In The Bleak Midwinter

News Years Day – a free range goose – no compromise, the fat is perfect for storing in the refrigerator to make crisp roasties and the carcass stripped for rillette (a French pate with no liver) to be smeared on warm toast with a little chutney or quince jelly for a quick lunch. We serve apple infused red cabbage and peas with our goose, although not the most generous in meat, a slow cooking will make it stretch that little bit further. It feels like a real treat and for our household closes the Christmas festivities admirably.

January, often the darkest and bleakest month is a time of soups or Cawl as we call them in Wales. Cawl gyda caws – cheese with soup, a surprisingly good combination especially if one pairs a good, hard sheep’s cheese with a lamb stew. In times of revolution the Welsh called for caws gyda bara (cheese with bread); I am inclined to agree. My mother constantly has a pot of lamb soup waiting for us to dive into any time we pop around. A thick slice of Alex Gooch ( sourdough bread smothered in fabulous Netherend butter made on the other side of the Forest, maybe a slice of Smart’s double Gloucester, a fine example of one of the few great Gloucester cheese-makers remaining.
A winter breakfast of thick creamy porridge bathed in maple syrup and double cream is a perfect start to a day’s foraging although not foraging in the conventional sense. A circumference of 15 miles encompasses all manner of fabulous local producers giving a varied choice of specialised products all of which far exceed those found even the better supermarkets. 

The Monmouthshire/Gloucestershire culinary traditions are deep-rooted in those whose families arrived here for work, moving from the rural farm professions into a bleak industrial future.

When one says Gloucestershire three things spring to mind Pork, Cheese and Cider. Monmouthshire is a more veiled delight, clinging to many Welsh traditional recipes whilst asserting its Anglo allegiance. Monmouth Pudding, probably the most famous Monmouthian dish is rarely seen on a menu yet is one of those fabulously rib-sticking puddings deserving of a place after a robust Sunday roast. Moist layers of jam and crumb-thickened custard give the Monmouth Pudding its distinctive red stripe. Personally I believe it to be named for the famous Monmouth Cap, made in Overmonnow – their distinctive shape reminiscent of the pudding bowl. We are spoiled for choice every Sunday, will it be a handsome leg of Welsh Lamb, enrobed in its buttery sweet fat studded with rosemary from the gnarly old bush which sits, like a pondering wise woman in the corner of the courtyard; will it be a plump Madgett’s farm chicken, encrusted with crunchy sea salt, its sage and onion voluptuousness bursting from its moist depths; or will it be a handsome Gloucester Old Spot shoulder, rolled and stuffed, its crackling crisp and a surprisingly delicate perry gravy at its  side; finally and perhaps the King of the Sunday table, a prime rib of Usk Valley Beef, rare and juicy, its puffed up, courtier like, Yorkshire Pudding paling into a necessary insignificance alongside this most decadent of dishes. A stately queue of puddings wait in the shadows for their moment, and arrived flank by homely jugs of rich yellow custard, a legacy of our corn-fed flock. This is how a weekend should end; or how the week should begin.

After Christmas the harsh month of January brings about a need for creative culinary construction. It begins with the craving for spring. Soon after the Christmas items disappear, just as the Easter eggs start filling the supermarket shelves my heart yearns for oranges. There’s something wonderful about those hothouse Spanish oranges which conjure up the most vibrant sweetness winter has to offer. There is a historical decadence, I imagine standing on the dock waiting for the old orange boats to arrive. I am now compelled to share a fetish – a peeled orange sliced into rounds, sprinkled with sugar and served at tea time with white bread and butter. This was my paternal Grandmother’s stalwart, a strange comfort of my childhood.  Winter frosts call for steaming mugs of cocoa, made the old way with thick creamy, non-homogenised, whole milk (Oh for the days of unpasturised legality!). Whisking the mixture over the stove creates a delightful froth on which to balance the all-important marshmallows, whilst selfishly hiding the usually alcohol infused nectar. I think a dollop of whipped double cream is essential (providing the cocoa is scalding hot), as is a freshly baked biscuit or bun, something plain to enhance rather than interfere with the robust chocolate flavour. 

Childhood memories abound with the smell of sticky buns cooling on the kitchen table; my maternal Grandmother, now almost 106 and still thriving, would stand me on a stool in her tiny cottage kitchen, a tea towel for an apron, and let me pound the rich dough, showing me, with her cool hands the ebb and flow of the master baker. I’d wait beside the oven demanding for a bun straight from the tin, but no, they needed glazing. On went the sugar and water, the buns proudly glistening until juggling the hot bread from hand to hand I managed to take a bite. In the adjoining sitting room, the fire would crackle alluringly, the little brass toasting fork waiting to be called into duty, creating piles of slightly charred toast to anoint with rich salted butter. There would be buns to take home in an old Danish cookie tin, perhaps some fairy cakes and best of all some fruit fingers made from the pastry left from the apple pie. Folded with sugar and dried fruit and sliced into rectangles, these ensured that nothing went to waste. My maternal Grandfather, a somewhat eccentric artist, would make bread with wholemeal flour and honey and would stand over the stove, stirring great pans of butterbeans or ‘fruit on the turn’ to make into his legendary ‘Rocket Fuel’ wines.

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