A Son's Poignant Remembrance On All Souls' Day

A son mourns the loss of his father
Photo: Chronica Domus

Since the early days of this blog, I have published a post each year to coincide with All Souls' Day.  These posts showcase a different item from a small group of mourning hair art that my husband and I have collected over the years.  As I sit in front of the keyboard preparing to write these annual blog entries, a funny thing happens; my mind begins to drift.  I contemplate how it is that we have become the stewards of these very personal mementos of other people's relatives. Then, I find myself reminiscing about my own dearly departed friends, relations, and animal companions with fondness and with gratitude for having known them.  In an odd way, by writing about our collection, my cherished memories of the people and animals who helped create them remain aglow in my mind's eye.

Now, let's return to the subject at hand, this year's featured mourning item.  As you can see from the preceding photograph, this art piece is yet another outstanding example that demonstrates the meticulous skill of the artist when composing a picture made entirely out of human hair.  Every strand has been cut and laid out just so, or finely snipped and pounded into position on a thinly-sliced ivory disc.  The masterly shading brings a wonderful sense of depth to the scene.  I suspect the different color hair used is a blend from the mourner and the deceased.  The whole forms a poignant mourning scene.  And, as with last year's example, this one is quite a rarity too. The inclusion of a human figure carried a far higher price tag for the person commissioning the work than, for example, a more typical mourning scene depicting just a tomb.

French in origin and likely dating to around 1830 to 1840, this piece includes several of the most common symbols of mourning.  The weeping willow tree is there, the draped urn atop the tomb, and even a lone pansy to represent love and admiration of one person for another.

The mourner, a young dark-haired gentleman sporting a smart tailcoat, is kneeling by the tomb of his father.  We learn of his relationship to the deceased because the gentleman is shown in the act of painting an inscription on the tomb.  From what I am able to determine when squinting at studying the minuscule words, which are written in French, they read O mon pere! un jour viendra ...  I take this to mean that father and son will one day be reunited.

Housed within its original frame and stamped brass ring, this happens to be one of
my favorite pieces in our collection
Photo: Chronica Domus

This particular mourning hair work hangs on the wall of our home's vestibule.  It is grouped with two other examples of mourning hair art that I've written about here and here.  I love how they are reflected in the small Regency era convex mirror, seen in the below photograph.  

Three early-nineteenth century mourning hair artworks
grace the walls of our home's vestibule
Photo: Chronica Domus

Other pieces in our collection hang on the walls of our bedroom.  A few are even tucked away in drawers, waiting in the wings to be paired with future acquisitions.  As you can well imagine, aside from a healthy dose of patience, a collection as unusual as this takes many years to cobble together.  

This grouping of two mourning hair artworks is found in our bedroom
Photo: Chronica Domus

This is one of a pair of mourning hair artworks believed to memorialize the
lives of a husband and wife

Photo: Chronica Domus

Here are the four mourning hair artworks in situ

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, is there something in your possession that holds sentimental value and reminds you fondly of a dearly departed friend or relative you may be thinking about today on All Souls' Day?

Easter Sweet Treats In The City

Dashing about the city this past weekend, determined to whittle away at my list of errands, I could not fail to notice the enchanting decorations and baked goods which filled the shops and bakeries in anticipation of Easter.   

My first port of call was the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market early on Saturday morning, where I spotted this stylish gentleman going about his business.

Surely, a 'Best Dressed' award is owed to this exquisitely turned out gentleman

Photo: Chronica Domus

Alongside the usual weekly purchases of fruits and vegetables, I popped one of these charming foil-wrapped chocolate rabbits into my wicker market basket. He will be secreted away until Easter morning when he will make a welcome appearance in Patience's Easter basket.

A colony of foil-wrapped chocolate rabbits

Photo: Chronica Domus

Yet more rabbits, of the marzipan variety, are grouped together on a green glass cake stand

Photo: Chronica Domus

Rabbits, of course, are a popular symbol of Easter here in the United States.  When I was growing up in England, it was all about the egg.  Every confectioner worth their salt would manufacture hollow-shelled chocolate eggs and fill them with all manner of sugary concoctions and small toys. Attractively decorated in piped sugar icing or colorful foil, the eggs were the apple of every child's eye. Enthusiastically snapped up by eager parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts, they were presented to junior members of the family.  I recall my sisters and I receiving many such ovoid treats in the run up to Easter, and the excruciating wait we endured until the big day arrived when we could finally devour them with gusto.

