Wild Garlic in the Wilds of Wicklow

My brain is kind of like an old Gameboy. Sometimes it happens that there is so much Tetris, Yoshi or Super Mario Bros. going on that all the information gets jammed up and stops the game working efficiently. Sometimes I try to move so quickly that I stop moving altogether. When that happens, just like a Gameboy, I have to reset. I could do something normal like watch a DVD or do yoga, but I'm not normal. That kind of relaxing doesn't appeal to me most of the time. I like a challenge. I've learned that in my life, what works best when I need to reset is to take myself to the country and walk. Up a steep hill. 

Yesterday was one of those days. My stress bumps were coming back and I needed to breath some Wicklow air. I organized with my beautiful friend Marion (who is also an integral member of the Caryna's Cakes team) to go hunting for wild garlic. Marion is a passionate French woman and loves quality. Quality clothes, quality design, quality workmanship, quality fabrics and quality food (including quality cakes. Our friendship blossomed over weekly meetings at a Farmer's market). She knows her way around a roast chicken, let me tell you! She knows remedies and recipes off by heart like a real French woman. And she knows how to spot wild garlic.

When Marion and I set out together, even with the best of intentions for rest and relaxation, it always turns into an adventure. Like the time we ran into the Harlem Globetrotters at 3am just minding our own business with a car chock-a-block with cakes and bakery gear. Long story. This day we though to ourselves that we'd just set upon an intentional adventure. We'd drive and see where we end up. Surely we'd come upon some wild garlic.

Wild garlic is the calling card of springtime in Ireland. Unlike garlic bulbs that we traditionally eat, with wild garlic you eat the leaves and flowers. I aint no talented forager but hunting for wild garlic is the most obvious, safest kind of foraging there is. The leaves look similar to those of Lily of the Valley except they smell unmistakably of...garlic! Wild garlic grows in blankets in damp shaded forest areas. Plenty of forest in Wicklow, right? Well, we though so.

We drove in any random direction until we pulled over at a promising looking forest.

Looks like there would be plenty of damp shady areas in here

We were very professional with our foraging baskets. When we got stuck among the sticky conifers, Marion used hers over her head to escape. Survival 101

1st forest - failblog.com. In the end we realised we were in a planted Christmas tree forest. No hope of wild garlic. We made it out alive with only a few scratches and covered in sticks.

It looks like I took an entire Hannukah bush back with me on my sweater

Forest 2 - Looked more promising. We explored and explored but no luck. We learned that dry pine forests were probably not the place for wild garlic to grow. I was so hungry at this point that I was suffering phantom garlic smells so we decided to head for home and try again another day. At the junction I was meant to go left for Dublin but I went right...

...and like any good Marion and Caryna adventure, we were happily surprised. Marion did the smell test. Lo and behold! We happened upon a mother load of wild garlic in a secret location now known only to us and coordinates known only to my Sat Nav.

Small and medium leaves have the best flavour. In a few days the beautiful white garlic flowers will bloom. We'll be back for you garlic flowers!

Not wanting to be too greedy, we picked about 250g each which is enough to make a delicious wild garlic pesto

After all of our years of friendship we have never managed to take one single decent friend photo. We always seem to be laughing too hard.

For Wild Garlic Pesto:

Blend 250g washed wild garlic leaves and flowers and 250g Pine Nuts in a food processor

Add 250g grated Parmesan and blitz.

Pour extra virgin oilve oil through the feed tube while the machine is running until you have a saucy consisntency.

Add salt and pepper to taste.

Pour into a sterilized jar and cover with a layer of olive oil for storage. 

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A different perspective of a farmer's market

I love farmer's markets. They are the only place to buy tomatoes that don't taste like cold tap water. I can buy the exact amount of ingredients I need for a Nicoise salad without having so much leftover that after eating it for lunch and dinner for 2 days I come to hate Nicoise salad. I can hand pick every piece of fruit instead of buying it in a plastic bag, which inevitably contains one hidden piece of quick-to-expire reject fruit. The food is seasonal, there is a great variety (ever tried to buy an artichoke at Supervalue? Good luck.) and there's the social aspect (everybody's better looking at a farmer's market. True story). Shopping at farmer's markets makes me feel more in control of my food and more connected to the process of production, purchase and consumption. It also makes me feel more European but in a less embarrassing way than the addition of 'grand' in my everyday vocabulary.

