There’s been another phone call. It would be so wonderful to be one of those families that don’t get phone calls of this nature but we’re not of that ilk. I was just about to sit down to a lunch of spicy Thai noodles when the phone rang. It was the principal of the local primary school. My heart sank on hearing his voice because I knew he wasn’t phoning to find out if I had enjoyed my weekend.
Some children pass through school without their parents becoming known by all the staff who sit in larger offices but my children are of the kind where receiving phone calls or being asked to come in for a meeting is standard. At Alfie’s school, we’re on first name terms now, he (principal) and I, and this is not out of the ordinary because I’m on first name terms with all the principals, vice-principals, counsellors and Year Coordinators that have had the pleasure of ‘educating’ my children.
So I let him speak.
‘There’s been an incident involving your son…’
And a million possibilities flashed across my mind.
‘He’s not in any kind of trouble…’
Then why’s he ringing?
‘It’s just that during recess…’
And on and on he went.
Alfie, my charming little six-year-old, is best not left unsupervised. As the story goes, during recess he walked into the office block (apparently totally unnoticed by all ancillary staff – a great feat in itself), then he headed into the vacant principal’s office (still unnoticed) and hid under the principal’s desk. When the bell rang for the end of recess the principal returned to his office and sat down on his swivel chair at his desk. Right at that moment Alfie jumped up from under the desk and roared like a lion. The headmaster received the fright of his life. His startled reaction threw him backwards and that upturned his swivel chair and resulted in him being splattered across the carpet tiles. He looked up to see Alfie standing there with a huge grin on his face like this was the best possible result for his planned assault.
No, the principal wasn’t the slightest bit amused and once he had picked himself up off the tiles and smoothed down his crumpled suit, he questioned the ancillary staff as to how this boy came to be in his office and did anyone know how long he had been there.
Alfie could have answered those questions.
And the problem the principal now faced is that he very much would like to discipline Alfie for giving him a shock of such magnitude it nearly caused his heart to cease to beat, but sadly, there just wasn’t a precedent for sneaking into the principal’s office, hiding under his desk and waiting to give him an aging experience. So being completely confused as to what to do with him, he decided to call me.
Apart from suggesting he lock his office, what did he expect me to say?
I think I did ask after his well-being, ‘Not too bruised I hope?’ And I did soothe things over by saying his father and I would have a serious word to him about how hiding under the principal’s desk waiting to scare him half to death was probably a poor choice of activity.
On being somewhat ‘soothed’ the principal then let me know that Alfie would not be punished; mostly because they are unsure as to what disciplinary measures they should take. He’s left them all confused!
My spicy Thai noodles are now cold. But I have on hand the exact ingredients I need to cook Thai Spring Rolls so I’m making these instead. Alfie loves these and they’ll be ready for when he returns from his busy day at school.
The recipe I have used is from the Spirit House cookbook.
Pork and Glass Noodle Spring Rolls
Makes 20 spring rolls
Degree of Difficulty: 2/5
Cost: Very inexpensive
2 cloves garlic
1/2 tspn white peppercorns
1 tbspn chopped coriander root and stem
1 tbspn vegetable oil
1/2 red onion, finely diced
120g minced pork
1tbspn palm sugar
2 tbspns fish sauce
50g glass noodles, soaked and cut into 5cm pieces
100g bean sprouts
1/4 cup chopped fresh coriander leaves
packet of spring roll wrappers
2 tbspns cornfour
2 tbspns water
vegetable oil for frying
1/2 cup sweet chilli sauce
In a mortar, pound garlic, peppercorns, coriander root and stem to a paste. Heat 1 tbspn of oil in wok, add onion and stir-fry until softened. Add paste and stir-fry briefly. Add pork and stir-fry until cooked, about 5 minutes. Add palm sugar, fish sauce and glass noodles, then remove from heat. Allow to cool. Stir in bean sprouts and coriander leaves.
Lay a spring roll wrapper on a board. Place 1 tbspn of mixture in centre and roll packed as tightly as possible. Seal the ends with a paste made from the cornflour and water. Heat oil in wok until medium hot and fry spring rolls until golden, about 5 minutes. Drain on paper towel. Serve with sweet chilli sauce.