What child would not delight in receiving one of these charming confectionery laden baskets early on Easter morning?

Photo: Chronica Domus

I noticed that the freshly cut flowers for sale at the farmers' market possessed an air of Eastertide about them.

Bunches of pastel colored ranunculus and anemones reminded me of dyed Easter eggs awaiting the hunt

Photo: Chronica Domus

Photo: Chronica Domus

Out and about again on Sunday, my family and I enjoyed lunch in the North Beach area of the city which is famed for its Italian restaurants and food markets.

If you are in the mood for old-fashioned Italian comfort food, I highly recommend a leisurely lunch at Piazza Pellegrini where everything is delizioso!

Photo: Chronica Domus

A postprandial saunter around Washington Square found us greeting this rather amiable fellow:

A friendly dog mascaraing as an Easter lamb

Photo: Chronica Domus

A partial view of Washington Square with the twin spires of Saints Peter and Paul church framed against gray skies

Photo: Chronica Domus

I was delighted to spot a familiar baked Easter specialty when we made a pit-stop into Victoria Pastry Company, an Italian bakery in operation since 1914 and located at the edge of Washington Square.

Candied citrus peel provided an unexpected Italian twist to this English Easter treat

Photo: Chronica Domus

A tempting tray of hot cross buns was calling my name.  Well, perhaps not the entire tray.  It has been many years since I've seen these buns for sale though I recall eating untold numbers of them in England where they remain a popular Easter baked treat.  The sweet spiced current-laden buns are sold by practically every baker in the land on Good Friday, when they are traditionally consumed. As you may already know, I champion tradition, but I was not prepared to wait another two weeks to eat my prize.  I happily shared it with Patience upon our return home, where she quickly proclaimed it to be scrumptiously delicious.

"Hot cross buns, hot cross buns, one a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns"

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, do you have a particular favorite Easter sweet treat that you look forward to sampling at this time of year?

Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

A Treen Mystery Object

Photo: Chronica Domus

When I lived in Kent as a young girl, our house was situated opposite an ancient oak woodland. 'The Woods', as we called it, became an almost daily playground for my sisters and me.  We spent many happy hours larking about the stately trees, enjoying spring walks gathering wood anemones and bluebells, and playing in the knee-high piles of leaves that carpeted the woodland floor later in the autumn.

I delighted in finding plump acorns that had blown onto our property from our neighbor's enormous oak tree.  I viewed these as miniature works of natural art. Often, the acorns separated from their caps and magically took hold in our garden's fertile soil.  Sadly, it was my job to remove the fragile saplings before our garden turned into a woodland of its own.

My childhood fascination and fondness for acorns is what initially attracted me to the two inch ebony treen object you see in the above photograph.  It was laying in a glass cabinet full of other nineteenth century treasures in one of the shops I visited on a recent antiques hunting expedition.

Asking the shopkeeper to unlock her cabinet so that I could take a closer look at the item, I soon discovered its purpose.  I was smitten.  Naturally, the acorn came home with me.

I do so enjoy a good guessing game and hope you do too.  Can you guess the function of my little acorn?  Remember, no cheating allowed through the use of your preferred search engine!

With Rain Cometh Flowers

Photo: Chronica Domus

There are many things that I have found myself being grateful for over the past few months.  Rain, would you believe, is one of them. I don't recall there was ever a time when I lived in England that I was consciously grateful for rain.  It is a feature of British life.  In fact, complaining about it is a national pastime.  The British enjoy nothing better than to remark upon the state of rain, followed swiftly with an offer of heating up the kettle.  Yes, rainfall and a cuppa make for a perfect pairing.

Living in California for the past quarter century has given me a new perspective on rain.  It arrives less often here, but when it does, it is ferocious. At least, that is, as compared to the weaker drizzly showers I recall from life in Britain.

