In Which She Has Strong Ideas on What Constitutes a Good Picnic

Another golden rule is: don't lose your cool. Yogi Bear

A picnic is the Englishman's grand gesture, his final defiance flung in the face of fate. No climate in the world is less propitious to picnics that the climate of England, yet with a recklessness which is almost sublime the English rush out of doors to eat a meal on every possible and impossible occasion...Nowhere does the national passion for picnicking show itself more clearly that in our choice of occasions for high days and holidays. No other nation has so many out-of-doors celebrations...All classes and ranks share in this taste; bank holidays see Hampstead Heat turned into one vast picnic ground, and on Derby Day Epsom Downs are so closely packed with people that thew hole population of London seems to have gone a-picnicking. Taken from English Picnics by Georgina Battis-Coombe

Nothing says culinary disaster more than the average English picnic. Yet we're a hardy race venturing forth into the countryside, proclaiming that he weather will turn eventually, putting up with things and NOT COMPLAINING about the limp ham sandwich, warm pop and slightly crushed packet of cheese and onion we're presented when we need to find a little nourishment. This state of affairs, gentle reader, is not for me, when I picnic I like to have a proper feed, something nice to eat which restores my aching mind and body. This is because when I picnic it is always after I've erected an eight man tent. Let me expand on that. When I picnic it is always after I've erected an eight man ten WITH THE DH. Ah, the DH, the sweariest man in the West Midlands (and that, gentle reader, is saying something). Don't get me wrong, he doesn't swear that much at home, he saves his swears for special occasions: assembling flat pack furniture and putting up the tent: but when it does come out it pours forth in a torrent of foul, if creative, Anglo-Saxon, it's like an x-rated Norse saga of a swear, he can swear in blank verse, it doesn't stop, there are rhyming couplets and sub-plots, characterisation and surreal montage. Basically, the man can really, really, swear. So whilst standing in the middle of 20kg of canvas with my arms holding not-so-lightweight-pole-A aloft for what seems like an eternity I am simultaneously following the DH's foul instruction, attempting to make sure the kids don't listen to DH's foul instruction, and smiling apologies to the couple in the deck chairs reading The Daily Mail who are most disturbed by the DH's misuse of our ancient and venerable language.

After this I need to soothe his savage brow, after this I need to soothe my savage brow (it's either I eat, I do something unnatural to him with a tent peg), after this I need to give a peace offering to tently-neighbours, after this I have to physically remove my kids from the adventure playground I've sent them to in order to avoid their dad's linguistic pyrotechnics and to do all of this I need to be prepared. This is what I don't do.

• I never make sandwiches. They go limp and unless they are made with lovely homemade bread they go soggy. Unfortunately, you need to dislocate you jaw like a python to eat a sandwich made with my homemade bread. Doorstops! Did someone say doorstops?
• Sponge cakes and cakes with nice icing on are a bad idea. They get bashed about, the icing melts away or goes a bit off, they're a pig to cut unless you have a good knife and plate. Avoid Victoria sponges, carrot cakes and so on if you are to have a successful picnic.
• Keep it simple. If you are the chief cook and bottle washer, you don't want to stress out preparing and packing a picnic. Don't bite off more than you can chew, as it were. Have three good dishes and some fruit, as a maximum.

This is what I do.

Pop an espresso machine on the campstove and have it fill with bloody good coffee whilst you dish out:

Tabbouleh*, French bread, hard boiled eggs, apricot muffins, oranges and lemon squash

or

Devilled chicken, potato salad, marmalade cake, apples, and ginger beer

or

Cornish pasties, homemade chutney, apples, lemon cake and squash.

You know, after this repast the DH transforms back into Husband and Father of the Year and flies kites/goes rockpooling/paddling/sandcastle making and I have another cup of coffee and break out the Persephone book I've been saving for my holidays, and all is well, gentle reader, all is well.

Now, if you want any recipes featured on the picnic menus, speak up and I will email you. But do it quick as I'm off to sunny/torrential** Devon in a bit!

