Content

or content

Content is one of those marvellous English words that are actually two words that are exactly the same but have two very different meanings and sounds. Especially now, as content is a thing ‘created’ by influencers and ai bots where it used to be just jam, as in the contents of a jar. The other meaning of course is to be happy with one’s lot, not wishing for more. That’s the meaning I have been thinking about lately because for just a moment very recently I was aware of feeling precisely that, just in that particular moment. So this is content about being content.

After a frenzied weekend celebrating more family love than can you shake a stick at somewhere near Brighton, my husband and I decided to have a stop over in Christchurch, in Dorset for the night on our way home. We had never been to Christchurch before so thought, you know, a little rest stop, new sights, two birds, one stone etc.

The journey over from Brighton/Lewes was not a joy. The weather was still hot and lovely so definitely not ideal to be trapped in a car travelling at 2mph following traction and steam engines coming from a weekend rally and returning to who knows where, be they everso picturesque. The drivers were channelling their inner Casey Jones, wearing their grubby dungarees as though to the foot-plate born, shovelling coal in the maw of the boilers and spewing black smoke into our lungs, thinking for all the world we would be charmed. It created a tail back that would shame the M25 on a bank holiday weekend and I was not charmed.

But we made it to our little Haunted Fisherman’s Rest in the end and were welcomed in such a lovely cheerful way that life suddenly got instantly better. They had stopped serving dinner by then (having kindly let us know this by phone so no nasty surprises on arrival) and pointed us, weary and hungry travellers that we were, toward the Woolpack Inn down the road, where again the welcome was big hearted and smiley. The food was really good-enough. I knew where it was all sourced from (Brakes Bros or their ilk), and so understood from the outset that it would be mediocre - we did not need fancy at that point in our trip, especially as it all came with quantities of chips, mayonnaise and friendly chat.

We had a view of the garden and a little stream on one side and a family whose children had dressed up as a bride and groom on the other. The little girl, who was in a crumpled, frilly satin floor length frock, curtsied to the waiter as she entered the room. Her brother was in a waistcoat that reached the floor.

The following morning, still gloriously sunny but with a slight drop in temperature, saw us eating pretty average vegan sausage rolls by the marina, because we missed the breakfast slot at that van, with pretty good coffees.

We got back on the road again somewhere to the left of Salisbury with a view that stretched for miles and miles over, what I imagine, is Salisbury Plain. English countryside at its quintessential best, golden and green, well ordered fields, trees with their leaves settling in to summer shades of all kinds of green, flowers in the hedgerows. True, it was all a bit dry and dusty due to the recent drought conditions but if today’s weather here (torrential rain) is anything to go by it will be perking up pretty soon.

As we drove I looked at my husband’s profile, squinting over the steering wheel because he had lost his sun glasses in some town we stopped in on our way to Norfolk two weeks ago. His long, slightly arthritic fingers were gripping the steering wheel as though glued on, our agreed on choice of music, Rolling Stones, giving us tunes to sing along to until I started to really listen to some of the lyrics and got sick of Mick. We moved on to Leonard Cohen’s Live in London album, which remains one of my favourites because of the spoken bits as much as the songs. This was followed by the sublime Alison Russell. Such musical harmony is not always the case on our car journeys.

We were heading home to well fed cats thanks to a lovely neighbour, clean sheets because sometimes I have a genius for forethought and a comforting ready meal.

Actually it was a terrible ready meal, bland as bland could be, chicken and ham gratin (with huge apologies to the sad animals that died for this ‘food’ - hand on heart I rarely give in to this kind of easy meaty food fix, motorways have a way of ‘allowing’ this behaviour) - smuggest of smug Charlie Bigham can now officially just fuck off with his middle class sounding pies, floppy hair sounding name and miserable excuses for ‘kitchen suppers’. I bet he is really called Walter*.

Anyway, back to looking at my husband, there with the back drop of golden England, behind the steering wheel of our trusty little car as we travelled back to what I knew was an ordered home. I felt soft, like a steamed dumpling. “To steam a dumpling is to soften it but let it hold its shape.”** I fitted, soft but holding my shape, into that place in time and space. In that moment I knew contentment.

Even after eating said gratin the feeling lingered. But then, as it always does, it faded. The world does not allow for much contentment what with genocide being committed as I sit typing this; famines, floods, droughts, hate growing and dividing the world. You know all about it, just like I do. To turn away from the news does no good, it will get you when you turn back, and you will turn back. Then there’s the little stuff, the mundane, the every day pain in hands and feet, hair that won’t behave, parcels that have to be sent back, apps navigated, cat vomit to clear up.

Of course it doesn’t last, joy without misery to balance it would not feel so sweet. Yada yada. But I have that moment in my treasure box and I will take it out now and then to hold in my hands when life gets complicated by other feelings like envy, overwhelm and irritation. I will remember that soft, comfortable dumpling when those aches register, when the news delivers ever more misery and another roof tile falls off. It will help.

---

You know what else helps? Cake. That’s what. In this particular moment it’s marmalade cake.

Marmalade Cake

Ingredients

• 200g softened butter

• 180g sugar

• 3-4 eggs (depending how extravagant you’re feeling, the 4th giving a little extra bounce to the proceedings)

• 200g self raising flour

• 50g ground almonds

• 4-5 tbsp best marmalade

• flaked almonds for the top

Method

1. Pre-heat the oven to 180ºC/160ºC fan/gas 4

2. Grease and line your tin of choice with baking parchment - I used a loaf tin this time but a round cake tin is more trad.

3. Beat the butter and sugar together with a wooden spoon and a mighty arm.

4. Add the eggs one by one, changing to whisk as the mix loosens.

5. Add the flour and whisk thoroughly.

6. Fold in the marmalade and well but not over mixed.

7. Scoop mix into the cake tin and sprinkle with flaked almonds and a bit of granulated sugar to give a nice crunchy top.

8. Bake for about 40-50 mins depending on your oven.

9. If you want to get fancy you can make a glaze with some warmed marmalade which you pour over the top.

This makes a lovely breakfast cake as it doesn’t taste too sweet, despite the marmalade being loaded with sugar. Serve with Greek yoghurt and a cup of coffee, preferably sitting outside in the summer sun, and that dumpling feeling just might creep up on you.

NOTE : I baked this one in the air fryer and so it’s a bit over cooked. Air fryers seem to be too intense for cake baking so I will stick to the conventional oven from here on and suggest you do the same.

---

*No offence to any lovely Walters out there - that name just has bad connotations for me.

** quote from Nina Mingya Powles from In the Kitchen - Essays on Food and Life - it’s what got me into writing about food.

---

A big thank you to all my new subscribers and readers - you make me do this and I love it! Please leave comments, make the food, share your stories.