We have had almost endless rainstorms here in the San Francisco Bay Area these past two months. This may not sound very exciting to most, but for Californians it is a huge relief from the prolonged drought we've endured. The downpours are filling our rivers and reservoirs and turning our straw-colored hills green once again. The damp soil has been beneficial to gardeners too, encouraging spring bulbs to begin their annual show despite the cloudy forecast.  Who needs sun when rain is aplenty?

The daffodil is my favorite flower and I keenly anticipate its annual appearance in the garden (these were photographed earlier today)

Photo: Chronica Domus

The Avalanche narcissi, about which I wrote last year, have been in bloom since late December and will likely continue for at least another month.

I planted these Avalanche narcissi along the front garden path many years ago and they become more vigorous with each passing year (photograph taken today)

Photo: Chronica Domus

What really had me leaping for joy this past weekend was the pleasant sight of other spring bulbs unfurling their blooms. Vivid blue grape hyacinths were slowly awakening and beginning to poke their sword-like heads above ground, as were the first of the orange-centered Cragford narcissi.

In celebration of this annual horticultural milestone, I did what any gardener would do.  I plucked my precious few blooms from their beds and brought them indoors where they now sit, pride of place, upon the kitchen's hanging wall shelf.  How festive these harbingers of spring appear when lined up in their diminutive earthenware ink and polish pots.

Photo: Chronica Domus

Catching a glimpse of these pretty flowers as I make my way about the kitchen, scurrying from sink to stove, truly brightens my day.  They are a reminder of how grateful I am for the pounding rain that beats upon the windows as I type this post.

Tell me, what flowers, if any, are emerging in your garden or neighborhood right now or is the vision of spring blooms months away?

A Rather Questionable British Children's Christmas Tipple

A print ad from 1959

Source

Most adults, if asked, can wax lyrical about their own idealized childhood Christmases.  I am happy to report that I am one of them.  However, I recently discovered why my own earliest Christmas merriment might very well have been just a wee bit merrier than most.

We spent Christmas last, in celebration with my family in London.  We gathered together at my sister and brother-in-law's house where a delicious and memorable traditional English Christmas day dinner had been generously provided. One of the drinks on offer brought forth memories of my own childhood Christmases. "Ah" I said to my American husband, "now that's something I've not tasted since I was a little girl".  I was overjoyed to spot a bottle of Babycham, a libation my parents filled our glasses with each Christmas so we children could join in on the merry toast making.  Apparently, there was somewhat of a revival going on and Babycham was back from near extinction with a successful promotional relaunch of this once-popular British libation.

Back in the days when this gentle authoress was but a mere child, the grownups enjoyed their wines, sherries, and port on Christmas day.  My sisters and I happily quaffed our once-a-year Babycham treat with gusto.  We found it hard to resist the sweet and sparkly effervescent qualities of the festive bubble-infused tipple. As a rule, we rarely drank fizzy sodas so this was a particularly special treat. All the more so, as I think about it, because it was poured directly from diminutive-scaled bottles no taller than about six inches, just the right fit for little hands to grasp. How very thoughtful of the brewer, indeed. Not only that, but a most adorable little fellow gazed back at us from each and every bottle:

Babycham's sprightly chamois became a familiar Christmas image in our household and could easily rival any Disney character for cuteness

Source

My husband, not having any previous experience with this British drink, was curious to sample it. Taking the bottle to hand and quickly scanning the label he said "Do you know, there's as much alcohol in this stuff AS-A-BEER!"  

Just then, not only did my sisters and I look rather perplexed, but so did both of my brothers-in-law. You see, it turns out that it was not just my own parents who were under the misapprehension that Babycham was the children's equivalent of champagne, a drink usually associated with special occasion toast making, but so had my brothers-in-law's parents.  Indeed, the only reason Babycham had been included in the selection of drinks at our Christmas feast was that it was purchased for my sisters' young children to sip upon.  

As you can imagine, it didn't take long for us all to be in fits of laughter over this rather startling revelation.  Could it really be true that a generation of parents had been plying their children with alcohol?  Is it any wonder we all recall our magical sixties-era childhood Christmases (and New Year's Eve celebrations for that matter) with such fond memories? Suddenly, the term 'Swinging Sixties' takes on an altogether different meaning. 

