We've Got Crabs

 

One of the cardinal rules of blogging is to get and keep your readers’ attention with an attention-grabbing headline. Hence my title this week. Welcome.

 

Autumn is the busy season for the jelly, chutney and preserve makers amongst us. Out comes the River Cottage Book of Preserves by Pam the Jam and a strange and arcane selection of equipment. Maslin pans. Ladles. Spouts and funnels. Muslin. Any jelly maker worth their salt will be off foraging for free hedgerow ingredients.

My favourite jelly is crab apple. It's incredibly easy to make. You pick crab apples and give them a bit of a wash under the tap. You put them in a pan with some water and stew them for a bit. Then you strain the pulp through muslin. In the morning, you’ve got a pan full of syrup which you boil vigorously with sugar. The resulting jelly is a charming pale pink and goes incredibly well with cheese.  

Wild apple trees are often covered with shiny, glossy fruit which simply cries out to be picked. Blackberry bushes are bejewelled with their little black treasures. Crab apples are small, scabby, misshapen and gnarled. They don’t exactly fill you with confidence.

 

I haven’t been able to find any crab apples since we moved to Suffolk. I appealed on Facebook in August and got three replies. (Thanks Carolyn, Nicola and Pat). Earlier this week, on one of the last days of summer, Mr Leigh and myself went down to our neighbour’s farm armed with a tub and some cardboard boxes. It was a beautiful day. The sun glanced coyly through thick growing trees, casting dappled shade on the ground. As we followed Carolyn to the site of the crab apples, bouncing along on the rutted track, we seemed to be leaving the 21^st century behind and meandering back into a quieter, kinder time. Carolyn left us to it and we stood gazing at the branches of the intertwined trees loaded with fruit.

 

For an hour or so, we picked crab apples while birds sang. It was idyllic. The peace and quiet was only punctuated by helicopters flying low overhead (we live near an Army base) and muffled cries of pain as we stung ourselves on nettles and caught ourselves on brambles.

 

I couldn’t tell you how many pounds we picked. Enough to make crab apple jelly to feed an army, for sure. Driving slowly back as the sun slid languorously down in the sky and the shadows lengthened, I gazed out of the car window at the gentle inclines of rich red Suffolk soil and thought about how something which looks completely unprepossessing can be so filled with goodness.

You can’t eat crab apples raw unless you want to take the roof of your mouth off. They’re sour and inedible. They’re not going to win any beauty contests. Once you soften them up and add sugar, however, they’re transformed into a shimmering rose-coloured jelly.

 

Sixteen years ago, I was fairly unprepossessing myself. If you’d told me that I’d be living in this beautiful place with all of Nature’s bounty on my doorstep, I’d have laughed in your face. I needed to be softened up and sweetened a bit.

 

So, now I’ve got crabs and by the end of the week, I should have plenty more. I’m in my element, taking something which doesn’t look that nice and transforming it into something beautiful. Jelly making is a mixture of alchemy, chemistry and a sprinkling of magic. It’s good for the soul and pretty beneficial to the larder too. 

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

Thanks But No Thanks

There are certain professions in this life which attract rejection. My days are a catwalk model are long gone, but I still remember taking my coltish limbs, pouting lips and luxuriant hair from one agent to another and hearing those dreaded words, “Sorry, darling, your look is too last season.” When I finally made it, bursting on to the fashion world as the muse of legendary designer, St John de Laslos, I was able to laugh in the faces of those who had crushed my youthful dreams.

Tiring of the vacuous world of modelling, I turned to acting, as you’ll know if you’ve followed my career. I appeared in a handful of critically acclaimed arthouse movies, cementing my reputation as the inspiration for the short-lived Film Mwah movement. Success didn’t come overnight for me. I had to get used to letters of rejection from directors, telling me that my radiant beauty and international fame would overshadow the true meaning of their films.

