Making Do on Turkey Day

I spent the day before Thanksgiving pretty much in a funk. With no family coming for the holiday, and no invitation to join others, I was wallowing in self-pity. Around mid-afternoon I decided to take control of things and plunged head-long into the maelstrom of supermarket shoppers to buy me a Thanksgiving dinner, by god.

The parking lot was choked with the stressed, the rushed, and the pissed off, all vying for limited parking spaces. Inside, every cart was loaded with enough ingredients to cook for several neighborhoods. Not me. I was into short cuts. No fun cooking from scratch for myself, I decided, so I grabbed the very last cooked turkey breast in the warming drawer and headed to the deli counter for cranberry sauce, the packaged goods aisle for stuffing-in-a-box and an envelope of generic and tasteless brown gravy mix. Next, the freezer section for a frozen pumpkin pie. The only concession I made for fresh food was one sweet potato. Done!

Thanksgiving dawned warm and sunny, and after dawdling on the patio with the morning paper and a cup of coffee, I assembled the ingredients for my feast-for-one to decide my "cooking" strategy. It was so simple: everything could go into a 350 degree oven starting with the frozen pie which required a couple of hours of cooling time, followed by the potato, the stuffing and, finally the turkey breast which just needed warming up.

In the end, I think it was about creating the aromas and sounds of Thanksgiving that I craved: the savory stuffing browning off in the oven and a football game on the TV in the background. I also realized that I had been true to the traditions I had been brought up with -- a meal that tasted like home and was surprisingly good. Minus my mother's green bean, mushroom soup and fried onion casserole. I just couldn't do it.

An English Tea Room in an Unlikely Place

Ojai, California isn't a place where you'd expect to find an English tea room, but then again Ojai is full of things you wouldn't expect to find in most small towns. The Plaza Pantry has been a fixture here for decades and it's where ex-pat Brits go to get their fix of biscuits, shortbread, Heinz beans, PG Tips and of course to enjoy an afternoon cuppa with scones. And it's where I found the elusive British ingredients I needed for the Yorkshire Parkin I made recently.

As I was packing up jars of Devonshire cream and orange marmalade and tins of Lyle's treacle, I lamented to owner Beryl how much I missed Cornish cream teas. With that, she handed me a flyer announcing her monthly "English Afternoon Tea" and I immediately made myself a reservation.

When I arrived for the event, I sat down next to a chirpy table of ladies who were members of the Daughters of the British Empire, an American society of women of British or Commonwealth heritage. There are dozens of chapters in California, but this group's members were from Ventura and Santa Barbara counties. Broad English accents mixed with flat American twangs in a happy cacophony of conversation and bonhomie. I shared my table with a lovely couple from Wales who had just moved to Ojai to be closer to their children and grandchildren. We shared stories of traveling in the U.K., and talked about the different ways afternoon teas are served in Britain and in the U.S. We talked about English weather versus California weather. And we discussed the latest scandals shaking each country.

Our table was decked out with typical floral-patterned china, and tea came in a cozy-covered pot. A selection of small tea sandwiches arrived: tomato, cucumber and egg, along with little sausage rolls. Next, fresh scones were served. As teas go, this one was quite authentic, although we were surprised to find our scones buttered, which isn't customary and certainly wasn't necessary since we were adding jam and clotted cream to the warm scones anyway.

 
The final course was a lovely Victoria sponge with the traditional layer of jam in the center and a dusting of powdered sugar. It was delicious, although by then I was so full I couldn't finish but half of it. I'm thinking of making a Victoria sponge when my family comes for Christmas, but I wouldn't serve it for afternoon tea; they wouldn't sit still for it. I'd serve it after dinner, perhaps embellished with fresh berries and a dollop of whipped cream.

I'm sure this is exactly how authentic regional recipes get adulterated when they migrate to new locations. People do that too. They leave one place and go to another and they change and become someone new. I tried to imagine my grandfather who left England for America in 1879, leaving behind his family, his village and foods that were familiar to him. I wondered if he missed afternoon tea with scones and Victoria sponge. It was a tradition that would have been hard to replicate in the ramshackle mining towns of California. I can only hope that some kind English lady opened up a tea room for all those homesick blokes who would have enjoyed a little bit of home in the most unlikely of places.

