All I have is words

I studied English at Advanced Mains level in college and I have an MA in Creative Writing. I have taught Creative Writing, too, but, shall I tell you what? You cannot teach anyone to write creatively. You can mark their work, make suggestions, advise some serious editing, point them in the direction of books  that might inspire them, but . . . 

Writing has a lot to do with the way we think.  E.M. Forster, the novelist, said that you do not know what you think until you see what you say. That's putting what I said back to front. Let's think again.

A student said to me that any words put on paper are an act of creation. Ye-es. So. We'll try it.

You got out of bed this morning, visited the bathroom, made some tea? Interesting? I don't think so. Why? Millions of others did the same thing.

But, you woke up this morning and there on your pillow was a frog with a rhinestone collar around his dear little neck (or whatever passed for his dear little neck)  and standing behind him was a snow leopard? Getting better?

The problem with many students is that they love their own work. I had the opposite problem. I was too critical of myself, destroying much of what I wrote. Perhaps this is why it took me so long to write my novel 'Salt Blue'.

Although I could write, I felt the need not just to tell a story, but to use words 'creatively'. We'll look at  Page 173 in 'Salt Blue' and see how I handle this:  Stella, the heroine wakes up on the day she is due to fly to America. She's not been further than London before.

'I wake early. An ice candle crackles against the sleep-warm flesh of my thighs, claws at my belly, scrapes its way to the polished tin knocker guarding the quiet chambers of my heart and rattles hard.

"Wake up, little kiddie. Today you're off to find you're Great American Dream and you're going, frit-frightened or not."'

I might have said, if I'd listened to the student; 'When I woke I felt frightened about going to America and I had to force myself out of bed.'

What's the verdict on the last sentence? I've placed words in grammatical order and they make sense but would anyone want to read more or would thay have nodded off to sleep before reaching the next sentence?

You be the jury.

Libraries

Julia Donaldson, the new Children's Laureate and best-selling author, has spoken out against the Government's plans for closing libraries.

The Haverfordwest Library opens Monday to Saturday, when it closes at 1 pm. It has two 'late' nights a week, closing at seven o'clock  When I was a child  my local library opened all day on a Saturday afternoon, giving those who worked in the week time to browse.  I've wondered for years why library opening hours are not more flexible.

Wittgenstein, the philosopher, called language a 'key skill', providing access to other areas of learning and helping us to order our thoughts. We have four vocabularies: listening, speaking, writing and reading.  Reading exposes us to a wider vocabulary than we might otherwise have. The more books we read, the greater our language facility becomes.

  

I'm fond of  people's published diaries.  Nella Last's  'Housewife 47' gave me hours of pleasure. Nella's writing was part of a survey during World War II and she describes the monotonous dreariness of her life.  Frustrations in her marriage become apparent and she worries about one of her sons.  The war gives Nella  a role but when it ends she slips back into housework again and loses some of her vivacity.

  

'Housewife 47' comes in a DVD, too, but nothing can replace the written word and the feeling of solitude that being alone with a book gives.

Why don't libraries open on a Sunday?  Leisure centres do.  More people might use them then. As it's a question of money, libraries are probably doomed.  I suspect that  if they'd opened for longer hours, more people might have used them and they would not be facing closure now.

Salad Days

When I was a child, salad meant summertime.  It's scorching June in Haverfordwest, hay making is in full swing, the tractors are slow as beetles on the road, but we're not eating cucumbers, lettuce or tomatoes.  E-coli strains in imported vegetables have made it dangerous.

The quay in the old two town in Lower Fishguard is lined with holiday cottages but there are a handful where local people live all year round. Two of the houses, semi - detached, have square gardens on the side and I was particularly taken with one of them this afternoon. It had rows of shallots ('shibwns' that I like dipping in sugar and eat between slices of thin bread and butter), lettuce and glaucus blue cabbages - a beautiful deep bluey purple colour. In between the rows of vegetables, clumps of pink aquilegia (grannies' bonnets) and forget- me-nots grew and there were cream tea-roses in the corner, climbing  up a wall.

If you can grow your own salad ingredients fine, but if you can't or don't?

I like half my plate to be filled with vegetables, whether we eat salad or not. (Did I mention that when Peter's thyroid troubles resulted in a swift loss of a stone in weight, I gave him snacks and joined him? He put on ten pounds and stabilised and I put on a stone?)

To make up for the loss of salad this week at teatime, we have had asparagus with poached eggs (since the Eggwina Curry egg scare Peter will not eat 'runny' eggs). We've also had hot boiled beetroot, squirted with lemon juice, ground pepper and a teaspoon of horseradish sauce beaten into a spoonful of mayonnaise, with dry-fried Halloumi cheese, Peter first checking that the milk was pasteurised.

    

A bowl of of peas (frozen can taste better than fresh) or broad beans with salty Sir Gar, Carmarthenshire, butter, with crispy fried coutons of bacon scattered on top, takes your mind off salad. Don't cook the broad beans for longer than ten minutes because they lose the flavour and turn brownish.

  

Peppers, including the sweet ones that look like long fingers, can be roasted with onions and mushrooms.  Scatter with thyme and rosemary, sea salt and brush with olive oil before putting them in the oven. Tear fresh basil leaves over the vegetables  when ready to eat. I have borage in the garden and, apart from floating the blue flowers in long drinks, they look good on roasted vegetables.    Salads need mayonnaise and it's good with cooked vegetables, too.

I'll talk about it next time.