At thirty, two Oscars and a Bafta under my belt, I felt it was time to wave goodbye to La La Land and allow my remarkable gift for writing to flow unchecked. And so, now one of the UK’s most revered authors, I sit in my well-appointed writing studio, framed letters of rejection papering the walls and muse on the strange and febrile nature of success.

OK. I’m back. Don’t worry, it’s still me. I am sitting in the dining room, laptop perched on my knee, straggly hair in plaits (nice!) with the smell of dinner drifting in from the kitchen and a tottering pile of clean washing just within my eye line.

Most weeks, I get to early evening on a Wednesday and ask myself what on earth I’m going to write about this week. I’ve spent the last few days working on my novel, The Diary of Isabella M Smugge, non-stop. The deadline to have it finished and with the publisher is in thirteen days’ time. I love a deadline. It really sharpens the mind.

Let’s go back to rejection. I was rejected by four publishers before Isabella found a home with Instant Apostle, God bless them. This, of course, is nothing, compared to the twelve rejections that JK Rowling received before Bloomsbury accepted Harry Potter. Imagine being one of those publishers. You’d never be able to let it go.

The Beatles were rejected by a Decca Records executive back in 1962. According to them, guitar groups were on the way out. “He must be kicking himself now,” mused Paul. “I hope he kicks himself to death!” riposted John.

And how about this letter of rejection from Marvel to Jim Lee, now Chief Creative Officer of DC Comics? “Your work looks as if it were done by four different people. We suggest you resubmit when your work is consistent and you have learned to draw hands.”

The thing about being a creative type, like what I am, is that you really believe in the work you produce. Few writers have the gift of constant inspiration. As Thomas Edison once said, “Genius is one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration.” You might come up with a brilliant idea, but it takes work and lots of it to hone it into a good piece of text.

When someone says, “That’s not for us” or, “Your style isn’t quite what we’re looking for at the moment,” it’s hard not to take it personally. Doors closing in our faces can discourage us from trying again. But it’s important that we do.

Where would the world of mechanical cleaning be without Mr Dyson and his persistence in the face of rejection? No-one took him up on his revolutionary idea for a bagless vacuum cleaner for over fifteen years but he never gave up. Now, he’s a billionaire.

Dear readers, I was never a catwalk model. Nor am I an Oscar-winning actor. You probably knew that. But I am a writer and I do know all about rejection. It’s hard, it’s tough, but if you keep believing in yourself and fixing your eyes on the goal, you will, one day, get that email or that phone call that makes all your dreams come true.

I’m racing towards a deadline to have my novel finished and sent to my publisher. Gosh it feels good. Like the pain of childbirth which ebbs away as you hold your newborn in your arms, the anguish of rejection is now just a memory as I work as hard as I can to make my book the very best it can be.

“Rejection is the sand in the oyster, the irritation that ultimately produces the pearl.”

Images by Unsplash

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

Don’t Squeeze Your Bag

We moved from Essex to Suffolk fourteen years ago, leaving a metropolitan area on the edge of London to come to a hamlet surrounded by fields. Some of the first people I met were my immediate neighbours.

Pretty soon, I found that these ladies baked, made jam and went blackberrying while still managing to work and bring up a family. I felt a touch inferior, the city girl who used shop-bought crumble mix and didn’t know a crab apple from a bullace. My mum had always made jam and chutney, the cupboards filled with neatly labelled jars of preserves. Shop-bought jam never made it on to the table in our house. I had neither the time nor the energy for such goings-on, but once we moved, I began to change.

It was a slow process. I had my work cut out looking after three little children, getting to grips with school and working from home. I cooked from scratch most nights, but I took short cuts too. At toddler group, we’d sit and laugh about what our children were eating that night. My speciality was, “Doigts de poisson avec sauce tomate.”

Time went on. The children grew. By 2013, we were applying for a high school place for our eldest. That September, I popped round to a dear friend’s house in a neighbouring village. I walked into her kitchen to find her wrestling with a large piece of muslin and a pan of bubbling apples.

“Give me a hand with that muslin,” she said, tying a knot in a long piece of twine. We hung it up over a large bowl and she poured the apple mix into the muslin bag. I had no idea what she was making.

