Quirk And Spoon

Your Servant - Thoughts on Queen Elizabeth II

Wednesday, September 14, 2022

We woke up on 8 September 2022 not expecting it to be a remarkable day. Yes, we had a new Prime Minster, but given the political turmoil of the previous nine months, even this no longer felt significant, and most of us were getting on with the reality of life in a post-COVID, post-Brexit, inflation-ridden Britain, with sewage on the seaside and hunger on the rise. Bar a very select few, none of us expected to be going to bed with a new monarch instated and national identity in turmoil.

It is hard to put into words (although, of course, many will try over the coming days) to explain the extent to which HM Queen Elizabeth II existed in the British consciousness. She was inextricably linked to our sense of self as a nation – her name, profile and insignia stamped on our currency, post boxes, tube stations and boxes of Weetabix. Her photograph adorned innumerable walls on public buildings, her swans glided across our lakes and her voice could be heard in almost every living room nationwide come Christmas Day.

The majority of us have known no other monarch: we were born under her reign and came to see her as permanent and unshakeable a fixture of Britain as the very walls of St Paul’s. Politicians would come and go, ripping things up as they saw fit, but our sovereign lady was a constant. Even if everything else had gone to pieces, and the nation was humiliated on the world stage, we still had the Queen to be proud of. I’m sure I’m not the only one of her subjects who convinced themselves that she would somehow never die. How could she? She was woven into the fabric of Britain.

Despite the archaic traditions surrounding her position, Elizabeth II found a way to make the monarchy feel relevant in the 20th and early 21st centuries. Yes, she was reserved, stiff-upper-lipped and spoke with an accent that has now all but evaporated from modern England, but somehow we all felt we knew her. She found a way to connect with and walk among her citizens while maintaining a regal distance, so that she simultaneously felt part of us and apart from us. We understood that she worked for our benefit, and she understood that we kept her kingdom running: we served her, and she served us. We felt a glorious sense of ownership over her, knowing that no other country had a similar figure who could compare.

Detractors of the monarchy have frequently asserted that hers was a pointless, frivolous job – irrelevant and costly, and of no service to the people she claimed to represent. Although it could not be said that Elizabeth II “ruled” over the people of Britain, she most certainly guided us, using her annual Christmas speech to spread words of tolerance, kindness and Christian fellowship. Even without direct intervention in current affairs she was key to our prosperity, providing the EQ to the government’s (alleged) IQ, solidifying bonds with foreign powers through conversation, compassion and hospitality. She existed in a realm above politics, protected from the mudslinging and squabbling of Westminster, and could therefore approach everyone – from religious leaders to foreign dignitaries – simply as people. By treating them to tea in porcelain cups and banquets in ancient halls, she reminded her guests of what it meant to contend with the weight of British history and tradition, all the while talking about her children, the gardens and the dogs. Who would not leave Buckingham Palace feeling that little bit less bellicose? It turns out that, by being “politically ineffective”, the queen was actually our greatest diplomatic weapon.

Flowers and cards left by mourners

Elizabeth II was not just someone to look up to but someone to believe in. Like a deity, we rejoiced at her very existence. And with congregation numbers falling post-war, she filled the gap that religion had left: her speeches, public appearances and household pageantry providing the British people a comparable hierarchy, a sense of mystery and, crucially, a reason for bank holidays. From the moment of her accession, people lined the streets to celebrate her, offering her flowers, bowing their heads in deference and reaching out their hands in the hope that she would take them in her gloved palm. They did not need telling – they simply flocked to her, thronging the pavements outside Buckingham Palace to glimpse her on the balcony. There she stood, set apart and pristine, accepting their adoration with a nod and the briefest of waves, knowing that they would all go home feeling as though they’d received a rare privilege.

Seldom have I stopped to consider what a burden being such an icon must have been: of people adoring you without knowing you, heaping respect and plaudits upon you without ever having been close to you. Queen Elizabeth II was the poster girl for a country that gave her next to no control over public affairs, but still did an awful lot of things in her name. Bearing the weight of that responsibility, neither being able to share it nor talk about it publicly, for over seven decades, must have been exhausting. And yet she was indefatigable in her duty, undertaking hundreds of official events every year even in her nineties, as well as receiving regular briefings on politics and intelligence. Throughout the 70 years of her reign, she remainable steadfast, unshakeable and divinely committed to her duty.

Beyond all the praise for her wit and humour, her deeply embedded faith and her passion for Scotland, my hunch is that history will record Queen Elizabeth II’s devotion to her role above all else. Her commitment to the British people, no matter what they thought about her or wrote about her in the papers, never wavered, and she insisted on getting on with the job. Her valediction in her moving 70th-anniversary address – “Your servant” – identified quite clearly how she wanted to be remembered.

Whether you believed her position to be ordained by heaven, or whether you considered her unnecessary, Queen Elizabeth II’s unwavering dedication to an all-consuming, life-enduring vocation deserves our admiration. And, most importantly, our thanks.

Christmas lights

Saturday, December 11, 2021

When it comes to Christmas, I am a slow burner, and do not approve of early celebrations. Prior to December 1st, even the merest snippet of a carol or whiff of a mince pie is liable to send me into a rage. My family are not of the same mind, and eye me with bemusement as I refuse to join them in their early November stollen-fest. My reticence remains even as Advent makes its entrance, and I become prickly if someone dare suggest putting up the tree earlier than the 15th.

