Stuffed Peppers

One of my recent favorite finds down in Union Square Farmers Market is Catskill Merino Lamb’s Red Pepper Fennel Sausage. http://www.catskill-merino.com. I had not checked them out before, because I would walk pass their beautiful colored merino wools and feel guilty about no longer knitting.. I first bought their sausages, a couple of months ago and have grilled them for an extremely tasty hot dog roll for lunch. It was cooler then and there were asparagus and rhubarb in the market. The Meguez sausage is delicious too. My mind kept turning to stuffed peppers - nothing we grew up with, nothing I have ever thought to make. My first attempt, I used the sausages grilled, and canned tomatoes. However, today I bought excellent green peppers and saturdays tomatoes were ripe enough to cook with and the herbs in the garden seem more fragrant with the recent rain. Stuffed Peppers 2 cups cooked rice - which ever you prefer, white, basmati, brown. 1 onion - reasonably finely chopped 2 cloves of garlic - chopped - Catskill Merino have wonderful garlic 1 small zucchini (courgette) - also finely chopped, and the one I used was about 6 inches 1 large ripe field tomato - chopped finely, remove skin if desired or 1 14oz can tomatoes Mixed herbs - I picked from the garden thyme, marjoram, oregano, rosemary, a sprig of each finely chopped 2 Catskill Merino Lamb red pepper and fennel sausage or your own favorite Salt and Pepper to taste 1/2 Grated cheese - use a favorite, cheddar, gruyere or monterey jack Olive oil Cut the sausage in 1/4 inch slices. Heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a cast iron skillet, add the sausage and brown either side. Remove from skillet. Add more olive oil to skillet if required; add onion, cook a few minutes longer then add the garlic saute until clear. Add the chopped zucchini, cook for a few minutes more then add the chopped tomato and herbs, simmer until cooked about 10 minutes, add a little water if the mixture becomes dry. Add the cooked sausage, cook for a minute longer, melding the flavors, add the rice. Mix thoroughly together. Taste! Adjust seasoning. In the meantime, cut the tops off the peppers and a small slither off bottom, so pepper stands upright. Scoop out the center and seeds. Place in baking dish. Fill the peppers with rice tomato mixture. Grated cheese on top. Place the tops on the peppers. Bake in 350 degree oven for 30 - 40 minutes. I added a little water to the bottom of the baking dish, to stop the bottoms from drying up. Serve with a delicious salad.

good cateress newsletter September 2010


On reflection I have realized that the majority of my vacation/holidays have been self catering. Which I suspect really means that I am product of my english middle class heritage! That said, I am always saying my next vacation will be in a resort, where I wont have to cook and can be waited on. Truthfully I prefer the unexpected of shopping in a foreign location, and cooking with local ingredients.

France was our favorite destination as a family, where we would rent a gites or a canal boat for a week or ten days. Staying in small hotels found in our other trusted handbook Logis de France on our journeys there and back. We did stay in a myriad of hotels, some old and dark with a walk to the shared bathroom - remember this was the 70’s and early 80’s; some with funky showers in the room and small hard towels; some with dogs that barked all night; they all seemed unchanged since the war. The only thing they all had in common was the food, it was all very good, no matter how basic or elaborate.

The Gites too were all quite similar although in very different locations, very french lots of patterns on the walls and curtains, but very serviceable and clean. Old stone farm cottages just outside a village.

Dad always took care of breakfast, always an early riser, he would walk into the town to the local bakery, returning with croissant, brioche, and a couple of baguettes; again always delicious but often quite remarkably different in flavor or texture. Lunch would be at a restaurant wherever our journey that day took us.

Dinner would be back at our gites. Mum, with Simon and I tagging along would have gone to the village boucherie. It was always funny to note that on our first visit the
butcher would have a slightly sneering attitude to us; which changed daily as they realized mum was a good cook, and knew what she was buying, by the end of the week the butcher greeted mum as an old and trusted customer. One big treat was the veal - I know, I know baby cows, bad treatment - but truly delicious and not available in England, so veal chops with local vegetables and salad was one of our first meals. We also tried the butchers home made pates, head cheeses and other local delicacies.

In the spring our favorite vegetable was the large white asparagus.

