Good afternoon!
There was no newsletter yesterday, and for that, I apologise. I had in fact written a newsletter to be published yesterday, but it was not my best. Distraction in the form of busyness, business, travel, work, family, and, well, distraction, meant that what I wrote was hurried, harried and far too pompous, negative and useless in equal measure. So I pulled the scheduled publication and left your inboxes untroubled.
Part of the distraction of the last few weeks has been my work on a small independent publishing press called Saturday Boy Books, set up earlier this year and now very much picking up speed as an enterprise. We have commissioned six extraordinary new voices in food writing, and our first titles will be hitting shelves next year. It turns out it takes a lot of work to publish six books nearly simultaneously, hence a good deal of distraction.
This has also led to a good deal of consideration for how this newsletter might best proceed. It has always been a forum for me to explore my own greed, peccadillos, hunger and identity (both as a cook and as a writer.) And it will continue to be mostly that. However, I would like to offer you more. I would like to offer variety, be that variety of perspective, approach, attitude, or appetite. And as such I will be opening up the newsletter to other writers. I will continue to publish my thoughts and ramblings each week, but I will introduce a second newsletter, to come out most Wednesdays, or thereabouts, that will be from a new writer, a new voice.
Some of these new voices will be drawn from the authors commissioned for Saturday Boy Books, (to give them their names, you might look forward to writing from Ruby Martin, Jago Rackham, Kareem Arthur, Amy Lo, Hart Fargo and Emily Oldfield,) some of the new writing will be from other writers entirely. As always, the focus of both my own writing and the writing of our new contributors will be on food, on food as it dissects British culture and society, on food in memory both personal and cultural, and on food in practice be it the provisioning, the preparation or the cooking.
In order to receive all the newsletters coming out from here on in you don’t have to do a thing. As is currently the case, a preview of each newsletter will be sent to all subscribers, and the full and unredacted pieces of writing will be available to paid subscribers. And for anyone new to No Cartouche, the full back catalogue of newsletters is available here, for now, and forever more.
By way of recompense for not sending a newsletter yesterday as normal, below is a little piece of writing for which I was commissioned, but which did not get published by its intended outlet. It is a spooky little story of baking and revenge set in a cottage in the countryside. I’ll leave it below for your delecation.
Thank you as always for all your support, week after week, it genuinely means the world.
Much love,
Ben x
Best not be half baked
“A welcome surprise, Judith, your note in the post.”
“It’s been far too long, Gavin. You were a regular shadow at that door before You Know What.”
“I suppose I felt, after last time...”
“Water under the bridge. You were a friend to us when we moved down. We knew no one. You made the effort.”
“Warms my heart you saying that, Judith. There were some that whispered.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Gavin, there’s always some who’ll whisper. We were newbies, down from London, they don’t love our sort, but you made a real effort.”
“It wasn’t nothing like that, Judith. It was Roy who they was whispering towards. I set them straight though, promise you on that.”
“About Roy? Well, it wouldn’t have been the first time, he did turn heads. Will I get you a drink?”
“Will there be others?”
“Others Gavin? What do you mean by others?”
“Your note. That’s just what I took from it. ‘In memory of Roy’, it just made it sound like there might be others. Coming to remember?”
“It was only you Gavin when we moved down, that really made an effort.”
“ I suppose it was just I assumed...”
“Makes an ass out of you and me. Assume.”
“I wouldn’t say no to a beer.”
“I thought tea, Gavin. I’ve baked, you see.”
“I certainly wouldn’t say no to a tea, Judith. I only said a beer case that’s all what you had. I never do want to make assumptions.”
“Are you ribbing me, Gavin? I haven’t been teased in over a year now, not since Roy.”
“I wouldn’t rightly dare.”
“Take the weight off. The armchair by the Aga was Roy’s favourite, whilst I was cooking. Let me make us a pot of tea.”
“Makes me think of him, sat here by the cooker. It was always over there where I sat, whilst he talked and you cooked. Don’t think me so.”
“So is what we are, Gavin, those of us that have known loss. No one would think the worse of you if you were a complete pudding of emotion.”
“I miss him, is all. All the good work he done. They snub-nosed him for all those years but he showed them. Still, there’s a gang that won’t hear his name spoke. I’m touched is all, that you thought of me and that, Judith.”
