good cateress newsletter Jan/Feb 2010

good cateress newsletter, Jan/Feb 2010

My quiet chuckles to myself have increased over the past few years. What is making me chuckle you ask? The Slow and Local food movements, which by the way I applaud, but for some of us, it has been the way we have always lived and cooked. I suspect that my grandmothers could come, sit down to dinner with us and our meal would be recognized by them all. The cuts of meat, types of fish may be different; the abundance of chicken and salmon, would be a surprise, but everything else would be the same. Casseroles, roasts, soups and stews through the winter warming the house and nourishing you.

We lived in many different places but mum quickly found her way to the local markets. Most Saturday mornings while living in Germany we could be found walking from stall to stall, assessing the produce, returning to buy. I suspect my first German words were weights and money. On cold mornings looking forward to a piping hot Bockwurst wrapped in bred or a roll, a generous squirt of ‘senf’, ample reward for helping to pick the weekend food.

It was a shock in 1970 to return to live on the Isle of Wight, ‘the Garden Isle,’ which produced a large percentage of the vegetables, salad eaten in England, but no market, other than a poor excuse of a weekly market selling bric a brac and general junk. But there were market gardens, small holders selling their produce. Slowly those too disappeared as more people went to the new big supermarkets. This has, of course, all changed in the last 6 years or so, as smaller farms have gone back to their roots, and places like Farmer Jacks in Arreton now sell Isle of Wight, meats, cheeses, produce.

We moved to the Clarendon Hotel in Chale in 1972. Mum and Dad were going to run and cook the restaurant and Hotel; Murray and Janette (uncle and aunt) the village pub and snack bar, certainly what in todays terms would be a gastro pub. Their intention to serve local produce, cooked simply, eaten in a comfortable, friendly environment. The local allotment holders, bought in their peas, runner beans,broad beans, cauliflower and other brassicas in the winter. No squash, we did not know about squash then other than the english marrow and courgettes. Local Chale farm milk and eggs; a farm in Wroxall on the other side of the Down provided, Guinea Fowl, Duck, Capons and pheasant; local fisherman bought in his Lobster, Crab and prawns, Oysters from Newtown, Berries from Godshill. Whole farmhouse cheddars from an farm in Dorset, so sharp it bought tears to your eyes.

This all went well until January. The storms, the cold, most produce stops growing, other than the brassicas who love Englands temperate climate, the wind and rain beating fields of them along the southern cliffs. Smelling their wet and rotting leaves, left in the field to go back into the soil.

Probably, my favourite restaurant experiences came from this time. The Peacock Vane in Bonchurch. The eastern side of the southern tip of the Island, protected from the Westerly gales blowing in through the Channel. So protected it has tropical gardens, the Undercliff, moist, and always green.

The Peacock Vane, a square, regency house, sitting high on the cliff of Bonchurch, almost anonymous from the road, behind it’s walled entrance, a steep drive leading to a picturesque house with cleverly overgrown gardens. Peacocks noisily strutting the grounds, an Irish Wolfhound asleep in the middle of the drive. I remember being rather intimidated on my first visit, hanging back behind Mum and Dad, who seemed to know everyone. Crossing into the house, enchanting smells of cooking food. Layers of smells. Putting me at ease, as a finicky eater eating out could be nightmare, knowing I could find something here to eat and enjoy.

Climbing stairs to the Drawing room, groups of shabbily comfortable chair groupings; grand piano serving as the bar, elegant chic young ladies in long skirts ushering us to an available setting, serving drinks, offering menu’s. The soft murmur of easy conversation filling the room, smoke wafting around the room (70’s a smoke filled memory).

Joan and Wolfie center place holding court. Wolfie, a large affable man, red faced, cigar in hand, the other Irish Wolfhound asleep at his feet. Joan, a large women with a casual grey bun, glasses; sitting, needle busy in canvas as she surveyed the room, never missing a thing. Always in black, simple, shapeless, silk elegance. You instantly knew who ruled this roost, with a kind but iron hand. Quietly confident that nothing could go wrong. The kitchen was in order, having overseen preparation of all the dishes on offer that night; flowers picked from her gardens filling the vases.

The faces in the drawing room and restaurant of wealthy local landowners, red faced farmers and their horse riding wives, Dr’s, Dentists, business owners, what I think of as the County people. Then the bankers, directors down from London for a quiet weekend, with a few foreign visitors thrown in for good measure. Men is weekend suits, women in long skirts and frocks.

Dinner was always divine, no matter the season. Joan would have found something in the garden or a fisherman would have come to the door with a conger eel, a shark, she might like; all part of cheesy coquilles st. jacques steaming in a scallop shell. Sweet parsnip soup. Grouse or Pheasant roasted traditionally with its toast; crispy roast duck with a garden herb stuffing. Our favourite Boeuf Wellington, filet, pastry and pate melting in your mouth. A Boullaibaise if the right fish had come to the door. The menu a mix of Joan’s, Belgian roots; their travels in the East and Africa, and good english food.

Cheese course of fabulous cheeses, Dessert trolley loaded with goodies. A Chocolate Paloba, thick, dense, chocolate mousse. A recipe Joan never really shared; yes, it is in one of her cookbooks, but we all know there is a missing ingredient!

Joan always had a project, something she wanted to do. My favourite, and it took her many years to complete. Joan had gone to the Roman villa in Fishbourne, Sussex and traced the mosaic floor. This she then drew onto 3’ square canvases and she needlepointed the mosaic. Amazing! Joan encouraged me to start what I finished.

I realize now that Joan was one of the last of a breed of women, born just after the First World War that learnt domestic skills; Keeping House; cooking, gardening, needlepoint, dressmaking, painting, TV was not an option, there was too much else to be done. Joan used all her skills; writing and illustrating books on cooking, gardening and needlecraft that she self published.

The crafts as much an antidote to the noise and speed of 21st century living, as the slow food is to heal us from the same speed.


I like to make a simple bacon and onion tart/quiche for a saturday lunch or supper with a salad


Bacon and Onion Tart

I batch of shortcrust pastry
1 cup flour, 1 stick of butter in the cuisinart, 2/3 tablespoons cold water added to bind together

2 onions, sliced, boiled for five minutes in salted water, drained
3/4 rashers of bacon, either heirloom pork or turkey cooked crisply and diced

4 eggs
500 ml half and half
8 oz grated sharp cheddar cheese
salt and pepper

Heat oven to 350 degrees
Roll shortcrust pastry out to fit a quiche or tart tin. Place bacon pieces and cooked onion over the bottom of the crust. Beat eggs and cream, salt and pepper together, pour over the bacon and onion. Cover the egg mixture with the grated cheese, pop in oven.
I like to bake for the first 30/35 minutes at 350 degrees and then the last 15/20 minutes at 375 degrees on a lower shelf.
Remove from oven when golden brown. Serve while warm.









"The shortest day has passed, and whatever nastiness of weather we may look forward to in January and February, 
at least we notice that the days are getting longer.  Minute by minute they lengthen out.  It takes some weeks before 
we become aware of the change.  It is imperceptible even as the growth of a child, as you watch it day by day, 
until the moment comes when with a start of delighted surprise we realize that we can stay out of doors in a 
twilight lasting for another quarter of a precious hour."
-   Vita Sackville-West