To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  The two border terriers that greeted us at the front door presumably replaced a butler who was otherwise engaged. Upon entering the all-weather-gear strewn entrance hall, we took an immediate left turn that brought us into the drawing room. It was comforting to see such a plush assortment of home furnishings: several deep, plump settees, Persian carpets, silver-framed family photos atop numerous end tables and my personal favourite, ‘stiffies’ prominently displayed on the fireplace mantel. These are not to be confused with that playful little sexual innuendo we all know about. No, these hard card, social invitations often embossed with gold crests, preferably purchased from London’s quality stationers Symthson of Bond Street, are just the ticket for subtly displaying one’s popularity to guests. Heaven forbid they should be placed in a drawer or diary marked ‘private’. Mantel mounting a parade of invites to weddings, summer garden parties, teas and balls makes a much more impressive statement.

  Introductions were graciously made on arrival. Glasses of chilled semillon soon followed to grease the get-acquainted session before the official presentation was launched by a most charming London import. However, no amount of perfectly applied Bobby Brown make-up or her pencil-thin silhouette could distract the minds of the punters—oops, guests—as the family pooch decided to do the unspeakable on the exquisite Oriental carpet in the centre of the room. De-worming is not a pretty sight from any angle. The bitch made several attempts to complete the operation until a stiletto heel finally caught her in the ribs, toppling the pup onto her side. Wisely, lunch was announced before she could make a second attempt.

  Soured years earlier by such schemes floated in America, I turned my attention away from money making to the assembled women who shared my table as we lunched on smoked salmon, mixed salads and warm rolls. Trusting both my instincts and my powers of observation, I proceeded down my personal checklist based on hairstyles, attire and body language. I placed mental bets on who would shell out money and who would sit on the sidelines. Spotting the players over here is slightly more difficult than in, let’s say, Palm Springs. There everyone is a player but, more importantly, women do not disguise their power. Here, the demure middle-aged woman wearing a twin-set and pearls is more than likely to also wear the pants in the family.

  As the pitch resumed after lunch, feathers began to ruffle. The merits of the scheme were debated, dashed and deployed, but not without some bloodletting. Frankly, the debate about the morality of the proposal was better than the pre-lunch doggie show. It became a demonstration of good breeding over heated banter, one that I decided was best watched from the sidelines. After all, I was wearing my Sunday best and dependent on a ride home. Still, in my opinion, the world would be a lesser place without the ‘ladies who lunch’. Undaunted by the paralysis of work, they are the lubricants of polite society and always a pleasure to be around.

  Part 10

  GETTING IN THE SPIRIT

  Chapter 33

  Cooking your goose

  Email To: Marty and Jim

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 25 November

  Subject: Homesick

  Dear Marty and Jim,

  I’m always so tender at this time of year; Halloween and my birthday are behind me, Thanksgiving is upon me and Christmas and New Year is ahead of me. Bill makes a fuss over me for my birthday, but Halloween doesn’t really exist here, Thanksgiving is always a joke about losing the colonies and Christmas is one long heathen holiday, as reportedly only 44 per cent of the population believes in a God while in a recent poll a significant minority listed their religious preference as Klingon.

  It was a bit easier in London because there were so many Americans with whom we could celebrate and carry on the traditions. Can you send over a few goblins, a marching band, some football players, a turkey, dressing and some pumpkin pie … hold the Cool Whip.

  Love,

  A lonely ex-pat

  Over the past year a portion of every day and evening, in fact more than I’d like to acknowledge, has been spent staring mindlessly at the Friesians gathered in the fields outside our drawing room windows. At first I felt guilty and a bit embarrassed for just sitting and ogling. I tried reading, but the view was always more compelling. As pretty as the naked hillsides were, they came alive when the cows were put out to graze.

