Hester Browne's Blog
October 3, 2012
Here are some reasons to read The Runaway Princess, out now!!
Like nearly everyone I know, I'm absolutely fascinated by the gradual transformation of Kate Middleton into a real Duchess - and also the polite 'no' that Chelsy Davy gave the whole royal gig. Being a princess in the 21st century is so far removed from the 'annual childbirth and a little light state banqueting' deal of previous generations that it's more like applying for a top level job, with the added horror of your whole family being interviewed for it, along with you, in the papers.
Which is really the dilemma Amy Wilde faces in this novel: where does the princess end, and the girlfriend start? I really loved writing The Runaway Princess, and Amy is one of my favourite characters. She’s very down-to-earth, but she has a dry sense of humour – I’d like to think that if I were suddenly flipped into a parallel reality in which I was expected to have witty yet non-controversial opinions on everything from windfarms to Lady Windermere’s Fan to gusts of wind up my non-weighted skirt hem, I’d manage as well as she does. I should point out – not that my mother is reading this, or anything – that none of Amy’s northern family are based on my own dear northern family. Apart from Amy’s mum being a dab hand with a sponge. My mother, also.
Here are some good reasons to put The Runaway Princess on your To-Read shelf…
1. If you cringed on behalf of poor HRH K-Middy and her accidental holiday snaps, you will be right behind the heroine, Amy who comes from an even more normal background. Amy only has a matter of weeks to turn herself from a well-upholstered Yorkshire gardener into the sort of uber-polished princess who can wear Nude Heels and a tiny cocktail hat that looks like an alien communication device, and all without blushing. In that time, she also manages to design a rose garden and address various Family Secrets.
2. it’s properly romantic, and features some moonlit picnicking, a private jet, roof terraces, Crown Jewels, a proposal scene that made me cry when I wrote it, a cute dog, and Claridges.
3. (There are no gardening tips, sorry.)
4. It’s set all over London so if you’re missing those atmospheric Olympics shots of Tower Bridge and the London Eye and theDartford Tunnel Buckingham Palace, Amy and Leo’s Mayfair love affair will be right up your Downing Street.
5. There are princes in this who are even worse behaved than Prince Harry. And come on, who doesn’t love a naughty prince?
6. If you’ve ever dreamed about booking Westminster Abbey for your own nuptials, imagined yourself in The Dress and exactly how Prince Harry will pop the question, but then thought, ‘Oh, hang on… What if Uncle Ken insisted on turning up in that sparkly jacket he’s worn to every family wedding since cousin Nicola’s third one to that guy who turned out to be… oh. No. Uncle Ken. And Nicola. And Nicola’s third “husband”. Hmm. Would it be really bad etiquette to send exactly half my family to Iceland for the whole month of my royal wedding?’ then this book is totally for you...
Which is really the dilemma Amy Wilde faces in this novel: where does the princess end, and the girlfriend start? I really loved writing The Runaway Princess, and Amy is one of my favourite characters. She’s very down-to-earth, but she has a dry sense of humour – I’d like to think that if I were suddenly flipped into a parallel reality in which I was expected to have witty yet non-controversial opinions on everything from windfarms to Lady Windermere’s Fan to gusts of wind up my non-weighted skirt hem, I’d manage as well as she does. I should point out – not that my mother is reading this, or anything – that none of Amy’s northern family are based on my own dear northern family. Apart from Amy’s mum being a dab hand with a sponge. My mother, also.
Here are some good reasons to put The Runaway Princess on your To-Read shelf…
1. If you cringed on behalf of poor HRH K-Middy and her accidental holiday snaps, you will be right behind the heroine, Amy who comes from an even more normal background. Amy only has a matter of weeks to turn herself from a well-upholstered Yorkshire gardener into the sort of uber-polished princess who can wear Nude Heels and a tiny cocktail hat that looks like an alien communication device, and all without blushing. In that time, she also manages to design a rose garden and address various Family Secrets.
2. it’s properly romantic, and features some moonlit picnicking, a private jet, roof terraces, Crown Jewels, a proposal scene that made me cry when I wrote it, a cute dog, and Claridges.
3. (There are no gardening tips, sorry.)
4. It’s set all over London so if you’re missing those atmospheric Olympics shots of Tower Bridge and the London Eye and the
5. There are princes in this who are even worse behaved than Prince Harry. And come on, who doesn’t love a naughty prince?
