The title of today’s post comes from Maya Angelou, and is a wonderful rallying-call for all the times I’ve felt oppressed. However I’m using it as a shameless pun in this instance. You get double joy – my deathless prose and Maya Angelou’s inspirational verse!
Two of the cookery books I’ve read recently share a word in their titles – but apart from that they have very little in common.
The first is ‘One Souffle at a Time’ by Anne Willans. I picked the book up in a charity shop as the subtitle – ‘a memoir of food and France’ intrigued me. I’d never come across her before, despite her enormous body of writing – I think she might be better known in America. Her book tells her personal story – in a nutshell, rich English child grows up with all the trappings of privilege; discovers her love of cooking; uses her contacts and her undoubted talents and builds an impressive foodie empire based on teaching people how to cook like the French; receives lots of awards; writes her memoir. There are manyexcellent, detailed recipes along the way and I will return and try some of them. This book wasn’t a riveting read but it was fascinating to see how an energetic entrepreneur goes about the job of realising her dream.
The second book is ‘Killing Me Soufflé’ by Lachlan Hayman. This is basically a book of good recipes renamed using rock and roll puns, with numbers by the likes of the Ketchup Boys, Deli Parton, Harry Connick Tuna and Napkin Cole. You would think the theme would get a bit tired but instead I found myself browsing through the book and humming all the little tunes as I went along. This book would be a great gift for anyone who is keen on both food and music. The recipes are well written, and would offer an enticing repertoire to someone who hasn’t already got loads of experience and/or cookery books.
Soufflé is of course a delight to make and eat, and easier than it sounds. If you can make a béchamel sauce you can make a soufflé. Just add cheese to your sauce; then 3 egg yolks; then fold in the beaten egg whites; then, as Mel and Sue would say – bake! Here are some instructions from the BBC if you would like to have a go. Willans says to run your finger and thumb round the top of the dish before you put it in the oven, to make it rise evenly – I’ve never tried that before but it sounds logical.
So today is Friday … very nearly the weekend … another day, another dollar. And still we rise! Have a great weekend everybody.
After a wet week we had a glorious Saturday – just what you need for an open-air music festival. Now I’ve never been to T in the Park or any other music festival for that matter and I imagine this one – at Newport-on-Tay – was a wee toty bairn in the festival family. It took place in the car park of the Newport Hotel, which faces right onto the river (or maybe it’s really the sea at this point). Who would have thought there would be room for such a thing in this space? Although it’s such a gorgeous wee site that it’s wasted on car parking. As you stood and watched the bands playing, you could see the RNLI lifeboat racing up and down the river behind.
I was watching the Black Cat Jook Band strutting their stuff and eyeing the Pulled Pork stall when a familiar body parted the crowd, bearing trays of – well, pulled pork probably – and strode down to the sea wall. I had a tremor of celebrity recognition … I knew I’d seen him before … it was the 2014 Masterchef winner who, as you may remember, came from St Andrews. I remember being xenophobically proud to have a local lad – and a rather bumbling and shy one at that – winning out over all those smooth Southerners. So now I’ve checked on Google and sure enough – Jamie Scott now has his own restaurant – The Newport.
Saturday’s festival wouldn’t have been any kind of culinary challenge for Jamie and in fact the only food obviously on offer (music and beer being the main point) was the rolls stuffed with pulled pork, as previously spotted. The Troubadour eschews eating ‘anything with a face’ so I asked about vegetarian options and of course there was one (so why didn’t they advertise it?) – aubergines and tomato on flatbreads. We had one of each and there was a certain grumbling about the lack of implement for eating the veggie option (none was needed for the pork as it was all snugly wrapped up in the roll). In itself it was tasty but maybe pitta would have made it easier to balance with your beer while you applauded the bands. On the stall there was a tasting menu which looked intriguing and would be well worth returning for. I liked the way all the provender was identified by its place of origin – including ‘Newburgh Chicken’ – I didn’t know there was such a thing, and will cause enquiries to be made.
Anyway the festival was great fun and really family-friendly, with the glass walls of the restaurant thrown open to let in the sun. And the music was fantastic. Big congrats to the organisers and I hope there’s another one next year.
Last night a drama event was held at Rosyth library as part of Scottish Book Week. Five teenage girls performed a short show in two parts, which they had devised from work with old people in two Fife care homes. The first was ‘At the School’ and the second, ‘At the Dancing’. The show was choreographed with a lively look back at music of the forties and fifties; the audience got to join in the dancing, and were served fairy cakes at half time. As a standalone piece, the show was very successful and you could see that with further rehearsal it would be a winner round the reminiscence circuit.
However it was much more than just a show. I spoke to the girls afterwards and they told me they had visited the old people, many of whom had dementia, in their care homes, and carefully noted the words they used for the memories that remained with them. One lady gave them a poem she’d written when she was at school, and this was incorporated into the routine, along with various other poems the residents remembered learning from their school days. Another lady , who had been admitted to the home for end-of-life care, had sat silent and withdrawn throughout; but when she heard a poem she recognised she started to focus, and eventually joined in reciting it.
This is wonderful, skilled, meaningful work and I applaud the girls for their sensitivity, patience and grace in achieving it.
It’s been a great week for choirs. First locally, we had St Margaret’s (Rosyth) church choir singing at Margaret’s licensing ceremony in Lochgelly. So good that even the bishop approved!
Then yesterday we joined lots of other ladies of a certain age in Hill Place for All the King’s Men – a wonderful a capella ten-man line-up that we’ve now seen three years running. Great moves, sassy sophisticated sound. Especially the one who did that tssh tssh tssh boo-boom thing. Who needs a drum kit? And the tap-dancing was fabulous.
Finally, we had the great joy of the National Youth Choir in St Cuthberts. Now I have to confess I’d never heard of the NYC, and thought they sounded a bit worthy. I was crisply corrected by my retired-Head-of-Music friend as we walked up Castle Terrace, and quite right she was too. They are fabulous and if they do a concert near you, you must go. They are directed by Ben Parry who has a massive international career but I’ll let you look him up yourself. One thing I’ll mention – he founded the Dunedin Consort, whom I heard at St Giles at the 2011 Fringe. They are small and perfectly formed.
The National Youth Choir on the other hand is huge – about eighty singers? Aged 16-22, they absolutely ooze charisma. For as long as I live I will never forget their opening number last night. We were seated about three-quarters of the way back, to the right of the central aisle – wishing we could have got further forward and nearer the action. The choir started filing in, and moved in two columns down the side aisles. I assumed they were heading for the stage – but they stopped when they had circled us. Ben Parry took to a podium facing backwards, raised his baton – and we were immersed in the crystal tones of Palestrina – then Tallis – then Byrd. It was like lying on a masseur’s couch on a beach somewhere in the Indian Ocean, being anointed with pure nard. They then processed onto the stage and delivered a virtuoso performance of Bach, Brahms, Shostakovich (bright and strong and very Russian), and Britten. It was wonderful. Their finale was a piece by Ben Parry, a setting of a Buddhist poem which celebrated the candle that lights the world – when a flame is shared it doubles its brilliance. As the choir started singing they moved out and circled us again. It was intensely spiritual. If I never hear another choir I’ll die happy.