As I suspected, my parents were not the only ones juicing up their children on Christmas day during the nineteen-sixties - I found this image on Pinterest filed under the label "Babycham my childhood drink"

Source

Turning to my parents for enlightenment, they explained they never once thought to read the label, what with that charming little Bambiesque figure prancing about on the packaging, and with the name BABYcham.  Surely, they said, the ad man must have been targeting their marketing efforts towards parents.  In researching this post, I discovered that Babycham, essentially a pear cider, was in fact marketed to women.  Naturally, as women tended to be the main grocery shoppers for the household, they might have caught sight of that adorable prancing mascot and thought to themselves, "now there's a sweet little drink suitable for Junior".  Into the grocery basket it went.

Another thing that raised my eyebrows when researching this post was the tag line that appears on the cardboard four-pack sleeve of this nostalgic tipple.  Those ad men were not far off the mark when they printed 'The Happiest Drink In The World' on their product.  It certainly made for some very happy childhood Christmases, I can tell you!

End of An Era: Farewell My Pretty Boys!

It was with great sorrow last week that my family and I said our farewells to our ever faithful senior canine companion, Mavro.  It marked an end of an era of sorts, for we have enjoyed the companionship and oftentimes naughty antics of dogs for the past twenty or so years.  Our house has taken on a rather quiet emptiness now that both of our dogs are no longer with us.  

A rather fuzzy photograph, taken in 2007, of Kylo and Mavro (in the foreground) when both dogs were very much in their prime and at their most boisterous

Photo: Chronica Domus

Our beloved Kylo died five years ago.  We considered acquiring another companion for Mavro but by all appearances, he rather liked being the only dog in the household.  That also meant he was the sole attention seeker too, which suited him just fine.  Mavro became a calmer and more stoic dog, if that is at all possible.  He assumed a proud gait as I trotted around the neighborhood daily with him during our walks.  It was as though he was announcing to the world that he had claimed me for his own, ever the faithful guardian I suppose.

Both of our dogs were rescues and although we knew they were not purebred by any stretch of the imagination, Kylo strongly resembled a Eurasier in both temperament and physical appearance, and Mavro a Swedish Lapphund.

Content to be bobbing about on the water during the summer of 2007

Photo: Chronica Domus

Our sweet boys shared our lives to the fullest and always accompanied us on short excursions to the country where they enjoyed discovering the delights of rambling through mountains and rivers, bobbing about on the water in rented boats, and hiking high and low.    

We were fortunate to enjoy the company of each dog for fourteen years, which we've been told is rather a long lifespan for large breed dogs.   Of course, in reality, that's never enough time to enjoy the unconditional love that these animals bring into our lives.

Mavro with his graying snout sniffing at the spring tulips back in April 2015

Photo: Chronica Domus

Mavro had slowed down considerably during the past few years and found it increasingly difficult to maintain a good pace on even the shortest of walks.  We knew it was time to seek help earlier this year and approached our vet for a solution.  Pills and a new diet were prescribed and, for a while, we saw a marked improvement in Mavro's comfort level.  Then, two weeks ago, even leaving the house became problematic.  The hobbling had worsened and Mavro was deteriorating at an alarming rate. When he could no longer get up on his own, we knew it was time.

I will forever remember both of our good-natured loyal boys with love and affection, and will never forget their gift of unconditional love towards their human family.

Farewell my pretty boys and may you both rest in peace.

A Mourning Memento for All Souls' Day

Photo: Chronica Domus

Today is All Souls' Day, a day to remember those that have gone before us.  The occasion also provides me with an excuse opportunity to share another piece of mourning art from my collection.

I've already written other posts on the curious and sentimental art of mourning, found here, here, and here, so I won't go into too much detail on the subject.  I will allow this handsome memento to speak for itself.