6. If you’ve ever dreamed about booking Westminster Abbey for your own nuptials, imagined yourself in The Dress and exactly how Prince Harry will pop the question, but then thought, ‘Oh, hang on… What if Uncle Ken insisted on turning up in that sparkly jacket he’s worn to every family wedding since cousin Nicola’s third one to that guy who turned out to be… oh. No. Uncle Ken. And Nicola. And Nicola’s third “husband”. Hmm. Would it be really bad etiquette to send exactly half my family to Iceland for the whole month of my royal wedding?’ then this book is totally for you...
November 8, 2010
Ghosts, fireworks and tea: autumn in Apple Country
This is my favourite time of the year here in the middle of nowhere.From Hallowe'en through to Bonfire Night, and into the drizzly no-man's land running up to Christmas, it's everything I like best about beingEnglish, up to and including the weather. Chilly, leaf-rustling, glove weather. It’sbasically what we – and our potato-friendly national cuisine - are designedfor.
Out here on the rural Welsh border, things takea misty turn around October, and the air smells of apples, woodsmoke and spookiness.Hallowe'en is a perfect example of the British obsession with supernaturalshivers and history in general. We're effectively history's attic, stuffedwith ghostly boxes of discarded wars and pageantry and costumes, and ourHallowe’en is less about ‘dressing my pug in a Batsuit’, and more about scaryourselves silly with ghost stories. The British love a ghost story. Even people in brand new houses gobble up talesabout the plague pit/mine/workhouse that used to be there before the estate wasbuilt. Show me the Brit who isn't fascinated by the story of the workmen in aYork house who saw a Roman legion marching at waist height only to be toldthey were two feet above the original Roman road and I'll show you anAustralian barman. Why else would monarchs have kept imprisoning andslaughtering their immediate family in the Tower of London, if not to create awell-stocked hauntery for generations to come?
This gruesome celebration of history and gore peakswith Guy Fawkes Night, six days later, in which the whole country celebratesthe thwarting of a 17th century terrorist incident, and – very British – thesubsequent saving of a really rather nicebuilding. We do this by encouraging gung-ho dads to release their innerteenager and let off domestic fireworks in their back garden. Nowadays, theBritish are far more Health and Safety conscious and attend pyrotechnicspectaculars in parks, but when I was younger and the world was a lesslitigious place, every back garden had a display, mounted from a rusty biscuittin full of Roman Candles, Traffic Lights and Catherine Wheels - itself a'celebration' of a saint put to death on a spinning wheel (oh dear).
My family were typical: Dad in gleeful charge oflighting the blue touchpaper with an unreliable Zippo, Mum standing as far awayas possible by the back door, clutching a damp tea towel in case of emergency.Once the firework was lit, he'd sprint back as if seconds away from an Acmenuclear explosion, while my sister and I sucked treacle toffee and stickyparkin, wide-eyed at the possibility of a stray spark setting light to nextdoor's hedge, as the seven seconds' worth of gunpowder fizzed ineffectually inthe damp sea air.
Obviously, it never did. Which is, in itself, a truecelebration of Guy Fawkes.
These days, I stand on myseventh-floor balcony in London and watch the same thing happening all overClapham, Balham and Streatham, as far as the tower on Crystal Palace hill, andthe corrugated terraces of Tooting: little red and green pops and sparkles of fireworksbeing lit, and Dads sprinting backwards in hundreds of patchwork gardens below. It always gives me a warm glow, knowing that families are sharing the same 'oohs' and 'aahs' all over the country, and a simultaneous shiver, knowing that, more than Christmas or Easter, this night connects us with the real roots of our families: just as gruesome, just as keen for a party, probably eating the same traditional baked spuds and toffee.
Maybe there's something about thesombre, misty weather at this time of year that seems to bring the shared pastback to us – never more so than during the long silence at the Cenotaph onRemembrance Day, the nearly unbearable moment in which the entire country stillseems to pause. Which isn’t to say I don’tget as excited as everyone else when Christmas is on the way – when the redcups arrive in Starbucks, and Baileys Irish Cream goes on special offer atTesco – but these rather melancholy few weeks makeme feel particularly English. Pensive, chilly, and never morethan six feet away from a reviving pot of tea. But oddly happy, all the same.
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
Out here on the rural Welsh border, things takea misty turn around October, and the air smells of apples, woodsmoke and spookiness.Hallowe'en is a perfect example of the British obsession with supernaturalshivers and history in general. We're effectively history's attic, stuffedwith ghostly boxes of discarded wars and pageantry and costumes, and ourHallowe’en is less about ‘dressing my pug in a Batsuit’, and more about scaryourselves silly with ghost stories. The British love a ghost story. Even people in brand new houses gobble up talesabout the plague pit/mine/workhouse that used to be there before the estate wasbuilt. Show me the Brit who isn't fascinated by the story of the workmen in aYork house who saw a Roman legion marching at waist height only to be toldthey were two feet above the original Roman road and I'll show you anAustralian barman. Why else would monarchs have kept imprisoning andslaughtering their immediate family in the Tower of London, if not to create awell-stocked hauntery for generations to come?