Last night I was lying on the couch in a drug-induced state courtesy of some prescribed medication following a medical procedure that is too stomach churning to talk about so I’m not going to mention it. The drugs were working quite nicely but then Archie came into the room holding a ‘gut-string’ guitar.
‘I just love the sound of this gut-string, mum and hey, I’ve written a new song. Do you want to hear it?’
But I didn’t really have a choice because Archie found a position in the room and started playing the gut string and singing his new song. While he was singing he was tapping his foot and poking out of his boot was a wooden stick with bells on it that Santa had given Alfie a couple of Christmases ago. As Archie tapped his foot the bells jingled and the gut-string played and with me having well exceeded the recommended dose, I was seeing and hearing a complete band.
That’s when Archie snapped me out of my near-coma by saying, ‘Mum, I’m putting the band together.’
What band? There is no band. There is only Archie who has a couple of guitars, a few harmonicas, a didgeridoo, one of Alfie’s toys and too much spare time.
‘Mum, I’ve been thinking. I’ve decided I’m not going to Uni next year. I’m going to get some mates and a car and we’ll travel around Australia and get work gigging in pubs. Wouldn’t that be awesome’.
Drugs are a good thing. They mellow out ‘horrified’ and leave you instead feeling stunned. ‘What do you mean, Archie?’
‘Mum, you’ve got to do these things when you’re young.’
But you don’t have to do these things. You don’t have to do them at all. You can be normal and go to Uni and do some study and work weekends in the menswear section of a department store selling ties, socks and jocks like the rest of us did. We didn’t think of going around Australia in a beat-up car as an alternative to a tertiary eduction.
And we certainly didn’t think of shocking our mothers with major lifestyle changes so soon after returning home from horrendous medical procedures. We at least waited until the next morning.
So Archie’s downstairs writing more music for ‘the band’ and I’m upstairs filling out his application to numerous colleges. As my mother said to me, ‘You’ll thank me when you’re older’.
It’s nearly Melbourne Cup Day and as I’m having a group of girls over for lunch that day, I’m practising making chicken sandwiches. I made these tonight and there were so many fights over them in the kitchen that there are none left for the lunchboxes tomorrow. I had no idea a decent chicken sandwich would be so popular. They key is to poach your own chicken which is very easy to do.
Poached Chicken Sandwiches
Degree of Difficulty: 2/5
Makes: 5 Sandwiches (10 slices of bread)
Cost: Inexpensive compared to dining in a cafe
2 free-range chicken breasts
1 bay leaf
1 small white onion
5 black peppercorns
1/2 cup finely chopped celery
1/4 cup finely chopped shallots, green tips included
1/3 cup pinenuts toasted in a frying pan
2 tbspns finely chopped chives
1/2 cup whole egg mayonnaise
10 slices good quality white or wholemeal bread
Place the chicken in a medium saucepan with the onion, bay leaf and peppercorns. Pour in enough water to cover, then bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and simmer gently for 5 minutes. Set aside and leave to cool with the lid on. Once the chicken is cooled, slice it into fine pieces. Place the chicken in a bowl with the celery, chives, shallots, pine nuts and mayonnaise and mix until well combined. Season well with salt and pepper. Spread 5 slices of bread with the chicken filling, top with remaining bread, then cut each sandwich into 3 fingers.
My friend Lisa has just been on the phone to me distraught to the max because she’d just finished a telephone conversation with her doctor’s receptionist and that receptionist ‘used the ‘f’ word’. All she’d wanted was a quick phone call making a simple appointment with her obstetrician (lovely man, aren’t they all? What a special breed) for her first check-up with her third pregnancy and when she made the call she was on a hormone high but by the end of the unexpected interrogation, she felt she had not one hormone left in her body.
A very charming chap whisked Lisa off her feet when she was barely out of her teens. He was almost twice her age and had his own construction business. They had two children born last century. When her husband was in his 50’s he decided he’d like to do a marathon and why not run his first one in New York. He employed a personal trainer, a dietician and a physiotherapist to work with him but just before he was due to board a plane for New York he collapsed on a treadmill at a gym and died of a heart attack.