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Photo: Chronica Domus

This diminutive treasure is a mere two and a half inches in diameter, or five inches with its frame.  Its imagery is composed of human hair which has been masterfully manipulated and arranged upon a thin slice if ivory backing.  The background has been painted to show a river and hilly landscape. A pyramid or perhaps the top of an obelisk is visible beyond the hills.  Typical symbols of mourning are represented by the weeping willow tree, the tomb upon a plinth, and a lone graceful urn.  The poignant inscription on the tablet, to the right of the tomb, reads "C'est tout ce qui me reste", which roughly translates to "all that remains of me".  Nothing else need be said to convey the affections of the loved one who commissioned this striking and dignified piece.

This is another example which I acquired in Holland though it was likely created in France.  The mourning art is housed under glass in its original mahogany frame which has developed a warm patina over the ensuing years.  I believe the memento dates to around 1830.

I expect many of you might well find this form of memorializing our dearly departed more than a little macabre, but I find the sentimentality behind the incorporated symbolism of such artworks not only pleasing, but rather fascinating.

If you'd enjoy learning more about this most personal form of artwork, I highly recommend you visit the Art of Mourning web site which is deftly curated by Hayden Peters, a fellow collector of mourning art and sentimental jewelry.

Beachcombing on Playa Las Viudas

Treasured souvenirs from the playa, resting upon an 1837 hand-colored engraving of

seashells drawn by Captain Brown and engraved by G. Cranston, from my personal collection

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've been fortunate enough to visit a fair number of beaches in my life.  My parents enjoyed traveling extensively when my sisters and I were children and our summer holidays would always include stints by the seaside.  The fine sandy beaches of the Aegean and Mediterranean became our summer playgrounds.  We spent many happy hours splashing about in the warm currents, a novelty as compared to the frigid waters of the English Channel.

Being a curious child, I always made a point of scouring the beach for interesting objects. Unearthing the odd dropped coin or fragment of polished colored glass was always an exciting prospect. However, my favorite objects always remained the natural treasures which appealed so greatly to my sense of delight, and fascination with natural history.  You may be amused to learn that this gentle author secretly harbored dreams of becoming the next Mary Anning.

An inspiring figure from my youth, Mary Anning and Tray her faithful canine companion, depicted with Dorset's Golden Cap outcrop as a fitting backdrop

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It turns out that my love of beachcombing remains strong to this day.  While holidaying in Mexico recently, I took the opportunity of indulging in this pleasant pastime on one of the most secluded little beaches I have ever visited.

A view of Playa Las Viudas with its clear waters, pristine sandy beach, and rocky outcrops - we had the place to ourselves the afternoon we visited - it was heavenly!

Photo: Chronica Domus

Playa Las Viudas is a magical hidden cove that is tucked away off the main highway along the corridor between the towns of Cabo San Lucas and San Jose del Cabo.  Volcanic rock outcrops abound and although the sand is quite coarse, I greatly enjoyed getting my feet wet as I waded along the shoreline within inches of the crashing waves.  

Photo: Chronica Domus

We spent an enjoyable hour or so absorbed in the hunt for treasure. With the sun's beating rays upon our backs, combined with the stirring sound of the Sea of Cortez, it really was quite the tonic for unwinding.

Photo: Chronica Domus



Photo: Chronica Domus

What we found was astonishing.  Remnants of sea life aplenty.

Photo: Chronica Domus

I was all agog at the variety of corals and seashells we espied with seemingly little effort.  Their colors - which ranged from brilliant orange, mauve, gray, and taupe - and their intricate shapes were utterly beguiling.

Photo: Chronica Domus

I was enchanted most especially by the little orange-speckled oval seashells.  I had never seen anything quite like it on any other beach and here I was with two in the palm of my hand (well three, actually, but the third example had faded in the strong Mexican sunlight).

 

A dorsal and ventral view of Jenneria pustulata with its distinctive colors and pattern
Photo: Chronica Domus

Of course, this led me on a hunt down the electronic rabbit hole that is The Internet until I unearthed what exactly it was that had wholly captured my imagination.  Jenneria pustulata, it turns out, was first mentioned by the English botanist and conchologist John Lightfoot in 1786. Interestingly, Mr. Lightfoot was the curator of The Duchess of Portland's personal collection which in its day, was the most extensive and coveted natural collection in England.  I also discovered that aside from Western Mexico, Jenneria pustulata is found in such exotic locales as Costa Rica, Panama, and the Galapagos Islands, all places I have yet to enjoy the privilege of visiting.

