|
Post by meganl on Sept 8, 2016 7:34:20 GMT
Its food Jim but not as we know it.
Even today an Orkney wedding is a little different from its counterparts further south. It starts with the blackening, one of the messiest uses of foodstuff ever invented. The unlucky future bride and groom, separately for it would not do for them to be paraded on the same day, are kidnapped by their "friends". They are then covered in treacle, flour, eggs and anything else the said friends can think of, placed on the back of a lorry and driven around the town to the noisy accompaniment of banging pans and whistles. Their victim (oops friend) is finally tied to if in Kirkwall either the merkat cross outside the cathedral or a new choice is the lamp post on the mini roundabout beside the harbour. This nowadays is achieved with a handy roll of clingfilm, and there they stay till some noble passer by takes pity on them and cuts them loose. Where upon their friends intervene once more taking them either to the slipway or out to Scapa beach and dunking them in the water, purely to help them get clean you understand.
In the toon most wedding receptions are like elsewhere held in local hotels but on the smaller islands it is still occasionally possible to have the reception in the barn. The last one I attended was on the island of Papa Westray, not a wedding but a wedding anniversary. Dauvits uncle and aunt were celebrating their ruby wedding.
The hayloft was scrubbed and trestle tables laid down the sides of this long room, paper chains and greenery were hung around and every house on the island was raided for chairs(not a problem since everybody on the island would be attending. I was well warned to take warm clothes since even with the calor heaters there was a nasty draught.
A cog ( a communal drinking vessel made of wooden staves) was made ready for folk arriving to ward of the chill then the fiddler struck up for the Grand March. In other places it may be led by a piper but Papay has no piper so the Couple were led in by a fiddler. They march to the far end of the room and back on the next round they are joined by the bridesmaid and best man and so it goes till everyone is in the hall.
After a few dances everything stops for dinner Usually the woman folk would all make pots of mince and clapshot( a mix of potato and swede) which would be taken to the hall in this case the nearest cottage and heated up before serving. another few hours of dancing they would stop for supper of stovies again a community effort, since most celebrations involved the whole island it was though only fair that the whole island helped with it. Around two in the morning or a bit later if they were still energetic soup and sandwiches would bolster them for the final round of dancing.
We finally left the last few souls to it and crawled into bed at about five in the morning needless to say other than milking and feeding the beasts there was little work done on the island the next day and anyone who spoke did so in hushed tones. It makes me laugh when I here youngsters at wedding in the too which stop about midnight saying how tired they are.
|
|
|
Post by sandrainsydney on Sept 8, 2016 23:05:21 GMT
another wonderful description of Island life
|
|
|
Post by meganl on Sept 9, 2016 13:34:30 GMT
Thinking of Papay reminded me of another visit to the island sadly this time for a funeral. Dauvit's Mother was born on the island but came into the toon(Kirkwall) to go into private service, her sister Isobel remained on the island only coming into the town just a few years before her death. Now even on these far flung islands we have a proper hearse nowadays although the councils old horse drawn hearse is still kept safe and occasionally used. So it was that when Isobel died her coffin was placed in the hearse and driven to the ferry. Those of us going out from the mainland followed behind and when safely aboard headed to the passenger lounge to while away the hour and a half journey to the neighbouring island of Westray. There is no option but to go to Westray first since Papa Westray does not have a ro-ro pier for the ferry to dock at. We travelled through the village to the house of her oldest son and waited there till the Amaranth School boat had taken the majority of the mourners over to Papay at last Her family led us down to the village pier, The ro-ro pier being at the other end of the island and we waited respectfully while John Corse Backed his hearse down to the steps. Aunt Isobel was Plymouth Brethren so there was no minister but one of the elders and his wife came out from Kirkwall to conduct the service. The men carefully escorted the lady and my self down the rather slippery steps and into the small cabin which had been fitted several years before for the school run. We watched silently as the men carefully passed the casket down the steps and carried her into the cabin. Dauvit and the Elder entered the cabin with us to keep her company on her final sea journey while her sons and the other pallbearers stood outside since they were all fishermen and somewhat superstitious even a storm would have been hard put to get them to enter the cabin