Ginger Slabs and Medieval Fairs

The Great Fair of Saint Thomas Ye Martyre is held in May and October in Haverfordwest. Until recently it was situated on the Green, (loads of complaints in the local  paper), close to St Thomas a Beckett's Church, before moving to the edge of the town.

Fourteen years ago I took my twin grandsons to the opening of the May Fair, when they were four years old. Suspended above the crowds, they watched as the Town crier rang his bell, the vicar said a prayer and a richly caparisoned Mayor declared the revelry could begin. Harry and Oliver twirled round and around, unaware they were taking part in an ancient custom.

There were hot dogs and candy floss, but no bear baiting or cock fights and no slabs of sticky gingerbread either, which were a feature of the medieval fairs.

To provide sweetness and moistness, iron rich molasses or golden syrup was used in the gingerbread. Nita does not have a gingerbread recipe in her book but she does have one for Ginger Cake.

As well as ginger, cinnamon is used. Spices, highly prized and priced in the Middle Ages were introduced to this country by the Knights Templars when they returned from their foreign travels. (No Gifte Shoppes then).

  

Nita's recipe is undated, but the inclusion of powdered egg suggests it was wartime. I've substituted a fresh egg.

Ginger Cake

Method: Take 

12 ounces of Self Raising flour, 

half a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, 

1 ounce of powdered ginger, 

1 ounce of cinnamon,

half a pint of hot water, 

1 egg, 

2 tablespoonfuls of treacle or syrup, 

quarter pound of lard (butter for me, darlings), 

quarter pound of brown sugar. (I would add a good spoonful of marmalade for the flavour and the chewy pieces of peel).

The next part is simplicity itself, which is what I like. Put butter, sugar, treacle in a bowl and pour over the hot water. Mix and allow to cool. Add beaten egg and the rest of the ingredients. Mix again. Bake in a moderate oven for about 45 minutes. (Molasses burns easily, so be careful). 

I have made this with honey instead of treacle and it's good. I mix the juice and grated rind of an orange with icing sugar and pour it over the cooled cake. 

This is not Atkins, so don't worry about the carbs girls.

Gillian Morgan sets out for Llangendeirne

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.

Fishguard, potatoes and all that

One Sunday last month we sat down to our 'cinio dydd Sul' promptly at twelve. (Peter is a man who likes everything operating like clockwork and I am usually hungry.) It turned out to be an expensive meal and I'm not talking about the new potatoes, either.

My husband is a man of refined tastes. When presented with a meal, he scrutinises it carefully. (No. It doesn't irritate me. I'm used to him).  Before he had thyroid problems and lost a stone in weight, his meal-time mantra was:   'Not much for me', but now he sets to without prevarication. 

Today, we had pork wrapped in pancetta with sage stuffing, courtesy of Marks and Spencer's. I cooked it in the oven in a broth of apple juice with fresh thyme leaves, so it had a roasted crust on top and the main part of the joint was tenderised by the juice. With this we had cabbage, (it must be finely sliced for him and, really, he does not know how fortunate he is that I like cooking), parsnips, carrots, the gold plated potatoes, apple sauce (bottled), and gravy. Vegetables must be well cooked (don't mention al dente, or he'll snort.)

We were going along nicely when a gurgly noise came from his direction. He opened his mouth and out popped a mercury filling the size of a small boulder. (The irony was that he'd only had the filling put in three weeks ago). This was placed on a side plate which he contemplated silently for a few seconds before saying: 'The dentist said  if it did not hold I'd need a crown.'  (I was relieved the food was of a mushy consistency, so no blame there).

  

Being a man who hates waste, he recovered sufficiently to finish the meal. When we'd had yoghurt and a cup of tea, my thoughts went back to the solanum tuberosum (potatoes) and Fishguard.

Peter's favourite foods are bread and potatoes. His preference is flavourless food. Keiller's Ginger marmalade, for instance, which I love, is eschewed by him so I have learnt to cook what he likes. Looking at Nita Sybil Evans's cook book, she has very few savoury dishes, apart from a meat and potato pie.

When we married, my husband was twenty five and a teacher in one of the Fishguard schools. There were few jobs in that area so, for almost a year, I was a housewife. Although we lived just a five minute walk from the school he came home at lunch time only once a week. (There was an expectation in the school that you waited on the premises during the mid-day recess).

Once a week a van came from Milford Haven with fresh fish. On this particular day, I made a cod fish pie. (Nothing complicated, poach the fish in milk, add a bay leaf if you have it, and pepper and salt. The fish is cooked when the flakes fall apart. Drain the fish and put it in a pie dish. Make half a pint of  parsley sauce with butter, flour, a pinch of salt, milk and a bunch of chopped parsley. Simmer until it thickens and pour over the fish. Top with buttery mashed potato, grated cheese and decorate with a thinly sliced tomato. Brown under the grill for five minutes.

Now the point of this story is not the pie, but what happened while I was preparing it. We had a 'Rediffusion' radio (we were given lots of pointless wedding presents like grapefruit spoons, EPNS cake stands, but no one had given us a radio).

Over the radio came the news that U2 pilot, Gary Powers, had been shot down over the Ural Mountains of Russia. I'd never heard of him before. I had no interest in Russia, the Cold War, pilots or anything like that but, somehow, immediately, I connected with his plight. He was only twenty two. I decided he'd made a mistake; 'strayed over'  was the phrase that stuck in my mind.  How could it have happened?

Now, I can't eat cod fish pie without remembering  that day, May 1, 1960. The fire burning in the grate, the table laid for our meal and Gary Powers on his way to a Russian Jail.