“What you don’t eat now you can have for breakfast.”
My Mum.
As I tipped the cold potato and various bits of vegetables into the pan the oil sizzled and bubbled with a brief intensity then settled down to a lively, but gentle, crackle. I watched the ingredients turn crispy and golden brown, and, every now and then, I poked them a bit, just to show willing.
A family recipe, of sorts, probably shared by tens of thousands of households of a certain generation. I picked it up at an early age and have perfected it – at least to my tastes – over the last 40-something years. It’s simple: Heat some beef dripping in a pan, then add all the leftovers from the meal before. Fry to death, and beyond.
These days the dripping is replaced with good oil, and occasionally there will be variations on a theme – a few herbs and spices, and maybe some fresh onion or garlic (usually both). Like all good recipes it provides a solid base for experimentation, and I have. However, I invariably end up back at the simple version.
As I scraped the contents of the pan onto a plate, I looked out the window and considered the day ahead. The workshop needed some love – a fresh coat of creosote was in order, and today was that day. I’d have to clear away some bits and pieces first, but that would only take an hour or two. All the off-cuts of logs, left-overs after releasing the chair within, would go to the log pile. Munching on a forkful of bliss, I considered the small pile of Hazel and Willow propped up against the door. More leftovers, from quite some time ago, that would make good kindling for the stove.
I dislike painting, with a ferocious intensity, so, as I moved the logs and other bits from around the workshop, I found myself contemplating escape plans. I looked at the Hazel and Willow and saw freedom. There were enough bits and pieces, leftovers, to concoct something useful, satisfying – to make a virtue out of a vice – to not be wasteful.
Why not?
I had moved the old garden chair from the workshop into the newly paved greenhouse, its rightful home. Consequently, I had nowhere to sit and do some pondering on those late evenings and early mornings when I wanted to be surrounded by wood shavings and look out onto the world. Yes! I could lean against the work bench, or sit on the shave horse, but neither allowed an indolent loll. I needed a chair. I had all the ingredients – a pile of leftovers – and I knew the recipe. In this instance there would be nothing added, though I would mess about with proportions a little.
I never peel potatoes, as the best bit, all the flavour, all the goodness, is in the skin – roast, mashed, boiled, sautéed, and especially when refried. I pondered this as I looked at the hazel; the life force of the tree, all its goodness is just under the bark, yet, I prefer to remove it. So, I reached for the drawknife and settled onto the shavehorse. It’s a funny old world, sometimes.
I kept it very simple and used only a few tools.
Some peeling, shaving, measuring, comparing, a bit of cutting, some more cutting, a few holes drilled, and some wedges driven. A basic recipe, with no garnishes, no added extra ingredients, no refinements – just the leftovers.
It’s not to everyone’s taste and it doesn’t look very appetising, for sure, but it suits me perfectly. There were only a few tiny off-cuts left which couldn’t be helped. No matter; they will feed the fire come the autumn, so not really wasted.
As I sat in it that evening, watching the leaves of the beech blowing in the breeze, I contemplated the lesson imparted all those years ago while standing at the cooker. I may have wrinkled my nose at the time, but it has been well learnt and served me well.