Over coffee, she told me it was apple jelly which she’d finish with strips of chilli. “You should try it. You don’t even have to peel and core the apples.”

That sold me. By now a fully paid-up member of the bish bosh bash school of home cuisine, such an easy process appealed to me. I bought a book (The River Cottage Preserves book – excellent) and got to work. I chopped up piles of apples, stewed them with water and strained them through my newly acquired muslin. Satisfyingly, the pulp would drip gently into the bowl, a tranquil backdrop to the frenzy of visiting various school open evenings and wrestling with complex application forms. I was incredibly proud of my first batch and so began my love affair with preserves.

I branched out, making jelly with bullaces, crab apples, medlars, raspberries, blackberries and herbs. Bent over my pans, inhaling fragrant steam and stirring the bubbling mix, I felt like an alchemist, turning fruit into a beautiful, clear, set jelly.

After a couple of years, I had several preserves books on the shelves. All of them gave the same warning. “Never be tempted to squeeze your bag or your jelly will go cloudy.” I never did, although it was hard, watching the slow progress of the juice through the muslin and longing to hurry it up. Like so many things in life, there was a golden rule and breaking it would have led to a spoiled batch.

This autumn, I’ve experimented with different types of hedgerow jelly, all of which have turned out well. My outhouse is full of jars of gleaming ruby, blush pink and deep orange jelly. I love making it, but it has a bittersweet edge.

My dear friend died suddenly at the end of August a few years ago. The grief which hit me felt like an Atlantic breaker, roaring towards me and knocking me off my feet. I cried for months, woke up from dreams in which I found it had all been a mistake and she was still alive, saw books or earrings or scarves that were perfect for her birthday and then remembered with a jolt of pain that she would never wear them again.

It took about two years before the worst of the anguish subsided. I realised that I had to go through it, not around it. I began making jelly again, always remembering her as I stirred, strained and tasted. One day, three and a half years later, I sat down and wrote a poem about her. It just came out. I didn’t even have to think about it. Here it is.

Apple Jelly

“I remember that day so well. September, apples rosy on the trees.

Leaves just starting to turn. The smell of woodsmoke in the air.

I popped round for coffee, as I so often did then.

And there you were, making apple jelly.

The sharp smell of fruit in the air, the sound of bubbling from the stove.

Quick cutting with your sharp knife, pips and stalks and leaves intact.

You flung open the cupboard door to reveal treasure within.

Jar after jar of clear gleaming apple jelly, chilli-jewelled and glowing.

“It’s easy. You should try it,” you said, smiling as I held the muslin bag for you,

Apple pulp dripping luxuriously into the waiting silver bowl.

“No peeling or coring, just cut them up and chuck them in. Boil vigorously.”

We both laughed, liking the idea of a really good vigorous boil.

You had less than three autumns left. Neither of us knew that day.

If we had, my tears would have dropped into the apples and ruined the set.

My sobs would have drowned out the sound of laughter, the scent of coffee.

You were still well, your years uncounted and no end date in sight.

Like that sharp knife quartering the fruit, your days were numbered.

Like the sugar boiling with the fruit, our memories were sweet.

Like the glorious autumn colours, it was all over too soon.

Too soon.

Since then, every year I harvest the apples and forage for fruit.

I line up the chutneys and jams and fruit jellies.

I gaze into the bubbling, fragrant, vigorous boiling and see you as you were.

Smiling in your kitchen, generous, kind, loving till the last.”

She left a wonderful legacy behind her. I wish I could have her over for coffee again, to chat about how the children are doing, wander over to the veg patch and try some of my jelly. But I can’t. That time is gone. I suppose, like the jelly, my memories are composed of the sharp, bitter bite of apples and the sweet unifying taste of sugar. Sour sweet. But never cloudy.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is coming out in March and she has another work in process. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Too Much of a Good Thing

 

July and August are the months of plenty in the gardening calendar. Tomatoes, beans, soft fruit and just about anything raised in the greenhouse bursts into life and keeps on doing so until the first joy of picking your own gives way to a desperate hunt through recipe books for something – anything – to use up all those courgettes. Did I mention we grow courgettes?