This gruesome celebration of history and gore peakswith Guy Fawkes Night, six days later, in which the whole country celebratesthe thwarting of a 17th century terrorist incident, and – very British – thesubsequent saving of a really rather nicebuilding. We do this by encouraging gung-ho dads to release their innerteenager and let off domestic fireworks in their back garden. Nowadays, theBritish are far more Health and Safety conscious and attend pyrotechnicspectaculars in parks, but when I was younger and the world was a lesslitigious place, every back garden had a display, mounted from a rusty biscuittin full of Roman Candles, Traffic Lights and Catherine Wheels - itself a'celebration' of a saint put to death on a spinning wheel (oh dear).
My family were typical: Dad in gleeful charge oflighting the blue touchpaper with an unreliable Zippo, Mum standing as far awayas possible by the back door, clutching a damp tea towel in case of emergency.Once the firework was lit, he'd sprint back as if seconds away from an Acmenuclear explosion, while my sister and I sucked treacle toffee and stickyparkin, wide-eyed at the possibility of a stray spark setting light to nextdoor's hedge, as the seven seconds' worth of gunpowder fizzed ineffectually inthe damp sea air.
Obviously, it never did. Which is, in itself, a truecelebration of Guy Fawkes.
These days, I stand on myseventh-floor balcony in London and watch the same thing happening all overClapham, Balham and Streatham, as far as the tower on Crystal Palace hill, andthe corrugated terraces of Tooting: little red and green pops and sparkles of fireworksbeing lit, and Dads sprinting backwards in hundreds of patchwork gardens below. It always gives me a warm glow, knowing that families are sharing the same 'oohs' and 'aahs' all over the country, and a simultaneous shiver, knowing that, more than Christmas or Easter, this night connects us with the real roots of our families: just as gruesome, just as keen for a party, probably eating the same traditional baked spuds and toffee.
Maybe there's something about thesombre, misty weather at this time of year that seems to bring the shared pastback to us – never more so than during the long silence at the Cenotaph onRemembrance Day, the nearly unbearable moment in which the entire country stillseems to pause. Which isn’t to say I don’tget as excited as everyone else when Christmas is on the way – when the redcups arrive in Starbucks, and Baileys Irish Cream goes on special offer atTesco – but these rather melancholy few weeks makeme feel particularly English. Pensive, chilly, and never morethan six feet away from a reviving pot of tea. But oddly happy, all the same.
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
December 28, 2009
Honey Blennerhesket's Christmas Gift advice
What to give the girl who has everything?
Of all Melissa Romney-Jones’s Little Lady Agency jobs, the one I really covet is her Christmas shopping service. Who wouldn’t want to be let loose on the shops of London with someone else’s credit card? And show me a man who wouldn’t happily hand over the whole present shenanigans, and I’ll show you a masochist with a suspicious knowledge of Selfridge’s fine lingerie section.
My male friends moan from October onwards about how hard it is to find the right thing for the women in their lives, because so many gifts come with pitfalls. 'I know she loves treating herself to Bliss spa treatments,' they groan, 'but if I give her a voucher will she think I think she's wrinkly?' Clothes? Another nervous-male nightmare. 'She’s been dropping hints about a pair of ‘investment jeans',' they whinge, as if they know what investment jeans are, 'but one size too big or small, and she’ll be giving me evils over a Ryvita until January 4th.' So, for the benefit of any chaps planning a last-minute spin around Saks, here are Honey Blennerhesket’s best suggestions…
1. a complete luxury valet for her car.
I adore my little green sportscar, but frankly, it’s a mess. I never polish it, it’s full of shoes and old copies of Tatler, and it needs a good scrub and service. If someone could take my MX5 away, and bring it back looking spotless and new, without my having to get out the bucket and chamois leathers or talk to the mechanics about new spark plugs, I would instantly whisk them out for lunch in it.
2. correspondence cards with her address, or initials on
indescribably chic and an indulgence she’s unlikely to give herself in these straitened times. And I’d never say no to a Mont Blanc fountain pen…
3. flowers for a year
what’s lovelier than a present that keeps on reminding you of the giver for a whole year? Arrange to have a bunch of roses (or seasonal variations) delivered on the first of the month, and she’ll feel like a Hollywood star. To be even more romantic, check out the ‘language’ of different flowers, and let her decode your intentions
4. a serious scarf
whether it’s a classic Hermes print, or a luxurious cashmere throw, there’s something very indulgent about a fabulous scarf – and in weather like this, she’ll be wearing it enough for everyone to see.