Aside from a multitude of seashells, nuggets of lily-white coral litter Playa Las Viudas.  This stony coral happens to be the main food source of Jenneria pustulata which would explain why there was such a high concentration of it on one small stretch of beach.

A trio of coral nuggets rest upon another hand-colored engraving by C. Cranston, circa 1837, from my personal collection

Photo: Chronica Domus

These very special seashells, together with the other bits of unearthed natural treasure, make charming souvenirs of a place that has captured my heart.  I shall cherish them always as fond remembrances of a pleasant afternoon spent beachcombing in a spot that must surely be as close to paradise as one can imagine.

A lone boat sails past Playa Las Viudas
Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, do you have fond memories of visiting a favorite beach, or have you ever found anything of interest to capture your imagination that was laying about in the sand?

A Fondness For Rhubarb

One of the glories of spring, at least for me, is the appearance of the season's first rosy stalks of rhubarb available at the market. This past Saturday, I had the pleasure of excitedly filling my wicker basket with almost three pounds of the stuff during a jaunt to the city's most popular farmers' market. What a lucky girl I am!

Photo: Chronica Domus

I love the taste of rhubarb and have since childhood.  I recall my favorite school dinners - or the midday meal we British children erroneously knew as such - coming to a delightful close whenever rhubarb crumble was served for pudding dessert.  Lashings of hot custard would gleefully be poured atop the crumble making for an even more decadent treat. Today, while I still adore rhubarb crumble, puddles of cool heavy cream have taken the place of the custard.

Rhubarb with custard was such a popular childhood treat that whenever I found myself, along with my two sisters, down at the local sweet shop with five pennies worth of spending power to hand, I would always load up my white paper baggie with old-fashioned rhubarb and custard hard boiled sweets. While my sisters took their dear time in making their confectionery selections - which I'm certain must have driven the poor shopkeeper to distraction - I was always the decisive one.

"Oh, I'll take one of those and two of these please"

Source

Even today, whenever I travel to England, I still pack a couple of small bags of these childhood indulgences into my hand luggage for the journey back to California. Old habits truly do die hard.

For reasons I cannot fathom, rhubarb is not as popular in the United States as it is in England. Perhaps its piquant tangy flavor fails to appeal to the masses.  Or, might it be the fact that the leaves of rhubarb are deleterious if consumed, scaring some away from experimenting with it in the kitchen? Rhubarb was first introduced into the United States during the late-eighteenth century by a European farmer in Maine.  Over time, it became a popular pie filling, earning its nickname of "pie plant". Curiously, on the few occasions I have spotted rhubarb making an appearance in a pie recipe, or for that matter in jam form, it has always been accompanied by strawberries to sweeten the deal.  I am most decidedly not a fan!  In my ever-so-humble opinion, rhubarb should always remain the star of the show; a rosy leading lady deserving of her own uncrowded stage.

Although rhubarb is by definition a vegetable, it is treated as a fruit in the culinary world.  Sugar is rhubarb's best friend.  Believe me when I say that even though I am a fan of tart and acidic flavors, dousing rhubarb in heaps of sugar barely makes a dent to its mouth-puckering powers.

I would feel as though I have done a good deed were I to persuade you to try this spring vegetable for yourself the next time you stumble upon it at your local market.  I'm certain that once you've sampled the deliciously fragrant and fleshy stalks, cooked into an easy-to-make crumble, you too will wake up to rhubarb's tarty pleasures.

Chopped and in the pan, the rhubarb is ready to be enrobed in heaps of sugar and butter over the heat of a low flame

Photo: Chronica Domus

If you find yourself making the rhubarb crumble recipe found here, I suggest you double the amount of sugar required for the filling as I find the extra sweetness more capably manages to balance the tartness of the rhubarb.  Oh, and there is no need to seek out the super-fine sugar that is called for in the recipe.  The granulated variety works just as well.

Even a child can make this easy peasy crumble topping

Photo: Chronica Domus

A generous helping of rhubarb crumble ready to be bathed in heavy cream and washed down with a pot of French pressed coffee - what a delightful Sunday afternoon treat!

