A Triumph! Plus a Sunshine jelly and Mrs Finnegan’s Thoughts on a Certain Kind of Poet

Dear Readers!

It has happened.
My first ever tour of The House* took place last Sunday. It was a success of staggering proportions that outran even MY wildest expectations. People queued outside (yes, they stood in line. I was humbled.) There they remained until the appointed time and entered via the servants entrance.

They were awed by the elegant proportions of my room.
They listened enthralled.
They asked questions of diamond-sharp brilliance and received replies of like kind. But most important of all, they CAME. I had nightmares that no one would turn up. Even when good money was paid over I feared they were ask for every farthing to be returned, pleading a sudden fit of ague or a more interesting engagement elsewhere, but they CAME and what a remarkably pleasing time we had.

After my room, we visited the servants’ hall. (Such a shame a maid was sound asleep when we arrived, but I handled the situation very well, pointing out her arduous duties and many excellent qualities. I feel certain people hardly noticed.)

Our merry band went onwards and upwards to the Master’s study, the dining room and then – more stairs – to the drawing room. The afternoon was only marred by the Mistress’ UNEXPECTED return and the presence of Mr Cubbage the butler, who dogged my every step and spoke three imperious words to my sweetly-tuned one.

I may be in error, but I can ONLY feel that the contrast between us acted in my favour.

We then retired to the kitchen where we were royally treated by Mrs Pickles and her staff to tea and a selection of toothsome cakes.

I have not mentioned Mrs Pickles before as she has only lately arrived as our cook. A mouthful of her chocolate tart would be sufficient recommendation. It is only surpassed by her seed cake (a name without charm for a magical combination of sugar & flour), her lemon sponges, her scones…I could go on, but suffice to say that she is a welcome addition to the household and has only two faults:

Her name. It can be confusing as I make PICKLES and she bakes cakes, but she cannot be blamed for something that is not her fault and we must ALL overlook it..

I am convinced the other fault will disappear over time and that is her unaccountable regard for the butler. She does NOT hang on his every word like a child hungry for sweets. She is far too sensible for that, but she does take attentive listening to extremes. And nods a little too often when he distributes CRUMBS of advice from the lofty height of his supposed superiority. She will learn.

At the end of the tour many (most) visitors declared it was one of UNIVERSAL excellence. Their words, not mine. Well, the phrase may have been suggested by me, but they chose to tick that particular box.

Sunday night I slept the sleep of the just and weary.

* The Regency Town House, 13 Brunswick Square

PS I am very frank with my opinions HERE as only TRUSTED friends read these missives, but please do not think that I would deliberately wound any living soul, not even Cubbage.

Thus on Sunday when he asked if he had executed his duties in a suitable manner I did not pepper him with scorn. Instead, I murmured, Oh, Mr Cubbage, what can I say! And shook my head as if in wonderment. Then I added: Sir, only you! without specifying what he alone could do.

I think you will agree that this a model of diplomacy which is, after all, the ability to tell someone to go away in a manner so gracious they ask for directions.

A Recipe for Summer When it Comes

Dandelions are too often overlooked. While young leaves are pleasing in a salad, they grow bitter with age, as do people. However, if that is to your taste now is a perfect time to gather them.

Too bitter even for those who swing vinegar as if it were tea?
Simply leave in boiling water for as long as it takes to remember a chorus of God Save the King (singing is NOT required), and then dowse in cold. As in life, nothing can ENTIRELY take away the bitterness of experience, but this will make the leaves more palatable.

Now, however, is a good time to make a delicate dandelion jelly. If I were a poet I would say it was the colour of sunshine. As I am merely a practical housekeeper I suggest this recipe, if PROPERLY made, produces a jelly the colour of yellow flowers painted in water colour by an impoverished artist who can’t afford to waste paint.

You will need:
Flowers. About two and a bit pounds (how big the bit is depends on how MANY you have helping you pick the blossoms)
Perhaps half that in quince to make sure it sets properly.
Two tablespoons of lemon juice to make ABSOLUTELY sure it sets. Maybe three. I cannot work out everything for you.

Boil the petals in water.
Cool and strain through a fine mesh sieve. Press the petals with your fingers to ensure you extract every drop of juice.
Pour into saucepan and add quince and lemon.
Add sugar – at least TWO large lumps. Stir.
Boil again. Keep stirring.
Put into moulds that have already been rinsed with boiling water but are now cool to the touch.
Wait.

Poets are Not Reliable…

…observors of nature.

To take just one example.

 I wandered lonely as a cloud.

Clouds like company.

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