"traditional" dessert

My delightful neighbours invited me to dinner last Saturday night so of course I offered to bring dessert…..guess what English sweet I decided to make (regular followers of this blog may have an inkling....), yes, the ubiquitous apple crumble, groan. I could make one with my eyes closed. So there I was in my kitchen, crumble cooked and I looked around for something to cover it with. I reached into the clean washing pile and grabbed hold of a dishcloth. Perfect!.... and draped it over the prize offering. Imagine the scene dear readers, two hours later, dinner finished, I made a big show of lifting up the still warm dish off the kitchen work surface and bringing it proudly to the table. I placed it squarely in the middle, a slight smile playing on the corners of my mouth. Ahhh, I thought, this one will really make an impression. Cooked to perfection, soft on the bottom and crunchy on the top, sprinkled with cinnamon and brown sugar (anyone’s mouth watering?). There was a tangible air of expectation, an electric silence among the 10 guests gathered. They were going to experience a true English dessert the likes of which had never been seen in these parts. I stood up and smirking to myself grabbed the corner of the tea towel and yanked it off and waited for their reaction. There was a gasp from an older member of the group and a giggle from the youngest, hmmm, not quite what I expected....strange.... Silence still.....frowning slightly, I looked down and there, to my horror, draped over the famous British pudding was.....a pair of leopard print, red frill trim knickers......!!!!! I had to give a double take as I could not, just could not, believe my eyes. Any minute now I was going to wake up, 1, 2, 3....nope, this was reality......What the......??? How.....? Clearly they'd been swept up from the clean washing basket along with the dish cloth. The room swirled momentarily and I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. Ten pairs of eyes narrowed on me, confusion reigned.....only the 90 year old grandfather seemed a little flushed, probably hadn’t had this much excitement for 30 years. I had to think fast, my reputation was on the line here, think, think.......I cleared my throat, the serving spoon trembling ever so slightly in my hand. “I want to thank you all for your kind invitation here tonight.....” – “ I consider you all my good friends and we in England have a time honoured tradition....to show our openness and as a symbol of intimate and eternal friendship, I present to you .......The Great British Crumble ....With Knickers...”. There was a stunned silence as my captive diners digested this excess of visual and verbal information. Then, after what seemed an eternal pause, the mother, a portly woman who could only fantasize of squeezing into what was blatantly displayed before her, broke into a sudden frenzy of clapping and suddenly everyone was joining in. I’d got away with it. Sweating profusely, I whipped off the knickers and with a deft swirl of the hand, inserted them into my jeans pocket before asking breezily “OK, who’s first.....?’ The crumble went down a treat, some even asked for seconds. By the way, the knickers were clean... I checked....My toes still curl at the memory. Hey, do you think I could start a new Brit tradition here? After all, it was well received......

Plumbing the depths

Plum season has just finished. It’s like everyone’s got a tree and wants to get rid of their plums. You end up with this constantly never ending circuit of oval fruit that passes from one family to the next and in fact, it’s not impossible after passing through 10 sets of hands to end up with your original plums again. Here’s how it works. You pick your plums. Uhhh, I’ve got too many. If I eat them all, I may as well just sit on the toilet until Saturday. So you prepare your plastic bag containing 5 kilos of plumbs. Then you run into Giancarlo the plumber or Maria the seamstress and you say, here, have some plums. They of course accept them gratefully but probably groaning inside as they’ve probably done the same thing that morning, proferring their goods to Carlo the butcher and Franco, the village drunk. And so it goes on, the relentless ‘pushing’ of plums. I came home the other day after work and noticed a plastic bag slung over the railings in front of my house. Uhhhh, my stomach lurched, I know what those are.....Trembling, I reached forward, lifting the bag and lo and behold, it was full of plums. I groaned inwardly....visions of opening my front door and a cascade of plumbs tumbling out, stopping local traffic. Autopsy reports, yet to be confirmed, cause of death, excess consumption of plums..... The other day, in an attempt to escape the flood, I went out on my bicycle. Hmmm, a gentle evening cycle through the village, no plums, no acceptances, no rejections. And so I set off, pleasantly taking in the rugged green scenery. I take a bend and suddenly this guy dives out in front of me from nowhere. I slam on the brakes, eyes wide, heart pounding.....Julia, I’ve got some plums for you.....My heart sank. I’d failed in my mission. “But I can’t carry them.....” I indicated my humble form of transport. “But they’re from my land.....” He looked genuinely hurt. How could I resist? “That’s so kind of you....” and there I was, the lop sided cyclist, swerving all over the road, with 5 kilos of plums dangling precariously from the handle bars. I was already racking my brains as to who I could donate them to. I got home and saw a plastic bag left ceremoniously on my front step. No prizes for guessing what it contained......