CARROT CAKE REVIEW No 11 - Zesty & Moist

Heydon Tea Rooms, Heydon, Norfolk.

Spiced Carrot & Orange Cake 

First, I must confess a prejudice, Heydon Tea Rooms is one of my all time favourite places to go for coffee and cake. The range and excellence of their cakes is unmatched. How would they perform when stepping onto the hallowed ground of Carrot Cake? 

Well, if I'm being really really honest, this was never going to be the pure unadulterated Carrot Cake that I've extolled in fundamentalist detail in previous blog posts. ( You'll find those posts here:~ Perfect Carrot Cake ) The official title for this one was Spiced Carrot and Orange Cake. So thats spice, tick, carrot, tick, orange? well, lets see. Orange can easily sweep away all that comes into contact with it, so what started out in its bones the very essence of a carrot cake, is frogmarched into becoming a Tangerine. 

As you may be able to detect from the photograph this cake could never be described as solid or weighty. The cake's texture was light, springy and moist. My god was it moist, moist with all those bright zesty citrus overtones, but without being detrimental to the balance of the Carrot or the Spice. It was poised beautifully between the demands of all these competing flavours. There was still room in the mix for good sized chunks of walnut and a scatter of sultanas. Throwing all these ingredients together and not have a cake you could either fiill holes in a wall with or has the consistency of rain sodden soil, is nothing short of masterful. Though it may have looked insubstantial it had enough substance in its structure. It didn't fall into cake rubble as soon as you applied the fork, nor dissolve like a ghost as soon as it hit your pallette either.

Though this style of carrot cake exists on the more experimental fringes, in our world of culinary fantasy, it does somehow manage to pull it off. Plus, it does have a cream cheese filling, so that's another thumbs up from me.  I find it tricky though when assessing these modern twists on the traditional form, when it comes to how to mark them. Though not traditional they are, nonetheless, successful.  Here they manage to cover all the basics of the form, whilst adding a twist that accentuates without drowning the patient. Though it challenges what I set out to do with these posts, it is after all just a personal mission statement, that I can chose to adjust however I wish.

CARROT CAKE SCORE - 7/8

BOOK REVIEW - Junichiro Tanazaki - The Makioka Sisters

I'm reaching the end of my year of Japanese novel reading. Its been a mixture of the inspiring, the informative and the frankly infuriating. When it comes to the latter The Makioka Sisters is a perfect example of a cetain type of mid-twentieth century Japanese novel.  Everything is described by its surface, emotions are restrained and reserved. Its as if the human tendency towards melodrama had flatlined. Previous works by Tanazaki I've greatly enjoyed. He has a mischievous, dry and ironic sense of the absurdities, as well as the beauties, of traditional 'Old Japan'. So if you were to skim the storyline of The Makioka Sisters you'd think this might be fertile ground for Tanazaki to find gold in. That it isn't, leaves this novel as nearly five hundred pages devoid of wit, humour, or in fact much happening at all.

Whilst not being imitative of Chekov, its clear that The Makioka Sisters is something of a Japanese homage to the spirit of The Three Sisters. Because here we too have three provincial sisters, Sachiko, Yukiko and Taeko. except everyone wants to stay in Osaka, no one wants to go to the big city, to dreary, dirty Tokyo.  The Makioka family used to have standing socially but has fallen on harder times. Though they are no longer able to cut the social mustard, they behave as if they still do. The modern world is passing them by, as they try not to play catch up. Of the three, only Sachiko is married, but as the eldest it falls to her to ensure the traditional process is followed and that the second eldest Yukiko is next to get married.

Unfortunately, Yukiko is now in her early thirties and they worry that she is a bit old to still be in the marraige market. If they don't find a suitable match soon, the shame of perpetual spinsterhood and dependency on the family will descend. Yukiko, has all the presence of someone who is constantly absent, her feelings and motives remaining essentially unknowable for the entire length of the novel. You neither love or hate her. Its as though she's become this empty vessel, a blank pawn in a very long game of chess. Her younger sister Taeko, by comparison is a free spirit who wants to make her own way in life, chose her own lovers and resist playing the marriage game. There are, however, tragic consequences to the choices that she makes.

That is it really as far as the storyline goes. There are passages of brilliant descriptive writing, such as the torrential rain and flooding in the centre of the story, and (spoiler alert ) a couple of death scenes. But these are brief blips, amid acres of not a lot going on of any import. I suspect there is much that could be labelled 'metaphor' in this novel, but this has not been heightened enough. The period the novel is set in is in the years leading up to Pearl Harbour.  The China Incident where Japan stages a proto-invasion of the Chinese mainland is a brief passing reference. The closeness of Nippon-Nazi relations is seen obliquely through the Stoltz family who live next door. That none of this impinges upon the Makioka obsessive pursuit of marrying Yukiko off, speaks volumes about Japanese insularity at this time.  They are literally living in another world to everyone else.