“It was only you, Gavin, that made the effort when we moved down.”
“So just the two of us? That ought to have the curtain’s twitching about the village.”
“You know how I so love to cook, Gavin, but now there’s just no need. I‘ve done mushrooms on toast every night through the autumn. I used to be all roasts, and stews, desserts and cakes, even pickles and jams. Baking now, that’s the one thing. Three loaves a week, Gavin, will you believe? Bake and fry. Mushrooms, greens, eggs. It’s no life. So indeed, in memory of Roy, we’ll have tea and cake, the two of us. If that doesn’t make your stomach turn.”
“Makes it rumble, Judith, in a good way, the thought of it. I’m the same. Sliced white and tins, not capable of nothing more.”
“Well here’s to us. In memory of Roy.”
“I suppose what had me thinking of others, I mean why I bought it up. In the end, I wondered if you blamed me, even a smidgen, although I know you’d never have it said?”
“This is because of last time? I’m pleased you brought it up. I’ll say it to you now, once and for all, there’s no blame placed by me at your door. Not an iota, not a smidgen, as you say.”
“I feel the better for airing it. And so to bed it is put.”
“Here’s to that, Gavin. No blame at your door, not now or forevermore.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“I’m sure you’re wondering what I’ve baked. Not a loaf, that’s for sure.”
“Now that I am, Judith. Chomping at the bit as you’ve been all this past year. You’ll have been like a mare off the bridle.”
“There are shops I just haven’t been bothered to go into, Gavin, not in the past year. Turner’s in the village, he couldn’t believe it had been a year, said he had a stockpile of marmalade oranges seeing as I hadn’t been in. Mr Jarrod wouldn’t let me pay. A basket fit to bursting with fruits and other bits I’d hauled to his counter. It was Judy, this, and it must have been awful, that. I’ll be honest with you, Gavin, I was having the time of my life, just like in the olden days. Put a skip back in my hop, I’ll tell you. Another cup?”
“That went down like a homesick mole. I’d love another drop.”
“You are funny.”
“Give us a clue then. What do you have in store?”
“Would it kill you if I kept it a surprise? I’m so excited you see, and I’ve been slaving so joyously. To let you have it, so to speak, before you're really having it, well, it seems such a shame.”
“Roy knew exactly what he was getting.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“You was always so fancy, you and Roy. Paté, mussels, calvados and sherry. I learned so much. I’d never branched out at all, not really. My world was tiny small before you and Roy. I owed it to myself, he always said, to see what’s out there. I suppose he lived and died by seeing what was out there, in many ways.”
“It’s lovely to have you here, Gavin, talking of him, remembering him. It’s hard, on your own, to throw memories about. I can see him saying it, see what’s out there Judy, expand your mind. Come. Enough of that, I’ve laid us up in the garden room. I hope you don't think that frightfully formal?”
“Now what do we have here? Battenberg, I recognise, and is that a Simnel? That one looks like a ginger loaf, but I know they’ll be a proper name for it.”
“You’ll keel over if I tell you. Try it. Tell me what you think?”
“Not eating yourself?”
“I lose my appetite when I cook. Poor Roy ate alone our entire marriage, even before we moved down.”
“It is ginger, I was right about that. There’s a flavour, in the back, marzipan or something similar?”
“You’ll die, Gavin, when I tell you. Good though, wouldn’t you say? It is a ginger loaf, of sorts, although you’d typically call it Parkin. I’ve done my own little twist. What do you think?”
“The flavour is tremendous. It’s the afertaste I can’t place.”
“That’ll be almonds. From his mother-in-law’s garden, he told me, Mr Jarrod. His wife is Italian, you see; Liguria I think he said.”
“First time I ever had oysters was here when I came in with a part for Roy’s car. You were having them for your lunch. I’ll never say no to nothing that comes from your pots, Judith. Even if it was brains and brawns all mixed together.”
“Another slice, Gavin, perhaps the Battenberg? No one will say I didn’t feed you up when you popped over. I hope you’ll try the Simnel as well. I hate the idea of the leovers cluttering up the larder.”
“I’d hardly say no, Judith.”
