Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

Sour Dough and Scrubs

         Photo by Catherine Boardman

Cynthia's doing her bit

It was Jerome’s idea, in the absence of yeast, (goodness knows where it’s all gone) to have a go at sour dough baking. He and Hilary have been at it since lock down and are producing the most glorious crusty loaves, if his  Facebook posts are anything to go by.

It takes a bit of faffing about but Arraminta and Cook were keen to try, so I've left them to it. Anyone who has tried sour dough making will know that the process is more about throwing ingredients away than cooking, and every morning  for about ten days, there has been a nasty blob of gloop in the sink, and another cup of flour and water added to the mix…plus a good couple of ounces on the floor and work tops. We had yet to see a loaf. 

   ‘It’s a living orgasm, madam’, Cook explained. ‘Slow and steady is always the way. You can squeeze and slap it about as much as you like but you've got to let it get itself worked up without hurrying. If you rush things, you won’t get a decent rise and you’ll be dissatisfied at the end.’

  I didn't really know what to say. Crichton nearly choked on his rich tea.

But finally it was time for the big baking climax. The ‘gloop ‘was ceremoniously brought from the fridge in its little Kilner jar (lid off) and left to warm and pulsate by the Aga, while Arraminta set off on her bicycle to forage for extra strong bread flour that had been reported as available from the Pelican’s Nest pop up shop. 

  I have more important things to worry about.

The WI has become the ‘Hub of Scrub’ and we are churning out bags and gowns for NHS workers like there’s no tomorrow, not to mention and head bands with buttons to save the medics poor ears.

I have taken the role of area coordinator, with the task of deciding who makes what, and ordering the supplies of fabric and thread. It’s marvelous to feel that our little team is actually doing something to help. Of course, I know my limitations and didn’t even attempt to make the things, but Edith and Jill have been beavering away on their Singers for several weeks now. As it was Rogation Sunday, Rev Colin even included a special prayer for their crop of scrubs as well as the local farmers at last week’s Zoom service. 

Not to be left out, Bunty joined the group with more enthusiasm than skill and tried her hand at construction. She had terrible trouble with the bias binding on her first and only batch of tops, but in the end, they were just about passable. What was not passable was that she’d set all the sleeves in pointing backwards, so that the nurses wouldn’t be able to move their arms. The items were returned with a rather terse note from our suppliers about wasted fabric and it fell to me to demote Bunty to making draw string bags out of old duvet covers. She was furious and said the nurses should be glad to get anything at all and how was she to know that there is a right and left for sleeves? I said she was not displaying the Blitz spirit that we were aiming for and she should be happy to serve in any capacity. At this point, Bunty stropped off declaring that she would go where her skills were properly appreciated, but it’s my guess she didn’t know what a French seam is and was too proud to ask.

She has now joined a group producing vegan soup for the over seventies. Just what the old ducks need in this heat wave! I hope she isn’t silly enough to try delivering any to Granny T. My ma-in-law has a nasty way with her if confronted by vegetarians on her front door step.

   The bread when it finally arrived was delicious; perfectly cooked with a golden crust and we all applauded and congratulated. Arraminta assured us that we’d have a new loaf every day from now on. Hurrah! We tucked into a little more of it than was good for us with our Caprese salad at lunch time. I’m trying to keep things healthy but Crichton really does need to watch the carbs as his weight is creeping up little by not so little. He insisted on pudding. 

I reminded him that fatties are more at risk of the virus, if the info we’re getting from Boris is correct.

   ‘If you ask me madam, when it comes to questions of health, the PM doesn’t know his R’s from his bubos,’ muttered Cook, ‘and his hair could do with a good brushing.’   

   I pointed out that I hadn’t asked her, and it's Covid, not bubonic plague that we're fighting. At which she shrugged and  suggested Crichton could help himself to some Muller Light from the fridge if he was desperate, and he padded off to look for it. 

   I knew the baking was too good to last. There have been no more home cooked loaves and we are back on sliced wholemeal from the supermarket.

Somehow, the starter gloop mysteriously disappeared from the fridge. 

Cook is in no mood to begin all over again and Arraminta has moved on from cookery to painting by numbers. The Kilner jar is still in situ, but with nothing inside. 

It couldn’t have escaped by itself could it? It was very ‘alive’. 

                                photo by Moira Please

Crichton Comments

Cynthia’s trying to get me to cut down on my rations but Cook’s on my side. 

She’s been leaving me little gooey treats in a Kilner jar in the fridge. 

Delicious!