April 1988
We went out to dinner last night. As we approached the house of our hosts, I said to Nidnod, ‘If Lady C. is here, I intend to drive straight home.’ Alas, another lamentable case of lack of moral courage and she ruined my evening. She likes me slightly less than a cat likes a bull terrier and always infers I am suffering from a terminal disease – possibly wishful thinking on her part. I unfortunately forgot to put my teeth in and Nidnod was furious. She is getting her own back with frozen bully-beef for lunch and those biscuits like bus tyres they issue to arctic expeditions. Do you remember the one good restaurant in Newbury, La Riviera? It has been sold to new owners and is now called ‘The Last Viceroy’. I am trying it out with Freddie Burnaby-Atkins on the rather flimsy grounds that he was in fact ADC to the last Viceroy.
Best love,
RM xx
‘The Browsing and Sluicing were excellent’, wrote my father on nearly as many occasions as he claimed to have been poisoned by meals of a ‘repellent’ nature. Neither a gourmet nor a gourmand, Roger appreciated good food and he largely depended on my mother to produce it. When left to his own devices, he was a cook of some originality.
‘Gormley Manor
Much Shiverings
[Early 1970s]
I drummed up many nourishing delicacies during your mother’s absence including a giant pie composed of salmon fishcakes, fish fingers, onions, haricot beans, Muscadet and potatoes. I had three helpings and fell into a restful coma afterwards.’
In their earliest years of marriage, my mother, a novice in the kitchen, did her best despite the limited ingredients available due to food rationing. Their happy ménage was nearly brought to a premature halt when she served a bowl of steaming boiled pig trotters – unadorned – at a dinner party. A homemade pâté in Yateley a few years later reduced the dinner guests to silence, until my father broke the ice – ‘I wondered what had happened to that dead rat in the cellar, dear.’
In much later life, my mother could take an hour to fry an egg, rendering it into an unrecognizable specimen on my father’s plate. In order to be well prepared on other occasions, dishes were cooked so many days in advance of consumption that interesting bacterial variants might be on the menu.
Between these two polar points in my mother’s cooking career, she produced quantities of absolutely delicious and imaginative dishes to which I owe my own pleasure in cooking. She relished the adventure of new recipes, taking herself off on day courses at the Cordon Bleu school at Winkfield. She was a fine sauce maker!
Cooks were hired from time to time, with varying degrees of success. Our daily food in the late 1950s was transformed by our tiny Italian cook, Fernanda. Enticing aromas of herbs and garlic wafted from the kitchen; sheets of homemade pasta hung over the back of a kitchen chair, awaiting Fernanda’s sharp knife to cut them into strips of tagliatelle or squares of ravioli.
The microwave was invented for my mother. She adored electronic gadgets – an earlier favourite was the electric carving knife which made Sunday lunches sound more like a chainsaw massacre. Once the microwave arrived, the suggestion of preparing even the simplest dish was greeted with ‘But I’ll do it in the microwave!’ My mother was inspired to write an ode to her microwave which she stuck on the kitchen wall. When a microwave engineer was called out one day, he read it and, hugely impressed, took a copy back to his company who promptly rang my mother to offer her a job as a microwave salesman. She settled for £20 of free microwave equipment.
By the 1980s, going out to a local restaurant or pub became a popular pastime for my parents. Only a few hostelries escaped my father’s crusty critiques on paper but luckily for them, not in the press.
Gathering round the table to eat together as a family provided happy memories – but was not infrequently the stage set for domestic fall outs. My father became practised in quietly leaving the room, but not before he had uttered the last word. Sometimes it was a simple one: ‘Pax’ – Peace.
My Dearest Jane . . .
Barclay House
19 October [early 1960s]
Your mother leaves for Germany on Tuesday and I am left to hold the fort, so to speak. However, I always manage to look after myself pretty well and make myself reasonably comfortable.
Barclay House
25 October [early 1960s]
It is somewhat lonely here with only the inscrutable Moppet the cat for company. I am doing some nice steady work in the cook-house and last night drummed up salmon fishcakes and scrambled eggs, followed by bananas, vanilla ice and cream, the meal being swilled down with a bottle of Chianti. Tonight I am doing a little casserole of chicken cooked in Burgundy, preceded by a rich broth into which I have thrown everything from the unexpended portion of a pork chop down to the remains of a tin of Kitekat. ‘What doesn’t sicken will fatten,’ as the old saying goes! Everyone is kind to married men living on their own and I have a stack of invitations as thick as the telephone directory; I may even accept one or two.
