It was a bright, cold showery day, so I alerted Mum (88years old, not out) that we weretaking a trip to Llangendeirne, home village of Nita Sybil Evans, whose 1922 handwritten cookery bookI have.
From Haverfordwest to Carmarthen,the M4 was busy with tractors, juggernauts andcamper vans- you get the picture -slow-moving traffic is a pain.
Turning forLlangaintocollect Mum Iadmired the hedgerows full of yellow buttercups, red campion (Crib y Ceiliog or cockerel's combs) and cow parsley with heads big as saucers. (Full marks to Cyngor Sir Gar, Carmarthen County Council, for not trashing wildflowers before they have seeded.)
Half an hour later, we were enjoying chicken mayo sandwiches, a side salad and a sharedbowl of chips in the Ivy Bush Hotel, Carmarthen.
After allowing half an hour for digestivepurposes, wedecided to head for Llangendeirne.We got Into the car,I turned the ignition key and nothing happened. No. No thing. Dim byd o gwbwl. Aftertrying (and it was a trying experience) a few times, all to no avail, I consulted the handbook(not the type of thing I likedoing) and decided the battery was flat. Mum kept commendably calm. I called my brother in his shop in the new market development in Carmarthen (Debenhams, Selfridges, River Island, 'Singer Sewing' in his case), to come and fetchMum.
Though sheison her mobile all the time, like any teenager, Mum has nevergot the hang of speed dial, so my finger was faster on the trigger than hers. Her main concern was whether my brother had customers in the shop who he might have to rush, buthe soon appeared and whisked her off.
The rescue truck arrived within ten minutes.I gave my diagnosis and the mechanic charged thebattery, jump leads, etc,for those of a technical bent, like my husband, whowanted a full account of what the mechanic had done. Ithen tried to start itagain butnada, nada, no chips.
My thoughts then turned to the key, because itlocked in the ignition once and I could not remove it.The mechanic cheered up instantly whenI conveyedmy suspicions. Unfortunately, but happily for him, he could not get the car on his truck because the wheels had locked. I needed a truck that could hoist the car up. One hour later,a long truck plusa hoist arrived. The mechanic said if I was correct, this would bethe sixthMercedes with key trouble that he'd rescued recently.
PerhapsI shouldn't have gone far, considering it wasFriday the13th. Also, amagpie stalked the grass in front of mewhileI waited for assistance.
Magpie or not, I was home by four thirty, thanks to Peter, otherwise known as Mr Morgan, who recently had his seventy seventh birthday.Driving hisfifteen year old Mercedes (manual keys on his car: 'Simple. Things don't go wrong with them', he muttered) from Haverfordwest, he was with me in forty minutes.
Home again, we had cheese on toast, toppedwith fried tomatoes on the vine.
Now I cometoNita's recipe for 'Tomato Chutney', not only tasty but the lycopenein tomatoes helpsprotect against prostate cancer (butyou don't need to think aboutthis when you're enjoying the chutney).
Recipe for 'Tomato Chutney':
2 lbs Tomatoes (I apologise to the purists amongst you, but the book does not usemetric measures),1 Large Onion (thinly sliced), 1 Large Tablespoon salt, 6 ounces of Brown Sugar, 4 ounces of Seedless Raisins (cut small), 1 Teaspoon Mustard, 1 Teaspoon Ground Ginger. Pinch of Cayenne Pepper (cayenne pepper in Llangendeirne 1922? Nita must have beenway ahead of her time), Three quarters of a pint of Vinegar.
To cut a longish recipe short, chop the tomatoes andlayer with the onions in a bowl and sprinkle with salt. Leave overnight in a bowl. Next morning, tip the mixture into a stewpan, add mustard, ginger and pepper, pourin the vinegar.Put over a low heat (a coal fire, probably, in 1922), Stir with a wooden spoon until the until onions and tomatoes are tender. leave to cool before bottling in clean glass jars.
(Nita has a tendency topreface nouns with capital letters, in the German way; she'snot averse to sprinkling capitalshere and there, either.)
Night has now fallen over Haverfordwest, dark, starless night and I must retire to my bed (warmed by a hot water bottle and a Melyn Tregwynt blanket (pink, since you ask). Nos da pawb.