while at sea. At the Papay pier the process was reversed as those of us considered as the Elders(this does not in Orkney necessarily refer to age)Disembarked to await her arrival on shore. Standing waiting for us was the island minibus and a tractor with a trailer attached to carry Isobel. Everyone settled we slowly made our way up the length of the islands stopping for a moment at every house so people could come out and fall in behind us till we reached the 8th century church of St Bonniface which had recently been conserved church. The islanders filed past the coffin as they silently entered the sparse little church John Corse guided the pall bearers as they lifted Isobel onto their shoulders and we followed them into the church. Later back on Westray there were several hours to wait till the evening sailing back to Kirkwall we gathered at Willies house and sat wherever we could find a space. The elder and his wife had gone to visit with family and as soon as the food a good hearty soup to chase away the chill and rolls so well filled they could be mistaken for cannonballs was consumed one of the men turned to an older lady who had come out from Kirkwall offering to take her to visit with a friend. She demurred at putting them to the trouble but he insisted it was of no trouble at all. It was only as the car taking her to her friends house passed the window that we realised the men had an ulterior motive for their kindness as a bottle of Highland Park materialised on the table and was quickly passed around. John Mindful that he would have to be driving his hearse home carefully nursed his dram till one of the women took pity and started the kettle going for tea and more sandwiches with plenty of baking to sustain us on the long journey home. I got talking to one of the older men who told me that not many years ago they would have brought her "hame oan the oars" at my confused look he explained that until recently the men of the island would have met them at the pier with boat oars onto which they would load the coffin before each took their turn carrying it on the two mile journey to the Kirk. On the sail home the older lady smiled beneficently upon us in a way that suggested she had partaken of a glass or two of sweetie wine(which Orcadians have since arrived assured me was non alcoholic)and announced loudly that "That was the best funeral I have ever been to"
|
|
maeve
Member
Posts: 1,154
|
Post by maeve on Sept 9, 2016 14:04:59 GMT
Oh I did enjoy this "visit" into your memories.
|
|
|
Post by meganl on Sept 13, 2016 14:30:30 GMT
I was sitting this morning making some Christmas cards when memories started waltzing around my brain. When I was little it was as common in Scotland to receive a card with Yuletide Greetings as it was to get one that mentioned Christmas I am trying to think when it changed since I could only find one stamp or die with that wording this year.
That led Mrs Grumpalot to consider when did I know it was Christmas, I am not thinking about the hype and adverts that seem to start earlier each year but that moment when you stop in your tracks and think "It's here".
A few years ago I was wandering through Kirkwall as the shops were getting ready to close, it was dark with the fine misty smir of rain that creeps through the hardiest of jackets to wrap itself around you. As I passed the house with the squint windows it is so old that it has settled leaving widows and floors at all sorts of strange angles and the walls covered with ivy. The sparrows were squabbling furiously, gossiping with each other about the days events safely hidden from local cats as they rustled and fluttered before settling down for the night. It was at that moment I knew Christmas was coming, Stopping for a moment I closed my eyes and listened to the evening sounds of the sparrows blethering and people splashing by in tired anxiousness to get home.
I sighed in pleasure as my mind flew back to the childhood events that caused this to be my special moment. We always went into George Square in Glasgow on the twenty second or twenty third of December to see the lights and the big tree with its giant combs and other strange make believe gifts attached to the branches. At the far end of the square on the back wall of the tourist office was always the nativity its bright lights attracted round eyed children.
From there we would head down Buchanan Street to do some last minute shopping and to stand before John Lewis's window to see what their display was, back then they were one of the few stores in Glasgow to have any kind of movement in their display. If there was money we would stop at House of Fraser to buy mum a treat of 2 ounce of Blue Mountain coffee, even if we were skint we would head there to gaze at the small roasting machine they had in the window and the wonderful smell that came every time the door opened.
At last it would be time to head home so our fiery tired feet slowly made their way along Argyle street till we could turn into Hope street. We always seemed to do our visit on a day that turned foggy as the street lamps began to fight the fog to give puddles of light to the weary traveller.
