Friday 13th May was a bright, cold showery day, so I alerted Mum (88years old, not out) that we were taking a trip to Llangendeirne, home village of Nita Sybil Evans, whose 1922 handwritten cookery book I have.
From Haverfordwest to Carmarthen,the M4 was busy with tractors, juggernauts and camper vans - you get the picture - slow-moving traffic is a pain.
Turning for Llangain to collect Mum I admired the hedgerows full of yellow buttercups, red campion (Crib y Ceiliog or cockerel's combs) and cow parsley with heads big as saucers. (Full marks to Cyngor Sir Gar, Carmarthen County Council, for not trashing wildflowers before they have seeded.)
Half an hour later, we were enjoying chicken mayo sandwiches, a side salad and a shared bowl of chips in the Ivy Bush Hotel, Carmarthen.
After allowing half an hour for digestive purposes, we decided to head for Llangendeirne. We got into the car, I turned the ignition key and nothing happened. No. Nothing. Dim byd o gwbwl. After trying (and it was a trying experience) a few times, all to no avail, I consulted the handbook (not the type of thing I like doing) and decided the battery was flat. Mum kept commendably calm. I called my brother in his shop in the new market development in Carmarthen (Debenhams, Selfridges, River Island, 'Singer Sewing' in his case), to come and fetch Mum.
Though she is on her mobile all the time, like any teenager, Mum has never got the hang of speed dial, so my finger was faster on the trigger than hers. Her main concern was whether my brother had customers in the shop who he might have to rush, but he soon appeared and whisked her off.
The rescue truck arrived within ten minutes. I gave my diagnosis and the mechanic charged the battery, jump leads, etc, for those of a technical bent, like my husband, who wanted a full account of what the mechanic had done. I then tried to start it again but nada, nada, no chips.
My thoughts then turned to the key, because it locked in the ignition once and I could not remove it. The mechanic cheered up instantly when I conveyed my suspicions. Unfortunately, but happily for him, he could not get the car on his truck because the wheels had locked. I needed a truck that could hoist the car up. One hour later, a long truck plus a hoist arrived. The mechanic said if I was correct, this would be the sixth Mercedes with key trouble that he'd rescued recently.
Perhaps I shouldn't have gone far, considering it was Friday the 13th. Also, a magpie stalked the grass in front of me while I waited for assistance.
Magpie or not, I was home by four thirty, thanks to Peter, otherwise known as Mr Morgan, who recently had his seventy seventh birthday. Driving his fifteen year old Mercedes (manual keys on his car: 'Simple. Things don't go wrong with them', he muttered) from Haverfordwest, he was with me in forty minutes.
Home again, we had cheese on toast, topped with fried tomatoes on the vine.
Now I come to Nita's recipe for 'Tomato Chutney', not only tasty but the lycopene in tomatoes helps protect against prostate cancer (but you don't need to think about this when you're enjoying the chutney).
Recipe for 'Tomato Chutney':
2 lbs Tomatoes (I apologise to the purists amongst you, but the book does not use metric measures),
1 Large Onion (thinly sliced),
1 Large Tablespoon salt,
6 ounces of Brown Sugar,
4 ounces of Seedless Raisins (cut small),
1 Teaspoon Mustard,
1 Teaspoon Ground Ginger.
Pinch of Cayenne Pepper (cayenne pepper in Llangendeirne 1922? Nita must have been way ahead of her time),
Three quarters of a pint of Vinegar.
To cut a longish recipe short, chop the tomatoes and layer with the onions in a bowl and sprinkle with salt. Leave overnight in a bowl. Next morning, tip the mixture into a stewpan, add mustard, ginger and pepper, pour in the vinegar. Put over a low heat (a coal fire, probably, in 1922). Stir with a wooden spoon until the onions and tomatoes are tender. leave to cool before bottling in clean glass jars.
(Nita has a tendency to preface nouns with capital letters, in the German way; she's not averse to sprinkling capitals here and there, either.)
Night has now fallen over Haverfordwest, dark, starless night and I must retire to my bed (warmed by a hot water bottle and a Melyn Tregwynt blanket (pink, since you ask). Nos da pawb.
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