The Magi Have Returned

It's fifty years since I ordered the Platonis Res Publica I wrote about yesterday. My son asked me today about a step I had forgotten to mention. When I had a rather loose contract with my artisan in England, I completed one step of the process by ordering a copy of the text from Blackwell's in Oxford and having it sent to my Dad. So any mistake in the edition etc. was mine.

I described it as the perfect gift. And now, half a century later, there were two more perfect gifts. Within two weeks of each other.

It is common knowledge in this family that Ernie is a marmalade nut. We even made a pilgrimage to the manufacturer of his favorite tawny marmalade last time we were in England. So what a delightful experience for him to open a box from his niece Megan Gottig and find two jars of home-made marmalade and one of lemon curd. Megan explained she had been gifted with a bag of meyer lemons—and what better use to put them to than to make lemon-ginger and lemon-clementine marmalade for her uncle.

She completed her elegant gift with a label made from an early photograph of Ernie (don't you want to pinch those cheeks?) and a printed inscription in somewhat original Latin which surely means, "Real men eat marmalade." Way to go, Megan.

Enough for one Christmas, right? But there was one more gift yet to come; this time it was for me.

Things were a little crazy around here on Christmas Day, so it wasn't until the evening that I opened a gift from Ernie, which completed the trifecta of perfect gifts.

Another book—but one written by me. All my blog posts from July 29, 2005 to a couple of weeks ago in print in a beautifully produced book. He used the service Blog2Print. Their banner is on the right of my page. I had used them to produce a book for my daughter-in-law Marcie as a memento of the first two years of the life of her daughter Veronica. It is a great idea for a present. Later I will write of some of the reactions I have had to seeing my words in print. Thanks, Ernie, for such a thoughtful gift.

So, as Christmas recedes into the past, let me tell you how wonderful it has been to have had these three gifts in my life. I trust Melchior, Caspar and Balthazar felt the same way.

Happy Thanksgiving

The Postal Service held its regular food drive a couple of weekends ago. The idea is to leave a bag of contributions for the carrier to pick up. So off to my pantry to see what I had. I remember a set of instructions I once  had— don't just give away "basic" foods because the hungry will appreciate a luxury item now and then and remember that often the needy will not have access to a stove. As I sorted out my food items, I was pretty sure that some of the items I once bought for a long forgotten recipe would not be welcome. So the fava beans, chopped pimientos and chipotle peppers in adobe sauce went back on the shelf. Now if only I could remember why I bought them. The biggest sacrifice in this house is the Wilkins Tawny Marmalade, but that too was omitted.

At last I had to confront my elephant in the room when it comes to canned goods. Each year my kids recognize that the part of Thanksgiving dinner I am least likely to burn/omit ingredients from/overcook is pumpkin pie. I suspect that if they were in charge they would go out, pick pumpkins, scrape out flesh and make a tasty pâte brisée. Alas, those days are over—if they ever existed. So for me cans it is. Libby's pumpkin, Pet evaporated milk. However, I am always afraid I have not made enough. If you had seen the size and appetite of my teenagers you would understand why. So I always buy extra and leave them sitting in my pantry. And who eats pumpkin pie in May? Maybe we should. A few of them I had bought when I was in my rather smart if anal period of sticking on labels to make rotating cans easier. I could see some of them were several years old. But when I looked at their expiration date, there was still a long time to go. That stuff lasts for ever.

Memorial Day is coming up. Pumpkin pie anyone?

Wilkin and Sons of Tiptree

Asked what they would like to see in England, most people mention a castle or an abbey or an otherwise historic site. Not Ernie: he wanted to make a pilgrimage to Tiptree in Essex and the factory of Wilkin and Sons, manufacturers of his favorite Tawny Marmalade. You can’t actually see the jam and marmalade being manufactured: fear of industrial espionage, I suppose. But look how excited Ernie, Brian, Brenda and Lucy were—there was also a jam museum! The museum was, in fact, light and well designed and rather interesting, preserving, so to speak, the history of the Wilkin family and of fruit growing in Essex. There was also a delightful gift shop. We can get a few of the standard varieties of jam and marmalade in Michigan, but we were tempted by some of the more esoteric kinds, such as Apricot & Armagnac, Orange and Malt Whisky. We purchased way too many jars, thinking we could carry them in our carry-on luggage, but the assistant pointed out that they fall under the gel category. Whoever would have thought of marmalade as an offensive weapon?