“Roy was so keen to get in with you and the chaps at The Ferret. The only place he could have a drink in peace without me nattering on at him. I sometimes wonder, if I’d nattered less, would it have all happened as it did? But I mustn’t dwell, that’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year, Gavin; nothing good will come from dwelling.”
“There’s some still hold me responsible, at The Ferret. There are times I think they’re right. Not that my memory is crystal from the night itself.”
“I’ll have no more talk like that, Gavin. As I said, no good will come of dwelling. Now here, I’d love to know your thoughts on this one.”
“It’s the taste of the nuts again that I’m left with. It’s all your big flavours, I suppose. My tongue is just not used to them. He would have loved this, Judith. I hope you don’t mind me talking in the past like that?”
“We’re remembering Roy, aren’t we? So in the past, we must speak. You’re right though, about the cake, Roy would have loved it. And what fun I had making it. I hope it’s to your liking?”
“That it is, Judith, it is to my liking indeed.”
“A slice of Simnel, Gavin?”
“Just a slither, I’m not accustomed to so much richness, not all at once.”
“This afternoon has been such a joy, Gavin, baking for someone, watching you eat, seeing you enjoying my food, hearing your thoughts, vicariously tasting through you, even when I’ve no hunger of my own. Roy would love that I am loving this, he always said, when I’m gone Judy, never stop cooking; cook for yourself, cook for our friends, cook for the sheer buggery of it.”
“Judith, sorry, speaking with my mouth full, but, it is getting a little hard to...”
“Swallow? I did worry as much, Gavin, and I really hope that it won’t stop you from enjoying what is coming next. You’ll finish your slice I’m sure. Don’t worry about your tongue, I’m sure it feels worse than it is?”
“Not...easy....talk...”
“Maybe a little more tea? A spoonful of sugar, perhaps? The sweetness might help. Although, to be honest, it might just make it worse. Perhaps the Battenburg’s your best bet? Another mouthful? Let the texture of the fruit soothe the tongue. It’s such a shame, Gavin, seeing you slow down like this. Having gone through all the trouble of making coconut macaroons. Now those really were Roy’s favourites. Dear god, the man could eat macaroons. He told me once, having taken a batch with him up to The Ferret, that he’d not shared one little morsel, not one. The greedy bugger had eaten them all on his walk up there. Can you imagine? And not an ounce of fat on him. We ought to say gram, nowadays, really. Funny how we stick to tradition in some ways and not others. Pound for pound, there’s another one. Kilo for kilo just doesn’t sound the same. Kilo for kilo you’ve consumed enough poison to fell an elephant, Gavin. Doesn’t have the same ring to it. Try and scream you might, Gavin, but that tongue of yours will be the death of you. You see, Gavin, I’m afraid that I have been dwelling, this past year. Sit down, dear, let me mop that nasty mess from your chin, it is really not very becoming. Now the thing with dwelling, as we have covered, is that no good will come from it. But the thing is. Don’t try and stand dear, it’ll really be no good. Your legs will have gone to jelly. It is a shame, really, not to have got to the macaroons. They would have really finished you off. I might have been a little heavy-handed with the poison in the Battenberg. You see Gavin, it really was your fault, wasn’t it, that my beloved Roy isn’t here with me now. And so when I dwelt on it, all this past year, and when I said to myself, no good will come of this, well, that seemed OK in the end. It wasn’t good I was after, Gavin, it was revenge, and retribution, and resolution. I can smell that you’re nearly done, Gavin, and you know what, I can see genuine remorse in your face. You didn’t mean to kill my Roy, did you? You’re just a moron, a simple-minded moron. Well, your stupidity killed my Roy, and I’m afraid I do hold a grudge. I can tell you, it is a strange thing watching a man expire in front of you. And going through it a second time doesn’t diminish the impact. Do you know they bought him here, Gavin? Those idiots, your friends. And they left him with me. Can you imagine Gavin, four grown men leaving a dying man alone with his wife, his poor defenceless wife, then running off? I was as shocked as you are. They each got a little round of cakes today. A note attached. No hard feelings. They’ll be feeling just like you do, right now, but it is nearly over; for all of you. Look at me, I’m wittering on now Gavin, and you know what, it’s all in vain, you’ve gone haven’t you? And not a moment too soon. That chair will have to go, the mess you’ve made. I suppose it will all have to go now, won’t it?”