A few years later Lisa married an orthodontist 13 years her junior. They decided they’d like to have one child and are now both very excited about the new pregnancy. The relative ease with which Lisa became pregnant made her feel very youthful. Then came the phone call with her doctor’s receptionist.
Receptionist So, is this good news or bad news?
Lisa Oh no, it’s good news. We’re both very excited about it.
Receptionist Well you can’t expect this pregnancy to be the same as the others…age will be playing a big factor now. I mean, you’re 40 aren’t you?
Lisa Oh no, I’m 39.
Receptionist Well, that’s 40.
Lisa No, it was conceived when I was 38 and it will be born before my 40th birthday.
Lisa was very worked up. ‘I so desperately want Hugh to be my doctor that I just put up with her calling me the ‘f’ word and so all I said was, ‘so you’re right then’. So she’s just extinguished my 30’s and put me in the 40 plus category.
‘It’s okay, Lisa’. There are those of us who would love to be called the ‘f’ word all over again’ I said in almost a jealous tone.
Lisa wasn’t listening. ‘I don’t know what it is about doctor’s receptionists. They’re all the same. Their job description is to file, type and answer the phones. It’s not for them to be making comments or asking questions. Isn’t that the doctor’s job?’
So Lisa went on and on but that was okay because that’s every pregnant woman’s right. And I was cooking a slow-roasted shoulder of lamb that was already in the oven so there was really nothing more I needed to do except a listening ear for a friend sensing age is creeping up on her.
Slow Roasted Shoulder of Lamb with Roast Vegetables
I have a friend in the country who breeds lambs just for their own use. Being born and bred in the country she is tarred with the brush of hospitality and generosity. Whenever we are going to catch up she asks, ‘Would you like a lamb?’ (butchered of course – sorry if you’re squeamish). So last week I was given a grass fed lamb courtesy of my lovely friend but…when I went through the contents I found I’d been given four shoulders and no legs so this was either a very odd looking lamb or there’d been a mix-up with the body parts. Never mind – the weather in Sydney is still quite cool so a slow-cooked roast makes an excellent meal and shoulders are the best for slow roasting.
This recipe is from Gourmet Traveller Magazine
Degree of Difficulty: 2/5
Cost: Lamb is expensive but the shoulder is one of the most inexpensive lamb cuts.
1.5 kg lamb shoulder
1 glass red wine
500 ml chicken stock
1 punnet mini-truss tomatoes (I used large cherry tomatoes halved)
1 head garlic, halved
2 red onions, quartered
4 potatoes, peeled and quartered
4 zucchini, chopped
1 eggplant, roughly chopped
Some fresh thyme sprigs
2 lemons, juice only
Season lamb shoulder with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Heat 2 tbsp of oil in a large pan over high heat and cook lamb for 5 minutes, turning once, until browned. Transfer to a large roasting tin. Meanwhile, deglaze pan with red wine and stock then pour over lamb in roasting tin. Cook in a preheated oven at 220C for 20 minutes then reduce heat to 160C and cook for 3-4 hours until tender, basting occasionally and adding the truss tomatoes during the last 30 minutes of cooking.
For roast vegetables, combine ingredients in a bowl with remaining olive oil and season with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Place in another roasting tin and pour 1 cup water over. Roast in the oven for the last 2 hours while lamb shoulder is cooking. Serve lamb with truss tomatoes and roast vegetables on platters or plates.
In March Archie was unemployed. As he was about to head overseas I thought he should leave with funds in his
bank account. I vaguely remembered a friend telling me (years ago) what a wonderful time she had working at a Polling Booth for the State Election. She said it was, ‘heaps of fun’. As a State Election was on the approach I went on-line and discovered, sure enough, there were job vacancies – and they weren’t being picky – Archie and I could both work at a Polling Booth. I signed us both up for what I imagined was going to be pleasant and rewarding, but above all, financially gratifying.
