Tea In a Tin Cup

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Ten minutes before serving the pie, remove it from the freezer. Crush the remaining 4 sandwich cookies. Cut the pie into slices and slather on a spoonful of whipped cream, then sprinkle the tops with the crushed cookies. Drizzle the caramel topping.

  Chapter 19

  Depends On Where You Live

  One cool thing about living in England, whether it was for those three summers or later during my year-long residency, was going grocery shopping.

  It was trial by fire, learning the ‘new’ names for familiar food. Ground beef was mince, cornstarch was cornflour, endive was chicory, a roast was a joint, a hamburger bun was a bap, lima beans were broad beans, molasses was black treacle, a raisin was a sultana... Even dessert was called pudding. Never mind that it was ice cream or cake or pie (which was always a main dish and never sweet). It was pudding. Or afters. I probably would’ve lost fifty pounds (oh, pardon me, three stone five) if I hadn’t been living with my friends. But I learned the correct vocabulary fairly quickly.

  I don’t know about the situation currently because I haven’t been back for a while, but while I was there the green grocer and the grocery shop were prevalent.

  Most every village had a green grocer, or several if the place was large. They were shops that mainly sold vegetables and fruits. They were displayed in large trays or low-sided wooden boxes. I loved the names: aubergine, marrow, leek, swede, courgette…

  And the names of some of the recipes were equally intriguing: stuffed marrow rings, punchnep, rumbledethumps, bubble and squeak, finnan haddie, Sheriff’s soup…

  Such a glorious adventure awaited me.

  One of the other things I loved about 1970s England groceries (perhaps all of Britain—I just knew about the Bolton area at that time) was that they stocked refrigerated canned biscuits and peanut butter in the grocery store’s gourmet food section.

  Another cool thing: you could buy just one egg, if you wished.

  In 1977, the year I lived there, my grandmother sent me a check for my Christmas gift. She wanted me to buy something that I liked, something British to remind me of my trip when I got home.

  Years before my long stay, when I invaded Anne and Janet’s flat in the late 1960s, I listened to a folk music program on the radio. One evening The McCalmans were featured. The Macs, as they were fondly known as, were Scottish and comprised of Ian McCalman, Hamish Bayne and Derek Moffat. They played guitars, concertina, tin whistle, and bodhran (the hand-held drum hit by the hand or a stick). The majority of their repertoire at that time was traditional Scottish. They had a rich, full sound, with powerful voices. I fell in love at first hearing.

  When my grandmother gave me the money for my Christmas gift during my 1976-77 stay, I immediately thought of the McCalmans, who were still professionally singing. I wanted to have a Christmas party and they’d be the entertainment. What a gift that would be!

  I asked Anne and her husband (she was married by now, as was Janet) if I could have the party at their house (I was living with them that 76-77 year). They were keen on the idea, so I contacted the Macs’ manager, secured a date, and began planning.

  The party was to be June 25. A Christmas-Six-Months-Early celebration. Anne and Janet (she’d married a police officer and they still lived in the Bolton area) asked people at their work places if they’d like to come. I created a menu of various American foods that I thought the Macs might like.

  Several of my recipes called for items that I couldn’t find in Britain…of course. I wrote to my mom, gave her a list of ingredients I needed, and she dutifully sent the care package.

  The items arrived in plenty of time, and a few days before the party I began cooking and baking. One of the recipes I made was chocolate chip cookies. They were unknown in Britain…or at least not very common. Like peanut butter.

  Anne’s husband, David, suggested I order a half keg of beer from the pub down the street. It was better, he said, than bottled or canned stuff. So, I walked down to the local and ordered the beer and gave them the address where it should be delivered. Delivered five days early, David told me. The beer needed time to settle after its trip so it would be drinkable. Good thing one of us drank. I wouldn’t have known. And I knew the Macs were enthusiastic beer drinkers.

  The beer duly arrived and the half keg set up in the dining room. I finished my food, and the day of the party I cleaned the house and set the serving platters on the dining room table. I made a sign with red and green lettering and an aluminum foil border. I taped it to the front door so the guys could easily spot the house. It said

  Ian, Derek, Hamish

  This is it!

  Stop here!

  I didn’t want them to get lost. Gol, I was nervous.

  The party was a success; the food was a success. I don’t know when I’ve had a better time.

  During the party, Hamish was munching on a cookie. He came up to me, and pointed to the chocolate chips. He asked, quite seriously, why the chocolate hadn’t melted. I didn’t want to tell him that American chocolate had more wax in it than British chocolate did, to combat the hotter temperatures in the U.S. I figured he wouldn’t want to know he was consuming wax, even though it was probably a teaspoon or so. I think I told him it was a different type of chocolate than Britain used. He seemed okay with that, for he finished off the cookie and ate another one.

  I think most bakers have a recipe for Chocolate Chip Cookies, so I’m giving you a recipe for Dark and White Chocolate Lemon Scones. The chocolate chips make it kind of American, and of course the scone itself is British.

