Tea In a Tin Cup Page 11
That resemblance was cemented in my mind when we had dinner in one of the town’s restored hotels. In fact, the entire town has been refurbished to appear as it most likely was at that gold delirious time. A great number of Chinese came to New Zealand to work the gold fields and they stayed to set up shops. They built rough stone cottages with sheet metal roofs.
During our visit, the gold rush days came to life as we ate off metal plates, drank tea from metal cups, and were treated to entertainment such as the locals would’ve experienced.
Music consisted of songs from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, 1860s’ parlor songs, and minstrel songs, all sung to the accompaniment of an upright piano. Several dramatic renditions of poems alternated with the music, and we were also treated to a comedic sketch. With the ‘period’ songs and the entertainers dressed in era-proper costumes, I completely succumbed to the 1860s atmosphere.
The room’s décor helped with this conversion, too. The walls were dark wood paneling, with ball fringe edging the curtains. Tintype style photographs dotted the walls, and a landscape painting of Milford Sound held pride of place above the piano.
Our dinner was buffet style, with a long table along one of the walls. Food indigenous to the country crowded the white tablecloth—kiwi (in this instance it’s the fruit, not the bird), lamb, scones, apples, crayfish, fish, pork, potatoes, squash, tamarillo (a fruit that’s mainly eaten as a snack), all sorts of nuts and berries and fruit (including citrus), and the Maori bread rēwena. Deer was also offered. I tried some.
I realize deer meat isn’t that unusual in the U.S., but I’ve never had it. I can’t eat shellfish of any kind, so I tried the deer. I wanted to eat as many varieties of the country’s food as I could. Deer seemed like a safe bet.
It was delicious. I’d been prepared for that ‘game’ taste I’d heard so much about, but this was as domestic as I figured Santa’s reindeer herd was. Deer ranches, much the same as sheep or cattle, number more than three thousand, and supply the majority of the farm-raised venison to the world. The animals are not native to the country, however. They were transported from Britain around the time of the gold rush, in the mid 1800s. As with many other animal species that were introduced to foreign habitats, the deer quickly flourished and became a menace to indigenous animals and plants. The live capture of the deer began in the 1970s and became the basis of the farming that is alive and healthy today.
I knew the country has an agriculture base, but I wasn’t prepared for it. I’ve never tasted such fresh fruit and fish. In fact, we stopped one day at a roadside stand outside a farm. No one was around, but the fruit was stacked into wooden boxes and displayed on a slanting wooden table. The prices for each type of fruit were chalked on a board hanging from the back wall of the stand. Payment was by the honor system, and a shoebox accepted our money. We bought kiwi, strawberries, and pears.
And, since New Zealand is an island, the fish couldn’t have been caught more than one day prior to my consumption. Best I’ve ever eaten.
When I left the re-born old west hotel that evening, I was startled to see the tour bus outside. The décor, the food and the entertainment had washed over me so completely that for the brief three hours I’d been transported back to that optimistic, energetic time. The combination of history, food, and being with people I liked made me feel complete as a person, optimistic about everything in my life.
I’d had such a good time that when I got home I tried hanging on to the memory—and thus, the feeling—by eating my scones from a pie pan and drinking my tea from a tin cup. What an adventure!
Writing about New Zealand conjures up wonderful memories. And makes me want to get into the kitchen to cook some recipe using food associated with the country. Here’s a recipe for Pork Chops with Kiwi Sauce, a dish that uses pork, apple, lime and kiwi fruit, four of New Zealand’s main crops.
* * *
Pork Chops with Kiwi Sauce
4 pork chops, about ½” thick
1 tbsp cooking oil
½ tsp salt
½ cup apple juice
2 tbsp brown sugar, packed
2 tbsp lime juice
1 tsp cornstarch
½ cup cold water
1 or 2 kiwi fruit, peeled and chopped
* * *
In a skillet, brown pork chops in oil over medium heat. Drain fat. Sprinkle chops with salt.