The year I got to chose the gites, I wanted to go somewhere different from the Dordogne or Provence. I must have been reading some romantic novel and wanted to be near Biarritz but also in the Pyrenees. It did not occur to me to look at the map for the height of the town I chose. So driving to find St. Luz we went higher and higher up into the mountains, past Lourdes. At the top of one mountain we pulled into a layby to take in the view. Dad said look at the eagles, we all looked up but they were flying beneath where we were; at the same time the car next to us started to reverse out and for a moment panic set init felt as though we were rolling forward off the mountain.

As it did not occur to me about the height, you know it also did not occur to me that it would be cooler, If not quite cold. The meadows were full of spring flowers, narcissi, bluebells, heathers all fragrant and lush. So, you know the meats and cheeses were wonderful as the cows were feeding in the meadows; also the asparagus were wonderful.

However, it was cold, cold. We wore our sweaters and sweatshirts all the time and at night we were grateful for mum cooking as the oven was on, warming us all up.

One item always went on holiday with us. A pack or two of playing cards. Dad first taught us simple card games when we learnt to count, in fact we probably learnt our numbers from cards. A variety of whist games were our game of choice, Sgt. Major, a three hand game, while mum cooked dinner; then bid whist; Solo, and Cribbage after dinner. Dad always won. Whenever I play cards and lose, I hear him saying “Did you keep count of the cards played?”

I first started going to Anguilla in 1990 with Clio, staying at Ronni Bates Seahorse Cottages at Cul de Sac. At that time fresh fruits and vegetables were scarce, particularly if you missed the shipments for the 3 supermarkets on Tuesday or Thursday.
So the catering part of self catering was a bit hit or miss but we subsidized with rice and peas from Fat cat, ribs and chicken from Big Jims at Blowing Point. With the occasional lunch at Cap Juluca for a green salad.

I spent a few summers at the Seahorse when I would be there for 6 - 7 weeks. The days and weeks would take on an rhythm of their own, with a mix of yoga, snorkeling, walking, seeing friends. About every ten days I would take an early morning ferry over to Marigot in St. Martin, having a coffee and croissant in a waterside cafe, then walking to a couple of different french supermarkets and loading my bag with fruits, vegetables, cheeses and pate from France. I could easily kid myself I was back in France.

After our recent move, I realized that I needed a vacation, not a family visit. I asked Heather if we could stay with her and she wrote back to say one of her apartments was empty. I booked flights for the last week of August. I knew there was a risk of a hurricane, but I had been in Anguilla a few times at this same time and usually the hurricanes arrived the week after I left, so I felt confident that everything would be OK.

Our first five days were heaven, I got to float in the Azure sea, walk the beach, swim again. I could finally feel my body relaxing and feeling better. We had lovely meals: Tastys, E’s oven but probably my favorite was at Mickeys, grilled chicken and garlic bread under a full moon looking at Sandy Ground.

On saturday people started muttering about Tropical Storm Earl that was out in the Atlantic and looked to be on course to hit the Antilles. Sunday morning there were the first dark gray clouds on the horizon and yes, the word was we were in for a direct hit. I went to the beach for a quick swim and then headed into town for basics. I had never seen Ashleys Supermarket so busy. Everyone was stocking up, water, candles, batteries canned food, bread.

By mid afternoon the winds were picking up, the gray of the clouds kept changing. The occasional squall came through with a few drops of rain. We charged our computers and phones. We waited. Our constant companion was The Weather Channel that was covering 5 years since Katrina, which was a little unnerving as we waited for Earl. We waited some more. The winds continued to gust, the arrival time changed. We went to bed hoping that it would blow through in the night and we would sleep through it!!!

The electricity went out around 2.30am. We woke up at 5am, the wind and rain had definitely changed. I put a towel under the window that had no shutters and that was cracked for air. The next time we woke up at 9ish the floor was covered with water. And so began the wringing out of towels by doors and windows that continued for the next five hours, it was amazing to witness the ways the water found to come in, through the lintels, under, over between. Every lull in the wind or rain, I said, this must be the back end of the storm, wrong! By early evening the storm was letting up, I stepped out for a breathe of air and to survey the damage, but a big squall came along. Heather and I had a much needed cup of tea!

That night Num sang to me and we listened to music on his computer. We were reluctant to burn through both computers, which was just as well.

Morning came with big blue skies and a few Humming Birds frantically looking for flowers, that had all been blown away. We breathed a sigh of relief, but the radio said Fiona would hit the next day! The damage all seemed superficial where we were, but other areas were not so lucky. We headed back to the couple of stores that had generators and were open. First thing in the basket, a pack of cards.

I want to say that mosquito’s and cockroaches will probably inherit the earth!