5. some Guerlain Issima Midnight Secret… and an invitation to a late-night party for two
Midnight Secret is sleep in a bottle, deeply beloved of girls who need to perk up party-pooped skin, but to stop it being interpreted the wrong way, make sure it comes attached to the cocktail list from Duke’s Bar, St James – or the dinner venue of your choice. Sorry, I think I might have slipped in a massive hint to Father Christmas there…
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
Of all Melissa Romney-Jones’s Little Lady Agency jobs, the one I really covet is her Christmas shopping service. Who wouldn’t want to be let loose on the shops of London with someone else’s credit card? And show me a man who wouldn’t happily hand over the whole present shenanigans, and I’ll show you a masochist with a suspicious knowledge of Selfridge’s fine lingerie section.
My male friends moan from October onwards about how hard it is to find the right thing for the women in their lives, because so many gifts come with pitfalls. 'I know she loves treating herself to Bliss spa treatments,' they groan, 'but if I give her a voucher will she think I think she's wrinkly?' Clothes? Another nervous-male nightmare. 'She’s been dropping hints about a pair of ‘investment jeans',' they whinge, as if they know what investment jeans are, 'but one size too big or small, and she’ll be giving me evils over a Ryvita until January 4th.' So, for the benefit of any chaps planning a last-minute spin around Saks, here are Honey Blennerhesket’s best suggestions…
1. a complete luxury valet for her car.
I adore my little green sportscar, but frankly, it’s a mess. I never polish it, it’s full of shoes and old copies of Tatler, and it needs a good scrub and service. If someone could take my MX5 away, and bring it back looking spotless and new, without my having to get out the bucket and chamois leathers or talk to the mechanics about new spark plugs, I would instantly whisk them out for lunch in it.
2. correspondence cards with her address, or initials on
indescribably chic and an indulgence she’s unlikely to give herself in these straitened times. And I’d never say no to a Mont Blanc fountain pen…
3. flowers for a year
what’s lovelier than a present that keeps on reminding you of the giver for a whole year? Arrange to have a bunch of roses (or seasonal variations) delivered on the first of the month, and she’ll feel like a Hollywood star. To be even more romantic, check out the ‘language’ of different flowers, and let her decode your intentions
4. a serious scarf
whether it’s a classic Hermes print, or a luxurious cashmere throw, there’s something very indulgent about a fabulous scarf – and in weather like this, she’ll be wearing it enough for everyone to see.
5. some Guerlain Issima Midnight Secret… and an invitation to a late-night party for two
Midnight Secret is sleep in a bottle, deeply beloved of girls who need to perk up party-pooped skin, but to stop it being interpreted the wrong way, make sure it comes attached to the cocktail list from Duke’s Bar, St James – or the dinner venue of your choice. Sorry, I think I might have slipped in a massive hint to Father Christmas there…
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
December 22, 2009
Have yourself a very English Christmas
For a truly English Christmas, you need the following:
* A Terry's Chocolate Orange each
* A bottle of sherry, and a pan of mulled wine
* A box of crackers with terrible jokes and party hats
* The Coronation Street/Eastenders Christmas special, which has to feature a deeply unseasonal family disaster and a surprise birth (to reflect ironically on the time of the year, this should take place in a garage or in the pub loo, or similar)
* A Christmas pudding, with custard AND cream AND brandy butter * Most of your relatives
* A sofa
* mince pies
This year, I'm hosting Christmas in my new house. There are so many boxes still unpacked that I'm hoping Santa doesn't take one look at my study and think some freelance Santa has already made a delivery. I don't have a tree either, on account of the six-month-old basset hound puppy roaming around - not sure I could get adequate contents insurance for the damage he could do with a small fir tree and a kilometer of tinsel. So, to jolly the Yuletide atmos along chez Browne, I spent one afternoon this week making my own mince pies, and the result was such a warm glow of festive bonhomie that I'd love to share it with you now. Hope it works out!