This attitude might not be a problem in some households, but my family Does Christmas. From the stroke of midnight on the 1st December, my mum’s face takes on a particular glow, full of innocent childlike excitement. She decorates the house bit by bit, starting with the advent calendars (at least three), followed by an advent candle with numbers embossed in gold, which she lights late every evening. Small ornaments then appear piecemeal around the house: a silver-flecked reindeer on the mantelpiece, a gold string of stars hung above the mirror. By the time the tree is in state, the house has undergone a sumptuous transformation. By night, it positively glitters.

We also take Christmas food very seriously. We make traditional mince pies, German gingerbread stars, middle-eastern-spiced mixed nuts and occasionally a bûche de Nöel. December evenings are inevitably finished with oven-hot chestnuts, dried figs and whole walnuts, usually crushed by hand in front of a Christmas film. No single cultural thread ties all of these dishes together, they are simply a compilation of traditions that now come as a firm, unquestioned set. They are as ritualised as our Boxing Day board games, and the Nat King Cole Christmas album we listen to year after year.

As much as I look forward to the season and all the family rituals, I still find myself reluctant to open the gates to the festivity. If I hear a Christmas song on the radio in early December, I will turn it off. I will strongly resist watching my favourite Christmas films and will avoid panettone consumption until the last possible moment. I tell myself that it’s due to the over-commercialism of the festive season: the forced jollity, the tacky decorations and the general consensus that the correct way to pass the time is to mindlessly spend and consume. This is all true, but it’s not the whole story: it’s actually because I care about Christmas so much, I’m terrified of anything ruining it for me — as though hearing Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire one time too many would sour the whole period and lead me to resent it. The Christmas season has always felt as precious as a glass bauble: beautiful, but desperately fragile. I look back on the Christmases of my early childhood with emotion and nostalgia, and every year I seek to honour those memories by carefully unwrapping and admiring them. But I am constantly frightened that I will clutch too tightly to foregone festive joy and smash the memories to pieces. So I meter my dose of Christmassyness — allowing myself just enough, and at just the right time.

However, this year I feel different. I have looked at festive window displays and not felt the urge to run in the opposite direction. Clementines, persimmons and pomegranates have been bought, and there are two poinsettias in the flat. There’s even a Christmas cookbook out on the coffee table. I am poised to fling myself into the season without hesitation: bring me carols on Classic FM, bring me indefensible Hallmark Christmas films and a kitchen thick with the fug of mixed spice. I can tell that others have been feeling the same way: trees and lights and dubious Santa inflatables have adorned my local streets for nearly six weeks already. No doubt people have been making up for lost opportunities in 2020, hoping to eradicate the past 18 months with a very healthy dose of festive cheer and an extra tot (or nine) of Baileys. And who can blame them?

I can only presume my urge to start baking gingerbread and brew mulled wine — bearing in mind I’m teetotal — comes from much the same place. No one has escaped the icy touch of this pandemic, and though I consider myself to have been very lucky throughout, I will still be chalking up 2021 as one of the worst years on record. The autumn has felt particularly menacing, with bad news arriving from all sides, horrors appearing at every turn and the darkness quietly stealing in earlier each day. A fortnight ago I attended two funerals in two days. If ever a reason were needed to fill the place with evergreen boughs and soft candlelight, I believe this would be it.

Overcoming darkness with light seems to be intrinsically connected to the celebration of Christmas and its pagan predecessors. Jesus is often described in Christian liturgy as the light of the world, whose coming at Christmas was marked by a great star. During the Roman festival of Saturnalia (which also took place in late December) citizens of the Empire celebrated Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, meaning “the birth of the unconquerable sun”, lighting and exchanging candles as gifts. Going further back, winter solstice celebrations in the Neolithic period were intended to mark the end of darkening days and the rebirth of the seasons. It seems as though December has always been marked by an abundance of man-made light, in a joyful rebellion against the darkness. I can think of no better way to mark the end of this blisteringly painful year than with a defiant burst of luminescence — a shot of hope in the dark.

As such, I plan to embrace this festive season with gusto. I will buy strings of lights and branches of mistletoe for my flat, I will bake with abandon and submerse myself in an atmosphere of generosity and goodwill. I will try to suppress my cynicism and anxiety and unwrap my Christmas traditions with excitement and glee. The last 18 months have proved that very few things in life are fixed and certain — joy cannot be stored up and protected like a glass ornament. It must be embraced wholeheartedly at every possible moment, because it is fleeting. I need Christmas and its message of peace and joy; I think we all do. In a few weeks it will be over, and the cold light of January will illuminate our struggles afresh. We need to bathe in Christmas’ warmth and light, and hope we absorb enough of it to carry us into the new year with a little more strength, a little more hope. A mince pie might be all it takes.