Mix together apple juice, brown sugar and lime juice and pour over chops. Heat to boil, then reduce heat. Cover and simmer until pork chops are tender, 20-25 minutes.
Remove pork chops to a warm platter and keep warm.
Mix cornstarch and water in a small bowl and then gradually stir mixture into the skillet. Heat to boiling, stirring constantly. Boil and stir 1 minute. Stir in kiwi fruit. Pour sauce over pork chops, placing slices of kiwi fruit on top of each pork chop.
Another recipe using some of New Zealand’s bounty: strawberries and walnuts. Have a slice of this bread with a cup of tea, even if you don’t drink it from a tin cup.
* * *
Strawberry Walnut Tea Bread – 1 loaf
1 pint fresh strawberries, rinsed
1 cup flour
¾ cup whole wheat flour
¼ tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
2 tbsp wheat germ
½ cup butter
¾ cup sugar
2 eggs
1/3 cup water
½ cup chopped walnuts
* * *
Preheat oven to 350°F.
In small sauté pan, mash half the strawberries. Cook on medium heat for 3-4 minutes or until juices dry up. Set aside to cool.
Mash the remaining berries and add to the sautéed berries.
Sift together the flours, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Mix in the wheat germ.
In a separate bowl, cream the butter and sugar. Add the eggs and water, then mix. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients. Fold in the strawberries and nuts. Turn into a greased 8x4” loaf pan. Bake for 60 minutes at 350°F or until tester inserted into bread’s center comes out clean.
From There to Here
Chapter 24
Playing Over Here
When I had my Christmas in June party in England and had hired the Scottish folk group The McCalmans for the entertainment, I considered the idea of getting them over to St. Louis, Missouri to sing. Folk music may not be the current chart toppers on radio or record purchases in the 1970s, but these guys were so good that I knew they’d be a hit if they could get a chance to perform over here.
I proposed my idea to them during a break in their singing at the party. Ian was intrigued. He said they’d been considering some sort of gig or tour in America for several years, but had never pursued it. It sounded like the fun they’d had years ago when they’d first started out and had worked hard to get jobs and establish themselves. He turned to Derek and Hamish, grinning, and they talked. Minutes later, they said they’d definitely consider coming if I could get enough performances lined up.
The dream sounded grand, but back home reality reared its ugly face and smacked me alongside my head. How was I going to get them singing engagements? I wasn’t an agent. I didn’t know an agent whom I could approach. I didn’t know any owners of music clubs or hotels or restaurants or hotels or concert halls. I was an idiot for even coming up with the wild idea.
But as happens ninety-nine percent of the time, the next day I was working on my idea. I won’t bore you with the week-by-week or step-by-step process, but by the time I was finished I ended up with seven gigs for them in a two-week stretch. I phoned their manager in London, gave her the dates, and the Macs subsequently arrived at the end of June 1979, nearly two years to the day that I’d popped the question to the guys during my Christmas party.
They probably couldn’t have come at a worse time weather-wise. It was the hottest stretch of heat St. Louis had seen in years, maybe decades. The TV newscasts were filled with stories of p
eople taken to the hospitals, even heat fatalities. I kept telling the Macs that this was unusual weather so they wouldn’t think the area was always this bad. The news stories convinced them.
I was concerned that they—being from Scotland, a decidedly cooler clime—would also end up sick or suffering from heat exhaustion. Luckily, nothing like that happened.
Aside from the heat, it was an exciting, fun, and exhausting time for me. Their gigs ranged from a private party to a music club. In addition, the father of one of my own folkgroup members, Mak, got them on a local television program. The evening after that appearance, we were in a restaurant for dinner and a man recognized them! I felt great.