Three days with no electricity and water, takes you really back to basics. We could get water in buckets from the underground cisterns, which were now full. Good lessons to learn: a gas stove so that you can still cook. For me personally the hardest thing was the water and particularly a shower.

And this was what I wanted to eat when we first got home:





Corn chowder

1/2 cup diced slab bacon or pancetta
1 cup diced onion, I like to mix scallion and yellow onion
1 large carrot, cut into 1/4-inch dice
1 celery rib, cut into 1/4-inch dice
1/2 red bell pepper, cut into 1/4-inch dice
1/2 lb yellow-fleshed potatoes such as Yukon Gold (2 small), peeled and cut into 1/4-inch dice
3 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth (40 fl oz)
2 fresh thyme sprigs
1 bay leaf
2 cups corn
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 teaspoon black pepper

Cook bacon in a wide 6- to 8-quart heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until crisp, about 5 minutes. Transfer with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain, then add onion, carrots, celery, and bell pepper to bacon fat and cook, stirring, until onion is softened, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add all potatoes, broth, and thyme and simmer, covered, until potatoes are just tender, about 15 minutes. Add corn and cream and simmer, uncovered, 10 minutes. Add sea salt and pepper, then stir in bacon.

"The breezes taste
 Of apple peel.
 The air is full
 Of smells to feel-
 Ripe fruit, old footballs,
 Burning brush,
 New books, erasers,
 Chalk, and such.
 The bee, his hive,
 Well-honeyed hum,
 And Mother cuts
 Chrysanthemums.
 Like plates washed clean
 With suds, the days
 Are polished with
 A morning haze."
 -   John Updike, September

good cateress newsletter May 2010

May, a beautiful month; one of my favourites as the earth renews itself. Well, most of the time. This year in the North East we seem to vacillate between July’s heat and March’s chill. The wind this last week has really battered all the plants in my Harlem garden; that got ahead of themselves in the heat of the previous weeks , when it felt more like July.
In my late teens early twenties, May was a favorite, the promise of warm summers, could be found in the late afternoons as the days stretched out. Mornings would start chilly, with a light mist along the river Medina banks, rolling on to the fields. By early afternoon the sun would be out, the air was warm and fragrant with flowers and blossom. In the garden the honeysuckle and climbing roses were flowering, the bees drunk with pollen, the giant Perry pear tree was white with blossom. The broad beans (fava beans) that had been planted in the autumn, were getting ready to be picked; the peas were forming.
Some afternoons I would walk up the hill, following the old Public Footpath, across Farmer Williams fields to Whippingham church. A royal church built by Prince Albert for Queen Victoria and her family when they were at Osborne House. But beyond that, one of the churches, belonging to the four parishes along the river Medina where my family were christened, married and buried for generations, as we found out when Diana one of my cousins, an archivist discovered as she built the family tree, managing to go back to the 15th century.
In the first field the path was well worn and I could go barefoot in the low soft grass, careful not to put my foot down on a hidden thistle! The grass cool and easy on my feet. On either side the hay would be growing in, bees and pale blue “Common Blue” butterfly and the occasional tortoiseshell Butterfly were busy flitting from flower to flower in the afternoon sun.
Entering the gloom of the next small copse, I would put my shoes back on, it was always muddy here. Walking over the bridge across the stream, I would look to see if the cows were around, further down into the copse. I would hope so, as it would make the rest of the walk easy. But no sight of them. Back up the hill and out into the bright sun, and yes, there were the cows. OK they were too far away to pay any attention to me, or worse luck, they were in the top field, by the stye. I would have to walk through them. How I hated that. They always made me nervous. They would spot me and started ambling towards me. One of the younger bullocks would start running. Walk, calmly and steadily, make no sudden moves, I keep telling myself. The herd are now walking with me, taking it in turns to get close and check me out. I can smell the sweet grass on their breath as they breath. The dogs are off somewhere else checking for rabbits. But no, here comes Bilbo - my golden retriever -back to check on me and making the cows frisky. I have to smack them away, wishing I had picked up a stick to swish them with. Now I am at the next stye. With any luck the cows will be back in the bottom field when I return.
On up the hill. Some days when I am not being chased by cows, I can feel my ancestors spirits walking the hill with me, on their way to church. I have a squishy wicker basket with me. I am going to pick elder flowers, to turn into a facial astringent and elderflower cordial.
Other days I walk in the early evening and walk south along the river bank to Newport. Crossing the bridge over the first creek, I look up the creek, shall I walk up the creek to see if I can spy the Kingfisher. No, I walk diagonally across the field. These fields too, are hay fields but grow differently as they are more buffeted by the wind along the river, when storms come in the first field is full of gulls. I climb the gate into my favourite hay field. The hay is up to my knees, full of tall grasses, buttercups, clover, vetch, daisies, I brush my hands along the tops.
I am heading to the next creek, it is deeper, wider, tidal; there are a group of oaks in a break along the hedgerow of May, sloe, hawthorne, brambles. It is impenetrable apart from this point. I hope to reach it before the dogs, who have loped off following a scent. I quietly sit down under the oaks. Yes, there is the Heron, tall and grey, his gaze does not waver from the water, until the dogs come crashing to find me, then he opens his wings and ponderously rises into the oaks on the other side of the creek, before noisily flapping off back to the river. The pair of swans have cygnets and I watch them gliding through the water, following their parents. I look down at my jeans and sneakers, they are yellow with pollen from the buttercups.
A few weeks later, the hay is mown and fat brown cows are back in the field. These are never chasing cows! Maybe the hay is too rich and they are more content?
So, where have all the cows gone? I recall driving, and frequently having to stop when cows were moved from field to milk shed, or newer pastures. It was always one of those annoying but great things about living in the country; like following a tractor full of hay bales, traveling at 20mph along a main road. I seem to rarely see cows in fields any more.
I am looking forward to the imminent arrival of the local strawberries, small, sweet and tart. The local strawberries conform to my image of a strawberry, about the size of my thumb nail, crimson, sweet smelling and tasting. What have Driscol done to this berry? It is now a Frankenfruit, huge and tasteless. The size of a regular apple, again not a frankenfruit that weighs a pound and can feed 4 from one apple, but one that fits comfortably in the size of my palm and is a pleasure to munch on. Bigger is not better. I know we are trying to feed the world, but not if we have to throw half the fruit away because it is too big or flavorless. A few weeks ago I was delighted to find Florida strawberries, that looked and tasted as a strawberry should. Winter citrus is the same; clementines used to be delicious but the growers have abominated them.
While in London recently, my cousin Sue Searle, made delicious Panna Cotta with Rhubarb compote.

