Jane Brocket's Blog, page 16

a ballad of peckham rye

[Peckham Rye corner mosaic]

I feel I now know the long, slow A202/A2 road in South London that links Vauxhall to Camberwell to Peckham to New Cross to Lewisham to Greenwich. These are all almost magical realist places I've heard about in the mythological and media tales of London south of the river, but are places that I've never had reason to visit until recently. It's a fantastic journey full of greengrocers, delis, sirens, two famously creative colleges (here and here), even a pie and mash (and eel) shop, and people, so many people, on the streets. It's magical, and it's real life acted out in front of you, fascinating to watch as you drive.

[aerial map of Peckham outside a Peckham Rye cafe]

So far I haven't stopped to look around or deviate from the main road, except when we visited the South London Gallery (lovely building, great little bookshop, art that's beyond me) and the very good cafe. But Peckham beckoned, especially the area around Peckham Rye which sounds so bucolic and poetic it's hard to believe it's SE15. As if to confirm my suspicion that places like PR might not actually exist, it's a place of great stories; there's the strange, very magical realist Ballad of Peckham Rye,  and the Review Bookshop where you can buy a copy of All the Birds, Singing from the author. 

[Peckham Rye from Brick House Bakery]

It's also got some lovely corners. The bookshop is on a corner, there are two huge PR mosaics on corner houses, there's a handsome old corner pub, and Petitou (highly recommended) is in what looks like an old butcher's shop on a corner of Choumert Road. 

[Prince Albert pub, corner of Bellenden Road and Chadwick Road]

Then there's Bellenden Road and the contrasting Rye Lane, Peckham Rye bread on sale at Anderson & Co, the PR Common (where William Blake had a vision of a tree filled with angels), the Bussey Building, and the Peckham Plex (great prices and great films, I'm told). There's also the 1865 PR station, now on the Overground (an amazing line - just look at the map) where, one day, I want to see the Old Waiting Room. Now there's a true piece of London magical realism. 

 

real baking

 

This equally - or possibly more - tatty book features another of my best-loved covers.  It's a simple, textured and utterly mouth-watering image (just look at the translucent candied fruit) and it makes me want to bake every time I take it down it from the shelf. It has seen me through university, baking in nice/horrible shared houses, baking for friends, baking for family. There is nothing showy about it, and the instructions are straightforward and sensible. Although the original 1964 sub-title was 'with an Irish and Scottish accent', there are no lyrical passages about Ireland and Scotland so sadly Margaret Bates didn't do for those countries what Elizabeth David did for France and Italy. Neverthless, the results are always brilliant and even better if you use butter rather than margarine (it has to be remembered that MB was writing at the height of the 1960s margarine moment). This is not my first copy as I gave several away at university, but I am hanging onto this one as I don't think anything else will ever surpass the cover for sheer deliciousness. 

[Looking at the several 1970s Penguin cookery titles that I own, I now realise that they are all part of the same groundbreaking series that had very simple photography on a black or dark background. The other well-thumbed titles on my shelf are Herbs, Spices and Flavourings by Tom Stobart which opened up an exotic world for me as I read it in bed, and Cooking in a Bedsitter whose cover now looks a little dubious and very 10 Rillington Place.]

wishful cooking

Without doubt, one of my all-time favourite book covers. I bought my first copy of this edition when I was 13; the cover photo seduced me into believing I could transform my life from Stockport-chips-with-everything into Stockport-effortlessly-stylish-and-tasteful. Of course, as soon as I got the book home I realised I would never be able to find or afford the ingredients required to live the Elizabeth David life in the north west; figs, tarragon, sole, muscat grapes, veal, morello cherries, marsala and lobster are still not exactly commonplace in Stockport. (Not so long ago I went to a greengrocer's and asked if they had any fresh coriander and was told, 'no, love, you need to go to a fresh coriander shop for that'.)

Despite the fact that I have never cooked from this lovely looking book, the cover is now tatty and dog-eared from having moved from kitchen to kitchen over the years. It's my wishful cooking/thinking talisman, a reminder of my powerful youthful belief in something beyond being 13 and living in Stockport. But because I never found a single recipe I could make from what we had locally or at home (there's not much you can do with butterscotch Angel Delight, is there?), I have never really got on with Elizabeth David - she belongs to world I still haven't discovered. 