It is this love of markets that inspired me to start a bakery stall of my own. That was in 2007. The rest is all part of the history of Caryna's Cakes, which I am keeping in my back pocket for another blog post. This Sunday I spent the day selling at Macreddin Village Market in Wicklow. I had my camera with me, a took a few snaps so I could show you what it's like to be on the other side of the table.

Early in the morning 

I play real life Tetris, but with delicate perishable goods fitting into a 2 door hatchback along with a 6 foot table, a 4 foot square gazebo, cake stands, cake boxes and the like. Once the goods are loaded, I aim to get to the market an hour before it opens to setup. Macreddin Village is an hour drive away, which means waking up at 9:25 (unless I'm selling scones, muffins or bread. This necessitates same day baking and early early early wake up), packing the car at 9:30, leaving at 10, arriving at 11 and setting up for 12.The drive is always spectacular so it's hard to stay bleary-eyed for long, no matter how late I was up baking.

 

Nestled in the Wicklow mountains

some of the stalls are operated by Brooklodge Hotel. Others are producers from the locality. And then there's me.

If you need a hand setting up there are plenty of friendly rugged men to offer their assistance.

Here are a couple of the staff at Macreddin Village who help with the setup of the market and the general running of the place. Impressing dreadlock tail, no?

 

My Neighbours

Your pitch is more or less on a first come first served basis. However, I choose my pitch using a scientific method called Tradesies. Selling at the markets is especially great because of tradesies. I always bring over and above the amount of cake I think I can sell in hopes of trades.

To my right was pig. I love pig.

To my left was coffee. Important.

I was facing Ciara's Pantry. Pretty jams, chutneys, relishes ans salad dressings

Also facing Peter and Jenny Young of Castlefarm Shop. Love it.

Fist trade of the day was for breakfast

One Pecan Butterscotch Cinnamon bun...

...for a big piece of handmade Castlefarm Shamrock cheese with fennugreek. 

as well as some gorgeous rhubarb

I got the most delicious bottle of balsamic vinegar from Teach Hilda, organic Italian products

Caherhurley Nurseries got an almond & raspberry slice in exchange for an organic Alpine strawberry plant

...which I intend to mind and nurture and grow. Which reminds me... I need to water that plant, don't I?

I acquired a very pink and pretty blackcurrant dressing for Ciara's pantry in exchange for a Raspberry Cheesecake Brownie

The last trade of the day way an almond & raspberry slice...

...in exchange for a delicious organic spit pork sandwich with pear chutney

The Shoppers
Another reason I love selling at the markets is the customers. If you're one of those customers that approaches the stall with trepidation and asks me with a scrunched up nose, "Is that nice?" or "That's very expensive. I could get that in Tesco for 20 cent!" then I'm talking about the other customers. I love customers who appreciate a good piece of cake. Especially those whose eyes widen with excitement as they take in the feast of sweet treats in front of them. One set of customers who especially don't hold back are the children. "CAKE! MOM, LOOK! CAKE! PLEEEEEEASE CAN I GET ONE!!!!?????"

His exact words were "CHOCOLATE!!!!!!!!! CHOCOLATE!!!!!!!!!!"

If we could all revert to that kind of uninhibited excitement about cake it would solve all kinds of adult problems. If you are a parent who brings your child shopping at farmer's markets, I applaud you. If you're one of those parents who doesn't offer to buy the cookie your child just pawed, I'm talking about the other parents.

Children have so much to gain from the shopping experience at farmer's markets. They make the connection with the food they eat and where is comes from. I love it when children ask me questions about the cakes when they are choosing between a vanilla bean cupcake or a gingerbread cookie. Without intending it they are learning and researching in order to make an informed consumer decision. How often do they get to ask the producer directly?
They also learn about paying money in exchange for goods, as in
Parent: "now give the lady the money you're holding".

They learn about budgeting, as in
Child: "How much are the brownies? €2.50? But I have €4." and they uncurl their palm to reveal their 2 coins.

They learn about negotiating, as in
Child: "How much are the brownies? €2.50? But I have €2"

And it teaches them manners, as in (overheard at the Dublin Food Co-op by one particularly clever and innocent child)
Parent: "Now what do you say to the lady?"
Child: "I'm going to eat this."