Flour and time

Thursday, June 11, 2020

According to a recent Facebook post from a reputable British food magazine, sourdough is “getting us all through lockdown.” That’s right, sourdough is what’s getting us “all” through lockdown. I practically choked on my tea. It’s a ridiculous statement, firstly by suggesting that the entire population is using the same coping mechanism to deal with this ~~unprecedented~~ unexpected time, as well as presuming that everyone has the time, means and capability to devote hours watching over a precious starter and bake it in time for brunch. It feels like the quintessence of middle-class myopia. Yet a brief glimpse of the online food world suggests that the statement is not entirely unfounded – thousands of people have been posting about their homemade sourdough loaves on social media recently. And if further proof were needed, well, have you been able to buy flour in the last 12 weeks?

At first I thought the flour shortage was simply a response to panic buying. With the ever-increasing likelihood of meeting empty shelves in supermarkets, it made sense that people were buying flour in case bread suddenly became unavailable. But the buying frenzy ended weeks ago and there is no shortage of the pre-sliced or supermarket-baked loaves in the shops. Yet flour, along with eggs, sugar and other baking basics, can still be hard to find.

The fact that people have been turning to baking in this time of enforced isolation isn’t surprising. I’ve written in the past about the distracting and soothing qualities of baking, and our need for such succour is greater than ever before. So the absence of plain flour and eggs I could understand, with people turning to brownies and banana bread to block out the sound of the news headlines. But it’s not just been the flour vanishing, it’s yeast, too. And unless Brits are suddenly making babka and Gugelhupf in their thousands, there’s only one explanation. People are making bread.

It might seem like a bit of an odd choice. Given that supermarkets are now fully stocked, there’s no real need to make bread, no more than there was last year or the year before. And yet the activity has seen a staggering surge in popularity. So why now? One potential explanation is time: even those who haven’t been furloughed will likely have found themselves with a few extra hours on their hands, thanks to the lack of commuting or in-person socialising. Baking bread takes time and planning, requiring at least two sessions of kneading and proving before finally being relegated to the oven. It cannot be made with the light-fingered, five-minute flounce of a fairy cake, so you can’t (well you can, but I wouldn’t recommend it) decide when you’re knackered and emotional at 11pm that it’s time to knock up a good old fashioned loaf. No, bread requires that you treat it like a grown-up; it demands your time and total concentration. As such, bread making is not so easily fitted around a busy working day, so it’s not surprising that those who enjoy baking it, but who usually struggle to find the time, are now using lockdown to don their aprons and indulge.

True, bread isn’t the only foodstuff that requires a little more-than-average planning and preparation, but I doubt that macarons or croquembouche are having much of a moment right now. There will be those making them, of course, but they’re probably the sort of people who'd consider homemade millefeuille a simple, spur-of-the-moment bake. The scale of the flour shortage suggests it’s people who would never normally consider making bread who are now taking to it in their thousands. They're doing so for a reason: the secret to which lies in its essential role in our culture and history.

Milled grains and water, mixed and then cooked, have been a cornerstone of our diet for 30,000 years, existing in hundreds of different forms around the world. Bread has played a symbolic part in cultures across the globe; used in religious ceremonies and sacrifices, presented as gifts and peace offerings. It is the building block of thousands of meals, can even be a meal in itself. Consciously or not, I think we feel the pull to make bread because of its link to the past. People have made bread through the peaks and troughs of human civilisation: through the rise and fall of empires, through conflicts and celebrations, through times of suffering, times of happiness and times of disease. A sense of comfort and peacefulness can be found in its constant nature – the gastronomic equivalent of looking at the mountains. Both were here long before we came into being, and will continue to exist long after we are gone.

In the past, bread may have been a family’s chief weapon against starvation – and it wouldn’t be uncommon for it to constitute an entire meal. Although many of us are lucky to no longer rely on bread to sustain us physically, in this new time of difficulty we are evidently turning to it again. For we are experiencing a new famine: we, too, are plagued by a vicious, gnawing emptiness. We do not hunger for mere sustenance; we ache for choice, for freedom, for the brief, precious comfort of human touch. As the wide wide world seems to shrink around us, we have been forced to turn inwards and pare our lives back to essentials. Our chief focus now has to be on tomorrow, and how to get there. Because without a cure, vaccine or guaranteed solution at hand, the only way to fight this virus is to keep going. And to keep going, we have to feed ourselves. Humans need to eat to live and thrive and reproduce: it is our most primitive, most essential tool for survival. And to satisfy this basic instinct, we turn to basic foods. That’s where bread comes in.

Bread is filling and nourishing, and seems to make many of us hark back to childhood and “simpler times”. Spread thickly with butter, softened in milk and sugar, toasted and sliced into soldiers to be dunked into a golden egg – every image suffuses comfort and sustenance. It’s no wonder it’s what we want to make when the going gets tough. Perhaps more than any other food, bread is symbolic of home: a place of warmth, safety and shelter from the outside world. This idealised home is constant and unchanging, one in which we will feel loved and protected. So when the outside world feels increasingly frightening, we cling to the ideal more than ever, and try to recreate it in our own kitchens, hoping that the smell of freshly baked bread will be enough to keep the monsters at bay.

Because of this association with home and tradition, bread baking brings with it a sense of stability and security. It is an activity in which “the old rules still work.” After all, besides a few crucial changes in technology, breadmaking works as it has always worked. We use the same ingredients our foremothers used and make, if not identical, very similar variations of the same thing. It has always felt elemental to me: one of the most basic, fundamental acts of cooking. As we form a dough and stretch it into life, we take part in a tradition that existed thousands of years before we existed. Thousands upon thousands of our ancestors have walked upon this earth, and have made bread to feed themselves and their families. I like to think that when I knead my own dough, I can feel their hands holding mine – strong, steady palms guiding me and teaching me. It is a gentle, comforting presence, a quiet and precious solace. I am not alone. Things might just be alright.