Panna Cotta with Rhubarb compote
2 tablespoons water
1 1/4 teaspoons unflavored gelatin - one packet
2 cups whipping cream
1 1/4 whole milk yoghurt - I like Hawthorne farms
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup sugar
Pour 2 tablespoon water into small bowl, sprinkle gelatin over. Let stand until softened, about 15 minutes. Whisk 1 cup cream, yoghurt and vanilla in large bowl. Heat remaining I cup cream and 1/2 cup sugar in small saucepan over medium heat, stirring until sugar dissolves and cream comes to simmer. Remove from heat. Add gelatin mixture, stirring to dissolve gelatin. Mix hot mixture into yoghurt mixture. Divide mixture into 6 ramekins and cool uncovered. When cool, cover and refrigerate.
1 lb Rhubarb, 2 teaspoons grenadine, 1 teaspoon rose water, 2 tablespoons sugar
Place in oven proof bowl. cover and cook for 15 minutes. Turn oven off and leave rhubarb in until cool. Taste add more sugar if needed.
Un-mold Panna Cotta on to plate with a couple of spoonfuls rhubarb compote. serve.

"'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There's crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers."
-   Thomas Hood

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

November newsletter 2009

good cateress newsletter, November 2009


On a recent beautiful Fall afternoon, my friend Andrew and I are walking on the Upper East Side, having had a very unsatisfying lunch. Andrew suggested having a coffee and cake at this ‘wonderful’ coffee shop that is in the shopping arcade under the Plaza. I had no idea there was anything under the Plaza, I knew it has reopened as co-ops, but that was about it. Sure I said. As we walked over, Andrew included the word Austrian to the cafe. My heart briefly lifted about this, then fell as I reflected on the lousy ‘Austrian/German” cakes/cafe experiences of late. I had not had a decent ‘Torte’ since Kleine Konditorei closed on 86th Street, more than 20 years ago. An early joy of living on the Upper East side had been the remnants of the old German Town; bakeries, shops and restaurants filled with all my childhood favorites.