Oh, but before you go. Here's how 1940s Americans liked to picnic. A formal, dignified, affair, I imagine, without the not-so-quet hum of dirty words reverberating in the background...

Almost everybody likes a picnic - except mother. But a picnic can be such a pleasant event for the young and old alike that mother should be able to work out a type of picnic which will permit her to enjoy the novelty in the open air as much as everyone.

Prepared Picnic No.2

Fried chicken

Cold Fried Corn

Sliced Tomatoes Cloe slaw

Buttered Bread or Rolls

Apple Pie Cheese

Milk Tea Coffee

Taken from Meta Given's Modern Encyclopedia of Cooking

*I make a big tabbouleh with chickpeas in it and lot of coriander and mint, not so much parsley

**Who can predict the future? Do I really want to know what's ahead? It's best not to mess with the kind of false prophesy they laughingly call weatherforecasting.

Tamiflu A-Go-Go and On Yer Bike!

Poor old Dulcie (my eldest girl). She was a real sore throat-y, vomit-y, ear infection-y, conjunctivitis-y mess. Freya (the little one) was just fine, slightly snotty, slightly off her food, but otherwise bouncing off the walls and demanding a kitchen table full of paper, glue, feathers, beads and paint to keep her occupied, whist Dulcie lingered in her room, waiting for me to bring warm drinks and an hours reading (The Lady Grace Mysteries, very good for those who are 11-13 ish). Darn that swine flu, darn it to heck! (This is how I imagine good, Christian, women who post their thoughts on the internet swear. In real life I'm a little less Ned Flanders).



They're better now though (thank God), and Dulcie and the DH are off to the frozen North this weekend to sing a a rather beautiful priory. The little one and I are not going, simply because as soon as we get back we're off to Devon for our annual camping holiday and I just couldn't imagine having the time to pack for a choir trip and packing for a camping trip in just a few days, the logistics of the thing just twisted my melon, man. Poor Freya hasn't quite cottoned on that we're not going this year, I'm being too much of a coward to tell her the bad news because last year she loved it, it was all fairground rides and paddling and fish and chips and hardly ever sleeping. And of course, if you're four, the heady delights of Bridlington are a glamorous zenith.



I shall attempt to make her weekend as fun as possible. After we've aired the tent and packed the rucksacks and shopped for a picnic I'm going to take her to the Coventry Transport Museum. I know, you may think that such a trip is hardly comparable to an old fashioned seaside adventure, but to Freya the Coventry Transport Museum is heaven. When she first started school she did a project on the history of transport and they made a big deal about bicycles. What she doesn't know about Penny Farthings you could write on a postage stamp, but what she really likes, what she really, really, likes are the Safety Bicycles - because, as she says, ladies could ride them and not get their skirts caught in the wheels! For some reason, she finds the idea of ladies in long skirts riding bikes wonderful. So this spot of Youtubery is for her.



A while ago I watched a social history programme which featured many of the bikes in the museum and Paul Atterbury said that the wide use of bicycles at the turn of the last century has been credited with expanding the gene pool! This is a nice thought, bicycles truly are a very convivial technology!

Anyway, my youngest is not the only one who is a little bike crazy ce moment. I do not drive. To get about I either walk, use the bus or wait for the DH to come home so he may chauffeur me about like I'm Lady Muck. However, I used to ride a bike. A man's mountain bike. A man's mountain bike which I can't get on unless I contort myself into impossible positions raising my rear end and lifting my leg in a highly inappropriate way. When I used to ride it to and from work I wouldn't get on it on school premises just in case any of my pupils saw me. Freya would tell me that I need an old-fashioned lady's Safety Bicycle, so that I may ride it in a skirt, indeed so that I may ride it without having to visit the chiropractor. So right now I am hankering after a Pashley Princess.

