, I wandered out for a breath of fresh air. I knew I could only be in one place when I witnessed a bagpipe player in full kilt and regalia, blasting away, not giving us Flower of Scotland or The Skye Boat Song, but playing the theme from Star Wars at full volume across Trafalgar Square. I set off for the bus stop with a grin on my face and a light heart. London really is the best city in the world.

Curiouser and curiouser, as the White Queen said...

Look

On Saturday, we went to Gloucester for shopping and a walk, and taking our usual route through the docks, we found that a fleet of magical tall ships had arrived, and the whole area was in the process of being transformed into Wonderland - literally! The docksides were strewn with prop barrels, tea chests with mysterious symbols of the Orient, and Victorian handcarts, as Disney prepared to film scenes for Alice in Wonderland: Through the Looking Glass, the sequel to Tim Burton's Alice Wonderland, with Johnny Depp, the marvellous Helena Bonham-Carter, and Mia Wasikowska.

There was a tangible frisson amongst the unusually large number of people milling around amidst the rigging, though the inhabitants of the houseboats which normally moor in the docks seemed less enthusiastic about the Hollywood invasion, which meant that they'd have to vacate the site for a day and a half. The tall ships were magnificent, and transformed the whole atmosphere of the docks, which can seem rather ghostly on a deserted afternoon, rather than the bustling, noisy, smelly place it would have been in its heyday. Gloucester docks is a fascinating place, which is a rare survival of an important complex of high, gabled brick warehouses, dock offices, other associated buildings, and even a dry dock, all listed at Grade II in recognition of their significance. The dry dock is still used by a traditional boatbuilder; it's fascinating to see boats being transformed on successive visits, with such skilful craftsmanship.

Despite everyone's heightened expectations, we didn't spot any actors, but it was amazing to see the
amount of effort going into just one day's filming: dozens of trucks for lighting, rigs projecting from the windows of offices in the warehouses, acres of props, miles of cabling, and a veritable tented village in a vacant lot across the road, no doubt to provide welfare, catering and dressing room facilities. Still, I'd like to think that, in these scenes at least, Gloucester will be the star; remember these views, and see if you can spot them when the film comes out in 2016!

These boots were(n't) made for walking...

Make

I know it’s an old-fashioned idea, but I love these traditional baby bootees! They’re pretty simple to knit, and quick, too. I’ve just made these for a cousin who’s had her first baby, a gorgeous little boy, as a ‘welcome to the world’ present. The design includes a lovely lacy, turn-over top, and they have holes you can thread with ribbons if you so desire. The only slightly tricky part about making them is that, after you’ve knitted the lacy section on the foot, you have to pick up stitches to rejoin the remainder of the work. As with all baby garments, it’s kind to sew the seams as flat as possible when you make them up, so that the little person they’re intended for doesn’t have an uncomfortable ridge to lie on.

I've made a pair of these for each of my family and friends as a gift for their first baby, and I know that at least some of them have used them to keep those cute little feet warm; but even if you don’t feel they’re appropriate footwear for today’s baby-about-town, they make a lovely keepsake.

The pattern for these has been passed down through my family, and its origins are lost in the mists of time. Mum has a handwritten version, with years’ worth of counted rows marked off on all the blank areas of the page, speaking of the dozens of pairs she’s lovingly created over decades. Mine was proudly typed out by my brother on his first computer, and printed out, in red, if you please, on a very state-of-the-art dot-matrix printer, circa 1983, which means I must have been knitting them for over thirty years. As with everything she has ever done, my lovely Mum was so patient in teaching me to knit when I was a small girl, praising my early, holey and misshapen efforts and encouraging me to try more complex and rewarding patterns as my skills improved. Mum also taught me to sew; she was ingenious, and made all our curtains, cushion covers and other soft furnishings using a hand-turned, Victorian Singer sewing machine, which was glorious in black and gold, smelled mysteriously of oil, and made a satisfying whirring as she cranked the handle to sew. As she needed one hand to turn the wheel, it fell to me, once I was big enough, to help guide the fabric on its passage and keep the line straight, a responsibility I took very seriously as a small girl. Long drops of curtain fabrics in bold browns and oranges in the seventies gave way to delicate floral, Laura Ashley-inspired designs in the eighties, and heavier chintzes in the nineties. It was only last year that the old sewing machine finally went for scrap, after a century of sterling service helping to create the history of a family. The new, electric model might be more reliable and less idiosyncratic to use, but it doesn’t have the romance of the Singer; I wonder what we’ll make with it?

There will be jam for tea!

Cook

I found a punnet of strawberries in the fridge, which were slightly over-ripe and a little past their best for eating at room temperature with just a swoosh of cream, which is my favourite way. I had no bananas or yoghurt, so couldn’t make smoothies, so I decided instead to make jam. I only had about 400g, so not enough to merit a traditional preserving session; so I thought I’d give fridge jam a try. This has a softer set than normal jam, as the recipe calls for only half the weight of sugar to fruit, rather than equal quantities, and is boiled for only five minutes. It’s poured into sterilised jars after cooling slightly, and I found that it retains a beautifully fresh, fruity taste and vibrant, jewel-like colour. It keeps for three or four weeks in the fridge, hence its name, and is really delicious.

Once I’d made my jam, I couldn’t wait to try it, so I felt the urge to bake something that would show its flavour off without overwhelming it. There’s nothing more delicious in my book than an old-fashioned Victoria sponge, and this one has been made in my family for decades. The recipe is simple: equal quantities of sugar (caster or granulated, either will do), butter (or in our case, Stork soft margarine), and self-raising flour, a splash of vanilla extract, and a couple of eggs. If you weigh the eggs in their shells at the start, and then use the same weight for all the other ingredients, your proportions will be perfect. Divide into two sandwich tins and bake for about twenty minutes, while your kitchen fills with gorgeous, vanilla-scented aromas; then wait as long as you can manage for it to cool, before spreading liberally with jam and sandwiching together. If you can bear to wait a few hours, the sponge will be easier to cut, but this time, both jam and cake were still slightly warm when I gave up and dived in. It was as delicious as it looks in the photos!

The cake recipe came to me via my mum from her mother, my gorgeous Nan, Lilian. Nan was a marvel at all kinds of baking, making, cooking and creating, and any skills I have in making things must have come from her. Nan and Grampy had five daughters, and I was one of a tribe of grandchildren, all of whom were welcomed and adored. I loved spending summer days with them, playing in their beautiful flower gardens, or helping out in the heat of the greenhouse, with its sharp scent of warm tomato plants and the low drone of insects. In addition to the ornamental gardens they had a huge, and lovingly-tended, vegetable and fruit garden, which seemed vast to me as a child – wide swathes of fruit canes covered in bright berries and currants; great rustling forests of broad bean plants with their leaves gleaming silver in the sunlight; row after row of writhing runner beans peeping out from among their foliage; and neat lines of lacy-topped carrots. Grampy would pull baby carrots, no bigger than our tiny fingers and still a pale orange, wash them under the outside tap, and let us munch on their sweetness while we sat, legs swinging, on the warm, painted wooden garden seats he’d made himself. With such gorgeous produce, and a large and grateful family, it’s not surprising that Nan was forever cooking; she would bake five or six sponges at a time, sometimes giving them away, other times stashing them in the depths of the huge chest freezer in the garage so that she could have something ready to give us the next time we called. Fragrant apple pies, pale pink rhubarb, bags and bags of vegetables, fluffy fairy cakes ready to be topped, all in icy splendour. It was always a treat to peep inside and look at the treasures it held. Is it any wonder that I am still so fond of cake?