Love,
xx D
Budds Farm
6 May [late 1960s]
I made a new cocktail last night, orange juice, grenadine, vermouth, brandy and a splash of crème de menthe. It is guaranteed to make a week-old corpse spring lightly from its coffin and enter for a six-day bicycle race.
Budds Farm
[1970s]
Charlie and I had the Bomers to dinner last night. The menu, daintily executed by me, was as follows. 1 Salmon Chowder (i.e. tinned salmon from Jackson’s Stores jinked up with eggs, red pepper, oatmeal and the unexpended portion of a bottle of Hungarian Riesling (9/- a bottle – don’t miss this astonishing bargain). 2 A rich pie of minced beef, minced pork and haricot beans generously sprayed with a rich kidney and Chianti sauce. 3 Raspberries, strawberries and bananas, well iced, and floating merrily in a sea of brandy and orange Curacao. To prepare for this repast we had all shoved our heads into a trough containing a very powerful cocktail.
The Bomers, Colin and Sarah, much loved next-door neighbours at Budds Farm, were serious foodies who saved shillings in a jam jar in their kitchen for the purchasing of a pot of caviar. My mother loved Sarah for her sweet and sympathetic nature, as did my father, with the added bonus that he could enjoy literary discussions with her.
Budds Farm
23 June [late 1960s]
On return for a pleasing family lunch, I found your brother had stormed out after a row with Nidnod; he did not appear till teatime. Your sister had had a row with Nidnod, too, and declined to have lunch as well. I wanted lunch badly but found it quite uneatable, so a good time was had by all, I don’t think!
The Sunday Times
Tuesday [late 1960s]
On Sunday evening we had supper at the Carnarvon Arms. I was slightly alarmed when a squat, hairy man accompanied by a long bespectacled woman arrived with an electric organ and set it up, but in fact he played very agreeably – mostly old tunes for moth-eaten listeners and I had a little difficulty in preventing your mother joining a man with Guinness on his moustache who was singing – if that is the right word – the choruses.
Schloss Blubberstein
Montag [early 1970s]
It continues sehr nasty weather down here, immer Regen and Sclamm! Der Herr Oberst Thistlethwayte and his family came to lunch yesterday and a reasonably good time was had by one and all. Louise cooked the mitagessen and dished up a huge capon with mushrooms, carrots and peas that was really quite excellent. Vortrefflich!
Noel and Ann Thistlethwayte and their children were good family friends.
Schloss Schweinkopf
Grosspumpernickel
Neuberg
[Early 1970s]
Your sister chain smokes Marlboro cigarettes and declines to take exercise. I took her to supper at the Marquis of Granby, near Brightwalton. The browsing and sluicing there are more than adequate and I had some delicious onion soup. Louise had enough pâté maison to load a barge, followed by a cheese soufflé that would have satisfied
a platoon.
Budds Farm
[1970s]
Last Sunday we went to lunch with old Mrs D. (85) who has twice received extreme unction but has made astonishing rallies just as the District Nurse was placing pennies on her eyeballs. Her wit and precision of speech remain undiminished; she is merely a trifle more sceptical. Unfortunately luncheon, not prepared by her, was of a singularly repellent character. We started off with a gigantic raw beetroot each, covered with what looked and tasted like Erasmic, a shaving soap.
Budds Farm
12 October [mid 1970s]
In a public house last week I was induced to consume a highly coloured circular object designated ‘a Scotch Egg’. I am not a fan of the Scots but do they in fact merit this particular insult? Mine contained four inches of garden string and the beak of a fully grown hen. Is this usual or was I just unlucky?
Budds Farm
20 February [1970s]
Your brother gave a dinner party for 12, the food prepared by himself. Trust him to be eccentric, the repast started with fried cheese on toast.