Freya is, of course, quite right. I hanker after this bike. I hanker after it just like 19 year-old boys called Liam hanker after Subaru Imprezzas with alloy wheels. This bike is handmade in Stratford-Upon-Avon, so it's a local product (and therefore morally good), this bike is the Rolls Royce of the Safety Cycle. I shan't bore you with its particulars, you already know that it's expensive and I can't afford it. But a girl can dream. A girl can visit the Coventry Transport Museum and dream.

Take That, You Swine! Red Tories, Tales from a Victorian Problem Page and a Jolly Good Prayer

So we have a case of suspected swine flu. Not a big deal so far, but I'm keeping an eye on the little one, making sure her temperature doesn't rise and she's nice and comfy. Poor little mite, she's missing all of the fun of the last week of term, but isolate her we must, as per the NHS regulations. Of course, I'm seeking revenge on the swine flu virus by making my favourite belly pork recipe. The DH once told me that here in the West Midlands pork is not a meal, but a way of life. He's right. Every little independent cafe in town, every butchers and a few fast food trailers all sell the beloved pork and stuffing batches/bap/cobs, and long may the pork products reign, that's what this goode huswyfe declares. Anyway, here's the recipe, which is more of a suggestion, really.

Slow Roasted Belly Pork with Garlic and Oregano

Ask your butcher to score the skin of your belly pork (buy it in one piece and not those piddly slices, you'll not regret it). Get your joint home and chop a goodly amount of garlic together with some fresh oregano (thyme or rosemary will do), mix the herbs and garlic with olive oil. Now, massage this embrocation into the belly pork, remembering to rub it into all of its crevices and in between the scoring of the skin. Season all over, thoroughly. Cover it and leave for at least an hour to marinade, and up to 24 hours in the fridge. Roast the belly pork for 30 minutes per pound in a slowish oven (125/150). When it's time is up turn the heat up to full blast and crackle that prok skin for ten minutes or so (keep checking and don't leave the kitchen). Yummy. Serve with garlic and chilli greens and mashed/crushed spuds.

Now, it will come as no surprise to regular readers that my political inclinations embrace neither laissez-faire morality nor laissez-faire economics, so I've been very interested in reading some of the articles by Phillip Blond, which have been fluttering around the press over recent months. And today I read a good blog post by Gerry Hassan arguing that Progressive Toryism/Red Toryism can't work because:

"It is obvious from this that Red Toryism is incompatible with the main body of thinking in contemporary Conservatism. This points to the Cameron Conservatives portraying themselves as radical, while staying close to the Thatcher/Blair consensus which has brought the country to the brink of ruin. This means that ‘blue Toryism' will prevail in debates within the party and once the Conservatives are in office."

It was an interesting blog post, but not entirely successful in refuting Blond's main ideas, which are really worth a read (no matter the colour of your politics or the country in which you live). However, what struck me was how perceptive and encouraging were Hassan's final thoughts:

"Intellectually, this signals the shape of the future faultlines of British politics. These are less defined by left versus right and more by authoritarianism versus radical decentralisers. The events of the last week have just defined the character of each side a little more clearly. On the authoritarian side stand Blair, Brown and Cameron, and most of their parties. On the other, decentralist side, can be found Red Toryism, John Cruddas and Labour reformers in Compass, and the Lib Dems.

The new establishment which has arisen in the last thirty years is fixated on a narrow and very hollow idea of ‘freedom' which is centred on our power to consume, shop, spend money and see ourselves as atomised, individualised ‘selves'. It still has control of the two main parties, most of the media and corporate opinion, while the radicals who see the sorry state this has led the UK to, have much less power, access and status, but a coherent case and a growing body of opinion prepared to listen to them."

Too true, Gerry. This voter is listening, and learning.

Now, onto wackier things. No, nothing can be wackier than British politics, so I shall re-phrase that last bit. Now, let us relax and indulge ourselves in a bit of vintage nonsense.