First, make your mincemeat (Don’t worry, no actual minced meat is involved. This, like much English cuisine, tastes a lot nicer than it sounds)
Ingredients:
1 cup Bramley, or any cooking apples, cored and chopped small ½ cup of Atora vegetable suet (or any vegetable shortening, chopped into small pieces)
¾ cup raisins
½ cup sultanas
½ cup currants
½ mixed candied citrus peel (or, if you can’t find any, substitute glace cherries or dried cranberries)
¾ cup dark brown sugar
¼ cup almonds, cut into slivers
juice and zest of 1 orange
juice and zest of 1 lemon
2 teaspoons mixed spice
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
pinch of fresh ground nutmeg
generous shot of brandy, or sherry
All you have to do is to combine everything except the brandy in a big bowl, and then cover it for 12 hours or overnight, to let the fruity, spicy flavours develop. Then sterilize a quart preserving jar, put the mixture in a cool oven (225 degrees F) for three hours, so the vegetable suet melts over the fruit and the apples cook down into a delicious sticky mass. When it’s cooled, stir in the brandy, seal up the jar, and store for at least a week. To make the mince pies, whip up (or buy a packet of) some shortcrust pastry – rub ¼ cup of shortening, and ¼ cup butter into 1 cup all-purpose flour, slowly add fresh orange juice by the dessertspoonful until it comes together into a dough, then knead till smooth. Leave to rest for 30 minutes, while you preheat the oven to 200 degrees F and grease a shallow muffin tin. Then roll out the pastry thinly and cut 12 circles and 12 star shapes to go on top as ‘lids’. Press the pastry circles into the tins, add one teaspoon of mincemeat (don’t overload!), then top with the pastry star. Brush with a beaten egg, if you like a shiny finish. Bake for 20-25 minutes, by which time the filling mincemeat will be bubbling. Ease the pies out of the tin, and cool on wire racks, then sprinkle with icing sugar.
My mother in law swears by using flaky puff pastry, and adding half a teaspoon of cream cheese on top of the mincemeat. My own mother swears by buying them from Marks & Spencer and doctoring them with brandy. I like to keep an open mind by taste-testing all options. Don’t forget to leave two mince pies and a glass of sherry out for Santa Claus!
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
* A Terry's Chocolate Orange each
* A bottle of sherry, and a pan of mulled wine
* A box of crackers with terrible jokes and party hats
* The Coronation Street/Eastenders Christmas special, which has to feature a deeply unseasonal family disaster and a surprise birth (to reflect ironically on the time of the year, this should take place in a garage or in the pub loo, or similar)
* A Christmas pudding, with custard AND cream AND brandy butter * Most of your relatives
* A sofa
* mince pies
This year, I'm hosting Christmas in my new house. There are so many boxes still unpacked that I'm hoping Santa doesn't take one look at my study and think some freelance Santa has already made a delivery. I don't have a tree either, on account of the six-month-old basset hound puppy roaming around - not sure I could get adequate contents insurance for the damage he could do with a small fir tree and a kilometer of tinsel. So, to jolly the Yuletide atmos along chez Browne, I spent one afternoon this week making my own mince pies, and the result was such a warm glow of festive bonhomie that I'd love to share it with you now. Hope it works out!
First, make your mincemeat (Don’t worry, no actual minced meat is involved. This, like much English cuisine, tastes a lot nicer than it sounds)
Ingredients:
1 cup Bramley, or any cooking apples, cored and chopped small ½ cup of Atora vegetable suet (or any vegetable shortening, chopped into small pieces)
¾ cup raisins
½ cup sultanas
½ cup currants
½ mixed candied citrus peel (or, if you can’t find any, substitute glace cherries or dried cranberries)
¾ cup dark brown sugar
¼ cup almonds, cut into slivers
juice and zest of 1 orange
juice and zest of 1 lemon
2 teaspoons mixed spice
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
pinch of fresh ground nutmeg
generous shot of brandy, or sherry
All you have to do is to combine everything except the brandy in a big bowl, and then cover it for 12 hours or overnight, to let the fruity, spicy flavours develop. Then sterilize a quart preserving jar, put the mixture in a cool oven (225 degrees F) for three hours, so the vegetable suet melts over the fruit and the apples cook down into a delicious sticky mass. When it’s cooled, stir in the brandy, seal up the jar, and store for at least a week. To make the mince pies, whip up (or buy a packet of) some shortcrust pastry – rub ¼ cup of shortening, and ¼ cup butter into 1 cup all-purpose flour, slowly add fresh orange juice by the dessertspoonful until it comes together into a dough, then knead till smooth. Leave to rest for 30 minutes, while you preheat the oven to 200 degrees F and grease a shallow muffin tin. Then roll out the pastry thinly and cut 12 circles and 12 star shapes to go on top as ‘lids’. Press the pastry circles into the tins, add one teaspoon of mincemeat (don’t overload!), then top with the pastry star. Brush with a beaten egg, if you like a shiny finish. Bake for 20-25 minutes, by which time the filling mincemeat will be bubbling. Ease the pies out of the tin, and cool on wire racks, then sprinkle with icing sugar.