  * * *

  Dark and White Chocolate Lemon Scones – 8 scones

  2 cups flour

  2 tbsp sugar

  1 tbsp baking powder

  grated zest of 2 lemons

  ¼ tsp salt

  4 tbsp cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces

  ¼ cup bittersweet chocolate chips

  ¼ cup white chocolate chips

  2 eggs

  ½ cup heavy cream

  ½ tsp cinnamon mixed with 2 tbsp sugar for topping, optional

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 400°F. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, lemon zest and salt. Cut in the butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

  Add both varieties of the chocolate chips.

  In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs and cream. Add to the dry mixture and stir until a sticky dough is formed.

  Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently just until the dough holds together, about 6 times. Divide into 3 equal portions and pat each into a 1-inch-thick round about 6 inches in diameter. With a knife, cut each round into quarters, making 4 wedges. The scones can also be formed by cutting out with a 3-inch cookie cutter to make 10 to 12 smaller scones.

  Place the scones about 1 inch apart on a greased cookie sheet. Sprinkle the tops with the cinnamon sugar, if desired. Bake in the oven until crusty and golden brown, 15-20 minutes. Serve immediately with butter and jam.

  Chapter 20

  My Adopted Family

  Living for a year in a different country sometimes has unimagined benefits. One of these was becoming friends with a family across the street from Anne and David, with whom I was staying.

  Brian, Pauline and their children went to the Methodist Church just around the corner. Being a United Methodist, I naturally sought out a similar church in England. I had misgivings at first: would I be stared at à la the German restaurant incident? Maybe worse, would I be looked down on (Not everyone in Britain likes Americans, and some mocked me for what they assumed I was—another ‘superior’ person from a ‘superior’ country. One man elsewhere asked me how America was surviving without me.). Other misgivings whispered to me: would I know the hymns, would the order of service confuse me if it was a Primitive Methodist (even though the branch officially joined with the Wesleyans and United Methodists in the early 1930s)? I needn’t have worried. I don’t think I was seated in the pew for longer than a minute before
Pauline scurried over, welcomed me with genuine warmth in her voice and eyes, and introduced herself.

  Carrington Lane was a small congregation and a small building. Brown wood rafters, pews, door and pulpit accented the white plaster interior. Wooden plaques on the wall announced the page numbers of the three hymns we were to sing that service. A bank of organ pipes rose behind the altar, soaring nearly to the ceiling.

  The congregation had a woman pastor, which was fairly common in a non-Church of England denomination. She, too, was welcoming, and many people were curious to know how I’d landed in their small church in the out-of-the-tourist location of Sale, Cheshire.

  I became a regular attendee to Carrington Lane while I lived in England. One thing that I particularly liked was the hymn text set to different tunes than found in the American hymnal. Many melodies I liked better than the ones at home. Some hymns were new to me, such as “To Be A Pilgrim.” It is the only hymn John Bunyan is known to have written. I also loved “Jerusalem,” which helped relieve the horror of World War I.

  One day, the minister asked if I would sing a song and then talk of the process of learning to play guitar. She planned a talk for an upcoming service on overcoming difficulties and accomplishing goals. I said I would be honored, and chose an American spiritual. One of the other speakers that Sunday service was a blind lady who told how she accomplished her baking.

  After every church service we had tea in the church hall. The room was large, with several long folding tables in the center. The kitchen sat at one end of the room. A serving counter with a metal shutter could be pulled down to close it off from the room or to serve from. Metal folding chairs lined the three walls.

  When the room was used for after church tea (instead of Scout meetings), two large urns filled with tea sat on the tables, and plates of scones or biscuits (cookies) or donuts or slices of tea bread accompanied the beverage. The room had a warm, friendly atmosphere. Everyone threw a few coins into the glass jar on the kitchen counter—a painless way to contribute to the cost of the food.

  Pauline was one of a group of volunteers in the church who greeted people each morning and answered questions and ushered them into the church hall for tea. She was always friendly, and her initial welcome was echoed by her husband, Brian, and their son and daughter—although I think at first the kids were excited to have an ‘oddity’ as a friend. An American in that area was certainly uncommon. I’m rather surprised the kids never asked me to come to their school as a show-and-tell object.

  My friendship with the family grew deeper. Many days I’d be at their house for high tea (dinner) or just to visit with Pauline. A few instances I’d help her bake something in her kitchen. By the time I left England, I’d garnered some of her recipes: Cherry Scones, Chocolate Fingers (bar cookies), Singing Hinnies (a raisin-studded bun), and Flapjack (a bar cookie of oats and honey). In return, when I got home I sent them a package containing bottles of root beer (not a big hit), popcorn (they couldn’t figure out why we’d eat this), peanut butter (that, at least, they knew about), and raw peanuts and the recipe for boiling them.

  While there, they included me on picnics and outings to museums, historic homes and events. Once we went to Little Moreton Hall, a half-timbered black-and-white medieval house near Congleton, Cheshire.

  It was love at first sight for me. The three-story house was built around 1504, with building additions ending around 1610. A thirty-three-foot wide moat surrounds the house and knot garden. The house originally sat on 1,360 acres. I can only imagine what it must have been like.