Ahh, the Victorians, so pathological in observing the social niceties were they that they could not bring themselves to publish the actual problems on the Problem Page, leaving the reader to guess at what was bothering Hopeless, from Stafford, from the delicate responses of the Agony Aunt. In this case, the Agony Aunt was Annie S. Swan, who, poor thing, was inundated by the missives of the Victorian lovelorn and desperate. Here are a few of her responses, as published in The Woman at Home magazine, circa 1890.

Certainly, MARGUERITE, absolutely decline all future acquaintance with the man. He is a coward and a poltroon. Cut him dead on the street, and everywhere else you may happen to meet him. I should take no other revenge. It would do you no good to make the matter public, and the probability is he would not care. Men like him are not easily wounded. You can very well leave him to One who has said, "Vengeance is mine."

I have not much patience with CONDOR BIKE. In the first place, she has no business to be secretly engaged to anybody, and if secretly, why? No.1 is sure to mind if his sweetheart accepts a bicycle from another man, even if he has not paid her any particular kind of attention. I should advise "Condor Bike" to lay the case before her own father and mother.

ORCHID. - It is a pleasure to answer such a tidy, concise, and practical letter; you give us no trouble at all. For your questions. 1. Soap frequently causes pimples, especially the cheap, much advertised kinds; Clever's are good, so is Dr Mackenzie's arsencial soap.

I hope you enjoyed those as much as I did! I've learnt such a lot from Mrs Swan: avoidance of poltroons at all costs; never accept a bike from a gent; and arsenic reduces pimples. I may post a few more, if they prove popular, so speak up gentle reader!

But before I go, here's an ancient Gaelic prayer that I hope you'll enjoy.

As the hand is made for holding and the eye for seeing, thou hast fashioned me for joy. Share with me the vision that shall find it everywhere: in the wild violet's beauty; in the lark's melody; in the face of a steadfast man; in a child's smile; in a mother's love; i n the purity of Jesus. Amen.

Jobs in January

Want to know what your grannies were up to this month seventy years ago? Well, let's ask Aunt Kate, of Household Guide fame, the 1930s doyenne of home-efficiency, baby waders and crazy flavoured jam.

Extra warmth is necessary on these cold wintry days. A new fur coat is not enough for the purpose; the "inner man" must be considered too. Hot steaks and steamed puddings should all play prominent parts in the menu these days. Do not make the meals too heavy, however, but make discriminating use of recipes containing fat, sugar and starch for their heat-giving properties.

Don't be afraid to let Baby out in the fresh air, however cold the weather. Wrap him up warmly in his pram, and place him in a part of the garden which is sheltered from the wind. See that the hood of the pram is up properly. Wrap a hot water bag up in a flannel, place it at the foot of the pram, and Baby will be as cosy as can be.

The Sales are on! This is the time of year when normally level-headed women are apt to lose their sense of balance. It's easy enough when you are surrounded on all sides bu so-called "bargain." But remember that nothing is a bargain unless you have a use for it. Look out for substantial reductions in linens, household goods, lengths of material suitable for skirts and dresses, and your visits to the Sales will be worth while.

Washing day in winter is dreaded by housewives, one and all. The actual washing may be got through more or less as usual, but the drying off presents a problem. This is the time of year to take advantage of the laundry for "big things" such as sheets and tablecloths. You will not begrudge the cost when you find your washing so much easier to handle minus all the major articles.

However heat-giving and decorative the modern gas or electric fires, there is nothing to beat the comfort and cosiness of a coal fire. Big fires, of course, mean big accounts to the coalman, and so here is a hint on coal economy. Half a teaspoon of saltpetre mixed with half a cup of water and poured of a scuttle of coals will not only induce a brighter fire, but will make the coal last longer.

You know, gentlemen often come up to me and say, "Dulce Domum, you seem to have an inexhaustible amount of pep and ginger. How do you, as a member of the gentler sex, fill your day? Tell me the mysteries of the average housewife." I of course refer them to this 1930s education video on Youtube, when you get similar enquiries I suggest you do the same. Enjoy!