The tearoom was also worth a visit, and what better way to end the day than with a traditional English cream tea. Scone, clotted cream —and Wilkin’s jam.

Back From Blighty

Anyone miss me? Ernie, Lucy and I spent the past two weeks in England. There is no way I am going to give a complete account of the trip, but there will be some comments as soon as I get the photos organized. I am still rather fuzzy headed: the trip back on Saturday night was complicated by headwinds across the Atlantic and a delayed connection at Dulles. Once my brain and my body get back on the same time zone, I will be fine.

What a richness of places, people and experiences. There are always “characters” to remember in Britain. There was Michael who drove the coach in which we visited Canterbury. He sounded just like Stanley Holloway and flirted shamelessly with Lucy (he also looked like Stanley Holloway in his role as Alfred Doolittle, so that flirtation didn’t go anywhere!) There was the wonderfully polite man in the ticket office at the train station in Cambridge who dealt with our bumbling so graciously. He, like every other service employee we met, addressed me unfailingly as “madam”. Who can forget the sailor on the boat from Greenwich to Westminster who commandeered the public address system and gave us a spirited guide to the sights along the river—“and for those of you who have nevva seen the Tate Modern . . . don’t bovva.”

We spent time with family and old friends, we saw productions of “Summer and Smoke” and “Guys and Dolls” in the West End. We saw Bath Abbey and Canterbury Cathedral, Hadrian’s Wall and the fabulous British Library. At Ernie’s request, we even visited the mecca of marmalade lovers, the Wilkins and Sons factory in Tiptree. My biggest disappointment? Somehow the beer didn’t seem as great as I remembered it. What surprised me the most? The courtesy of the people we came across and the fact that I never once got on a crowded tube without someone offering me a seat.


I loved today’s Mother Goose and Grimm cartoon. It’s my visual aid for this post and an irreverent reminder that four days ago we were standing on Salisbury Plain, contemplating a phenomenon that scholars still can not explain.

Econ 101

I have never understood economics. Nor, apparently, have economists. I mean, if a city needs a bridge, they call in an engineer and voilà, his expertise delivers a perfectly workable bridge, if a homeowner wants a nice garden, he hires a landscaper and a yard is designed and constructed, if the bathtub leaks…you get the idea. An expert is summoned, the problem is fixed.

Not so with economists. When they are consulted, whether by towns, states or governments, they mutter on about Keynes and the GNP and interest rates, but nothing ever seems to happen. The government used to trot out Alan Greenspan every few months and hope we got so bored that we stopped worrying.

Specifically, I do not understand the economic viability of marketing by catalogs. I have bought the occasional item from Lands’ End*, Eddie Bauer and merchants of that ilk. They reward me with a steady stream of catalogs. Almost weekly. We must have passed the break even point. They refuse to number their catalogs. Then I could throw away #40 when I receive #41, but I have no idea if “late spring” supercedes “early summer”.

They can’t make a lot of money this way. At least from me. So they warn you that they will make your name available (translation, sell it) to a few select companies. Usually this results in a slew of catalogs from companies that sell similar merchandise. But not always. I recently became the proud owner of

The Sausage Maker® Inc. catalog. How did this happen? I bought a present for Marcie from Lands’ End, but did that send out the vibe that I was a potential client for hog casings or a beef bung? Ernie ordered pants from Eddie Bauer. Maybe that caught the attention of a sharp marketing executive (Hey, Keith, here’s a guy from Grosse Pointe who ordered flat fronts in British khaki. That sort is always in the market for a gambrel** or a stainless steel belly spreader. Let’s sell his name to those sausage guys.) I probably should call and tell them that Grosse Pointe folk tend to like monograms, so they should come up with a line of monogrammed belly spreaders. I have ordered several wedding presents lately on-line, but I don’t recall any of the happy couples including a meat bone duster on their registry. I won’t be ordering anything from these people. Maybe they will send me their summer catalog. Or will it be the “early summer” catalog?

Our jar of breakfast marmalade reads:

Wilkin and Sons Ltd.

BY APPOINTMENT TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN JAM AND MARMALADE MANUFACTURERS

I bet Mr. Wilkin hasn’t sold her name to a company that makes brown smoked collagen sausage casings.

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* Yes, I know the apostrophe is wrong. Lynne Truss takes them to task in Eats Shoots and Leaves.

** Gambrel was a new one on me. It is derived from the Old North French gamberel, from gambe leg, from Late Latin gamba. It is a stick or iron for suspending slaughtered animals.