Devon 2: Filets of Plaice
Sep. 2nd, 2009 06:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellenkushnerIt continues all about food. With, fortunately, much walking thrown in. That is, after all, what you do in the country (when it's not raining): go for country walks.
Last night Terri's delightful adorable can-I-take-her-home-in-my-suitcase stepdaughter cooked us a Thai curry, with panna cotta for dessert. Today, wholemeal veg pasty from the bakery for lunch. Then we staked out the Fresh Fish van in the marketplace, having been warned it only paused briefly on its weekly visits. We waited. Had we missed it? We saw a van blazoned with "Fresh Caught Fish" whiz by. "Hey, lady!" we thought of calling, but refrained. This is England, after all. A few minutes later it whizzed by in the other direction. We figured it must be stopping at all the restaurants first, and eventually it would bring whatever was left to us in the Square. Which it did. We got smoked haddock, a little Scottish salmon because it looked so good and it was the only fish truck of our week, and a flat and spotted plaice, which she obligingly filleted for us. Delia cooked it for dinner with a side of leeks and a knob of butter. Bliss.
We woke to sunshine, and went dutifully to work - until I realized what a bad idea this was, as it's been raining almost every day for weeks. So Delia quickly read me the rough draft of her new story, and then we went on a walk to talk about it. We thought we remembered the River Walk out of town, but we were so very wrong. We found the first path (obligingly marked "Public Footpath" on the gate), and observed some big chickens, and went through a field, over a stile, and back onto a road, where no other "Public Footpath" signs were forthcoming. Asked a couple of agreeable teenage boys, but they were only there on holiday and knew not. Walked further down the road the other way and found another Public Footpath, which led down a nice grassy lane and into another big, cowpatted field with a truly impressive white leafless tree in the middle - like a giant piece of driftwood. No more path; just a big stream. It had rocks in it. Delia didn't think anyone could cross it, but she was wrong. "They've been doing it for centuries," the man picking berries in the hedges of the next field assured us. We are talking about 15 mossy stones, here, some rather pointed. I bet when it hasn't been raining for 12 weeks straight, it's a lot less daunting. But we did it. I was pathetic, Delia amazingly sure-footed for someone who has never managed to sustain Tree Pose for more than 2 seconds without falling over. Most rewarding.
Another cow pasture, then a gorgeous walk under trees along the river, with lots of exposed roots and attractive rocks and shadows. It sprinkled from time to time, but soon passed. We fetched up where I had hoped, at a sweet little pub that Alan Lee first took me to, I think, where the assorted loose coins in our pockets managed to buy us a half-pint of local cider. My friends, you must have some. The "English cider" you get in the US is kind of like apple-flavored 7-Up. This is dry and sharp like a good autumn crisp, and has no bubbles, just a gentle fizz. We talked about Joan Aiken's "Armitage" stories, which we'd brought over for Terri and Delia'd just reread.
I did not particularly want to walk home, but I was not particularly offered a choice. Delia said if I did not stop to pick berries and admire rocks, we'd get there a lot faster. I still got very whiny, expressing anxiety over Lurking Cows hiding unseen amongst the shadows at the edges of the field. What I thought they were going to do to us I am not sure now that I'm warm by the fire, but at the time it was raining and I had my hoodie all tied up like Kenny's (only black). We did not re-cross the river by stones, but took the main road uphill. When I stopped on a bench to rest, I saw a spectacular rainbow, quite close, spanning the entire sky.
My one regret is that I did not buy that Sticky Toffee Pudding I saw this morning. We are having to make do with supermarket crumpets, which are amazingly good with clotted cream & blackberry jam.
Last night Terri's delightful adorable can-I-take-her-home-in-my-suitcase stepdaughter cooked us a Thai curry, with panna cotta for dessert. Today, wholemeal veg pasty from the bakery for lunch. Then we staked out the Fresh Fish van in the marketplace, having been warned it only paused briefly on its weekly visits. We waited. Had we missed it? We saw a van blazoned with "Fresh Caught Fish" whiz by. "Hey, lady!" we thought of calling, but refrained. This is England, after all. A few minutes later it whizzed by in the other direction. We figured it must be stopping at all the restaurants first, and eventually it would bring whatever was left to us in the Square. Which it did. We got smoked haddock, a little Scottish salmon because it looked so good and it was the only fish truck of our week, and a flat and spotted plaice, which she obligingly filleted for us. Delia cooked it for dinner with a side of leeks and a knob of butter. Bliss.