Every loaf of bread contains the stamp of human ingenuity and perseverance, symbolic of human survival against the odds. It’s the logical solution for coping with difficult times. Not that I’m suggesting that a wholesome homemade cobb or stottie is going to protect us from the dangers lurking beyond the confines of the kitchen; but, by being an active, elbow-grease-requiring distraction, it might just help fight the feelings of powerlessness that we find ourselves plagued by in darker days. We may not be able to control the way things work outside the front door, but we can ensure we have something to keep our mind and hands busy, and, ideally, something delicious to eat and sustain ourselves with afterwards. After all, no battle, whether physical or psychological, can be won on an empty stomach.

It behoves me to say, though, that just because bread is symbolic and a great human tradition, it doesn’t mean that becoming a self-taught artisan baker is the *right* way to cope with 2020. Quite frankly it doesn’t matter what you do to try to feel better – whether that’s gardening, frequent napping, walking, writing poetry, learning to code, doodling on the walls, whittling flutes, knitting or watching endless reruns of Miranda. What you do to get from one day to the next is of no consequence; the important thing is that you get there. And if you get to eat homemade toast for breakfast, well, that’s simply a bonus.

Ending and beginning

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

I have mixed feelings about New Year celebrations. Although New Year is promoted as the second “big event” of the festive season, I have never known it trump Christmas, and I’m sceptical that it ever will. It’s a great shame, as I’d like to believe that there’s a certain magic about ending a year and beginning another, but I think it’s easy to feel like it’s something to get over, rather than celebrate.

Generally, I have found New Year’s Eve to be, well, a massive let down. I have yet to attend a sparkly, glamorous party with elegant finger food and live music. So far I’ve been to numerous less-than-average Greek restaurants, and, on a particularly bad year, been squashed with 70 other people in a dilapidated prefab outbuilding of an insalubrious pub, with cheap paper tablecloths and a limited air supply due to overcrowding. Sat miserably alongside my cousins, hearing relatives complain about the food, the alcohol, the music and each other, these evenings were spent desperately wishing for the arrival of midnight in order to get the night over with as quickly as possible. Another memorable year was spent coughing in bed, garbling some fever-fuddled rubbish as I waited for the out-of-hours doctor to give me an appointment for antibiotics. Oh, and let’s not forget the time a stocking fell off the mantelpiece onto a candle flame during a New Year’s Eve dinner party, causing a minor incendiary incident that left us all in shock.

New Year rarely stands up to the magic of Christmas

New Year’s Day has not been much better, either. In my experience, no one tends to be in a good mood on the first day of the year unless they are still drunk from the night before. Because, let’s face it, we all know what comes after New Year: January. And even worse, February after that. There are no more long, luxurious days of Twixmas to anticipate, no more gifts to unwrap or special dishes to prepare. It is no longer acceptable to forget the date, or to spend an entire day on the sofa with back-to-back films and a tub of Quality Street. All that remains is taking down the decorations (deeply depressing), and preparing to go back to work, knowing that winter has only really just begun. It’s no wonder people turn to drink.

Worse still, I’ve found that New Year tends to make grown-ups overly emotional. There’s nothing like having your dad sob on your shoulder as the clock strikes 12 to make you feel positive about the years ahead. Joking aside, it is of course natural to feel inclined to nostalgia at the end of the year. We can’t help but look back over the 12 months and analyse (and, invariably, criticise) the actions we did or did not take. The failed initiatives, the paths left untrodden, the hurts given and received, the people we met and the people we lost. The ending of one year and the beginning of another reminds us of the brevity of life, of the need to seize the day and make the most of our limited experience. Faced with all this, shedding a few tears is probably justifiable.

As with any soul-stirring festival, New Year comes with a host of superstitions, and thus rituals to keep bad luck at bay. Countries around the world offer multiple menu suggestions for ensuring good fortune in the coming year, including marzipan pigs in Germany and Austria, round fruits (specifically 13 of them, if you’re in the Philippines), blackeyed beans, cornbread and greens in America and lentils in Italy. In Greece, they take the slightly more violent approach of smashing a pomegranate against the front door—the more seeds are scattered, the luckier the household will be. All of these foodstuffs have one thing in common—they symbolise financial prosperity, usually because of a physical resemblance to coins, gold or cash. (Except the pigs, obviously.) While this might seem disappointingly mercenary, it’s a reminder that historically, good luck for the new year didn’t mean meeting a partner or getting promoted—it meant having enough wealth to see the whole year through. A sobering thought.

