Cheese sandwich with diamonds on the side.

or tenuous links.

On the day that I left Draper Corner, and my mother for the last time, I made myself a cheese sandwich to take in the car. The day before that I had bought a loaf of good, earnest wholemeal bread from an earnest baker in town who sits on her chair behind the counter with a serious and kindly expression, as though trying to save all people one sugar free cake at a time - I have to admit to being almost tempted by the apricot one. This kind of bread has a good shelf life.

In the days before it all became too much my mum used to make wholemeal bread all the time, and scones and a delicious fruity cake called Vicar’s Cake. The recipe for this can be found in the first and only Folk House Cafe Recipe Book as written (“he must be a very fat vicar”) and sent to be me by Mum. If you’d like a PDF copy of the book let me know and I’ll send you one.

Mum was a good and consistent baker. As a child I wanted to eat white sliced Mother’s Pride bread (‘just like mother baked’ on no planet, never, nowhere) because my friends did and it was soft and easy to roll into tiny balls to flick at people, but it was not to be, at home at least.

On Sundays we had warm white rolls to balance the earthiness of the weekly bread, a treat we often had to share with one of the dandruff sprinkled old priests who smelled of moth balls and would come for breakfast after mass. Luckily the village shared this honour so it wasn’t every week.

Over the years that I have visited Draper Corner I, along with every family member and endless friends, would be welcomed with Vicar’s Cake or scones with tea. At the end of my visit, a long journey in the in the offing, I’d be offered a cheese sandwich to take with me, heavy on the butter, made by Mum and wrapped in second hand foil or greaseproof paper as her thrifty habits from the war years had morphed into super eco consciousness. Having finally grown up and learned to love the nutty taste and crumbly texture of this delicious bread I always looked forward to what had become, without either of us realising it, a ritual.

So I decided to reenact this ritual as part of my last goodbye, without anyone knowing, as Mum lay sleeping on her hospital bed in the sitting room. The kitchen is tiny but has a little corner where the bread is kept so I could turn my back and let the tears come, which they did. And then I left. The cheese sandwich was very good, but not as good as Mum’s.

So, you are no doubt thinking what on earth has this to do with diamonds? It’s a stretch I know, but read on.

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The Mystery of the Diamond Ring

First published July 25th 2013 on my first blog site (which you can still visit if you feel inclined)

The original ring.

Some years ago a ring was passed from a mother to a daughter, a pretty ring that had been bought in a small jeweller in Mayfair for this beautiful young woman’s engagement by her handsome fiancée.  As a child the daughter had tried it on in secret while playing with her mother's trinkets, and an image of the stones, grey and misty were embedded in her memory, some sort of semi precious gems her mother thought.  It was a very delicate ring, with a band so thin it looked as though if could snap at any moment.  The passing on of the ring created a connection with her mother that was unique and very special.  

After some time the ring was taken to have the band thickened, and was then worn more often and was much admired.  A little while later, despite being past the age for such nonsense, the daughter was given an engagement ring of her own by a handsome American chap, and when the wedding day came the daughter wore both the rings, even as she left for her honeymoon.  It was only on arrival at Heathrow Airport that she noticed a gaping hole where one of the larger stones had been.  

She not tell her mother.  Married life commenced. Eventually the daughter decided to get a new stone to replace the lost one, and then tell her mother.  It was fixed but the new stone looked out of place, flatter that the others.  It was whole again, but not the same.  Still she did not tell her mother. Married life carried on, life and all its messiness, joy and chaos continued. The ring stayed in its box.

One year and three months later the daughter left her cafe after a long shift, opened the door of her brand new car and noticed a small sparkly object on the seat.  Having a magpie’s instinct for shiny objects she picked it up. It was a clear stone of an unusual shape and lovely pinkish colour.  She put it on the shelf in the car, loaded the smelly laundry and left over bread and drove home.  The nagging memory that had been triggered grew more insistent.  She got the ring out and put the stone next to it.  It was the same shape as the setting for new stone.  It sparkled and teased - was it, wasn’t it, could it be, not possible surely?!?

The jeweller's shop where the replacement had been done was an old fashioned place that still wrote its receipts on a type writer.  The man who owned the shop was as old and dusty as many of the beautiful pieces of jewellery and silver plate within.  He was surprised to see her and amused when she said she thought she ‘might be going mad, and it’s probably a piece of glass but....’

But it was the missing stone, a rose cut diamond, of Indian origin, that had sat in it’s asymmetrical setting with it’s three siblings since it was made in the Georgian era until it fell out and had been who knows where for one year and three months.  

I did tell my mother in the end, by sending her this story. There is no way of knowing where the stone had been or how on earth it got on to the seat of a new car.  The dress I was wearing the day it reappeared had no pockets and had been washed several times since last year.  I have no explanation, and rather like having no explanation.  It's a little mystery and will remains so until the end of time.

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This lovely ring, with its now extra stone became unwearable because the settings were too fragile. I asked my sister’s dear friend and jeweller Mirri Damer to create a bespoke ring with it (with Mum’s blessing).

In the end she created a stack of three rings with a tiny pendant to match so we could use all the stones. It’s the most beautiful set imaginable and I wear the rings most of the time, especially as my left hand has now become so swollen with arthritis that I had to have my wedding ring cut off and my own engagement ring no longer fits. I even wear it while making bread which is very bad.

Yesterday after a weekend of puttering around, mostly in sunshine, digging in the soil, planting things and feeling feelings, I made some wholemeal bread, in honour of Mum and because we eat too much white bread and needed some roughage. As I mixed the dough with my hands I looked at the rings covered in dough. There was the link.

Wholemeal Bread

700g wholemeal bread flour, 1 good tsp salt, 1 good tsp dried yeast, 450ml warm water

• Mix everything in a big bowl, give it a good bashing/kneading either on a floured surface or if you prefer in the bowl.

• Let it rise in a warm place for about an hour covered with a clean cloth.

• Give it another bashing.

• Shape it into a sausage shape and put into a well oiled bread tin, or onto a well oiled baking tray.

• Let it rise for another hour or so, covered with a clean cloth.

• Bake it in a preheated oven at 200oC for about 20 minutes then reduce temp to 180 and continue to bake for another 20-30 minutes until you have a lovely golden brown loaf that sounds hollow when tapped.

• IF YOU HAVE AN AIR FRYER - first of all well done, I am definitely late to this party but I absolutely love it, secondly you can bake this bread in it on ‘bake’ setting at 180 for 30 minutes.

• With both types of oven do check the base of the loaf - this needs to be as brown as the top and if it isn’t give it a little longer

  

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