Entering the door to the Plaza “mall” , descending on the escalator, my spirits lifted further. Yes, indeed a real germanic bakery. As we headed to a comfortable corner table, we passed a case full of Tortes. My eye immediately spotted a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, Black Forest Cake, it even looked real. Sadly in the 1970’s in England, and I suspect America, Black Forest cake had been abused and debased in to many forms, all rather sickly and too sweet, some even had ice cream rather than cream.

Growing up in Germany, one of my ideas of heaven had been a visit to a local Konditorei after a nice long walk or swim. The glass cases filled with Tortes filled with nuts, chocolate, fruit, oozing richness. So many choices! I vacillated between Haselnusse torte and Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, but always finally went with the Black cherry. Mum would bypass all that cream, chocolate and sugar for cheescake. I was always surprised, why go for a plain cheesecake? I would ask for a taste, offering a taste in exchange, always confirming that I had made the right choice. And yet, I grew to enjoy the baked cheesecake and loved it more with sultana’s - golden raisins. The creamy richness, sweet but not too sweet.

In the 70’s mass manufacturers not only destroyed Black Forest Gateau but introduced us to the no cook, ‘american’ style cheesecake, with jellied fruits on top. A totally different cake, surely, they should have a different name?

Back at Demels, the cafe under the Plaza, as I walk around the display cases recognizing each and every cake. Oh my, there is the Hazelnut, and a Sachertort, each one looking better than the other. But I had been let down so many times! Then on my final walk by I see it, tucked up high in a corner, the Cheesecake and it looks just as I remembered it. I looked closer, yes, the consistency looks right. I find the lovely “European Style” waitress. I ask her, Is the cheesecake the real thing? Do they make it themselves. As she starts to explain that they make their own Farmers cheese for the cheesecake, the bells and whistles rang in my head, I knew it was the real thing, I waved goodbye to the chocolate.

The cheesecake was divine, it had me at the first mouthful. Savouring the second mouthful, I picked up the menu, to glance at their other offerings. Oh no! Fruit Brandys! and there is an Apricot one. Mum and I loved Apricot brandy. Andrew twisted my arm, and we ordered one each. So subtle, so smooth and at the back was the clear taste of apricot. All in all a heavenly experience, and great people watching.

With the german cheese cake on my mind; the BBC world service had been talking about the 20 year anniversary of the tearing down of the Berlin Wall.

We lived in Berlin from 1962-5, Dad was part of the Brixmas operations, that kept tabs on ‘Russian bloc’ troop movements. The Berlin wall was omnipresent for us. As children I don’t think we were aware of quite how new it was, or how dangerous it could become. We were definitely aware of ‘Exercise Rocking Horse’ alerts and preparedness, and I was aware of dad being tense, anxious at different times. But we were children, mock ‘exercises’ were woven into our games.

We did know that we lived in a land locked island city, surrounded by the enemy. For family holidays, we had a 2 - 3 hour drive along a solitary autobahn, along which we could not stop or exit, after passing through the two checkpoints; British, East German/Russian, no bathroom stops. The German guards would search the cars, passing mirrors underneath, it was only later that I realized it was to check there was no human underneath. The German cars were more seriously searched and occupants questioned. We always left at 4am to beat the traffic, not on the road, they were pretty bare and desolate, but to beat the queues at each checkpoint.

As a family we all had our Soviet identity cards, which enabled us to go to the East and shop. The best “Berliner” doughnuts and flaky cheese sticks came from a bakery in the East.

Our first winter in Berlin, I remember going with mum to Potsdam. There was a weekly British Army minivan that took us to shop. It was bitterly cold, there had been a lot of snow, all the rivers and lakes were frozen solid. We had recently been to the Grunewald and people had been skating on the lakes but also driving and spinning their VW bugs on the ice. It had been amazing to walk on the ice lake. At the checkpoint into Potsdam, which was on a bridge over the River Spree, while the Russians soldiers took all our documents to check, we watched as other soldiers laughing, fired shots into the iced over river. Simon and I tried to see what they were shooting at, and turned to mum asking why they were shooting at the ice? So that no one can cross the ice into the West, we were informed. It didn’t make sense, but OK, if that was what they wanted to do!

We frequently visited Potsdam over our years in Berllin, there was a British Mission house on a lake, some friends of mum and dads were the residents. So we would go and have barbecues in the summer, we could go our rowing on a boat and fish but we were not allowed to swim; the word “Typhoid” was frequently muttered. We could see and hear the East Germans having fun in the water, so it was something else that didn’t make sense. There were East German housekeepers, one was a good cook and the other the food was awful, I wonder were they Stasi spies or have I read too many mysteries?

