Know Your Onions

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This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 26th January 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 24th January 2018.

There is something about slow-cooking onions that is always mouth-wateringly tempting. Whatever dish they ultimately end up in, a pan of chopped onions gently sweating in butter just smells so divine.

As well as possessing substantial nutritional value, onions are reputed to possess remarkable healing qualities, some of which have been backed up by proper science.

In my dad’s column from January 28th 1978, he recounts the story of a friend who had visited the doctor with heart problems, and the doctor recommended that he eat lots of onions served any which way, be they boiled, raw or pickled (perhaps they didn’t ‘sweat’ onions in the 1970s!). It seemed to Dad that what many people saw as an ancient Old Wives’ Tale was being proved to be true through modern science.

Onions, which like leeks and garlic are members of the allium family, have been renowned for their health-giving properties for centuries. In 1653, the notable English herbalist and physician Nicholas Culpeper wrote in his book, The Complete Herbal (1653), that although onions increase flatulence, they also eased the bowel, increased sperm, helped soothe bites from dogs and venomous creatures, and killed worms in children. Inhaling the scent would also help clear a fuzzy, cold-ridden head. He added: ‘The juice of onions is good for either scalding or burning by fire, water, or gunpowder, and used with vinegar, takes away all blemishes, spots and marks on the skin: and dropped in the ears, eases the pain and noises of them.’

The ancient Egyptians raised the status of the humble onion to that of a god because if it’s health-giving benefits. Onions feature in paintings on the walls of the pyramids, and symbolised eternal life due to their circle-within-a-circle structure. Mummies have been found with onions hidden within their pelvic regions, suggesting they were associated with fertility, and King Ramses IV, who died in 1160BC, was entombed with onions in his eye sockets.

That onions help you live a long life is a common belief in folklore, as is the theory that it promotes hair growth. It is also supposed to be an excellent slimming aid, as this quote (unsourced) that my dad mentions: ‘You who are fat and lymphatic, eat raw onion; it was for you that God made it.’ (I am hot-footing it down to the grocer’s to buy a kilo right away!).

Last year, in a Canadian study quoted in the journal ‘Food Research International’, extracts from a certain type of red onion were shown to be able kill bowel cancer cells by producing an environment in which they self-destructed. But according to Dr Justine Alford, Cancer Research UK’s senior science information officer, results in a lab setting do not always make it into an effective treatment.

“If scientists can tease out which molecules in onions have these apparently beneficial effects, then perhaps they can be investigated as a potential drug in the future,” she said. (Source: prima.co.uk)

With all these reported health benefits, it is no surprise that Dad’s archives contain many ancient recipes, including white onion soup, brown onion soup, French onion soup, pickled onions, onions for keeping, roasted onions, stewed onions and even onion wine. They can also be used to clean leather, brasses, windows and knife blades.

The raw version is meant to be the most beneficial, but if you can’t tolerate it, then it is suggested that you roast it whole, within the skin like a baked potato, to keep the goodness in. Of course, the problem with eating too many raw onions, apart from the inevitable indigestion, is the anti-social smell they leave on your breath and hands. It is well-known that chewing fresh parsley is meant to lessen stinky breath, but you can also try chewing mint leaves or drinking warm water with lemon or diluted apple cider vinegar. To remove the smell from your hands, rub your skin all over and under the nails with either lemon juice or vinegar. Let it dry, then rinse off with clean water.

If you find that any of these methods works, I’d be delighted to know! And if anyone has ever made or tasted onion wine, please tell me if my current taste for prosecco is under any threat of being usurped?

The Mystery of the Disappearing Chestnuts

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Marmalade the cat

 

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Sweet chestnuts

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 19th January 2018, & the Gazette & Herald on 17th January 2018. 

You may remember that in my column from the Gazette & Herald on 6th September 2017 (‘Dad’s swift actions stop a catastrophe’) and the D&S Times from 8th September 2017 (‘Saved from catastrophe by Dad’s swift action’) that I talked about the various family cats, both tame and feral, that lived in and around my childhood home.

Dad recounts a lovely story about our longest-surviving cat, Marmalade, in his January 21st 1978 column. She had wandered into our garden as a very young stray and never left, becoming a much-loved part of the family. She had come from a nearby farm, but the farmer had no interest in the cats that frequented his hay barn and was more than happy when they took up residence elsewhere.

Mum and Dad had been stumped by the mystery of the disappearing chestnuts from the windowsill. What was a full bowl a few days earlier, was now no more than half full, and no-one confessed to having eaten any.

Then one day, Dad saw the cat jump on to the ledge and scoop out a chestnut with her paw, which then fell to the ground. She leapt after it in an uncharacteristically energetic way, and chased it across the floor, flicking it up into the air and batting it from paw to paw, as she would had she caught a mouse. Once the chestnut had disappeared under the furniture, she went back again for another one. What was it about the chestnut that ignited this new obsession? Dad had no idea, and my own searches have shed no light on it.

It brings to mind the effect of catnip, often used to scent pet toys. Catnip is a plant from the nepeta, or catmint, genus in the Lamiaceae family, and there are many varieties. In an article by the appropriately-named Kat Arney on the Royal Society of Chemistry website (www.chemistryworld.com), she explains that catnip contains a chemical called nepetalactone, which in cats induces behaviour similar to a person having taken drugs. They act with languid abandon, brushing their bodies against the leaves or rolling around among the stems. If they chew or eat it, they soon become what one might call ‘out of it’. For us humans, the plant can be infused to make herbal tea, and in times gone by small doses were used as a mild sedative. It is not recommended to be taken in large quantities, even though hopeful hippies gave it a go in search of a cheap high. All they ended up with was a painful headache and an upset stomach.