In America, eating greens is supposed to bring good luck for the year ahead

While I wouldn’t say no to a gigantic windfall of cash in 2021, I think I speak for a lot of people when I say that I generally approach a new year by simply hoping that it won’t be categorically awful. Whether you’re praying to a god, spirits or just the universe in general, it’s natural to hope that things will go your way in the coming year, or that it will at least be an improvement on the one that’s just gone. There is no way to guarantee a string of good days, weeks or months, which is presumably why we have New Year’s resolutions—using our human agency to give fate a little nudge. Better health, for example, can’t be certain, but can seem more achievable with a pledge to exercise and sleep more. The problem of course being that everything seems more achievable on the back of a ten-day holiday and copious amounts of alcohol. When it gets to 10 January and the weather is grim, work is dull and the Christmas credit card bill comes in, such resolutions become much harder to keep, and if they are not purposefully disregarded, they have a tendency to fade into the background as life gets in the way.

Rather than going into the new year with a loud bang, I’m tending to favour a softer, quieter approach these days. (I’d like to say that this is due to my increasing interest in mindfulness and the healing power of solitude, but it’s mostly due to a lack of invitations.) There’s certainly something to be said for not expecting or wanting it to be the party of the year: relieve the pressure on 31 December and it has less potential to disappoint. Not that I’m suggesting we treat it like any other day, more that we’re open to celebrating it differently, especially if classic parties leave you cold. A friend once told me he likes to spend New Year's Eve eating bacon sandwiches and playing board games with his parents. Another friend prefers to see midnight in doing yoga by candlelight. Two years ago I spent it at home watching Groundhog Day and doing a Christmas jigsaw with my mum. Call it lame, call it boring, but as with any big celebration, I reckon the “right” way to do it is the way that makes you happiest. So I’m not too worried about the lack of canapés and party poppers.

Breadmaking on the first day of the year can be soothing

As for 1 January, I’m keen to adopt a tradition espoused by Nigel Slater in his book The Christmas Chronicles. He says he likes to start the new year “with flour on my hands” by baking a loaf of bread. There is something sturdy and soulful about breadmaking: the frugality of the ingredients, the sweat-inducing labour of kneading (I stand on a stool for a better bicep-to-dough ratio) and the patience required during proving and rising. Furthermore, what smell could be a better harbinger of good days to come than that of baking bread? As with anything made by hand (not that I judge anyone with one of those fancy dough hook things), a homemade loaf brings a great sense of satisfaction, of “I made this” pride, which might just be the confidence boost we need on the first day of a new year. And as exciting as it may be, all the pomp, glitter and endless rich food of the festive season can become exhausting after a while—a simple loaf is the perfect tonic. It’s a way of bringing you down to earth after the excess and excitement of the season, but with a nice soft landing.

No amount of fresh loaves, pigs or pomegranates can protect us from pain, disappointment or loss, of course, and we must all go into the new year knowing that we can only control certain aspects of the days to come. Life is scary, and it’s easy to feel powerless, rudderless and with no general idea of what the hell it is we’re doing or where we’re going. We can only try and start the year on the best foot possible, with an open mind and hopefully limited trepidation. I’m still going to cook some lentils, though—just in case.

What baking can do

Sunday, October 27, 2019

Sometimes, when I'm sad, I like to bake. Not any particular thing: I don't have any secret recipes for heart-mending sponge, or disappointment-soothing scones (as lovely as they sound). I just feel a drive to go in the kitchen, find a recipe and work. Perhaps an hour later the room will be filled with a reassuring fug of sweet air, I'll be flushed and pulling stray bits of pastry from my hair. And I might just feel a bit better. Baking is a balm for sadness because it simplifies things, reducing the world to the lip of the mixing bowl. The smell of bubbling golden syrup or the touch of smooth dough can't eliminate life's problems, but they can dull the ache and blur the edges.

Nonetheless, I’m still slightly uncomfortable with my urge to bake, because it’s a huge female cliché: woman feels sad, then obsessively bakes biscuits. I picture one of those Warhol-esque, fifties housewives, complete with red lipstick and a gingham apron: “Oh darling I’m at a loss, so I’ve baked four sponges, six trays of biscuits and a cherry pie.” I don’t like the idea that I’m choosing a comfort option that society thinks is good or "natural" for a woman. Not that I imagine I’d feel better by doing something more "manly", like spontaneously digging up the garden and building a fence or something. (And surely there are men out there who choose to bake when they’re blue?) But when storm clouds are gathering and I'm fed up with life, peace can briefly be found in the kitchen, so I'm happy to put aside my prejudices and tie-up the frilly apron.

Recently, while staring at the oven door or wiping up the surfaces, I’ve been trying to pin down why baking is such a soothing task. Time is one reason: you can cook in a rush and get good results, but baking under pressure seldom ends well, it requires time and space. And given the freneticism of modern life, taking 10 minutes to slowly stir molten chocolate into whipped butter can only feel like a treat. I believe this is because of the unnecessary-ness of baking. Most of us are lucky enough not to need to make bread to avoid starvation. We do it because we can, and we want to. No one needs to eat double chocolate brownies or spiced cinnamon swirls. The choice to do so is entirely voluntary, in simple search of pleasure—pleasure found in the baking, the eating or both.

Baking is therapeutic physically, too. Kneading is not for the limp-wristed: it takes gumption and determination, and the exertion is in itself a relief (try pounding a lump of bread dough while imagining it’s the face of an ex—highly satisfying). Not to mention the actual “feeling” of whatever it is you’re making: there’s a childlike joy in (literally) rolling up your sleeves and sticking your hands in a mixing bowl—the messier the contents, the better. It’s a totally absorbing experience, you might even call it inadvertent mindfulness: when you focus solely on the sensations you experience in the present moment. You can lose yourself in the textures, smells and tastes of the ingredients, and keep whatever drove you to bake at bay for a while.