We woke to sunshine, and went dutifully to work - until I realized what a bad idea this was, as it's been raining almost every day for weeks. So Delia quickly read me the rough draft of her new story, and then we went on a walk to talk about it. We thought we remembered the River Walk out of town, but we were so very wrong. We found the first path (obligingly marked "Public Footpath" on the gate), and observed some big chickens, and went through a field, over a stile, and back onto a road, where no other "Public Footpath" signs were forthcoming. Asked a couple of agreeable teenage boys, but they were only there on holiday and knew not. Walked further down the road the other way and found another Public Footpath, which led down a nice grassy lane and into another big, cowpatted field with a truly impressive white leafless tree in the middle - like a giant piece of driftwood. No more path; just a big stream. It had rocks in it. Delia didn't think anyone could cross it, but she was wrong. "They've been doing it for centuries," the man picking berries in the hedges of the next field assured us. We are talking about 15 mossy stones, here, some rather pointed. I bet when it hasn't been raining for 12 weeks straight, it's a lot less daunting. But we did it. I was pathetic, Delia amazingly sure-footed for someone who has never managed to sustain Tree Pose for more than 2 seconds without falling over. Most rewarding.
Another cow pasture, then a gorgeous walk under trees along the river, with lots of exposed roots and attractive rocks and shadows. It sprinkled from time to time, but soon passed. We fetched up where I had hoped, at a sweet little pub that Alan Lee first took me to, I think, where the assorted loose coins in our pockets managed to buy us a half-pint of local cider. My friends, you must have some. The "English cider" you get in the US is kind of like apple-flavored 7-Up. This is dry and sharp like a good autumn crisp, and has no bubbles, just a gentle fizz. We talked about Joan Aiken's "Armitage" stories, which we'd brought over for Terri and Delia'd just reread.
I did not particularly want to walk home, but I was not particularly offered a choice. Delia said if I did not stop to pick berries and admire rocks, we'd get there a lot faster. I still got very whiny, expressing anxiety over Lurking Cows hiding unseen amongst the shadows at the edges of the field. What I thought they were going to do to us I am not sure now that I'm warm by the fire, but at the time it was raining and I had my hoodie all tied up like Kenny's (only black). We did not re-cross the river by stones, but took the main road uphill. When I stopped on a bench to rest, I saw a spectacular rainbow, quite close, spanning the entire sky.
My one regret is that I did not buy that Sticky Toffee Pudding I saw this morning. We are having to make do with supermarket crumpets, which are amazingly good with clotted cream & blackberry jam.
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 11:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 12:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 05:15 pm (UTC)Campioning is always worth doing.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 11:48 am (UTC)Well, maybe just "Lurking". Cow names--for some reason I don't understand--can't be more than eight letters.
And the SIL was looking over a bull semen catalogue the other day...
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 12:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 12:22 pm (UTC). . . but then what would be the point?
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 02:16 pm (UTC)I hope you continue to have pleasant adventures to share with us. =)
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 02:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 04:31 pm (UTC)One of the delights of living here is certainly that I've exported myself to the source, rather than hoping someone would start importing nice proper cider from UK to US ;-)
(otoh, there are some lovely things in the US which I either cannot get or can only get rarely and at great expense. (Root beer! wah!!! *cries* tears of root beer deprevation. Sprecher's root beer, double and triple wah!!!!! I didn't even make it back for Wiscon last year, so was denied my Sprecher's Root Beer fix :-( *sniff* )
*(Note: Strongbow is not Real Cider, nor is Magners, nor Bulmers... Westons is though, as is Thatchers, and they are big enough maybe that can be found in the US now? Real Cider does come in both fizzy and not fizzy varieties :-) )
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 04:55 pm (UTC)Among the national brands I prefer Blackthorn to Strongbow myself ... but what the heck, I'll take whatever I can get. You're absolutely right, the local "real ciders" are better, and I have fond memories of a cider-drinking tour through Herefordshire pubs - but even the most plonk-like national brands bear a family resemblance to them that is totally unlike anything that passes for domestic cider in the U.S. (even alcoholic cider, which except for the artificially fortified kind is hard to get) or in Canada. (Canadian cider is good, but it's a species all of its own.)
It's the same with root beer, which is my domestic pleasure. I love to try strange local root beers, but I'll drink whatever's on offer, even Barq's. But you certainly won't find it where you are. I have never met nor heard of a visiting European or Asian to the U.S. who, on trying root beer, found it anything other than vile and undrinkable. That's OK: more for us, then.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 08:43 pm (UTC)P.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-03 12:18 pm (UTC)Perhaps your blog readers might like to see some photos of the local landscape, which they can find on these two blogs:
Notes from the Rookery (by local artist Danielle Barlowe):http://daniellebarlowart.blogspot.com/
The Hermitage (by travelling artist Rima Staines, who has been parked up on the outskirts of the village for the last few weeks):
http://www.intothehermitage.blogspot.com/
Plaice and Sticky Toffee Pudding
Date: 2009-09-06 02:38 pm (UTC)