Photo: Chronica Domus

Tell me, have you had occasion to sample rhubarb and if so, how was it prepared and what did you think of it?

Possibly The Best Cranberry Sauce Ever

Black Mission figs and fragrant rosemary are what make this cranberry sauce recipe such a smash hit

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've never quite understood the need to serve cranberry sauce with turkey.  However, food traditions are hard to break, especially when one is trying one's best as a hostess to adhere to long-established Thanksgiving fare which is, after all, part and parcel of the holiday.

In England, turkey is the traditional meat of choice for the majority of households on Christmas day (goose a close second).  I only ever recall the presence of cranberry sauce at table in the years we were to spend Christmas day at my uncle and aunt's house.  My aunt was an excellent cook, a real powerhouse that would whip up a storm for a crowd with little fuss and with all the execution of a military exercise.  She made everything from scratch except, that is, the cranberry sauce.  The solid red unidentifiable canned mass that was presented on a plate was so dense it could actually be sliced. Aside from the color, I don't think anyone would actually be able to guess there were real cranberries in that "sauce" (isn't sauce supposed to be somewhat runny by nature?).  No wonder the stuff never made an appearance at my own parents' table.  The last time I celebrated Christmas at the home of my uncle and aunt, I noticed an upgrade had come about.  The cranberry sauce came out of a jar, which to my eye looked infinitely more appealing than its canned cousin.  Yet, I was unable to bring myself to sample it.

It was not until I started cooking Thanksgiving dinner for my own family and friends here in America that I realized cranberry sauce is considered a staple, and fully expected to make an appearance on the big day as much as pumpkin pie.  What was a girl to do?  Would I crumble and bring myself to purchase a can of the gelatinous goop passed off as cranberry sauce?

Mulling things over for all but a few seconds, I decided the answer was a resounding no.  Absolutely not!  I was happy to give the can the cold shoulder at my table, thank you very much!  You see, it was through the thoughtful act of a friend that passed along her old copies of  Bon Appétit magazine that I long ago unearthed the best recipe (possibly) in the world for home cooked cranberry sauce.

I was chuffed to bits to discover that the sauce was really rather simple to make, requiring little output for the result, and it could be made up to a week in advance when one's kitchen is still relatively quiet as compared to the frenzy of activity leading up to Thanksgiving.  Today, the recipe is published electronically, here, if you too wish to give the can the boot and make your sauce from scratch.

The ingredients simmering away prior to the cranberries being added
(warning: your kitchen is about to be enveloped in a heavenly aroma!)

Photo: Chronica Domus

The addition of figs, fresh rosemary, and an unexpected dash of black pepper are what make this version of cranberry sauce so memorable.  You might very well think the combination is an odd one, but together with the ruby port wine (I've used both ruby and reserve port depending on what I had on hand), and an aged viscous balsamic vinegar, you are assured of a winner.

Fresh cranberries popping in the sauce pan

Photo: Chronica Domus

The cranberries are cooked a few minutes longer than the recipe suggests which insures that all the berries have broken down

Photo: Chronica Domus

The finished cranberry sauce glistens in its Anglo-Irish cut glass bowl

Photo: Chronica domus

Although those of your fortunate guests who expect cranberry sauce to be served alongside their turkey and trimmings will rave about its flavor, it is by no means my favorite use of the sauce.  No, for that I turn to dessert.

An early-nineteenth century syllabub glass holds the icy fruity treat

Photo: Chronica Domus

You see, a smattering of this delightfully fruity stuff, warmed in a pan just before serving, makes an incredible topping for a dollop or two of vanilla ice cream.  The tart fruity sauce really pairs well with the creaminess of the ice cream, and is a big winner each time I serve it for dessert around the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. Besides, it is a most delicious solution of what to do with the inevitable leftover sauce (the recipe yields just over three cups).

Please do venture forth into your kitchen over the next week and make a batch of this memorable version of cranberry sauce.  I'm certain your guests will thank you for it.

Does cranberry sauce make an appearance at your Thanksgiving table and if so, is it homemade or canned?