Our bus stop was about half way up the street it always seemed so dark after the bright Christmas lights of Buchanan Street but there was one point of brightness right where our bus stop was and Dad would lift me up so I could watch the Evening times being printed I guess having an engineer as a father it was no surprise that I found it a magical place. As we waited the city noises would almost be drowned out by the sound of Starlings and Pigeons which in those days roosted on the ledges of windows and rooftops.
So you can keep your canned music, snow and animated displays, a damp foggy evening with chattering birds and sore feet will always bee my Christmas alarm clock.
|
|
|
Post by sandrainsydney on Sept 13, 2016 23:18:47 GMT
On a hot summer Sydney Christmas day we can think about your cold Christmas - we sstll get lots of European-inspired cards & decorations
|
|
|
Post by meganl on Sept 18, 2016 9:29:32 GMT
I remember being told by sister in law that her friends served her a full roast turkey and all the trimmings on a boiling hot day because it was Christmas. Like the cartoons Sandra especially the library card.
|
|
|
Post by sandrainsydney on Sept 19, 2016 0:46:15 GMT
many Australian families have the full English-style Christmas dinner - sensible ones get seafood, cold meat & salads, cos cooking in kitchens in 30+ degrees Celcius is not a good idea & never has been. I've seen pictures of Colonial wives cooking over open fires or in kitchens with wood-burning stoves. I've seen my mum doing the same in a 1960s kitchen, but in later years she & many of her contempories went for easier meals.
|
|
|
Post by meganl on Sept 20, 2016 18:47:14 GMT
It's been a bits and pieces day here met someone I have not seen for about 12 years she exclaimed "I am so glad to meet you I have two books of yours." well that proves memory is not infallible I struggled to think what books I had loaned. I went back to her house and struggled up to the flat.
the first book was a heavy tome about the second world war home front that I had bought for David when I saw it I knew it right away. She fussed around for a while- safe places are never that - eventually I heard a shout of triumph and she came back with what looked like some folded paper in her hand. when she handed them to me I gasped in surprise there before me was a slim volume of my dad's and my own war poems all I need to do now is to find some suitable illustrations. I had thought they were gone for good as that was one of the files lost when my computer crashed.
|
|
maeve
Member
Posts: 1,154
|
Post by maeve on Sept 20, 2016 20:01:10 GMT
Oh, Megan, What treasure from such a steadfast friend! I can imagine your surprise and delight to see the poems, especially. You've made my day!
|
|
|
Post by sandrainsydney on Sept 20, 2016 23:49:45 GMT
me too!
|
|
|
Post by meganl on Sept 21, 2016 18:55:50 GMT
Well folks you can blame this one on Doreen the twins mum you see the County Industrial show took place the other day always a wee bit after the County Agricultural show, the twins entered so I had asked how they got on and got the following answer
" They did well! They entered 8 items each and won 7 prizes each. Megan got 1st for lego, 2nd for play doh, 2nd for decorated egg, 3rd finger painting, 3rd hand writing, 3rd decorated plate and 3rd for mask. Alex got 1st for play doh, 1st for decorated plate, 1st for decorated egg, 1st for mask, 2nd for lego, 2nd for finger painting and 3rd for other craft. Phew! I need a lie down!"
She then went on to tell me of an incident that happened and that sent my poor wee brain twirrlin aboot like a peerie(spinning top as opposed to a Shetland peerie which means small)
Now Mrs Mcbain was the terror o the parish wan o those wifies that thinks she's awfy good at everything but kens nothing I mean wha else wid pit syrup o figs in their date loaf. This year the committee carefully noted which cakes she had placed and discretely marked them so the judge would know to cut the cake but under no circumstance to try it since they did not want a repeat of last years problem thankfully the insurance covered the attempted poisoning of a judge.
She took it into her head to enter the Jam and marmalade section as well for she wid surely win a prize for that after all how hard could it be to mak a pot o jam. well you would not have thought it would be to difficult but the judge for that section was seen to fall to her knees in thankful prayer after her spoon bounced of the top of the jam for the third time since it was set like Paddy Casey's best concrete.