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Hamentaschen for Purim

I have always been more traditional than religious. I was born Jewish and Judaism remains part of my identity, even more so now that I am living in a country that thinks being raised not celebrating Christmas is a form of child abuse. My first job in Dublin was at a local pub in Lucan Village. I was a lounge girl, which in 2003 if is your job past the age of 18, screamed FOREIGNER. Ah, Kennys of Lucan. The memories. I learned so much about Irish culture there, like discovering Red Lemonade, that Fuck is not nearly the worst swear word you could say, darts is a sport, the plural of Guinness is Guinness...and very few Irish people have ever met a Jewish person. If they ever have, they'll want to tell you about the one time they met a Jew. Or they may just say a single word. Shmuck! Shalom! It's friendly, really. They have an inspiring love of chatting. Nice customers used to ask if I planned to go home for Christmas, which would set in motion a script that would invariably include “I don't actually celebrate Christmas.” Shock. Horror. Curiosity. The generation of children in primary and secondary education now are the first in Ireland to have the opportunity to learn about religions outside of Christianity. It took some time to adjust to being in a country that not only didn't recognize the holidays I observed but didn't even know they existed. So it was up to me to keep my and my family's traditions alive.  In a way I had a clean palate to create the holidays the way I wanted. I may even have duped a past boyfriend into believing that it was traditional to bestow gifts of kitchenware to the lady of the house for Passover. You say sacrilegious, I say opportunistic. 

Purim is this week and I have decided to celebrate the Camerino way. I used to celebrate by eating my mother's hamentaschen. Prune filled were my favorite. I could go through dozens of these huge cookies, no problem. I have an incredible tolerance for prunes. This year I will carry on mommy's tradition and make hamentaschen myself. 

The story of Purim falls under the same umbrella as so many other Jewish holidays that I love: They tried to kill us. We survived. Let's eat! The long and short of it is that the Persian king Ahasuerus married Esther. She was Jewish but he didn't know it. Her uncle Mordecai kept her on the up and up about what was going on in the world outside the palace. The king had an advisor Haman, who plotted to exterminate all the Jewish people. Mordecai told Esther, Esther convinced the king to save the Jews. He did, and hung Haman instead. Celebrations usually involve plays, dressing up, booing Haman, drinking and my personal favorite, eating hamentaschen. They are triangular to symbolize Haman's hat. We then eat them to symbolize...? Eating his hat? Whatever. They're delicious. 

Before I follow with the recipe, I have a few exciting things to share. In my research this morning I discovered that not only is there Purim, but there are also hundreds of “Special Purims” Holidays that people claimed to celebrate amazing luck or a miracle. My favorite has to be The Purim of the Baker Woman in 1820, which celebrates how Chios in Greece was under attack but a Baker Woman accidentally shot off a cannon, warning Turkish forces and saving the city. How do you accidentally shoot off a cannon? I'm keeping my eyes and ears open for a miracle to claim my own Purim of Caryna's Cakes. It most definitely won't involve firearms.

The second exciting thing is a music video from a boy band called the Maccabeats, who are, according to their website, available to book for weddings and bar mitzvahs. I do love all kinds of cheese and boy bands are no exception. I'm partial to the guy in the sombrero myself. He aint no Joe McIntyre but he does rock those epaulets. Although his commitment to Judaism as demonstrated by his enrollment to Yeshiva University and membership to a band called the Maccabeats may be incompatible with the fact that I am huge fan of breakfast pork 

And now, the Camerino family hamentaschen recipe, as adapted from Noreen Gilletz's Food Processor Bible, preceded by a video illustration by Baker Helper/Mac User extraordinaire Lorcan O'Byrne, who I am proud to say is a member of the Caryna's Cakes team.

For the dough:

1 medium orange

2 eggs, plus one for egg wash

190g sugar

115g sunflower oil

2 tsp baking powder

540g flour, plus extra for dusting

For the filling:

1 orange

250g dried apricots

200g sultanas

30g sugar

Equipment:

Food processor

3 inch round cookie cutter or a glass will do fine

Preheat the oven to 180/350

• Cut the orange into 4 and blitz in the food processor until fine.
• Add 2 eggs, sugar and oil. Process for another 10 seconds.
• Add the flour and baking powder and blitz with quick on and off pulses until combined.
• Have plenty of flour on your counter top and empty out the dough

For the filling:

• Put all the ingredients into the food processor and blitz for 30 seconds.