  Using the many fields circling the Hall, the farmer would rotate the herd from one to the other, allowing the grass time to rejuvenate before the next munching. We grew to love the cows, understand them and need them. Their daily postulating and prancing, jockeying for herd position was always a source of amusement. Nevertheless, as the days grew shorter, we knew our time together was ending. The soil had become too muddy and the nights too chilly for them to remain outside any longer. We knew the day would soon come when the Pied Piper’s song would lead them into the barn for the long winter. It was a day we dreaded; one for which we would gladly have paid a ransom to keep the cattle in our fields. Nevertheless, it is nature that dictates the terms, not us.

  We have become more respectful of the countryside and have learned to honour the custodians who maintain the balance and beauty for all to enjoy. These caretakers come in many guises. Some are rosy-cheeked farmers who lovingly attend their flock, gently tucking them into their cots at night. Others are artisans who create specialty cheeses and wines, syrups and cordials. Championing local producers has become big business, whether by word of mouth or on the internet. Reportedly, if one were to Google the words ‘mail order’ followed by the word ‘turkey’ over 233,000 UK hits would appear. Armed with this kind of local knowledge, I made it my mission to source festive holiday food suppliers as an alternative to shopping in highly regulated and overrated superstores. No longer a prisoner of the giant chains, I was free to explore Rutland’s markets and farms for plump turkeys, snow white geese, pheasants and cockerels, a pugnacious youth as yet unfamiliar to my palate.

  I can still remember days past in Charlotte when turkeys were delivered in brown paper bags, freshly killed and ready for the Thanksgiving plucking. Almost seamlessly over time, the paper bag was replaced by plastic and the feathers exchanged for some yellowy-white goo inserted up the backside of the bird that miraculously transformed it into a ‘Butter Ball’. Now, it was payback time for messing with Mother Nature.

  There is a perverse excitement about selecting a live bird all the while knowing he is preordained to be the tureen in which the sage and sausage stuffing is to be placed. Thanks to extensive travel over the years, I am somewhat desensitized to seeing exposed carcasses lying in a meat merchant’s window or a plump, shiny mulberry-red pillow of liver hanging from a hook in Alan Wyman’s local butcher shop. Caravanning through the deserts of the Middle East over the years has contributed much to my understanding of the meat to menu sequence. Nevertheless, whenever I need a reality top-up I find a visit to the Djemaa el Fna more than helpful. This vast exotic square in Marrakech houses a menagerie of humanity. It is here that my grocery store mentality is accosted and a sense of authenticity restored. With little effort you can savour the hypnotic atmosphere and mouth-watering aromas that emerge from large oil drums boiling up succulent entrails, sheep’s heads and the most prized slithery eyeballs. Little in my English world can offend me after such a barrage, so it was with pleasure that I prepared to stalk the local poultry population in search of just the right guest for our holiday table.

  Unaccustomed as I was to cooking a goose, not to be confused with ‘cooking my own goose’, for which I am most talented, we elected to serve this seasonal bird for Thanksgiving dinner. With so much welcome attention placed on organic and free-range products these days, we decided to investigate a local business, the Seldom Seen Farm, famous for their home-reared geese. Taking our customary route over minor roads and gated single tracks, we headed west 15 miles through the soft, grey fog which was now our daily companion. What we failed to understand at first glance was the irony of the farm’s name. Seldom Seen means exactly what it says. Unless you know
what you are looking for you would be better advised to contact said farm via the internet rather than drive the pitted road which, by the way, bumps and grinds better than a Las Vegas showgirl. The net would certainly have been quicker, but it would have lacked that sense of hands-on living to which we had become accustomed.

  In my mind’s eye, I expected the farm to resemble a giant eiderdown of snow-white geese. To our dismay only two birds were to be found strutting around the pond in the front garden as the Christmas carnage had already taken place, filling the farm’s freezers with naked, plucked bodies sealed in plastic. As we were to learn later, the two surviving birds had been given long ago to owner, Claire Symington, as pets for her birthday. Sort of a geese starter set. From that pair the colony swelled to 300, 600, 1800 and beyond. Today, Claire and her husband Robert supervise the plucking, wrapping and readying of 4000 geese for collecting and shipping. So successful have they become that London restaurants clamour for their stock—this is in addition to enjoying a healthy mail order business on the side. After twenty-six years in farming, fourteen of which involved rearing geese, there is little they don’t know about their playful fowl.

