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The kitchen brigade made such a din that the housekeeper retreated to
revive herself with another tot of rum in her private parlour, for, faced with
a mutiny amongst the pans, she discovered little valour in her spirit and went
to sulk in her tent.
The first toys I played with were colanders, egg whisks and saucepan
lids. I took my baths in the big tureen in which the turtle soup was served.
They gave up salmon until I could toddle because, as for my crib, what else
but the copper salmon kettle? And this kettle was stowed way up high on the
mantelshelf so I could snooze there snug and warm out of harm's way, soothed
by the delicious odours and appetising sounds of the preparation of
nourishment, and there I cooed my way through babyhood above that kitchen as
if I were its household deity high in my tiny shrine.
And, indeed, is there not something holy about a great kitchen? Those
vaults of soot-darkened stone far above me, where the hams and strings of
onions and bunches of dried herbs dangle, looking somewhat like the regimental
banners that unfurl above the aisles of old churches. The cool, echoing flags
scrubbed spotless twice a day by votive persons on their knees. The scoured
gleam of row upon row of metal vessels dangling from hooks or reposing on
their shelves till needed with the air of so many chalices waiting for the
celebration of the sacrament of food. And the range like an altar, yes, an
altar, before which my mother bowed in perpetual homage, a fringe of sweat
upon her upper lip and fire glowing in her cheeks.
At three years old she gave me flour and lard and straightaway I
invented shortcrust. I being too little to manage the pin, she hoists me on
her shoulders to watch her as she rolls out the dough upon the marble slab,
then sets me to stamp out the tartlets for myself, tears of joy at my
precocity trickling down her cheeks, lets me dollop on the damson jam and lick
the spoon for my reward. By three and a half, I've progressed to rough puff
and, after that, no holding me. She perches me on a tall stool so I can reach
to stir the sauce, wraps me in her pinny that goes round and round and round
me thrice, tucks it in at the waist else I trip over it head first into my own
Hollandaise. So I become her acolyte.
Reading and writing come to me easy. I learn my letters as follows: A
for asparagus, asperges au beurre fondue (though never, for my mother's sake,
with a sauce bâtarde); B for boeuf, baron of, roasted mostly, with a pouding
Yorkshire patriotically sputtering away beneath it in the dripping pan; C for
carrots, carrottes, choufleur, camembert and so on, right down to Zabaglione,
although I often wonder what use the X might be, since it figures in no cook's
alphabet.
And I stick as close to that kitchen as the croûte to a pâté or the
mayonnaise to an oeuf. First, I stand on that stool to my saucepans; then on
an upturned bucket; then on my own two feet. Time passes.
Life in this remote mansion flows by a tranquil stream, only convulsing
into turbulence once a year and then for two weeks only, but that fuss enough,
the Grouse Shoot, when they all come from town to set us by the ears.
Although Sir and Madam believe their visit to be the very and unique
reason for the existences of each and every one of us, the yearly climacteric
of our beings, when their staff, who, as far as they are concerned, sleep out
a hibernation the rest of the year, now spring to life like Sleeping Beauty
when her prince turns up, in truth, we get on so well without them during the
other eleven and a half months that the arrival of Themselves is a chronic
interruption of our routine. We sweat out the fortnight of their presence with
as ill a grace as gentlefolk forced by reduced circumstances to take paying
guests into their home, and as for haute cuisine, forget it; sandwiches,
sandwiches, sandwiches, all they want is sandwiches.
And never again, ever again, a special request for a soufflé, lobster or
otherwise. Me mam always a touch broody come the Grouse Shoot, moody,
distracted, and, even though no order came, nevertheless, every year, she
would prepare her lobster soufflé all the same, send the grinding boy off for
the lobster, boil it alive, beat the eggs, make the panada etc. etc. etc., as
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if the doing of the thing were a magic ritual that would raise up out of the
past the great question mark from whose loins her son had sprung so that,
perhaps, she could get a good look at his face, this time. Or, perhaps, there
was some other reason. But she never said either way. In due course, she could
construct the airiest, most savoury soufflé that ever lobster graced; but
nobody arrived to eat it and none of the kitchen had the heart. So, fifteen
times in all, the chickens got that soufflé.
Until, one fine October day, the mist rising over the moors like the
steam off a consommé, the grouse taking last hearty meals like condemned men,
my mother's vigil was at last rewarded. The house party arrives and as it does
we hear the faint, nostalgic wail of an accordion as a closed barouche comes
bounding up the drive all festooned with the lys de France.
Hearing the news, my mother shakes, comes over queer, has to have a sit
down on the marble pastry slab whilst I, oh, I prepare to meet my maker,
having arrived at the age when a boy most broods about his father.
But what's this? Who trots into the kitchen to pick up the chest of ice
the duc ordered for the bottles he brought with him but a beardless boy of his
own age or less! And though my mother tries to quizz him on the whereabouts of
some other hypothetical valet who, once upon a time, might possibly have made
her hand tremble so she lost control of the cayenne, he claims he cannot
understand her Yorkshire brogue, he shakes his head, he mimes incomprehension.
Then, for the third time in all her life, my mother wept.
First, she wept for shame because she'd spoiled a dish. Next, she wept
for joy, to see her son mould the dough. And now she weeps for absence.
But still she sends the grinding boy off for a lobster, for she must and
will prepare her autumn ritual, if only as a wake for hope or as the funeral
baked meats. And, taking matters into my own hands, I use the quickest method, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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