This One's For You, Guy Fawkes

I spent the month of September in England on a family history research trip, specifically in Cornwall in the southwest where my father’s ancestors lived. But I also have roots in the northern county of Lancashire where my maternal ancestors once lived, and still do. And that’s where Jenny comes in. I discovered Jenny on Ancestry.com and it turns out that we share great, great, great, grandparents and she is my fourth cousin.

Thanks to Jenny’s parents (her mother Gillian is my third cousin once removed) who invited me to their home in Devon, I got a chance to meet Jenny in person after corresponding with her via email for almost two years. The occasion (as if we needed any other reason to meet!) was a family birthday and Jenny was serving a dinner of traditional British dishes: cottage pie and Parkin, a rich and dense gingerbread kind of cake that I think the English would call a “sticky pudding.” Whatever you call it, Parkin is delicious and as an added bonus it has an historic pedigree.

The recipe has been around for ages and although it originated with working class families in Yorkshire during the Industrial Revolution, today it is enjoyed everywhere in England, including Lancashire. “It’s something our ancestors would have eaten,” Jenny assured me. And with that, I immediately felt connected to all our shared family members who went before us through the ages. It is traditionally served on Bonfire Night, which is November 5^th, a night that has been commemorated in England since 1605. That was the night that 17^th century scoundrel, Guy Fawkes, was executed for treason for his part in the Gunpowder Plot, the failed attempt to assassinate King James I.

Jenny very kindly sent me home with a copy of her recipe and I made up my mind to bake a Parkin on Bonfire Night, even though by then I would be back home in California where bonfires are forbidden. Little did I know the extent of the battle that was about to begin. First of all, Jenny’s recipe is stated in metric and Imperial units, and call me naïve, but I was confident I could simply do the arithmetic to convert grams and and milliliters into cups. I went online looking for conversion charts and adapted recipes, but the more I learned the more I understood that volume and weight are not the same thing. I then turned to my brilliant British pal Katrina who worked on converting the recipe, but finally advised me to use a kitchen scale calibrated to make accurate conversions. That’s when I gave in and bought a digital scale that shows tare weight in grams.

Next, I tackled the ingredients that called for items not available in the U.S., like golden syrup and treacle. I was ready to make do with light and dark corn syrup when I ventured into a local shop run by a lovely British lady who pointed out her small collection of imported British products, and there they were: authentic golden syrup (much darker and richer than that thin, watery Karo syrup I thought would do), and jars of double cream that I knew would be the perfect topping for my finished Parkin. For treacle, I substituted dark molasses, which worked well enough.

So after almost a month of trying to decipher this recipe and gathering the right equipment and authentic ingredients, I was ready to start baking. That’s when an email from Jenny arrived, encouraging me to remember my British relatives on Bonfire Night. And along with it, the taunting photo of a perfectly beautiful Parkin that had just been baked by her 9-year-old son Rory! My determination surged to new heights. If a small boy can make a Parkin, then by golly so can I! And so today, November 5^th, I baked a Yorkshire Parkin. Tonight when I tuck into it, there will be no bonfire and no party. Just a warm connection to my heritage and my English family with every gooey bite.

 Baked Parkin (in U.S. measurements)

1 ¼  Cups self-rising flour

Pinch of salt

3 Tablespoons ground ginger

2 Teaspoons nutmeg

1 Teaspoon mixed spice (I used pumpkin pie spice)

1 Cup oat flakes (I used Coach’s Oats)

¾ Cup golden syrup (Lyle’s is best, if you can find it)

¼ Cup black treacle (I used molasses)

1 Stick + 3 tablespoons unsalted butter

¾ Cup dark brown sugar

2 Medium eggs, beaten

1 Tablespoon milk

Pre-heat the oven to 275 F. Butter an 8-inch square baking pan and line with parchment paper.

Sieve the flour, salt, ginger, nutmeg and pumpkin pie spice together into a large bowl. Mix in the oats.

Place the golden syrup, molasses, butter and brown sugar in a small saucepan and melt over low heat, but do not boil. Stir into the flour mixture.

Mix the beaten egg and milk to a soft, pourable consistency. Mix into the flour/syrup mixture, and pour all into the buttered baking pan. Bake for 1-1 ½ hours until firm in the center. A toothpick inserted in the middle should come out clean. Remove from the oven and leave to cool in the baking pan for 5-10 minutes before turning out.

British cooks insist that Parkin in best eaten after it’s been wrapped and stored for a minimum of one day, and preferably more, before slicing into squares. Parkin can be served with ice cream, a seasonal fruit compote, or a generous glob of whipped cream.