There are also countless incidences of someone in the family falling ill, or they suspect to be ill, or is a bit off colour, who then cossets themselves away until the often vaguely identified malady passes. Then there is the constant worry about that small spot above Yukiko's eye, will the appearance of this blemish spoil her marriage chances? To be followed by weeks of costly injections to eliminate, or at least reduce it in size. The body and the body politic have both become dis-eased.

Its a small fading world they live in, which is at times extremely petty, which Tanazaki relishes describing in minute detail. That the Makioka's are in some way cyphers for the Japanese malaise pre-war is pretty clear. There is, however, a difficulty for the Western reader of Japanese novels, there is frequently no sense of his characters engaging in any internal reflection.  'Internal dialogue' just doesn't happen, so you don't understand and hence never reach either hatred or empathy for these people. They are all a bit bland and featureless, with little sense for a mood or period. What's really going on within this family remains a disinteresting puzzle.

One has to remain wary when reading any Japanese novel in translation, as your impressions of its value are entirely dependent upon the skill or otherwise of the translator. Converting an ideographic script into coherent English sentence structures must be inherently an unfeasible task. Murakami, when he reads the translation of his novels writes to the translator congratulating them on the book they've written, he no longer sees it as being composed by him anymore. Tanazaki's writing style I sense may have been let down by Edward G. Seidensticker's translation of it. I may of course be wrong and this really is one of the most tedious books I've ever read. But that it maybe the translation that is at fault is, for me, indicated by the last line of The Makioka Sisters, where Yukiko has finally found herself a husband and is travelling to Tokyo for her future marriage and life. This disingenuous sentence bears something of Tanazaki's trademark wryness and sense for irony. More like this and I'd have found this an enjoyable thing to read, instead of a bit of a drag.

'Yukiko's diarrhoea persisted through the twentieth-sixth, and was a problem on the train to Tokyo.'

What a way to end a novel! 

SHERINGHAM DIARY 21 ~ Let Them Eat Paint - (Subsisting on Farrow & Ball )

Once you're accustomed to North Norfolk, you realise its reputation as one of the most popular places in the UK for the middle class to retire to, has had unforeseen consequences. The indigenous population, if indeed there is such a thing anymore, learn to survive in a minimum wage economy, with a minuscule chance of owning their own home. Their opportunities being swamped, if not swept aside, by the needs of these semi-retired wealthy incomers, and the house prices they raise in their wake.

The village of South Creake is some twenty miles along the coast from us. It's population at the last census was 516. Like most small villages in the UK it has lost its local corner shop, and any pub will have either gone, or gone gastro to a pricey and exclusive degree. Simple cod and chips, will be coated in a beery batter with a side of rustic potatoes fried in duck fat, accompanied by thick buttered wedges of 'artis-anal' sourdough. But, fear not, all is not lost because what South Creake does have, is its very own Farrow & Ball Shop, and bespoke kitchen design outlet. South Creake lives on the fringe of Burnham Market ( population 877 ) where this type of thing flourishes unsupported by any retail rationale. It has its own Joules and Gun Hill outlets, plus several high end interiors shops, and though not quite the archetypal butcher, baker and candlestick maker, it comes close. There is a cafe/shop that derives everything it sells from their own farm in Tuscany.

You may well shake your head in incredulity. Cottonwood Workshop exists on the coastal cusp of associating with this world. You could say we understand what part of our 'target market' is. I raise my hand, I confess, yes, I have purchased Farrow & Ball paint, not to eat obviously, but to use on our furniture refubs. Though actually Little Greene paints are finer quality, with better coverage and colours. So I'm not just going along with established market consensus here, I'm able to wag my individuality with the best of them.  Once you've got a taste for top quality emulsion paint its hard to kick the habit and return to the weak and watery 'in house value brands.' It bears similarity to eating cheap white sliced bread after trying handmade sourdough. Yes, the latter is more expensive, but goodness you do feel better about yourself afterwards. Worthy of having more of this well made stuff instead of cheaply made crap that leaves a nutritional deficit, not to mention a social or cultural one.

Seemingly everywhere round here, the smell of sourdough is whispering at you from cafe windows 'come put your mouth around a substantial crust'.  I consider myself reasonably adept these days at making a spelt, rye or wholemeal loaf, but have remained wary of approaching this prince of 'artis-anal' breads. I recently launched myself into singing the long song of sourdough. First, I had to kick the habit of just throwing a pack of easy yeast in a bowl and begin making a sourdough starter. This takes 4-5 days, feeding it daily like its a voracious child who loves wheat and lukewarm water. On the fifth day, my starter exploded out of the bowl, dribbling bacterial slurry all over the slats in the airing cupboard and a stored duvet beneath. On the fifth day though, thou shalt also form a gooey 'predough.' On the sixth day of sourdough you form your actual dough after much knackering knuckle kneading. After which, I rested the aching arthritic hands for an entire hour.