Baking is also physically satisfying because it offers the opportunity to use your hands to make something from nothing. I’ve never built a wall or tiled a bathroom, but I imagine the sense of satisfaction must be similar. You take raw ingredients (flour, butter, sugar, oats, dried yeast, salt, lemon, nutmeg, sultanas...) and turn them into something wholly new, by the sheer power of your hands. (Ok, and an oven.) Modern life and technology offer increasingly few instances for us to make or shape things ourselves, and while I’m not advocating we all rush to the river bank to do the laundry, there is something to be said for having a personal, physical connection to the objects and foods we consume on a daily basis. Cooking or baking something from scratch provides welcome relief from the industrialised and sanitised modern food industry, and is certainly a more accessible “hands-on” task than whittling spoons or brewing shampoo. Perhaps it subconsciously reminds us that we do have agency and ability in this mechanised, html-driven world. We can still use our own bodies and brains to make something and make a difference. We are not droids. Yet.

And of course, as with any handmade object, baking offers an opportunity for artistry and creative expression: one that uses pastry, rather than paint. We know that practising something creative has innumerable benefits for the mind and soul, as it allows us to share the inner world outwardly. And there is deep artistic satisfaction to be had from sprinkling just the right amount of almonds on a Bakewell tart, or by taking a gamble and veering off a recipe to great success. (Like that time I added orange flower water to a carrot cake and thought I’d reached spiritual nirvana.) Such creativity may not technically be necessary for survival, but as far as I'm concerned, it's essential for feeling alive.

Another attractive aspect of baking is its automatic association with affection. It’s almost impossible not to feel a bit better about life when someone offers you something they’ve baked—it's a gentle, yet demonstrative way of saying "I care about you". As children, sweet things were given to us by parents and grandparents: as a treat, to spoil us, as the physical manifestation of affection. In those days, life couldn’t get much better than being handed a warm gingerbread man, a sticky iced bun or a crumbly jam tart. In the sweetness we found safety—the assurance that we were cherished. I can’t help but think that comfort baking is a (perhaps unconscious) desire to feel this affection again, in the hope of directing it at ourselves. We long for the sweetness of soul that actual sweetness brought, which, as a grown-up in the 21st century, is sometimes hard to find. So we do for ourselves what others once did for us, as though trying to give ourselves a sort of internal hug.

Another huge stereotype, but a house filled with a regular supply of freshly baked bread/buns/biscuits is one that we generally assume to be happy. So it’s not really a surprise that, in the spirit of fake it til you make it, we use baking to create the kind of environment we want to live in. It’s almost as though we’re preparing our home for an impending guest whom we want to feel comfortable and safe. But this time the guest is, in fact, us. Far from an easy distraction or a desperate attempt at calorie-comfort, I think the desire to bake through sadness can actually be an attempt at something far greater. It’s a way of looking after ourselves, of soothing our sadness and trying to start again, to make a new person. We use a starter from old experiences and coax it into being with a little sugar, hard work and patience. The result is something new and altogether alive

Perhaps it’s not so unnecessary after all.

Flavour and flame: An Anarchy of Chillies

Wednesday, September 05, 2018

Chillies are a divisive ingredient in my family. Tolerance ranges from my uncle’s deep-seated need to drizzle everything in hot sauce to my grandmother’s firm belief that even sniffing a chilli brings her out in a rash. Personally, I had no idea what a chilli was until the age of about 13, when it was cited as an ingredient for a home economics class. It was distinctly foreign and potentially dangerous, something that was only eaten by people who lived far far away. Nowadays, such a position would be laughable. The UK has gone crazy for chilli, with sales of fresh, dried and bottled versions soaring in recent years, and competitive chilli-eating becoming an increasingly popular sport. It’s a staple ingredient, used liberally by home-grown British chefs such as Nigella Lawson (who, according to her recent TV series, has an entire shelf in her larder devoted to it) and Jamie Oliver. Chillies are now even cultivated in the UK, and it’s not unusual to find the brightly coloured pods peeking out of a suburban greenhouse.

It is to this lip-tingling culture that An Anarchy of Chillies, written by award-winning designer Caz Hildebrand, has been released. A comprehensive guide to chilli growing and cooking, it is part reference book and part artwork: filled with striking, colourful images in block colours to highlight the differences between each of the 100 varieties listed.

Kashmiri Mirch Credit: Here Design

Based around the Scoville scale, used to determine the “heat” of chillies, every entry describes the shape, colour and flavour of each variety, with tips on growing and preparing them in the kitchen. There’s also a brilliant index organising the chillies by flavour note (grassy, floral, herbal) and offering flavour pairings with chocolate, fruits and vegetables. The history of each variety is listed, too, with origins ranging from Ghana to Korea, Indonesia to Cumbria, as well as stories related to their development and proliferation. From the more familiar varieties such as ancho and jalapeño to the rarest examples such as the Chilhuacle amarillo, the book is a testament to the variety and complexity of this ancient fruit.