  It seems the tradition of the holiday goose fell out of favour years ago in England when the turkey, first domesticated by the Aztecs, was imported to England in 1524. This interloper grew faster, took up less room and was more cost effective to raise. Today, goose on the table is again catching on thanks to local farmers and talented chefs like Claire, who can prepare a magnificent ‘three bird roast’. Taking a freshly killed goose, she stuffs it with chicken, which is stuffed with pheasant meat. The entire roast is finally layered with homemade spiced port and orange for a tangy flavour. It is a great investment in holiday dining.

  As thrilled as we were to be taking home our first goose, we were also giddy at the sight of hundreds of metre-high, freshly cut stalks of Brussels sprouts standing proudly upright against the side of their barn. Having recently discovered the benefits of sprouts on the stem over those sold in plastic bags in supermarkets, we filled the back seat of our car with the little green cabbages. The stalks made clever and welcome hostess gifts when tied with red satin ribbon accompanied by a recipe card. Sprouts often get a bum rap in England, but you can’t go wrong if you shred them first, then toss them in butter together with tender leeks, ginger, garlic and parsley. Allow them to gently brown until golden and glistening with juice. Perfect on any dinner table, they are one of winter’s unheralded little treasures.

  Thanksgiving was always a sacrosanct occasion in my home as I was growing up thanks to my mentors, Mom and Dad. Year after year, from toddler to pimply-faced teenager to a rebellious know-it-all, our table was laid for family and friends. Bill and I try to carry on the custom in England, but in truth it is not as exciting to stage an almost theatrical culinary performance on a Thursday night when everyone has to go back to work the following day. Not to mention the fact that there’s no Macy’s Parade from New York City or a Dallas Cowboy football game on television to inspire you to build up a sweat in the kitchen. We’ve come to the conclusion that Thanksgiving is one tradition best enjoyed on American soil with friends. Happy as we are to continue to make the effort, I wouldn’t be disappointed if next year Bill suggested we went to the Bombay Cottage in Stamford for pappadums and curry. The gracious Bangladeshi owners always make us feel welcome and after all, isn’t the spirit of the holiday about sharing with your friends?

  Chapter 34

  Calling all neighbours

  Email To: Leslie Ann

  From: Twila and Alex

  Date: 10 December

  Subject: Feliz Navidad

  Dear Les and Bill,

  Palm Springs is once again decorated for the holidays. I hope Santa has a sense of humour about our red chilli pepper lights strung on the yucca cactus. The palm trees are swaying in the breeze to ‘Jingle Bells’ and the lady golfers are teeing off wearing their reindeer hats.

  We have decided we’ve had enough of sunbathers by the pool and rollerbladers in singlets and thongs. We’re coming over for a traditional Christmas next year. The thought of sitting by a cosy fire drinking port makes me want to turn the thermostat down, put on my bunny slippers and mittens and chill out.

  Alex and I have shared your emails with lots of our friends; hope you don’t mind. We think we could fill a jumbo jet with everyone who wants a bit of Ole England with all the pomp and circumstance. Start basting the plum pudding and lay down a bottle of vintage port.

  Feliz Navidad,

  Twila and Alex

  I’ve often thought how wonderfully unspoiled the English countryside appears in polished travel photographs. How pristine the rolling hillsides seem from the window of a United Airlines 777 in slow descent over Royal Windsor en route to Heathrow. You could be forgiven for thinking this is a deserted island if it weren’t for the patches of grey matter clustered around London, Birmingham and Manchester. Entire villages can actually disappear behind hedges and ancient walls.

  We learned first-hand how deceiving this apparent calm can be when we attempted to hand-deliver invitations to our first Christmas party. We decided to invite all the friends we had met in the village pub, been introduced to at dinner parties or had come in contact with by pure chance. In other words, everyone we knew. Navigating the narrow lanes and gravel-filled driveways in search of houses with no numbers, only names, was in stark contrast to how we delivered our invitations in our former California home. With the help of the county club roster, we could address and post a stack of envelopes within minutes. In England, the delivery system had all the intrigue of a good whodunit.