At 8am the floodgates opened and the room quickly filled. I don’t know if you’ve seen a copy of the electoral roll but the print is so tiny I should have been told to bring a magnifying glass. The fact that only two of the overhead lights were operational wasn’t helpful.
I had thought I would be pretty good at spelling people’s surnames but I hadn’t counted on there being such a huge migrant population in that part of Sydney. I haven’t yet mastered Mandarin or touched on Cantonese so the Xhing’s and the Zhous had me completely muddled. If it wasn’t the Xhing’s or the Zhous it was the Mc’s and the Mac’s. Where do you find these under ‘M’? What is the rule?
By the time I was offered a five-minute break I knew I was being underpaid. Why did my friend lie to me? There was nothing fun
about this. If I wasn’t marking off names in virtual darkness I was told to stand at the doors with a long wooden stick in my hands and use it to push the votes down in the boxes. (I actually did enjoy wielding that big stick and found plenty more uses for it).
I was so relieved when 6pm arrived and the opportunity to shove the outgoing Labor Party into further oblivion closed. I put my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked the supervisor.
‘Well that’s it, isn’t it?’ I said all confused.
‘That’s just half of it’, he chuckled, ‘now we have to count all the votes’.
And I looked behind me and all those boxes with the votes jammed into them by my big stick were being upturned onto the collapsible tables. The room was a sea of paper. I’d been duped. I’d read the fine print in the position advertised; there was nothing about this. ‘What time do you think we’ll be finished?’ I asked.
And he just couldn’t get the grin off his face, ‘When the last vote’s been counted’.
I won’t bore you with the details but all those bits of paper had to be unravelled from their screwed up positions and then laid out on tables and then divided into political groups and then counted and then counted and then counted again. And there wasn’t even a dinner break.
I walked out at 11pm. I’d missed the last bus and had to hail a cab costing about 20% of my day’s earnings. I thought the tiny stipend I was being paid was from 6.45am until 6pm but as it turns out, I worked for 16 hours in virtual darkness with my legs parted on either side of rusty metal chair legs, with bad breath exuding from my right and lazy girls to my left and the only relief was the opportunity to push votes to the bottom of boxes with a long wooden stick to be followed up with hours of unwrapping scrunched up voting papers. All that for nothing more than $300.
And as I was leaving, that veteran of this kind of activity with the bad breath said to me, ‘You know there’s a Census coming up, you can put your name down to hand out Census Forms. That’s my next opportunity.’
I believe; one man’s opportunity is another man’s misery.
Like I said, ‘Never, ever, not even if you’re desperate.’
Arabella turned 17 last week. She celebrated by inviting 25 pretty young things to a sit-down dinner in our backyard. They all arrived in dresses the length of T-shirts, heels so high they had to stoop to get through doorways and backpacks containing nothing more sinister than cranberry juice? Proving she’s still young at heart, Arabella chose this cake from The Australian Women’s Weekly ‘Kids’ Brithday Cakes’ cookbook. A cookbook I’m all too familiar with. When making this recipe, it says to make three quantities of Fluffy Frosting but I had so much left over you probably only need to make double quantity. Sorry the photos are so ordinary, they are just happy snaps but Arabella was so happy with the result, she wanted me to share the images.
‘What true-love?’ I asked.
‘His name’s Nick, mum.’
‘Never heard of him. Have I met him?’
‘No and you’re not going to either’.
Here we go. ‘Why won’t I be meeting him?’
‘Because he’s busy.’
‘Mum, he’s left school. He’s 20. He works for his uncle doing security.’
Sounds like a bouncer. I’m picturing a thug. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Newport. He shares a flat with his cousin.’
‘Well when you’re next going to see him, get him to pop in here when he picks you up.’
‘He doesn’t drive. Doesn’t have a license.’
‘That’s why I wasn’t even going to tell you that I have a new true-love because that’s exactly how I expected you to react and I knew you’d just be unreasonable. Don’t you trust me?’
Just pouring myself a large tumbler of wine. ‘Arabella, I’m sure he’s lovely but you’re 16 and it’s not appropriate that you go out with someone we’ve never even met. If you don’t think I’m on the money, go ask your child psychologist what he thinks.