Time Warp Wives

A New Introduction
Okay, I admit it! I made what my dad would call " a right royal cock-up" with this post! But I'm leaving it up, as it's good to look at your mistakes every now and then, and the discussion in the comments section is worth five minutes of anyone's time. So what was my mistake? Well, I tried to write a post on morality whilst simultaneously ignoring my faith, but my morality is my faith and my faith is my morality. I'm a Christian woman to the very core, so the post ended up as an ill thought through mish-mash, simply because I didn't want to mention the dreaded "wifely submission". So here's the thing, here are my conclusions (many of which dear old Mrs Sarah Blythe prodded out of me). First, we look to the past for an idea of moral "goodness"; self-control, duty, service, honesty, gentleness, simplicity, modesty; we imagine that people in the past held these ideals, as surely as they wrote about them, as surely as they made films about them. However, these are Christian concepts (some of them are indeed the fruits of the spirit) and Western society is built (in a flawed and sinful manner) on the idea of Christian justice and Christian morality. And, in my country at least, there were far more professing Christian writers, filmmakers and journalists in the past than there are now. Also, the "vintage" media were making films for a groups of people who were essentially church go-ers, whether they believed or not, so the norm at the time was one of Christian moral values. Now, the point of this is not to get all angry and rant about secular media, because I'd be a hypocrite if I did. My essential point is that when I look to the vintage media I love so much I am recognising eternal Christian values. These values aren't "vintage" they are simultaneously the ancient past and the far distant future. They are eternal, they are Christian. Now, these good ladies in the programme, are recognising some of the "goodness" in these eternal truths, but aren't women of faith, so they frame their morality (and sometimes it's bit higgledy-piggledy, nods to Mrs Pea) entirely as something which belongs to the past. But it doesn't, it belongs to now, right now, and in the future and forever. Praise be to God on high.
Time Warp Wives is a UK documentary which followed the days of three different women, who had built their lives around their enthusiasm for the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s... their love of vintage far surpassing the buying of the odd flowery pinny and liking swing music: these girls lived and breathed their chosen era. Many of the women admitted to not buying newspapers or watching the television, simply because the media reflection of modern life was depressing and distasteful. Their enthusiasm was also shared by their husbands, whom they met at vintage events, and by their friends, with whom they primarily socialised. If you follow the link you will see that these girls do vintage very, very well. I'm a vintage enthusiast and I can see that the detail they have in their homes is excellent, their clothing is spot on and their make-up is just right.

However, what is most interesting about the piece is not perhaps the spiffy 1950s kitchen or the elegant New Look outfits, but the way the women justify their choices. Not one of them have said "I do this becuase I like the "look" of my era and this is the only reason" not one of them said "this is just an extension of a lifestyle I had as a teenager when I loved swing music", they all justified their, frankly, rather unusual choices by declaring (like Blur) that modern life is rubbish! Moreover, the reasons they gave for being a living reenactment of the early twentieth century were moral rather than cultural/subcultural. Here's what 1950s enthusiast, Debbie, says about the modernity:

"I admit I am in retreat from the 21st century. When I look at the reality of the world today, with all the violence, greed and materialism, I shudder. I don't want to live in that world."

Here's what another Debbie (this time a 1940s girl) has to say about modern fashion:

"When I see a girl walking down the street wearing next to nothing, I think: 'Why don't you have more respect for yourself?' "

"I really believe that women today have lost their way, with bingedrinking ladettes and children as young as 11 going out in tiny tops."