When we were in Aldeburgh recently, I bought a cheap second copy of the book with a much better cover (above) from the second-hand bookshop because I couldn't leave it in the window and because I think I should perhaps frame it. These days, I may cook from more accessible, affordable and realistic books by Nigel Slater and Madhur Jaffrey and Annie Bell, there is still a part of me that believes I shall, one day, attain a fresh fig and cream cheese (p 213) lifestyle. 

new workshop date

Ray-Stitch have just added another half log cabin workshop date to their calendar. I'll be teaching it on Sunday, 13th October, and all details are here.

I've written about this workshop here and here (the Nov 10th date is now sold out).

It's in a great place, it's easy, and it's very enjoyable.

thank you again

Thank you again for the many kind messages of sympathy following the post about my Mum's death at the end of August. I've taken the post down as no-one really wants to see a death notice on a regular basis, and we have to get on with our everyday lives. It was a good funeral, and it was lovely to see so many friends, family and neighbours, and so many faces from the past. All the grandchildren were amazing. As a parent, you experience pride when your young child does all sorts of things (recognises turquoise as a colour, constructs a meaningful sentence, eats broccoli, makes a friend), but I've discovered that there is a new sort of pride when you see how your three just-adult children comport themselves at their Nana's funeral and at the gathering afterwards. 

thank you

Thank you for the many kind messages of sympathy.

I'll be back sometime soon.

a matter of life and death

My Mum died a few days ago.

I used to worry that she would die before I was eighteen, because that was the age at which I could become the legal guardian of my three siblings. My father died when I was seven and my brother was six. My mother's mother died less than four months later, just two weeks before my brother and sister were born. It was a matter of great concern to me for years that Mum should carry on living long enough for all of us - not just me - to reach eighteen. She did, but then my brother died before her sixteen years ago which was all wrong. My other brother, sister and I, though, had a lot longer with Mum than I, with my anxious outlook, ever really imagined we'd have.

And now it's all over. It happened a little sooner and faster than we'd expected, even though she was terribly ill with cancer. Mum died at home with my incredible sister, wonderful auntie (her sister), and my stepfather by her side, while I was on a plane, trying to get there before it was too late. I was too late. Then phone calls had to be made, arrangements sorted out, and we have all found out just how much has to be done when someone dies. 

I've been home for a day, back to Stockport, home again, and there is more to be done. We pay tribute later this week. We have talked and talked and laughed and cried, and hope that we are putting together the funeral Mum wanted, something that does justice to her immensely strong and determined personality and conveys how much was packed into one very full life. Although there were too many premature deaths in it, she always knew how to live.

to the river

I don't know a great deal about wild flowers and rivers, but I do know I like wandering down to the allotments in Aldeburgh to see the marsh and the Alde river and the stolid Martello tower on one side of the path,

and the dahlias and sunflowers, runner beans and beetroot, on the other.

I do know that the berries are rowan berries, and the hips are rose hips, and that bright blue skies and unaltered colours suit Aldeburgh as well as misty greys and soft pastels.

But after reading To the River, I realise how limited my knowledge is. Which is why it's worth reading the book. 

good things in england

Good things this weekend:

Aldeburgh. Fish and chips. The Aldeburgh Bookshop. The secondhand bookshop. The beach. The ever-changing weather. A first reading of Georges Simenon and a first encounter with Maigret (I soaked up the weather, atmosphere, food and wine in Porquerolles in My Friend Maigret and now I'm back in Paris in A Man's Head). Local strawberries that have real strawberry flavour and sweetness, unlike supermarket strawberries. The best raspberry jam ever. A walk to the Scallop. Putting off anything more strenuous. Making plans to be more strenuous. Not worrying if it never happens.

grey

Grey is a contextual colour. Lovely on Persephone Books. Flattering in knitwear. Beautiful on doves and in quilts. But not what you want to see at the Oval for an Ashes match. A few pearlescent grey or Cary Grant-silver clouds perhaps, but not the lead and slate and pewter skies that are full of rain, like those we had yesterday morning.  

Still it brightened up, and the thunderous grey turned to concrete-grey then ash-grey and eventually to a grey pale enough for the rain to stop. Then the men in white (and matching clouds) came out, and we had an afternoon of drying out and watching some great cricket. 

(Many thanks to Z. for the tickets.)