All our visitors to Berlin wanted to see the Wall, Brandenberg Gate, the Blue Church - Kaiser William Memorial Church; the golden angel -Siegessäule (Victory Column), which I remember climbing, and then hugged the column too afraid to go to the edge and look over. The Wall, took precedence over it all, we would climb the outposts and gaze over into the East. We rarely saw anyone but the guards, it just seemed a sadder, darker place.

I suspect that Berlin as my first taste of city living made me want more. The Arts, mum and dad were often at the opera and ballet; they saw Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn dance Swan Lake, I cried myself to sleep because I could not go!

This poem seems particularly apt as a Nor’Easter blows outside and the last leaves come down.

"How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
 
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow."
  Elsie N. Brady, Leaves
Happy Thanksgiving

September 2009 newsletter

good cateress newsletter September 09


A fantastic end of summers sunday; not a cloud in the sky, low humidity, birds are singing. Oh yes, the church behind us is in full swing; not always the prettiest of swings and it is very loud. I keep thinking we will get used too it, but it has yet to happen. Definitely no lie ins here on a sunday morning.

Yesterday at Union Square Market I bought sweet end of summer peaches, bigger and juicer than the july peaches, which I have turned into jam and chutney. Kirby’s that Num has pickled: dill and then chili too. Tomatoes for a country soup. Last night we had excellent striped bass for dinner with a few zucchini sticks and union square salad. I enjoy august saturdays in the city, I drive down to union square, park without a problem, but I know that this will be the last time for that. Union square will be busier next week, I will need to get up and go earlier. I am ready for the start of the Fall vegetables to appear!

I have a fantasy about asking our neighbor to cut down his tree, so that we would have a sunny garden in which we could grow all manner of vegetables and fruits. In my minds eye, I see the rows with brick paths round them. But, then we would have no shade at the back of the house, the south side and on those 90 degree days we look for that shade. And the squirrels... I had grown some peppers, japanese eggplants, tomatoes in pots, the squirrel gets to them all, and eats his full. Now I am thinking about a roof garden. It has however been fascinating to see the increase of insect varieties in the last few years. And the slugs and snails who are not quite so fascinating.

Summer memories 2009

A cold dreary June; probably one of the only times that England was hotter in June than here in New York. Full of expectation of warm days on the beach on the Isle of Wight I took, shorts and bathing suit that once again went unworn.

England winning the Ashes; a great Test match at Lords. Meaningless to Americans but a once in a lifetime event for England.

Walking Plume ( a black and white Springer Spaniel) each afternoon around the Trout lakes in the center of the Isle of Wight. Looking out over scrubby meadows towards the Square Norman turret of Godshill church rising in the distance. Across farmland dotted with cows, a distant lark singing, a kestrel hovering overhead, rabbits scurrying into barrows. A gray Heron rising from the nearest fish lake, it’s giant wings hoisting the ungainly bird into a distant tree. A sight unchanged in a hundred years or more; a Constable painting awaiting an artist.

A pair of cormorants sitting on a fishing pier at the trout lake, clearly making use of it! I had never seen cormorants anywhere but the sea! Red squirrels in the Cobb bushes; Isle of Wight only has red squirrels, who as far as I know, do not eat garden produce! The last few flowers on the wild foxgloves. Scenting a fox nearby; Badger barrows; endless rabbit warrens. Sloes, blackberries, hazelnuts, crab apples; the hedgerow filling with it fruits. Dragonflies scudding over the giant Gunerra.

Beautiful Bride and Handsome groom at a garden wedding. Pretty girls in shoestring straps impervious to the chill of an english summers night. Scrumptious hot dogs at 1 am! The wedding buffet of Isle of Wight Produce: Baked Hams, Roast Beef, new potatoes, cous cous and roast vegetables, cole slaw. Strawberries and raspberries with clotted cream. It all tastes so good when someone else has worked and cooked it!

Simon came down to the Island with Ian and Sofia for a few days; I knew we would be at the beach no matter the weather. The first day it was very windy but sunny, I found a sunny hollow part way down the cliff out of the wind; I lay among the scrubby grass and wildflowers, watching a kestrel ride thermals, spotting its prey and dropping from the sky like a stone 30 feet away. Gulls crying. The sound of the surf crashing on the beach below. The kids shouting up to me how delicious the water was. The next day, it was not so windy, so I went down and lay on the cool sand. Walked along the beach, the water was as I suspected, cold; even though everyone kept telling me that the Gulf Stream was now running through the Channel. Sandy picnic food supplied by M & S.