Again, she claims that an "old-fashioned" marriage is a happy marriage:

"I think I have a far happier marriage than many other people I meet, because we have strict demarcations in our roles. I do all the cleaning, ironing, washing and cooking, and Martin puts up shelves and looks after the car. He's the breadwinner and I create a lovely - and loving - environment for him. I met Martin when I was 17 - we lived in the same village - and he has been my only serious boyfriend. It's so much more romantic only ever to have been in love with one man. My obsession with the 1940s really began through Martin, as he was already going to Forties events when we met. "

And, 1930 enthusiast, Diane, also has a few choice words to say about marriage:

"Men and women knew their roles in society and there wasn't all this pressure on women to have to go out to work and try to be equal to men. I do work part-time, but only because we need the money. However, we still have clearly defined roles in the home and I am the one who does most of the cooking and cleaning. "

Again, one of the women (Diane) talks about femininity:

"The pace of life today is so hectic and I think there is so much pressure on women to be like men. It is all wrong."

So, these girls abhor materialism (you'll notice that they're married to men in working-class jobs, yet manage to survive on one income, or on one and half incomes); they're concerned about modesty in dress; they believe that a traditional marriage, with a strong demarcation of roles within the marriage on gender lines, is one which work best; they feel that life is too pressurized and they worry that women feel obliged to behave more like men. These are moral reasons for adopting a counter-cultural stance against the prevailing moral climate, the nice dresses are, if not a smokescreen, simply the icing on the cake. That is to say the vintage "look" is the creamy dessert and the moral choice is the meat and potatoes of their lifestyle.

Now, I have a question for all of my blog-chums. How many of you love Mrs Minniver, or Helen Herriot (from All Creatures Great and Small), or the Andy Hardy movies from the 1930s, or Meet Me in St Louis? Do we love this vintage because it is so very pretty, or do we love it because it offers an alternative moral universe? If I were honest with you I'd say that I am enthralled by the "goodness" of the vintage universe: strong happy families; sit down suppers; adults acting like adults; moral lessons to be learned: and it all sounds really po-faced of me and a trifle airy-fairy. However, my pleasure in "vintage morality" is no longer a vicarious Sunday tea-time treat, but a life-lesson, a how-to instructional DVD, because let's face it, the media has an all-pervasive learning tool, and how am I going to learn to be a good wife and mother by watching Desperate Housewives? Will I learn anti-materialism from Tony Soprano? I love Mrs Minniver more for her gentleness, than for her chintzy, forties, summer dress and I love Helen Herriot more for her womanly practicality than her lovely country kitchen. I can look at the past, in books, in films and on the television and learn from it, learn about relationships and marriage and motherhood from the past, because as a wife and mother these are the things which are of utmost importance to me now.

But am I a time-warp wife? Well, I have deliberately chosen a moral position which is more akin to the 1938 than 2008, and I am a wife. So I suppose I am a time-warp wife without the trappings of vintage phone and red lipstick. However, I know enough about social history to realise that few periods of time should be idealised as moral halcyon days and I am inclined to get a little angry we the "it was oh so lovely then and I'll have no argument about it brigade"...my grandfather told wonderfully, hair-raising stories about what it was like to live in a mining town in the 1930s and my granny, God bless her, had a hard, hard, life, largely due to the poor moral choices of other people.

We modern women have far more opportunities and freedoms than our grandmothers ever dreamed of and I am idealistic enough to foresee a better time, when we have the comforts and freedoms of the modern age, but have learned that moral relativism spells cultural decline. We can take from the past what is good, and be thankful for the progress that our current age beholds. We don't have to be a time-warp wives to thoughtfully declare a moral alternative, we can be thoroughly of the present and reject materialism, embrace motherhood, enjoy wife-hood. We don't have to be like Mrs Minniver to be gentle, strong and good, we can be plain old Mrs Domum and be all of these things, because modern life doesn't have to be rubbish, modern life can be as good as we make it.

EDIT: Here's the Brocante Home post about the same show. I think her points about it were valid; that the play-acting part is somehow disrespectful to women who are doing it for real, that there is something fundamentally unhealthy with not wanting to engage in the culture into which you were born, that it was more about life-style than about morals (as the 1950s woman's attitude towards children shows us). However, I still maintain that the women used the morality of their chosen eras to justify their counter cultural choices, and this in itself is interesting.