Aleppo pepper Credit: Here Design

As always, Hildebrand has done extensive research, and offers a plethora of chilli-related trivia. Readers may be surprised to discover that chillies were first eaten in 7000BCE, that they are not native to India (they were taken there by Portuguese traders in the 16th century) and that they are actually related to the potato. A particular highlight is Hildebrand’s explanation of the unique sensation of heat caused by a spicy chilli. She points out that when we eat a hot chilli, receptors in the mouth (called TRPV1), triggered by the capsaicin in the pepper’s flesh, pass a message to the brain via the nerves that communicate the sense of touch, not taste. In other words, we feel the heat of a chilli like we would physical pain, hence it’s all-too-physical side effects. Her argument is that competitive chilli-eating, resulting as it does in sweating, shaking, vomiting and worse, remains popular because of the promise of relief that follows each excruciating mouthful. The knowledge that the pain will ultimately subside is what keeps us coming back for more: “Chillies engage our desire not only for survival, but also for rejuvenation.“

Pulla Credit: Here Design

Like Herbarium and The Grammar of Spice, Hildebrand’s latest offering is a reference book with added class; a far cry from the dry botanical guides of the past. Her writing is witty and playful, demonstrating a skill to not only provide captivating visual descriptions (NuMex Twilight are said to make ‘a lively display that looks like multi-coloured Christmas lights’) but also an ability to describe each chilli’s distinct personality with flair : the Filius Blue is ‘a jazzy little number’, while the Orange Habanero is ‘the Rolls-Royce of the fleet’. Her understanding of the flavour, mouth-feel and fire of each chilli makes for mouth-watering reading, even if many of us would be advised to steer clear of the sweet-smelling Chocolate 7-Pot or seductive Madame Jeanette.

Dorset Naga Credit: Here Design

An Anarchy of Chillies is a tongue-warming tribute to this fiendish fruit, providing fascinating insight into an exotic world of flavour and flame. It’s an inspiration for gardeners, cooks and seekers of heat, and is a feast for all the senses. It will brighten up your bookshelf no end.

An Anarchy of Chillies by Caz Hildebrand is published by Thames & Hudson, available from 6 September 2018. £16.95. All images courtesy of Here Design.

Do manners maketh the musical? Thinking about theatre etiquette

Tuesday, August 07, 2018

An edited version of this article originally appeared on Miro Magazine.

Earlier this year, London’s Coliseum caused a bit of a stir. Midway through previews of the musical Chess, it was announced that audience members were no longer allowed to bring in food and drink to the theatre, after staff realised that water bottles were being filled with gin and vodka, resulting in “rowdy” behaviour. A few weeks later, a theatre critic got into hot water on Twitter after commenting that checking your phone during a show was perfectly acceptable, seen by many in the industry as legitimising bad manners. These two instances represent the very tip of the behavioural iceberg that has luvvies worldwide shaking their heads and tutting loudly, because when it comes to theatre etiquette, things clearly ain’t wot they used to be. According to a 2015 Whatsonstage survey, 85% of theatregoers believe that standards of behaviour have declined in recent years. The most frequently-cited complaints include the consumption of noisy snacks, the use of mobile phones, inappropriate clothing and drunk and disorderly behaviour. The internet is full of opinion pieces and angry statements about the actions of fellow theatregoers, and there is even an entire Twitter feed dedicated to complaining about it, on which fuming audience members can vent their rage at the bad manners of their peers.

It’s easy to disregard these complaints as aeriated bursts of self-righteousness from over-entitled luvvies, but they are not the only ones affected by such behaviour. With the price of tickets as they are (I recently paid £55 for an Upper Circle seat), a night in the West End is not something that many of us can afford to do regularly. Having a special evening tarnished by someone talking or eating noisily in the seat next to you is beyond irritating. Call it the ultimate first world problem, but surely the actors still have a right to complain. Mastering live performance is hard enough. Having to deal with the piercing blips and beeps from smartphones is an unnecessary addition. Some actors have complained about it and intervened (most recently Orlando Bloom) but most of them just get on with their jobs. They’re hardly going to go on strike.

In my opinion, behaviour in the theatre is about respect: for the actors, the audience and the art. It’s not the same as the cinema, or a night of Netflix: it is a unique, one-of-a-kind experience that will literally never be the same again. Actors and production teams spend weeks preparing for it, and audiences pay good money to go. It’s a public space, one that New York journalist Amanda Duarte described as a place in which “we enter a contract with the performers, each other, and ourselves[…]to create magic in the dark.” Ie. This is culture of the highest order, and it demands our silence and attention. Now, I’m all for championing the sanctity of the art, but I’m not naive enough to presume that just because I, a fortunate, well-educated, white theatre nerd feel this way, that everyone else does, too. The fact of the matter is that the world has changed, and art is changing with it. As rules of behaviour have relaxed elsewhere in society (take restaurant eating, for example), so too has the theatre. People have begun to treat it like any other form of public entertainment: it is not a sacred space.