The Macs stayed with me in my apartment for those two weeks. During the day we either hung out at my parents’ home (they had a built-in swimming pool, so the guys liked swimming or just getting a sun tan…or just escaping the heat) or did a small bit of sightseeing. The St. Louis Zoo impressed them due to its animal exhibits, cleanliness—and free admission, almost unheard of in the world of zoological parks.
One day we toured the Museum of Westward Expansion and rode to the top of the Gateway Arch. The ride consists of a string of ‘capsules’ that are about as large as a phone booth (I exaggerate, but not much). When you’re seated inside and the door glides shut, it does feel like a phone booth, believe me. The capsule makes a clicking, whirring sound as it angles to keep itself upright during its curvy route up the Arch leg. The guys were impressed with the engineering of the whole thing; I was impressed we all fit inside the capsule. The three of them were more than six foot tall. Quite a cozy journey.
As the heat wave extended through their stay, Ian wanted some proof of the high temperatures they were enduring. Show the folks back in Edinburgh what he’d endured. Across from my parents’ street, where it branched off the main artery, were a few businesses. One had a large electronic time/temp freestanding sign. The four of us walked across the main street, and the guys positioned themselves about a hundred yards down from the sign so I could get a photo of them with the temperature registering behind them. Lovely. 111 degrees.
They ate just two meals a day. Usually we had dinner at some restaurant but one evening we ate in. The guys had given me suggestions for a dinner, when/if we had the evening meal at my place. They wanted potatoes. I was hesitant to serve them, as I didn’t know if they’d like American spuds. After all, the British were quite fond of potatoes, eating them baked, boiled, mashed, roasted, and chipped (that last is French fries). Some economist or market expert calculated that Britons eat two hundred eighty six and a half pounds per person a year. They love their potatoes.
They were my guests, though, so I bought baking potatoes at the market, baked them, and served them that evening. Of course I was nervous. These guys traveled the globe for their performances. Literally around the world. They ate potatoes just about everywhere. How did America stack up with one of its potato varieties?
One bite brought the smile to Derek’s face. He loved it, said he’d never had a variety quite like this. Creamy, chewy, tasty. I exhaled.
Dinner might be in or out, but we always had breakfast at my apartment.
Breakfast was either pancakes, or eggs and bacon. The first morning, Ian asked me where my eggcups were. I knew what eggcups were but I didn’t have any. No need for me to be embarrassed: he tore one of the individual cradles from the egg carton and used that as his cup!
Hamish said he’d always heard about maple syrup, which he wanted on his pancakes, seeing as how he was finally in America. One morning we had pancakes with maple syrup.
The last evening they were in St. Louis they hosted a dinner at my place. They invited my parents, my friends, and owners/managers of the places where they’d performed. This was standard with them throughout their tours, a way to thank the people they’d met for their kindness and friendship.
As was also standard with them, Derek cooked a huge pot of Spaghetti Bolognaise for the main dish. He and I went grocery shopping that morning, and I think he enjoyed roaming around an American grocery store.
Everyone loved the food—the spaghetti in particular—and were impressed that Derek was the chef. I supplemented the meal with side dishes, Italian bread, and dessert, but Derek’s culinary offering was the star. People loved it, but I was still eating leftover spaghetti a week after they left.
In keeping with my fond memory of Ian and the breakfast eggcup, here’s a recipe I particularly like for an egg/cheese main dish pie. No eggcup required—hear that, Ian?
* * *
Asparagus Cheese Pie – 6 servings
Unbaked 9” pie shell
4 oz Cheddar cheese, grated
6 slices bacon, cooked and drained and crumbled
1 tbsp grated onion
1 tomato
10 fresh asparagus spears, cooked and cut up
3 eggs, beaten
1 ¼ cups milk
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp ground pepper
¼ cup chopped parsley
* * *
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Sprinkle cheese over bottom of pie shell. Top with cut up asparagus, bacon and onion. Cut the tomato into six wedges and arrange over the cheese, asparagus, bacon and onion. Place the wedges so each serving will have a tomato.