  The third story was evidently added without much thought to its weight, for it has since caused the floors below to bend and buckle. I walked the length of the Long Gallery and the slope of the floor was very noticeable. But oh, the beauty of the room, of the entire house! Wooden paneling, carved chimneypieces, diapered brickwork, leaded windows... Especially windows. Little Moreton has thirty thousand leaded panes set in various patterns.

  Bramall Hall, a Tudor manor house, is another timber-framed building that I fell in love with. It dates from the 1300s. I’m still trying to get a job there…

  This recipe for Flapjack comes from Pauline. The first time I tasted it was at their house…or on a picnic. Doesn’t matter. It’s good any place.

  * * *

  Flapjack – 16 or 20 cookies

  4 oz (1/2 cup) butter

  3 oz (6 tbsp) sugar

  1 tbsp honey

  1 1/3 cups rolled oats

  ¾ cup flour

  1 tsp baking powder

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease a 9”x9” baking pan.

  In a saucepan, melt the butter, sugar and honey. When the sugar is dissolved, add the oats, flour and baking powder. Stir well to incorporate the dry ingredients into the liquid.

  Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake at 350°F for 20 minutes. Remove from oven and cut into squares while it’s warm. Store the cookies in an airtight container.

  What an odd name, especially for a food! ‘Hinny’ in Singing Hinnies is a Scottish or Northern English dialect word for ‘honey.’ One can assume it’s used in this sense as an endearment since honey is not an ingredient in this recipe. The ‘singing’ supposedly refers to the sizzling sound the teacake makes while cooking on the griddle. Seems to be similar thinking for that other famous British dish, Bubble and Squeak. Whether or not you are fond of foods that ‘talk’ to you while they cook, I think you’ll like Singing Hinnies, the raisin and sour cream packed little teacake. Although traditionally they were cooked on a hot griddle, they bake in the oven in this recipe. Still as good, I believe.

  * * *

  Singing Hinnies – 2 dozen rolls

  ½ cup raisins

  2 ½ cups flour

  ½ tsp salt

  ½ cup sugar

  2 tsp baking powder

  1 tsp baking soda

  1/3 cup butter

  1 egg

  1 tbsp water

  1 cup sour cream

  ½ tsp lemon rind

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 425°F.

  Remove 2 tbsp from the 2 ½ cups flour. Place the flour into a bowl or onto a sheet of waxed paper and dredge the raisins in the flour.

  In a medium-sized bowl, mix the remaining flour, salt, sugar, baking powder and baking soda.

  Cut the butter into the flour mixture.

  Mix the egg with the water and add this to the flour mixture. Add the sour cream, lemon rind and the raisins. Mix well.

  Make 24 balls of the dough. Flatten slightly and place on greased cookie sheets.

  Bake at 425°F for 12-15 minutes, or until the rolls are lightly browned.

  Chapter 21

  Buxton: The Setting for My Books

  When I got the idea for my Peak District mystery series in 2002, I researched various counties in England. I wanted one with a lot of diversity, both in size of towns and cities, and with land. I wanted water and mountains and moors and pastures so my stories would have variety for the settings. I chose Derbyshire. It sounded perfect.

  I came up with my characters first. A group of police detectives from the C.I.D. team of the Derbyshire Constabulary. I’d concentrate on two of them, a detective-chief inspector and a detective-sergeant who has a crush on him. She’d have a best friend who was a detective-constable and another sergeant would give her a hard time because she’s a woman in a “man’s job.” Sounded good and I figured there’d be a lot of interaction. Now for the story.

  Since I like history and customs, I came up with a storyline that combined both elements: Guy Fawkes Day. I figured out the plot and felt rather pleased with myself. But I needed to place it somewhere in Derbyshire. I’d never been to the county during any of my visits to England. To see the place I would write about and get the ‘feel’ of the area, I actually needed to visit Derbyshire.

  By this time, of course, my Britain-living days were long over (I always seem to be ahead or behind the times.). I’d been bas
ed in Bolton, Lancashire and Sale, Cheshire. When I’d made short journeys, they were to the Lake District in Cumbria (north) or farther south in Cheshire or even to Scotland. I’d never been to Derbyshire. If I was going to write this book and expand it into a series, I really needed to go to the area.

  Sounded like a good idea, but in what village would this first book take place? I examined a map of Derbyshire. It had such a varied landscape, which was why I chose it, that my crime could be just about anywhere. But according to my plot, I needed a river that was fished, a village, and some nearby woods.

  There were many candidates, according to the map. But was there a place in or close by in which I could stay while I sniffed out locations?

  I then perused bed-and-breakfast accommodations. There were dozens of them all over the northern Peak District, which is where I’d decided to set my story. I read the descriptions of the establishments and found one that was a short walk to the village of Hartington. And the River Dove meandered between the B-&-B and the village. Perfect.

  I got my room reservation, bought my plane ticket, and felt confident that most of the research would easily be taken care of.

  The only thing I couldn’t solve was my pile of police questions that sprang from my plot. Surely I could talk to the village bobby—he’d tell me what I needed to know.

  I arrived at the bed-and-breakfast for my week-long stay. I figured I’d need that length of time to walk around the area and the village, see what roads led to what, learn if there were regional food likes, talk to the bobby, and get the feel of the place.