‘Well if I invited him over for dinner would you cook something nice?’
‘Well it won’t be poison’.
‘Can he come Friday night?’
‘Fine. But can he get here by six because we don’t want a late night because your father has an early start in the morning’.
And so Arabella went off to her room and behind a closed door she made a call to true-love-Nick. Meanwhile I phoned Carl to let him know there was an unlicensed 20-year-old thug coming for dinner with eyes on our daughter.
And what would be wrong with mince on toast? And that’s exactly what Carl said but I told him that I was going to whip up the meal as requested so Arabella could see how supportive and non-judgemental we were being.
Friday night was unseasonably warm so I decided we’d eat at the outdoor table on the terrace. There were candles on the table and ironed napery, a full moon was emerging from the horizon and Carl had even jumped into the moment by chilling down some of his favourite beers.
I was whipping up the béarnaise sauce when Carl came into the kitchen and said, ‘It’s 6.15. Where is he? Has she heard from him?’ I said, ‘Carl, don’t make a scene. I’ll go and ask her.’ ‘Ah Arabella, do you know what’s keeping him?’
‘He said he’s just on the bus.’
‘I don’t know, somewhere between here and Newport’.
‘Well what’s his ETA?’
‘Let’s start with a pre-dinner drink.’
‘Mum, I just spoke to him. He thinks he’ll be another hour.’
‘Another hour? You said he was on the bus nearly an hour ago.’
‘I know’, she screamed. ‘He’ll be here when he gets here’.
And Carl was about to tell her that when you’re invited to someone’s home for a 6 o’clock dinner, that’s the time you turn up but I muttered, ‘Don’t make a scene’.
So Carl and I ate our dinner out on the terrace by the light of the full moon. Nick never appeared and Arabella was off her oats. When she emerged from her room with her face all streaky with mascara, Carl was going to give Arabella a serve on the economic realities of eye fillet steak but instead, helped himself to another one.
That’s when Arabella told us that Nick, (under the pressure of having to ‘meet the parents’) had said it was too difficult having a true-love who was still in school.
The relationship was done and dusted. I tried to hide my excitement. Arabella was a mess. That’s when I shared with her something a friend had posted on facebook:
‘We need to teach our daughters to distinguish between:
A man who flatters her, and a man who compliments her.
A man who spends money on her, and a man who invests in her.
A man who views her as property, and a man who views her properly.
A man who lusts after her, and a man who loves her.
A man who believes he is God’s gift to women, and a man who remembers a woman was God’s gift to man.’
And Arabella sobbed.
This week I’m not sharing the meal I prepared for the ex-true-love-bouncer. I have previously cooked béarnaise sauce and the recipe is listed under my ‘Sauces’ category.
Instead I have prepared ‘Fresh Fruit with Sweet Cream Cheese’. This recipe is again from the cookbook RMS Titanic – Dinner is Served. The dessert was served to first class passengers on April 14, 1912, just a few hours before tragedy would strike. I imagine this dish would have been considered an indulgence and very extravagant given the variety of fresh fruit presented.
Degree of Difficulty: 2/5
Cost: Inexpensive when using fruits in season
400g soft cream cheese
3 tbspns icing sugar
4 kiwi fruit, peeled and sliced
12 strawberries, hulled and sliced
12 grapes, halved (I used blueberries instead of grapes)
1 banana, peeled and sliced on a slant
Place the cream cheese and the icing sugar in a food processor and blend until smooth. Set aside in the fridge until needed.
Prepare the fruit and place a presentation ring on a serving plate.
Alternate the fruit and cheese in layers, finishing with the cheese and a crown of any decorative fruit of your choice.
Strawberry coulis drizzled over the fruit would finish the dish off perfectly.
It was Carl who suggested I needed the ‘Ocean Swim’ experience. ‘You’ll love it’ he enthused and then he registered me for the
About 400 swimmers had registered for the 1.5km race and I thought that was a manageable number. But on the day extras arrived by the busload swelling the numbers to over 700. I wondered how they would organise the race and hoped they would stagger the start and just let a few swimmers go at a time but they didn’t.