Catmint is a lovely garden plant, but to avoid delirious kitties flattening your borders, it is recommended that you place a small crop of nepeta cataria, the most potent catnip, in a place where you don’t mind them being mauled by frolicking felines, and then they will ignore the other milder varieties you have planted in pride of place. I have no idea if this distraction tactic works, and would be delighted if any readers can tell me!

After Marmalade arrived, she was soon followed by her sister Eric (my brother chose this name. He was outnumbered by females of both the human and feline variety, which might explain why!).

Eric remained feral, and we could never get close enough to tame her. After she had been with us for about a year, she produced a litter of kittens. We’d known she was pregnant and, due to her sudden change in appearance, that she had given birth, but we couldn’t find her litter anywhere. Then, on Christmas Eve 1977, she produced her own feline nativity scene in a very prominent position near our back door. Of course when we found the kittens, we instantly fell in love, and they were named (again courtesy of my brother) Alfred, Rodney (both girls) and Jackson (a boy).

But Eric would never be able to live indoors, and so Dad found the little family a cosy place in our disused henhouse, ensuring they had plenty of straw to keep them warm. We carried the kittens up to the henhouse ourselves, and lured Eric with some cat food on a spoon. She stayed there for about a week, before bringing her kittens back down to the back door on New Year’s Eve. So we repeated the process again, and this time she stayed. The young kittens thrived, and although they never became household pets, they became very much a part of our family history.

A mass farewell to 2017

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Dad’s column from this week in 1976 was dated Christmas Day itself

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My Dad pulling a cracker with his grandson Joseph in 2006

 

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on 29th December 2017, & the Gazette & Herald on 27th December 2017.

I can’t quite believe that here we are already at my last column of 2017. Writing it every week has been an absolute pleasure, giving me an excuse to spend some time alone with my thoughts, and some time alone with my Dad’s thoughts from long ago.

I was surprised to find that the column I planned to work from this week is actually dated Christmas Day itself, and as that day was a Saturday in 1976, I wondered when the day of issue for the Darlington and Stockton Times changed to a Friday. I’m sure someone somewhere knows and will tell me! In it, Dad talks about our family tradition of attending Midnight Mass at the local catholic church. At first, I was too little to go, and would get frustrated at being the only child left behind in bed while my three siblings would totter off with my dad at the excitingly late hour of 11.30. There is an oft-repeated family story that one year, one of us fell asleep on the kitchen table while waiting to go, but to this day we debate which one of us it was. My mum says it was me!

Eventually, I was old enough for my parents to have confidence that I wouldn’t nod off half way through, or fidget and whine noisily. Poor misguided fools! I lost count of the amount of times I was ‘shushed’ due to my habit of sighing very loudly. And as long as I maintained contact between bottom and pew, then I classed that as sitting still. Arm folding and unfolding, feet tapping and swinging, or bum shuffling and shifting were all perfectly acceptable to me. Otherwise, how does a five-year-old get through an hour-long Catholic mass led by an elderly priest? It’s a lifetime, especially when all you really care about is the moment when you emerge excitedly from church, knowing it is finally officially Christmas Day, look up into the night sky and try and spot Santa on the way to your house with all the presents. You also hoped that by some miracle, while you were in there, the snow fairy would have paid a visit and sprinkled a little bit of her Christmas magic around for your walk home (sometimes she even did!).

Our family tradition continued for many years, and there were countless moments of light relief, including the time when our friend’s little boy, dressed as a shepherd near the altar, proudly held up his hand and shouted, “My tooth’s come out!” And another time, when a little boy was sitting next to his friend and both of them had taken their hands out of their jumper sleeves. One bumped the other and they both toppled over like weebles (they wobbled and they did fall down).

When we were young adults, Midnight Mass was where we ended up after the evening in the pub. Some of us were guilty of being slightly north of sober, which we thought we hid very well, until one of us (not me) became very unwell in a pew. It must have been so annoying for everyone else (sorry!) and drunkenness was cited as one of the reasons why the service ended up being moved to 8.30pm in recent years (which must have come as a relief for many parents of young children!).

But enough of Christmas, that’s all over – it is nearly the New Year now! Dad’s last column of 1976 was published on New Year’s Eve, and in it he pays tribute to his predecessor, Major Jack Fairfax-Blakeborough, who died almost exactly one year before. As those who’ve been reading my columns since I began in June will know, Major JFB wrote the Countryman’s Diary for 54 years, and my dad took it over in 1976 until his own death in April this year.

JFB was a very special influence in Dad’s life, and I hope that it would fill him with pride to know that 41 years later, the words of his tribute to the Major could very easily be applied to him.

‘His individual contribution to the understanding of country life and lore will never be forgotten. He was a man of immense knowledge, industry and faith.

‘The Grand Old Man now lies buried at Lealholm but his work will live on forever in the libraries of the world.’

I want to thank you all for being so understanding and supportive in reading my columns thus far, for all the wonderful letters and feedback, and for putting me right when I go wrong!

I wish you all the very best for 2018.