My mother in law swears by using flaky puff pastry, and adding half a teaspoon of cream cheese on top of the mincemeat. My own mother swears by buying them from Marks & Spencer and doctoring them with brandy. I like to keep an open mind by taste-testing all options. Don’t forget to leave two mince pies and a glass of sherry out for Santa Claus!
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
December 17, 2009
Have yourself a very English Christmas
For a truly English Christmas, you need the following:
* A Terry's Chocolate Orange each
* A bottle of sherry, and a pan of mulled wine
* A box of crackers with terrible jokes and party hats
* The Coronation Street/Eastenders Christmas special, which has to feature a deeply unseasonal family disaster and a surprise birth (to reflect ironically on the time of the year, this should take place in a garage or in the pub loo, or similar)
* A Christmas pudding, with custard AND cream AND brandy butter
* Most of your relatives
* A sofa
* mince pies
This year, I'm hosting Christmas in my new house. There are so many boxes still unpacked that I'm hoping Santa doesn't take one look at my study and think some freelance Santa has already made a delivery. I don't have a tree either, on account of the six-month-old basset hound puppy roaming around - not sure I could get adequate contents insurance for the damage he could do with a small fir tree and a kilometer of tinsel. So, to jolly the Yuletide atmos along chez Browne, I spent one afternoon this week making my own mince pies, and the result was such a warm glow of festive bonhomie that I'd love to share it with you now. Hope it works out!
First, make your mincemeat
(Don’t worry, no actual minced meat is involved. This, like much English cuisine, tastes a lot nicer than it sounds)
Ingredients:
1 cup Bramley, or any cooking apples, cored and chopped small
½ cup of Atora vegetable suet (or any vegetable shortening, chopped into small pieces)
¾ cup raisins
½ cup sultanas
½ cup currants
½ mixed candied citrus peel (or, if you can’t find any, substitute glace cherries or dried cranberries)
¾ cup dark brown sugar
¼ cup almonds, cut into slivers
juice and zest of 1 orange
juice and zest of 1 lemon
2 teaspoons mixed spice
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
pinch of fresh ground nutmeg
generous shot of brandy, or sherry
All you have to do is to combine everything except the brandy in a big bowl, and then cover it for 12 hours or overnight, to let the fruity, spicy flavours develop. Then sterilize a quart preserving jar, put the mixture in a cool oven (225 degrees F) for three hours, so the vegetable suet melts over the fruit and the apples cook down into a delicious sticky mass. When it’s cooled, stir in the brandy, seal up the jar, and store for at least a week.
To make the mince pies, whip up (or buy a packet of) some shortcrust pastry – rub ¼ cup of shortening, and ¼ cup butter into 1 cup all-purpose flour, slowly add fresh orange juice by the dessertspoonful until it comes together into a dough, then knead till smooth.
Leave to rest for 30 minutes, while you preheat the oven to 200 degrees F and grease a shallow muffin tin.
Then roll out the pastry thinly and cut 12 circles and 12 star shapes to go on top as ‘lids’. Press the pastry circles into the tins, add one teaspoon of mincemeat (don’t overload!), then top with the pastry star. Brush with a beaten egg, if you like a shiny finish. Bake for 20-25 minutes, by which time the filling mincemeat will be bubbling.
Ease the pies out of the tin, and cool on wire racks, then sprinkle with icing sugar. My mother in law swears by using flaky puff pastry, and adding half a teaspoon of cream cheese on top of the mincemeat. My own mother swears by buying them from Marks & Spencer and doctoring them with brandy. I like to keep an open mind by taste-testing all options.
Don’t forget to leave two mince pies and a glass of sherry out for Santa Claus!
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
* A Terry's Chocolate Orange each
* A bottle of sherry, and a pan of mulled wine
* A box of crackers with terrible jokes and party hats
* The Coronation Street/Eastenders Christmas special, which has to feature a deeply unseasonal family disaster and a surprise birth (to reflect ironically on the time of the year, this should take place in a garage or in the pub loo, or similar)
* A Christmas pudding, with custard AND cream AND brandy butter
* Most of your relatives
* A sofa
* mince pies
This year, I'm hosting Christmas in my new house. There are so many boxes still unpacked that I'm hoping Santa doesn't take one look at my study and think some freelance Santa has already made a delivery. I don't have a tree either, on account of the six-month-old basset hound puppy roaming around - not sure I could get adequate contents insurance for the damage he could do with a small fir tree and a kilometer of tinsel. So, to jolly the Yuletide atmos along chez Browne, I spent one afternoon this week making my own mince pies, and the result was such a warm glow of festive bonhomie that I'd love to share it with you now. Hope it works out!