  As I made the rounds from house to house, walking confidently to each front door hoping not to draw attention to myself, I discovered Neighbourhood Watch was firmly in place as every home displayed a sticker in its front window. Not as obvious, however, was the location of the mail slot. Unlike in America, where mailboxes are conveniently placed at the end of a driveway, the English prefer their post delivered through an opening installed an uncomfortable 15 centimetres above the ground, usually on a side wall to the left of the front door. Squatting down to push an invitation through the stiff horsehair lips surrounding the brass slot took an act of faith on my part. Each time I prayed my protruding fingers would not meet the teeth of a well-trained Jack Russell on the other side who was more than willing to prove his devotion to his master. Bill, on the other hand, found my terror completely amusing as he watched and laughed from the warmth and comfort of the car.

  We were conscious not to arouse the suspicion of those people not on our guest list as we fumbled our way from village to village. We pretended not to notice as curtains parted just enough to get a glimpse of our unfamiliar automobile. In one case, despite having no formal introduction whatsoever, we did make a new acquaintance.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ inquired a rather handsome gentleman unloading bags of groceries from the boot of his car.

  ‘No thank you, we’re only dropping off a letter. Oh by the way, do you happen to know where we might find the Evil Weevil Farm?’

  ‘Take the second turning on your right, just past the stables. You can’t miss it,’ he replied while pointing to the direction with his finger.

  We nodded our appreciation to which he responded with a warm smile, ‘No problem mate, anytime.’

  Feeling the sledgehammer of guilt, yet knowing we were completely out of line with all social convention, Bill swiftly put our car into reverse, introduced himself over the fence, then presented the gentleman with an invitation to which he seemed genuinely astonished while at the same time pleased. You see, like us, he was a newcomer. He had only been in the village seven years.

  We scheduled our party for Friday the thirteenth knowing we would possibly have less competition from other potential hosts and hostesses as superstition still had a distant association with our chosen date. Decorating the house for the holiday season required more muscle than talent as we soon learned.
Our 3-metre extension ladder was hauled out of the storage cupboard so Bill could ascend to nosebleed height to hang garlands over the windows and stairwell. Bottles of silver polish disappeared, as did an entire bed sheet cut into small strips used for shining tarnished candelabrum, chafing dishes and sundry serving items. Fresh holly with deep ruby berries was collected from our garden. Sticks of smouldering Santa Fe pinyon pine were lit to fill the rooms with memories of Christmas past. A tower of crimson roses intertwined with ivy, created by Liz, a Stretton talent in her own right, soared upward from the centre of our dining room table. In the drawing room, crystal vases filled with shiny red balls reflected the glow of dozens of scarlet candles creating a veneer of gentility.

  This was so different from our many enjoyable holidays spent in Palm Springs, where the airconditioning had to be lowered to a chill in order to keep our decorated fir tree alive. Living by a golf course, I can remember closing our sitting room plantation shutters on Christmas Day in order to keep out the glaring sun and the distraction of golfers carting by, oblivious to the holiday season. Often the only festive red and green colours visible, offsetting the pastel tones of golf shorts and tennis togs, were bowls of spicy Mexican salsa and gooey guacamole dip, the staple of every social gathering, winter, spring, summer or fall. I am not complaining of course, it was an enviable location in which to live. I hold those memories fondly; however, my life now seems light years away from those salad days in the sunshine.

  In an attempt to internationalize, or rather Southernize the evening we decided to put together a buffet menu that reflected my upbringing. Our thinking was that as long as chilled champagne flowed throughout the night we could be forgiven for any food faux pas. A honey-glazed spiral cut ham, locally raised chestnut-stuffed turkey and cranberry sauce with port shared the dining table with a silver tray piled high with savoury scones, the closest relative available to flaky, buttermilk biscuits. Our hope was to encourage our guests to make their own finger sandwiches. We soon learned that this had the same success rate as an Englishman eating a hamburger without a knife and fork. It wasn’t going to happen.