At last the judging was done and folk were allowed back in the hall to see how well they had done Mrs McBain's scowl grew as she checked the cakes not even an honourable mention these peasant did not recognise talent when they saw it her knitted cot blanket fared no better in fact she had been disqualified for entering a three breasted brassiere instead of a blanket. She was most put out that the judge had apparently not even tried her best strawberry jam twa pun o strawberries and fower pun o sugar and she had made sure tae boil it long enough no like the anaemic things that Bessie Corse and her daughter Lizzie turned oot whit wid near pour ooto the jar.
It was then she noticed who had won first and second prize in the jam section Lizzie Corse got first and her mither cam second. Those nearbye heard the famous battle sniff and moved out of the way as she said in a stage whisper that could be heard three islands away "Weel we aw ken they baith cam ooto the same jar. That was the signal for everyone to look at Bessie normally the most mild mannered o buddies always willing to teach a young bride how to mak tempting hearty fare fur her man fur a weel fed puggie(belly) disny alow a man tae wander far frae hame.
Now Bessie might have ignored that auld windbag if she hadn't insulted her daughter. "Whit wis that you said Aggie McBain ah'll hae ye ken that bought jam his never crossed the lintel o ma hoose ma Lizzie is a finer cook than you wid ever be fur aw the years ye hae on her and at least she never poisoned ane o the judges. A farm wifies handbag is a terrible weapon at close range and they were flying like straw frae the back o the harvester.
It is sad I am to relate that There will be no service in the kirk this Sunday since Mr Clark the minister sought to intervene to restore peace and was soundly thumped from both sides rendering the poor man insensible Dr Burgher insisted the polis be called before he would even think of entering the hall to tend his patient. The members o the kirk session visited the minister in hospital and took him a bunch o grapes which they promptly ate seeing as grapes made wine and they widny want the minister led intae temptation.
And that dear friends is the tale of the battle of the county industrial show. Auld Rab o gutterpittan was heard to say that they should have charged folk to view the fight to raise money for the organ fund and as a quiet aside that only the hard of hearing could managed announced that it was the best sermon the minister had did in years.
|
|
maeve
Member
Posts: 1,154
|
Post by maeve on Sept 21, 2016 20:28:47 GMT
Brilliant, Megan! laughing still, me!
|
|
|
Post by meganl on Sept 27, 2016 10:04:43 GMT
Back to real food today the wind is already at 45 mph and promising worse so it is a day to stay safely indoors and wrap your hands round a warm bowl of soup. There is a lot of talk nowadays about nose to tail eating, of course it is nothing new my gran used to say "Use what you have and you'll never want."
I came across an old recipe book probably pre war, the cover is gone so not one hundred percent certain it contained recipes for soups made from things most folk would turn their noses up at nowadays like kidney liver rabbit and hare.
Mum used to say "If you have nothing you kin aye mak a pot o soup." And I guess she is right her father was killed in France a few months before she was born and her mother was left with six children of school age or younger and the army pension wouldn't keep one person alive never mind a family so they had to live on what little her mother could make helping out on farms or doing washing for folks. I recently translated one of her recipes into modern terms for a lass that was doing a soup alphabet.
This is what she printed N is for Nettle
I would like to thank one of my followers, Davidina Sinclair, for sharing with me their family recipe which has been handed down the generations and for being allowed to share it all with you.
nettle soup
Ingredients
Half a bag of nettles
Water to blanch
1 onion
Some wild garlic (ransoms)
Knob of butter
1 litre Vegetable or chicken stock
Some pouring cream
Method 1.In a colander, rinse the nettles in batches then put in the pan with some water and blanch for a short while. 2.In a pan, melt the butter and add the onion and some chopped ransoms. Allow them to soften but do not let it colour. Once this is done then put into a pot with the chopped up nettles and the stock. 3.Remove from the heat and using a hand stick blender puree and then season to taste. 4.When serving up, swirl a little cream on top.
Bit late in the year for fresh nettles so I will just have to raid the fridge and see what I have.
|
|
maeve
Member
Posts: 1,154
|
Post by maeve on Sept 27, 2016 10:16:17 GMT
Sounds delicious, Megan! We don't have stinging nettles here, so I use Collard greens or kale.
|
|