First, make your mincemeat
(Don’t worry, no actual minced meat is involved. This, like much English cuisine, tastes a lot nicer than it sounds)
Ingredients:
1 cup Bramley, or any cooking apples, cored and chopped small
½ cup of Atora vegetable suet (or any vegetable shortening, chopped into small pieces)
¾ cup raisins
½ cup sultanas
½ cup currants
½ mixed candied citrus peel (or, if you can’t find any, substitute glace cherries or dried cranberries)
¾ cup dark brown sugar
¼ cup almonds, cut into slivers
juice and zest of 1 orange
juice and zest of 1 lemon
2 teaspoons mixed spice
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
pinch of fresh ground nutmeg
generous shot of brandy, or sherry
All you have to do is to combine everything except the brandy in a big bowl, and then cover it for 12 hours or overnight, to let the fruity, spicy flavours develop. Then sterilize a quart preserving jar, put the mixture in a cool oven (225 degrees F) for three hours, so the vegetable suet melts over the fruit and the apples cook down into a delicious sticky mass. When it’s cooled, stir in the brandy, seal up the jar, and store for at least a week.
To make the mince pies, whip up (or buy a packet of) some shortcrust pastry – rub ¼ cup of shortening, and ¼ cup butter into 1 cup all-purpose flour, slowly add fresh orange juice by the dessertspoonful until it comes together into a dough, then knead till smooth.
Leave to rest for 30 minutes, while you preheat the oven to 200 degrees F and grease a shallow muffin tin.
Then roll out the pastry thinly and cut 12 circles and 12 star shapes to go on top as ‘lids’. Press the pastry circles into the tins, add one teaspoon of mincemeat (don’t overload!), then top with the pastry star. Brush with a beaten egg, if you like a shiny finish. Bake for 20-25 minutes, by which time the filling mincemeat will be bubbling.
Ease the pies out of the tin, and cool on wire racks, then sprinkle with icing sugar. My mother in law swears by using flaky puff pastry, and adding half a teaspoon of cream cheese on top of the mincemeat. My own mother swears by buying them from Marks & Spencer and doctoring them with brandy. I like to keep an open mind by taste-testing all options.
Don’t forget to leave two mince pies and a glass of sherry out for Santa Claus!
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
October 9, 2009
By any other name
It sounds ridiculous, but for me, the hardest part of any book isn't the plan or the plot or the setting, but working out what the characters are called. The house is littered with Baby Name books, to the point where my mother's constantly wondering if there's something I'm not telling her. My favourite guilty resource is an English classic from the early 90s, which shamelessly divides names into stereotypes - brainy, classic, dated, swash-buckling heroine, tree-hugging hero. I much prefer it to my other regular, a more modern book, which tells you which nouns you can turn into babynames, and states quite unequivocally that Hester is 'too uncool to inflict on any child'.
It's not even a matter of picking names you like for your characters, either. I mean, I adore the colour purple but I'm under strict and despairing instructions not to paint our new house in 'shades of bruise' just because I can't resist picking up paint tins with the word 'violet' written on them. (Oooh. Violet. Note to self: good heroine name) If I called all my characters my favourite names, every single book would be about Bonham and Dora and they'd persist in doing absolutely nothing. And of course you can't use the names of your friends, particularly the men - they're already convinced I'm writing about them anyway, so to call the romantic hero Hugo or Nat would have them running for a restraining order.
The right name for the girl you're rooting for through the novel has to be unusual enough for her to stand out from the romantic crowd of Katies and Tillys, but not irritatingly so; I can't warm to a heroine with a kooky nickname right off. It always feels lazy, as if the author wants to tell me just how ker-razy she is, without actually showing me why. I think I'll be the judge of just how maaad she is, thanks. And yet the subtle connotations of certain names can help to fix a character from the first chapter, so it has to be right. I can see the characters in my head straight away, but for some reason, the names don't always come with them; in that respect, I suppose I'm a bit like a very incompetent medium. Nelson Barber and Melissa Romney-Jones I got straight away, but Jonathan Riley was called something very different for the first draft of The Little Lady Agency - and it took a long conversation with a patient American friend to fix on just the right combination. I won't even start on the minefield of UK perceptions vs US ones. That's a whole other kettle.
Over the last few weeks I've been writing madly, and driving my very patient agent, Lizzy, mad, demanding more and more names from her - and rejecting most of them. The story is well underway, and I have my moody hero sorted out (Fraser), I have the heroine's bossy sister (Rosie), I have Rosie's super-polite boyfriend (Douglas), I have her smooth-talking boss (Max) - I just need to find the right name for my chestnut-haired, antique-loving, clutter-junkie, bespectacled heroine.