Budds Farm
12 May [early 1970s]
I had a good dinner at White’s on Monday: to wit, a couple of perfect martinis first; poached salmon from the River Dee with cucumber and a rich cream sauce; Welsh lamb with new potatoes and young beans; fresh strawberries with kirsch and cream; and, I forgot, a lovely clear gravy soup first with not a single winking eye of grease on the surface. All this washed down with an excellent hock, a faultless claret; followed by port (I think Taylors 1924) and brandy.
Chez Nidnod
Burghclere
[1972]
Thank you so much for the nice birthday gift which was much appreciated. Just the thing for my jaded palate. I am getting quite like my great-great aunt who when she was 91 used to souse her chocolate éclairs with Worcester sauce to get a kick out of them.
Le Petit Nid des Deux Alcoholiques
[1970s]
Your mother is cooking as if her life depended on it and weird smells and greasy black smoke are escaping through the kitchen window. She could always get a job in a crematorium.
Budds Farm
[Mid 1970s]
I went to Cousin Tom’s Derby night dinner at White’s. 17 guests including the ineffable Lord Goodman. Vintage Bollinger before a dinner of cold soup, salmon soufflé, cold duck in aspic and stuffed with foie gras, new potatoes and asparagus, bombe surprise with fresh raspberries. Drink included Chablis, a delicious 1961 Claret, Port, Brandy.
Lord Goodman, a leading lawyer, held many prestigious positions in politics and the arts.
‘Eventide’ Home for Distressed or Mentally Afflicted
Members of the Middle Classes
Burghclere
[Late 1970s]
After Charlie Rome’s funeral, four of us caught the inter-city at Darlington at 5.33 p.m. and looked forward to a leisurely dinner and some British Railways claret to cheer us up. We advanced on the dining car at 7 p.m. and found it empty bar a few members of the staff reading newspapers and playing cards. ‘No dinners after 6.15,’ we were told. (Passengers had not been warned of that decree.) ‘Is there a second sitting?’ we asked. ‘The staff does not like second sittings,’ we were informed. We then went to a sordid installation termed a ‘buffet-bar’ where I ordered four whiskies and soda and four sandwiches. A surly individual replied that there might be a little whisky but there was no soda, no sandwiches, nothing at all to eat, and that in any case he was closing down as he wanted to do some paperwork (what?). I have written to complain but I don’t suppose I shall even get an apology. However, Mr Surtees took me to his flat in Chelsea and regaled me with lentil soup, cheese and Burgundy.
xx D
Aged 20, Charlie Rome was captured in the same year as my father, 1940. Forbidden to attempt to escape because of his conspicuous height, he taught fellow POWs, including Roger, to knit. To celebrate his twenty-first birthday in prison, he was given an extra potato. I witnessed the happy reunion of these two at a dinner party in their old age, communing like a wise pair of bespectacled owls in their velvet dinner jackets.
The Olde Leakyng Cabin
Burghclere
December 1980
My luck is in: I hear I have drawn a small carton of petit beurre biscuits at the Jacksons Store raffle. On Christmas Day we go to the Darlings for lunch. Let us hope she can be induced to light a fire in the drawing room. The more I think of it, the more I wish I was having Christmas at a kosher hotel in Eastbourne. I have had Christmas at some weird places including Bethlehem, Trieste, Alexandria, Spangenberg and Cadogan Gardens.
Love,
xx D
Now a hotel, Roger’s family home was in Cadogan Gardens, SW3.
Budds Farm
[Early 1980s]
The Hounds of spring may be on Winter’s Traces, but life here can hardly be termed satisfactory. The temporary cook arrived on Monday. She is a divorcee of about 35 and by no means bad looking. She has hunted, yachted, ridden in point to points, piloted a glider and cooked for a leading Newmarket stable. She talks incessantly. Unfortunately she cannot cook. Last night the Bomers came to dinner. Disaster! We started with stuffed tomatoes (unspeakable) and then boiled pheasant which might have been boiled crow. Sarah Bomer was sweet as usual. Nidnod was in a fearful mood. Unfortunately Nidnod has invited guests all this week, thinking (quite reasonably) that this expensive cook could provide some edible nosh. I have been ordered to read less and laugh less!
Best love,
D
Budds Farm
28 March [late 1970s]
I went to a dinner (men only) at Nicky Beaumont’s at Ascot House. Very comfortable, nice furniture and altogether agreeable. Excellent 6-course dinner of which I recollect asparagus, lobster, English lamb, mushrooms on toast. Sluicing on the same high level. Guests mostly old characters connected with racing.