Local caught Plaice meuniere, sauteed samphire, and julienne celery root remoulade - a perfect meal. Corn chowder; Black currant crumble; Sue’s chocolate courgette cake and Bacon and Onion tart and Yes, lots of Roast Isle of Wight lamb with mint sauce. Local crab salad; carefully picking the meat from the shell; some mouthfuls not as well as others; enjoying it a lot more when someone else has picked the meat for me.

Sitting at sunset on the dock of Southhold fish market eating fried clam rolls and Barbecue shrimp wraps.

Barbecuing on the rooftop garden of the Arsenal watching a large spider spinning its web as the sun set behind it.

As many of you know Num is a first rate musician. He and his band are available as a duo on up, for Christmas parties, Wedding, Bar Mitzvahs, etc. They do an outstanding job of Jazz and Pop Standards, as well as reggae. Contact DRastadub@aol.com or 212 831 3313.

Cathy, my friend who occasionally works with me, has started a new Business called Home Transitions. She and her partner Martha can help you move, organize, declutter and clean out homes and storage. www.HTransitions.com or call 203 853 2547.





Jane’s Creole Crab Cakes

1lb crab meat
3/4 cup bread crumbs - panko or home made
1 cup mayonaise
2 tablespoons meaux mustard
1/4 cup chopped parsley
1/4 cup chopped cilantro
3 chopped scallions/spring onions
1 tablespoon bourbon
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper - optional
salt and pepper to taste


Combine all the ingredients, mix well. Make to desired size patty. Saute in a small amount of canola oil. Serve immediately.





"Smoke hangs like haze over harvested fields, 
The gold of stubble, the brown of turned earth
And you walk under the red light of fall
The scent of fallen apples, the dust of threshed grain
The sharp, gentle chill of fall.
Here as we move into the shadows of autumn
The night that brings the morning of spring
Come to us, Lord of Harvest
Teach us to be thankful for the gifts you bring us ..."
-  Autumn Equinox Ritual

good cateress newsletter july 2009

good cateress newsletter, july 09


I have slowly realized that I enjoy all the seasons, with their wide swings of temperatures. My least favorite is the deep cold of winter. Truthfully, I love the hot, lazy, days of summer, probably because I am a summer baby. Apparently, Britain and the North East United States have swapped weather this summer; my english family and friends are loving it. The grey and endless rain of June in NYC have finally given way to the sun, and nice sun with coolish nights not the brutal 90’s, that have seemed the norm for the past ten years or so.

Looking back at childhood summers, there were many picnics, by the sea; by a pool; in a farmers field; by a small river in England , Germany or France. The picnic blanket, 4 or 5 different thermos’s filled with ice cold roses lime juice, ice cubes and water; or orange squash. Bags filled with sandwiches, fruit, hard boiled eggs, cake and biscuits/cookies. A bottle of white wine, kept cool in the river. Sitting warm and comfortable in the open air, laughing and joking as a family.

My first picnics were when we lived in Fallingbostel, Germany. Mum really used to miss the sea, having grown up surrounded by it on the Isle of Wight, so on a weekend, we would get up at first light, to be on the road for the long drive to the North Sea for the day. We would be some of the first people on the beach and would leave again shortly after lunch so that we were home in good time - not unlike going out to the Hamptons, but further. The North Sea beach was often very windy, but they had these amazing chairs, that you could rent. Wicker, high - I am guessing 6 or 7 feet, with a back on it and a colorful shade that could come out in the front. You could turn the chair so that your back was protected from either the wind or the sun. I have never seen them anywhere else, but they certainly worked for the North Sea. I have no recollection of swimming here, I do remember paddling with a fish net. I am guessing this was my first taste of cold sea water and that I was not a fan.

Once we moved to Berlin, the trips to the North Sea came to an end, but we would drive to Riccione, Italy on the Adriatic coast for a long summer sea’s fix. Newsletter july 07. The weather was a lot like New York, and the heat would come rolling in for June and stay. At least, one of the weekend days would be spent at the British Forces Pool. This was a complex of 3 pools of various sizes, big lap pool, shallower children’s pool and a small diving pool, probably built for the 36 Olympics. The other part of the pool complex was for the Germans; we could see them and hear them, there were fountains and more pools; but we were separated.