This morning, I'm going to turn to the ultimate name-finding oracle and decide: The Times births, deaths and marriages section. It hasn't let me down yet.
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
It's not even a matter of picking names you like for your characters, either. I mean, I adore the colour purple but I'm under strict and despairing instructions not to paint our new house in 'shades of bruise' just because I can't resist picking up paint tins with the word 'violet' written on them. (Oooh. Violet. Note to self: good heroine name) If I called all my characters my favourite names, every single book would be about Bonham and Dora and they'd persist in doing absolutely nothing. And of course you can't use the names of your friends, particularly the men - they're already convinced I'm writing about them anyway, so to call the romantic hero Hugo or Nat would have them running for a restraining order.
The right name for the girl you're rooting for through the novel has to be unusual enough for her to stand out from the romantic crowd of Katies and Tillys, but not irritatingly so; I can't warm to a heroine with a kooky nickname right off. It always feels lazy, as if the author wants to tell me just how ker-razy she is, without actually showing me why. I think I'll be the judge of just how maaad she is, thanks. And yet the subtle connotations of certain names can help to fix a character from the first chapter, so it has to be right. I can see the characters in my head straight away, but for some reason, the names don't always come with them; in that respect, I suppose I'm a bit like a very incompetent medium. Nelson Barber and Melissa Romney-Jones I got straight away, but Jonathan Riley was called something very different for the first draft of The Little Lady Agency - and it took a long conversation with a patient American friend to fix on just the right combination. I won't even start on the minefield of UK perceptions vs US ones. That's a whole other kettle.
Over the last few weeks I've been writing madly, and driving my very patient agent, Lizzy, mad, demanding more and more names from her - and rejecting most of them. The story is well underway, and I have my moody hero sorted out (Fraser), I have the heroine's bossy sister (Rosie), I have Rosie's super-polite boyfriend (Douglas), I have her smooth-talking boss (Max) - I just need to find the right name for my chestnut-haired, antique-loving, clutter-junkie, bespectacled heroine.
This morning, I'm going to turn to the ultimate name-finding oracle and decide: The Times births, deaths and marriages section. It hasn't let me down yet.
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
September 28, 2009
Feeling very September
Although it's (cough) several years since I had that back to school feeling for real, there's a whiff of Autumn Term here in Hereford. For one thing, the whole town smells of apple pie, from the Bulmers cider presses: delicious! For another I've got new shoes, from Clarks, the ultimate English September destination for black regulation lace-ups - one pair is gorgeous red suede but the other is sensible black patent, for puddles. (Mum, you would be proud)
We've just moved into a new, very old house, with an Aga warming up the kitchen, and nothing says autumn like an Aga. The novelty of constant toast and a whistling kettle still hasn't worn off (brushes crumbs off laptop). To make the unpacking and redecorating even more complicated, I'm also house training our new puppy, Violet's son, Bonham. Anyone who's ever tried to house train a basset hound will know that the door to the garden needs to be open at all times, whatever the weather, so Violet and I are huddled next to it while Bonham trots in and out on his huge puppy paws.
But what's really Back to School-y is that I'm deep in crisp notebooks and first drafts of a new book, which is exciting - new people to "meet", new relationships to nose around in, hopefully new jokes. It's set in Scotland in February, around a reeling ball, so I'm trying to immerse myself in imaginary snowbound lodges and roaring log fires, as well as the crackling romance. There's nothing like disappearing into a world of your own while the nights draw in - I'm looking forward to a very romantic autumn, even if most of it will be in my own head!
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
We've just moved into a new, very old house, with an Aga warming up the kitchen, and nothing says autumn like an Aga. The novelty of constant toast and a whistling kettle still hasn't worn off (brushes crumbs off laptop). To make the unpacking and redecorating even more complicated, I'm also house training our new puppy, Violet's son, Bonham. Anyone who's ever tried to house train a basset hound will know that the door to the garden needs to be open at all times, whatever the weather, so Violet and I are huddled next to it while Bonham trots in and out on his huge puppy paws.
But what's really Back to School-y is that I'm deep in crisp notebooks and first drafts of a new book, which is exciting - new people to "meet", new relationships to nose around in, hopefully new jokes. It's set in Scotland in February, around a reeling ball, so I'm trying to immerse myself in imaginary snowbound lodges and roaring log fires, as well as the crackling romance. There's nothing like disappearing into a world of your own while the nights draw in - I'm looking forward to a very romantic autumn, even if most of it will be in my own head!
Get more on Hester Browne at SimonandSchuster.com