Unfortunately, those who bang on about the need for strict theatre etiquette can easily be brushed off as reactionary elites, hanging onto some “golden age” of theatre in which drunkenness never existed, audience reactions were limited to the odd restrained chuckle and everyone wore their mink and gave the butler the night off. This unfortunately conflates the issue of behaviour with questions of class and accessibility. According to Exeunt Magazine Editor Alice Saville, even the term “etiquette” is problematic, with its echoes of finishing school and upper-class manners, suggesting that outbursts about its decline are “full of thinly veiled anti-working class prejudice”. This attitude is not much helped by Stage columnist West End Producer’s tongue-in-cheek, but perhaps misguided, scheme of distributing Theatre Prefect badges to purchasers of his new book, giving them “permission” to police bad behaviour in the auditorium. Woe betide anyone who unwraps a Starburst at lights-down, lest a hockey-stick-wielding Etonian round on you for dragging down society. And let’s be clear: being middle-aged, white and private-schooled does not automatically equate to good behaviour in the auditorium; we all know that abusers of the sacred code of theatre conduct come from all backgrounds.

Eye-witness account from today’s matinee of @KillerJoePlay: #OrlandoBloom made two unscripted interventions: “I need YOU to put iPad AWAY NOW!” Then again a few mins later: “PUT that fucking IPad away now and I will wait”. pic.twitter.com/WZ4ybgKexJ
— Mark Shenton (@ShentonStage) July 26, 2018

In order to stamp out such behaviour, rules of etiquette are often rattled out by journalists, in the hope of keeping things “as they were”. The irony of this attitude is that theatre is not historically a restrained or quiet affair. Ancient Greek audiences were free to heckle a disappointing play, while crowds at the Globe in the 1600s would spend the performance shucking oysters, crunching on apples and soliciting for sex. The “timeless” standards of behaviour that are said to be declining are in fact a late Victorian invention. But still, the etiquette persists, with Duarte warning her peers that “[i]f your cellular device emits a sound or a beam of light, I will throw it in the Hudson[…]I don’t care if you’re an on-call surgeon.” The problem is that the reassertion of traditional etiquette doesn’t do much for the image of theatre: it makes it appear stuffy and stale, reserved for a certain type of person, doing little to encourage younger audiences from different backgrounds. Tom Briggs, Co-artistic Director of Flickbook Theatre, which works extensively in areas of low arts engagement in the East Midlands, says that even the presence of a staff member in a suit is enough to put young people off going to the theatre: “To them it’s a bouncer, someone trying to keep them out.” To kids from the estate, theatre isn’t aspirational, just alienating. A solution might be to relax the rules and lessen the restrictive atmosphere: “I’d be more than happy to relax rules about food and phones if it got them in the building,” Briggs says. If we do nothing, we risk rendering theatre obsolete for future generations.

But is the industry listening? Stage Editor Alistair Smith notes that “theatre is never going to win a battle against the wider movement towards a more relaxed, informal society” but says there is no obvious solution. Indeed, how can we shake things up without compromising on the value of the art? Some theatres in the US have launched “tweet seats”, in which patrons can spend the performance looking at their phones without disturbing anyone else. Another option would be to increase the number of relaxed performances, in which audiences can come and go freely from the auditorium and noise is permitted. These are halfway-houses, a way of bending the constrictions of a traditional theatrical environment around a modern, distracted audience. A more effective method might be to change the environment altogether.

Mark Rylance recently made the point that if a theatregoer is on their phone mid-show, the actors are not doing their jobs properly. I think Mr Rylance is perhaps a touch too forgiving of the 21st-century attitude to technology, but he certainly highlights the point that the way to keep a ticket-holder away from their smartphone is to thoroughly engross them in the story. I’m not suggesting that the way forward is to welcome such phone use, but that instead of wasting energy fighting a losing battle against technology, theatres should focus on what they do best: telling stories, delving into the corners of the human soul for the benefit of the audience. Rather than trying to constantly police audience behaviour, it might be more beneficial to direct our efforts towards connecting with that audience.

The proscenium arch transformed for The Jungle. Photo: Marc Brenner

Seated in the darkness, up to fifty feet away from the stage, it is not always easy for theatregoers to forget the real world: they are merely detached spectators. In immersive or promenade theatre, however, audiences become a living part of the action. It becomes much harder to think about your stomach or Instagram feed when there is a fully made-up clown/centurion/fairy looking you straight in the eye, or if you’re walking through a convincing haunted house, as ticket-holders did in Punchdrunk’s The Drowned Man. Speaking directly to your audience, not the black ether beyond the footlights, makes all the difference: actors at The Globe interact directly with the groundlings, riffing and joking around Shakespeare’s text. As such, the venue does not have a close, restrictive atmosphere and is that much more enjoyable for it. Audience members boo and hiss (recently I saw one woman at As You Like It yell “[y]ou go girl!” at Rosalind) and want to let the actors know they’re enjoying it. This by no means detracts from the power or solemnity of the story; if anything, it enhances it.

Yes, the Globe is a unique setting, but it doesn’t mean traditional houses are instantly irrelevant: even just a minor change in layout can be hugely effective (take, for example, the innovative staging used for The Jungle at the Playhouse). It is, however, an incentive to think outside the black box and find new ways of telling stories. Make it so captivating that audiences are stunned into silence and forget the outside world and their social media feeds. This might just be a better alternative to shoving rules of etiquette down people’s throats, which will ultimately just push new audiences further away. If you break down the barrier between actor and audience and envelop them in the story, rules of etiquette become irrelevant; all that is left is wonder.

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Do manners maketh the musical? Thinking about theatre etiquette

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