According to my recipe there follows a strange ritual, as in a clockwise movement you pinch, stretch and fold the dough as if it has love handles, once every hour, for three hours.  Finally, you can rest after the dough makes it into a loaf tin and you wait and wait for the rising of the sodding thing......for a further 4-6 hours! If you can make it through all of that, the delightful taste of the bread is the minor achievement. That you survived long enough to see the sourdough reach breadhood, was the real deal. There really ought to be a badge for it. I've joined the National Trust, I've bought Farrow & Ball, I've made sourdough, I've arrived in the middle class elite. Though I was born in Halifax, Yorkshire, lets not make too much of that. These days its who you think you are, not what you are that really matters. If toffs like Reese-Mogg can become the voice of ordinary working people, I can behave as if I have time and money to burn.

Having now completed our first month as free citizens, unencumbered by meaningless work and accompanying stresses. It would, however, be incorrect to assume we are now living the life of riley. We have a lot of work to do. With experience we know how to make the best use of this time. For instance, we've learnt photographing or programming all day just does your head in. So we space it out, and ensure we get to do craft work, if not every day, at least regularly. We both have backgrounds with a strong work ethic, and what we are doing now isn't quite what most working class guys who happen to have got educated do.

On days when nothing appears to be going right, a mood can descend - that we aren't doing enough - or not moving fast enough on our various projects - or worry about running out of money, even though we don't need to. Some of this is an emotional panic around making this year count, plus we've had unrealistic expectations concerning how much we can actually physically or mentally do. There is also a backlog of processing, of stuff we've both sat on whilst employed at our previous workplaces. Now we are both our master and our servant, emotions do bob to the surface because we are both less guarded and more relaxed.  So even whilst motivated and inspired we can slip into tenseness and anxiety. Primarily because now, there is no one else to praise or blame for what happens, but ourselves.

We've achieved more than we perhaps give ourselves credit for in our first month. Jnanasalin has completed the design revamp of our website, and is nearing the end of the minute nerdy details of the background construction that will support it. We've re-photographed literally hundreds of stock shots for it. I've gradually got into a groove with refinishing items. I've painted, varnished or upholstered three stools, repainted four picture frames and made a battered wooden shell into a fully complete decorative box. We've also started assessing potential cafe sites, at this stage just to get a sense for what we should be looking out for in future.

Splash Swimming Pool Sheringham

Since moving to Upper Sheringham we have both become unfit, as a lot of comfort eating has been engaged in. Since starting 'our year of living a wee bit dangerously' we've begun monitoring our food consumption and getting more regular exercise. Jnanasalin goes for a long walk almost everyday. I've got back into swimming twice a week, hoping to expand on that once my body has grown accustomed. After the first swim, my body screamed at me like a new born baby - 'don't you ever ever do that to me again, you sadist!'. Because everyone knows that after 'Mummy' and 'Daddy' the next words an intelligent baby masters are 'you sadist !' The accumulative effect has been a substantial lift to my general mood and sense of well being, easing my bodily discomforts considerably too. So I guess you might call that a 'win win.'

We've had friends staying with us on two separate weekends. It was very good to spend time with both Saddharaja and Vidyasiddhi, catching up a bit, walking, taking in scenery and generally sharing some of our favourite spots in North Norfolk.  It can feel as though we live in a bit of a self contained bubble, so it was good to hear how things are going back in Cambridge, and of other peoples lives and future plans. It was a real pleasure.

Urgyen Sangharakshita

This week we heard of Sangharakshita's death. He founded the Triratna Buddhist Order, that I used to be a member of, and Jnanasalin still is. Sangharakshita was a remarkable man, sensitive, perceptive and possessed of a formidably rigorous mind, His analysis of social mores was controversial, plus there was abuse of power scandals recently, that had taken place in the early years of the movement. Despite the latter, he remains to us one of the most significant positive influences upon both of our thinking, practice and lifestyle. We intend attending the funeral to pay our final respects and show our gratitude to the teacher, to whom we owe so much concerning the form of our lives as Buddhists. It will be the first Triratna event I'll have attended since my resignation from the order, the prospect of which, in my imagination at least, I'm finding a bit daunting. This year is turning out to be such a significant one, with so many things and people coming to an end.

As you drive from Kings Lynn towards Fakenham, you pass a favourite sign of mine. Its stuck by the road, on a turning into a dirt track running by the side of a farm. For a moment when I first saw it, I was perplexed. Painted in large red letters on a white background it simply says SHORT TREES.  Now there may be a whole trend for trees that are vertically stunted, that I've remained thankfully unaware of. But I've come to the conclusion that the simple addition of an apostrophe and an S after SHORT, might provide a more easily comprehensible solution.