Every year, it’s the same in the Leigh household. My green-fingered husband gets out his tin of seeds and pores over them. He likes to get them in by mid-April and every year, the conversation goes something like this.

Me: “How many courgette plants are you putting in this year?”

Him: “I thought four or five.”

Me: “Four or five?? Remember last year? We were inundated and that was even after one of the plants died.”

Him: “I know, but I’ll put in five just in case.”

In case of what, he’s never explained. A national courgette shortage perhaps? Such a thing has never happened in all the years we’ve been growing them. As I shared earlier on in the year, we spent a good deal of time in early summer bending over the raised bed gazing fondly at the tiny plants and nurturing them with water and encouragement. Like new parents, we were ecstatic each time a new shoot appeared, delighted with each buttery yellow flower and over the moon with an actual fruit lying glossily on its loamy bed. The excitement lasted for about three weeks. Then my CAD kicked in.

I suffer quite badly from this condition, and I don’t think I’m alone. It’s a seasonal disorder, generally lasting from late May until early September. There should be a support group for those who grapple with it, but I can’t find one. To what am I alluding? Why, Courgette Anxiety Disorder, of course.

Those who are diagnosed with CAD have a number of distressing symptoms. They may begin to make odd dishes, adding a courgette where a courgette does not belong. For example, Eggs Benedict with a courgette foam, grated courgette on toast or even duck à la courgette. In extreme cases, a visitor to the home of a CAD sufferer may be offered a cup of tea or coffee garnished with courgette rosettes.

Courgette can be added to a perfectly nice dish to bulk it out. We tried making courgette and mint soup in the summer. Delicious, and it used up loads, but the children turned their noses up at it. We sneaked a whole one into the weekly leek and potato soup after that, and they never suspected a thing.

There are those who swear by courgette cake. I’ve never tried it and I probably never will. Call me old-fashioned, but a cake to me is composed of eggs, butter, sugar and flour with chocolate or coffee or fruit added.

In late July, even though one of the plants had passed over due to an unknown disease, the other four spread themselves seductively over the raised beds and got busy. One day, I picked ten. Ten! I ask you. We had courgettes with dinner every night, sometimes I made an omelette with sage and courgettes for lunch and one morning I presented my husband with a breakfast including courgettes fried in butter and sage and sprinkled with black pepper.

Something had to be done. My CAD generally manifests itself in a sudden outburst of alarming generosity. Unwary visitors are asked leading questions in a casual fashion. “Are you growing anything this year? Tomatoes? Oh lovely. Have you got any courgettes?”

CAD makes you cunning. I mentally file non-courgette growers’ names and addresses away and when driving through the village, engage in a spot of guerrilla courgetting. This is when you leave a selection on top of their wheelie bin or in their porch and then drive away.

At first, the recipients were delighted. They sent me pictures of courgette spaghetti and quiches. After a second visit, not so much, and following a particularly lavish guerrilla session one evening, they realised that they too were running out of ideas for interesting recipes.

Last week, I shared the exciting news that I’ve got a book deal and that my first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is going to be published after Christmas. Last week, some old friends came over and we had a wonderful evening together. One of them came up with a brilliant idea for book-related merch. She suggested I make sustainable bookmarks with dried courgette slices, then varnish them. The reader can simply chip away the varnish if they get peckish. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

My CAD is getting better. I no longer check the courgette bed every day in a fever of anticipation. I gave away a marrow this morning, but I asked first. There’s no effective treatment for the disorder, short of persuading Mr Leigh not to plant them next year, and that’s never going to happen. So, for now, I’ll enjoy my autumn and winter free of this distressing condition and do a bit of research into what I can use the glut for next year.

Courgette Caponata, anyone?

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is coming out after Christmas and she has another work in process. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.