Nicky Beaumont was Director of Ascot racecourse. With his wife Ginny, he returned to his home county of Northumberland when he retired. Full of character and always up for a laugh, the pair of them were full of good cheer and kindness.
The Miller’s House
27 February [mid 1980s]
Lunched yesterday with Gilly and Ag Clanwilliam and had a marvellous treacle pudding which I greatly relished.
The Miller’s House
12 July [mid 1980s]
Nidnod made me give her dinner at ‘The Blue Boar’ the other night; the food made a transit camp at Catterick seem like the Connaught.
The Miller’s House
27 April [mid 1980s]
The hired cook is a success; v. good food but wasted on me as I prefer kedgeree, fishcakes and kippers.
The Old Lazar House
Burghclere
27 August [early 1980s]
Your mother enjoyed her holiday in the Channel Islands. She came back with two jumbo crabs which we had for lunch today. She did them very well (a cayenne pepper sauce) but my stomach was in a state of mutiny some hours later. A slight fracas occurred when two geese entered the kitchen and made some huge messes. The conservatory has been invaded by an army of dung beetles. A vigorous counter attack with an ancient spray killed them off and I now have the task of removing about 7,000 corpses.
Chez Nidnod
15 August 1981
V. hot here and everyone agreeably limp and lethargic. Nidnod thinks she is in Malay and gives us paw-paws for breakfast, a fruit previously encountered by me only when reading pre-1914 stories by Somerset Maugham.
[1988, postcard]
Filthy smoked salmon at the 5 Bells. Might have been the Aga Khan’s galoshes.
The Old Organ Grinder’s Doss House
17 September [early 1980s]
Yesterday I took Nidnod to Marlborough, bought her a book and gave her tea at the Pretty Polly Tea Rooms which provide the largest and richest teas, and the most expensive, in the south of England: also a bewildering variety of ices. I would like to take the boys there. Ve
ry good strawberry jam and cream.
The Miller’s House
[Mid 1980s]
We had lunch in the Three Swans at Hungerford where we had whitebait cooked as badly as only an English pub could cook it. I then asked for some cheese. I might as well have asked for a fried chimpanzee. ‘Ploughman’s lunch’, possibly a ‘cheese sandwich’, but they had never heard of anyone ordering ‘cheese’. I must go down to my evening repast – vegetable soup and a slice of toast. I shall soon be caught pinching Otto’s dinner.
Eventide Home for Distressed Members of the Middle Classes
25 July [1980s]
As for your vegetarian cooking, I am convinced it would be a howling success with feminist readers of the Guardian; most men like something with more blood in it (disgusting brutes)! It is extremely kind of you to ask a tedious relic of the past such as myself to stay. There are certain obstacles to be overcome but I hope to be able to accept your generous invitation (no courgette and peaspod puddings, if you don’t mind).
Your affectionate father,
xx
Grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were a different kettle of fish – it’s time to swim alongside them.
10
Blood is Thicker than Water
Blood may be thicker than water but it is also a great deal nastier.
E. C. Somerville and Martin Ross,
Some Experiences of an Irish R.M. (1899)
As he arrived in the world, my father encountered his first relation. His mother. It was not an encouraging start.
His mother’s appreciation of her son was marginal and her criticisms generous. Her known pleasures lay in expanding her hat collection, pampering her poodles and sharpening her tongue. Some balance was achieved by the kindly nature of his gentler father. Little Roger did not give his parents much trouble. He got on well enough with his elder sister, Joan, my grandmother’s favourite.
That my grandmother had grown up in a family of thirteen children had done little to mellow her outlook. She was not unintelligent but she may have been blighted by some inner and untold unhappiness, poor lady. Her father, Thomas Blackwell, was well liked and a highly respected business tycoon. Latterly known as the ‘Jam King’ he was the Blackwell of ‘Crosse & Blackwell’, purveyors of fine jams, pickles and conserves since the early 1800s. His second wife, my father’s grandmother, was reputed to have been in love with a poor curate when her parents pressed her into marrying another suitor, the older and more prosperous Thomas Blackwell.
Dearest Jane... Page 23