These were great days. I was very happy swimming, jumping, playing in water all day. It was in Berlin that we learnt to swim, took our various proficiency tests. There were amazing indoor pools for winter swimming on sunday afternoons too.

Mum would pack a picnic. Sandwiches: cheese and tomato, salmon and cucumber, ham and mustard, cheese and cucumber, egg. Sausage rolls, maybe a pork pie or sausages. Sponge cake, cookies/biscuits, fruit and we were allowed to buy an ice cream in the afternoon. And always, the thermoses filled with lime juice, on a hot summers day, it is the first thing I want to drink. So much more refreshing than soda. We just never had that much soda. No swimming for 20 minutes after eating!

Tupperware entered our lives in Berlin; I cannot say whether it came through American or English friends. Our picnics with the colored plastic glasses with lids, mine was yellow; the sandwiches and other food all sealed up nicely in their square plastic containers. None the less, the sandwiches were always slightly soggy by the end of the day, but utterly delicious in their sogginess.


It is now the 4th July. I am sitting in our garden in Harlem, a warm breeze blowing. Neighbors are setting up their barbecues; music is playing, laughter in the wind. Families enjoying the holiday.

My first 4th of July was in Berlin. My father was part of BRIXMAS; the group in the forces that would venture into East Germany to watch Soviet Bloc forces training exercises etc. He worked a lot with the Americans. All part of the Cold War and the Allied Powers keeping us Free. So we were invited to the 4th July celebrations. Now, I admit that until I came to the States and had my first 4th July party with the Barnett’s in Connecticut, I had no idea what the summer party was. But I remembered it clearly, Simon and I have talked about this memory and ours are identical, it stood out so much.

In no particular order: Nat King Cole singing “Lazy, Hazy days of summer”; sitting watching Dad playing volleyball; smokey barbecues filled with hot dogs, hamburgers, drumsticks; tables laden with bowls of salads, buns, relishes; pop music playing, squealing girls dancing; coca cola; eating a hot dog and bright yellow mild mustard; playing a game that was a lot like the rounders that we played at school.

Mum had packed a small picnic, we had no idea what to expect. We hardly touched it. I had a hamburger with multicoloured relishes, it was delicious; and a hot dog, we were allowed to eat it while holding it in our hands, like the Americans do.

The “Twist” was all the craze. Dad had taught me to twist, while we listened to the Forces Radio station. I could hear Chubby Checker, The Beatles, Little Richard, I ran over to watch, there was a “Twist” competition! The teenage girls were excited and taking over the contest. Then they announced one for my age group, I rushed to take part. I did win something Twisting, maybe I got a third. But I wasn’t the worst!

Ice cream! In Flavors! With Toppings!

I remember us all driving home, chatting excitedly about all our shared new experiences.

Needless to say, Dad bought a barbecue on our next visit to the PX. The PX, which was big and loud: it made the Naafi seem rather sad. We could have burgers for lunch in the cafeteria at the PX! For every subsequent birthday, I had a barbecue, and it never rained. British Bangers are excellent on a grill. I can really recommend Myers of Keswick’s Cumberland’s. Mum always made the burgers herself, chopping herbs and onions into the ground meat.

Num and I have recently been enjoying The Neely’s barbecue book. We made the barbecue sauce and spice mix, which are really wonderful and worth the effort. We have used them in a couple of different ways. Instead of marinating and cooking a pork shoulder, we made a turkey breast, that we then pulled and made sandwiches. Totally yummy, with the cole slaw.


Grilled Summer Salad


Bunch of asparagus - rubbed with salt and olive oil, grilled
3 small zucchini - rubbed with salt and olive oil, grilled
4 corn ears, grilled. For this I like to shuck the corn, grill it and cut the kernels off
1 bunch scallions, rubbed with olive oil and salt, grilled
1 lb shrimp, marinated in lime juice and a little olive oil, grilled

Fresh local romaine lettuce
Tomato’s
Avocado

Chop the vegetables into bite size pieces. Sometimes, I leave the asparagus whole!
Mix together in a bowl. Toss with salt and pepper, juice of one lime and your favorite olive oil. Add the grilled shrimp. You can also use, chicken or scallops.


While the grill is still hot. Cut slices of good bread, rub with garlic and olive oil, toast on the grill. Then chop a tomato, or rub a tomato onto the bread. Serve.


For a good summer reggae sound, check out “Ghetto” by Num & Nu Afrika on itunes.