I was herded into the 35-49 category and when our category was asked to line up for the start of the race, it seemed there were about three hundred of us. I was standing shoulder to shoulder with big hairy blokes all jostling for positions in the sand. And they all seemed to know each other and were yelling out about the last race they swam and the size of the swell and the direction of the wind and who ended up with a nosebleed etc. It was scary times.
I stood there developing rapid onset nausea and it crossed my mind that perhaps it wasn’t too late to pull out. But Carl was at the finish line with Alfie (teenagers were in bed – didn’t come to watch me) and they were waving enthusiastically with a look on their faces like perhaps I even had a chance of winning the event.
Off went the starter’s gun and immediately the mob of 35-49 year olds stampeded to the water with elbows horizontal to gauge into the nearest competitor. It was like the doors opening at the Myer Boxing Day sales – you either go with the mob or the mob mows you down.
The water was muddy-coloured from the seaweed that had arrived with the morning’s tide. And the seaweed was thick, itchy, smelly and EVERYWHERE. And the swell that didn’t seem so big from the shore was tossing me about and throwing me off course. You had to constantly lift your head to make sure you were heading in the right direction.
I swam out to the first buoy. As I approached, a huge rude man just swam right on top of me. He could have gone around me or avoided me altogether but he just didn’t care. To him, it was acceptable that in an ocean swim you take down as many competitors as possible. He doesn’t see himself as a swimmer, he’s a gladiator. His body was on top of my head and I couldn’t move my arms. He kept on swimming over me and as he moved on he landed a final kick to my forehead that came up in an instant lump and left me dazed. This was not a fun swim; this was like being in a riot.
I swam on and finally went around the last buoy and headed for the shore. Being a novice, it didn’t occur to me that you should look behind you for the waves as you approach the beach. Without warning I was dumped by a huge wave along with five or six others and once the wave had finally finished throwing us around I found myself on the bottom of the seabed, lying face down in the sand with four people standing on top of me. I couldn’t move. I had no air in my lungs. That was when I thought I was going to be the first person killed in the Blackmores Bilgola Ocean Swim. But they got off me and I managed to surface before being pronounced dead.
I made it to the shore and we were required to run to the finish line. Carl and Alfie were still there and Carl said, ‘You didn’t do very well, most of your group’s already finished’. I could have slapped him but I was hunched over vomiting up seawater.
If you have a bucket list, there’s no need to add, ‘Ocean Swim’.
But in case I have inspired you, the next Blackmores Bilgola Ocean Swim is on Sunday, December 12.
You won’t see me there.
And thank you Readers for your feedback regarding recipes that were served on RMS Titanic. For those as equally interested as myself, here is another recipe…Mango Chutney. I found this to be a fairly sweet chutney. More sweet than to my liking. I would only lightly pack the brown sugar to help reduce the sweetness. But served on a water cracker with a sharp mature cheddar cheese, it is delicious.
Degree of Difficulty: 1/5
Cost: Very inexpensive when mangoes are in season
Makes: Fills at least 3 medium sized jars
2 large ripe mangoes peeled and finely diced
2 cooking apples (I used Granny Smiths) peeled and chopped
125gms seedless raisins
2 onions peeled and chopped (I used brown onions)
1 tspn ground ginger
350gms brown sugar (lightly packed)
2 gloves of crushed garlie
1/2 tspn salt
Place all of the ingredients into a heavy based saucepan. Bring to the boil uncovered then simmer for 45 minutes stirring occasionally. Leave the chutney to cool then transfer to clean, sterilised jars. Once opened, store in the fridge and use within three weeks.
Archie’s back! And not without the usual and almost expected dramas. His flights were all cancelled due to Hurricane Irene.
Archie phoned us from London in a great state, shouting down the receiver that he only had about a minute’s life left on his phone and there’d be no resurrection because he’d lost the charger. He was on the phone to the airline and they couldn’t get him on a flight for another week unless of course we coughed for one of those seats where Archie would be addressed as ‘sir’, the seat would morph into a downy bed and Archie could stroll the wide aisles in a pair of complimentary pyjamas.