In small bowl, mix eggs, milk, salt, pepper and parsley. Pour liquid over the ingredients in the pie pan.
Bake 50-60 minutes at 350°F, or until egg mixture is set. Let pie rest for 10 minutes before cutting.
Here’s a recipe for Apple Pancakes. I eat them as a salute to Hamish and his desire for pancakes and maple syrup.
Apple Pancakes
Filling:
1 tbsp butter
3 medium apples-peeled, cored and sliced
1 tbsp sugar
1 tsp ground cinnamon
¼ cup apple juice
* * *
Pancake batter:
3 eggs
1 ½ cups milk
1 ½ cups flour
½ tsp salt
2 tbsp butter
maple syrup
* * *
Preheat oven to 425°F.
To make the filling, melt the tablespoon of butter in a skillet. Add the apples. Cook well. Add the sugar, cinnamon and apple juice. Cook until the apples are al dente, about three minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.
For batter, place a 10” ovenproof skillet in the oven. In a large bowl, beat the eggs, add the milk, flour and salt. Beat vigorously two minutes. Add the remaining butter to the hot skillet. Tilt the skillet so the butter coats the entire surface.
Pour the batter into the skillet. Spoon the filling into the center of the batter.
Bake 30-40 minutes at 425°F or until the pancake is puffed, golden brown and firm to the touch. Serve with maple syrup.
Chapter 25
Here Come the Irish!
A few years after I first heard and was overcome by The McCalmans’ sound, I discovered the Wolfe Tones. They were an Irish folk singing group, taking their name from Theobald Wolfe Tone, the leader of he 1798 Irish Rebellion. Consequently, the contemporary music group performed many ‘rebel’ as well as traditional Irish folk songs.
I was back home by this time and taking Irish step dance lessons. The teacher was an All-Ireland Champion several times over and now lived in a St. Louis suburb with her husband and children.
During this general period we and other interested individuals had formed an Irish artistic group, the aim being to promote Irish dance, music and culture. Someone got the idea of bringing The Wolfe Tones to St. Louis for a concert. It sounds like something I might’ve suggested, since this followed The McCalmans’ engagements here. Or my teacher could’ve brought up the idea, based on the Macs’ appearances. Whoever suggested it, we thought it was a grand idea so we decided to pursue it.
My teacher’s husband was going to Ireland on business, as it turned out, so he extended his trip by one day and met with the group’s manager i
n Dublin. Details were ironed out, and the concert date set for around St. Patrick’s Day.
Back in St. Louis, jobs were handed out to enthusiastic group members. Since I was a graphic artist in my real life, I got to design the tickets and program cover. Someone else was in charge of picking up the lads at the airport, which turned out to be a slight nail-biting experience. Their plane was hours late.
There’s only so much a person can do to ‘keep busy’ in the hope that you won’t think of potential problems. The theater was clean, so I couldn’t sweep or dust chairs or iron the stage curtains. A tech-savvy guy checked the microphones and another man in the control booth had the spotlights correctly positioned, so I couldn’t keep busy with that. There were no posters to hang, and the stack of programs sat on the tables in the lobby. I couldn’t do a thing but pace and twiddle my thumbs. Oh, we could stare at the clock and sweat over the quartet’s arrival, which we did with increasing fervor. But surely someone wouldn’t have to announce to the audience that there would be a delay…of some indeterminable length. Fortunately, the guys arrived slightly less than two hours before the curtain raising. They were hot, tired and wanted showers.
One of the women of our committee lived close to the theater. Maybe a ten minute drive away. She reluctantly gave consent that they could go to her house and freshen up, reluctant only because her bathroom wasn’t in ‘guest condition.’ I don’t think they minded.
They subsequently returned, looking a lot perkier, and gave a great performance.
I don’t know about you, but to me and many others there’s just something endearing about an Irish…or Scottish…accent. They won over the crowd with their musicianship and brogue.