‘Mum, they need your credit card, my phone’s about to die, can I board the plane or not?’
I was at a dinner party. I’d been enjoying myself up until then.
‘Mum, it’s the last seat left. She needs to know if we’re taking it.’
I’d been thinking how nice it was for him to phone me. Hadn’t heard from him in over a week. ‘Enjoy your flight. Phone me when you get to New York’.
But he didn’t.
But he did bring me back a very special cookbook. While stranded in London, Archie went to Titanic – The Artefact Exhibition. There he bought me the book, ‘RMS Titanic – Dinner is Served. Menus from the great liner revisited and updated by Yvonne Hume, great niece of Titanic’s first violinist John Law Hume.’
Everyone’s heard the speculation that the band ‘played until the end’ and wondered whether they played the bandleader’s favourite
hymn, ‘Nearer My God to Thee’. Yvonne Hume says, ‘My personal view is that if they had stopped an hour or more, as has been suggested, before Titanic slipped beneath the surface, there would have been time to put their lifejackets on. The fact that none of the musicians whose bodies were recovered were wearing lifejackets suggests that they played until it was impossible to carry on because of the angle of the deck.’ After the sinking only three of the musicians’ bodies were recovered; John Hume, bandleader Wallace Hartley and bass viola player, Fred Clarke. John Hume was 22 years old.
As you enter the exhibition you are presented with a boarding pass. On the reverse side are the details of a passenger and you assume that persons identity as you wander through the exhibition. At the end of the exhibition you look for your passenger’s name on the Memorial Wall to have their fate revealed.
Archie was Mr William H Harbeck, 44 years of age from Paris, France. He was accompanied on the voyage by Henriette Yrois. He was a second-class passenger in an unknown cabin. He was traveling to the Hotel Cadillac in New York. He was returning from Paris where he had studied with a master filmmaker. William had been hired by White Star Line to film Titanic’s maiden voyage. His next project in North America was a film of Alaska and the Yukon Territory. William traveled with Henriette Yrois, a
William Harbeck’s life was lost along with 1,500 other souls. Miss Yrois was one of the 706 who survived.
Yvone Hume’s cookbook contains all the recipes that were served on that fateful ship from steerage to first class. This recipe is ‘Duck Liver Pate with Toast Points’. It was served as an entrée to first class passengers on 14th April, 1912. You could have enjoyed this pate with a glass of champagne from a selection that included Cliquot 1900, Pommeroy Naturel 1900, Moet & Chandon 1898, Heidsieck 1898, Mumm’s Extra Dry 1900, Perrier Jouet extra Dry 1898 or a Ruinart Vin Brut.
And so Reader…do let me know if you would like me to share more recipes from RMS Titanic.
Duck Liver Pate with Toast Points
Degree of difficulty: 1/5
Serves 4 (I was serving as pass-around-food so put the pate into 2 larger ramekins instead of 4 smaller ramekins for individual serves)
225g duck livers *
100g melted butter
25ml double cream
1/2 tbspn brandy
1/2 tbspn chopped rosemary
8 slices of bread, crusts removed
Heat 40g of the butter in a saucepan, add the drained livers and cook gently for 3-4 minutes. The livers should be cooked on the outside but a little pink on the inside.
When the livers are cooked, place them into a processor and process until smooth.
Add the brandy and rosemary to the saucepan then heat gently, scraping up the residue of the livers.
Add the heated brandy and rosemary to the liver in the processor, together with another 40g of the melted butter, cream and seasoning. Process until smooth.
Place the pate into individual ramekins, pour the remaining melted butter over the top of the pate to seal, cover and place in the fridge to chill.
Slice the bread to make two very thin slices. To do this place your hand, palm down, onto the bread and with a sharp knife gently and carefully ease the knife through. Cut the slices into triangles, place on a baking tray, sprinkle with olive oil and salt then bake in a hot oven 200°C until golden and curled up at the edges.
* I was unable to buy duck livers so substituted chicken livers
** I omitted this step as you don’t need to soak chicken livers overnight in milk