And now to make the cookies:

• Start with ¼ of the dough and roll out on a well floured surface
• Cut out circles and place a teaspoon on filling in the center. If you don't like apricots you can use chocolate chips instead.
• Fold circle up into a triangle and place on a baking tray
• Brush with some beaten egg
• Bake for 25-30 minutes
• Eat, share, smile

The Cake for Dinner Revolution

Cookie Monster is right. Cookies are a sometimes food. Eating sugar and saturated fat in moderation along side 20 minutes of physical activi....zzzzzzzzzzzzz. Sorry. I nodded off there out of sheer boredom. It's just that I've heard it so many times before and hearing things that I'm supposed to do but don't want to do doesn't inspire me to do them. If that makes sense. How about some advice I'd actually want to follow? Here it is: sometimes you should eat cake for dinner.

...maybe not for Thanksgiving dinner...

I eat cake a lot. I am not fat (my bum-to-waist ratio is a little inconvenient for jeans shopping but I maintain that it's more to do with genetics. I'm pretty sure that the medical term for it is Camerino Tuchus, colloquially known as Ghetto Booty). My Body Mass Index is what it should be, my hair is long and healthy and I'm pale but hydrated. On a normal day in the absence of an occurrence of my mild superpower, if I listen closely I can hear exactly what my body is hungry for. I have a suspicion that feeding yourself what your body needs is a healthier lifestyle than constantly denying yourself. (What is my mild superpower, you ask? I get sudden and intense cravings for very specific foods. Like this past Sunday while still lying in bed, I was struck with a sudden hankering for a big bowl of Vietnamese soup with chicken, vegetables and thin egg noodles from Pho Bac in Chinatown in Montreal. I swear I've only been to that place twice in my life and the last time was probably around 4 years ago.)

Sometimes life pelts lemons at your head. For example, oh I don't know, your car might fail the NCT and you get clamped while at work, trying to earn enough money to pay for the repairs. So you pay the clamp release fee out of your rent account, which contains only exactly the amount needed for your rent, which is scheduled to automatically leave said account the next business day. You camp out at the bank the next day until they open their doors and you manage to deposit the missing money in time. Phew. Catastrophe avoided. What a lovely day! La la la. Life is beautiful. CRUNCH. That is the sound of an absent minded driver reversing over your precious Vespa. You aren't hurt. You managed to hop off in time. You just got a fright and start to weep. But the volume+amount of sobbing and hyperventilation concerns passers by and they gather around. Everyone is staring. You washed you hair this morning but didn't dry it before putting your helmet on. It's now half dry into a half Afro. You had ran off to the bank in the middle of bakery class and you are still in your big ugly uniform complete with apron, hounds tooth trousers (which accentuate the Ghetto Booty) and steel toed white loafers (Dr. Evil style). All the drunks on the road think it's hilarious and come over to stare, pretending they are interested in buying your Vespa just to get a closer look at the state of you. The DRUNKS think YOU look a state. It's days like this that it's OK to listen to your body when your body says, “I want cake for dinner”. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm sure the first person who declared Breakfast for Dinner to be a good idea got funny looks from the drunks too. 

Grandma U

I was at the Dublin premier of the documentary film The Economics of Happiness the other night. It was a huge success, with so many people showing up that most of us had to stand. Summary: Happiness levels in America peaked in the 1950s, and has been on the decline ever since, which directly correlates with an increase in wealth. In order to reverse this trend, the experts tell us to act locally in order to rebuild communities, which will in turn increase happiness. All good points. But what stuck with me most from the film was something said by Dr. Vandana Shiva. She believes that one way we can rebuild communities is by introducing a Grandmother University. I instantly loved the idea. No surprise there.

Those that know me are aware of my gravitation towards octogenarians. Here's a typical conversation between me and my sister Nadya:

Nadya: “What are you still doing up? It's 9pm. It's past your bed time.”

Me: “It's okay, I took a nap. I've finished baking. Now I'm working on knitting a new tea cosy. Tea cosies are back in, you know.”

Nadya: “You are such an old soul.”

Me: “Thank you!”

This is nothing new. During a 6 month stint back in Montreal while waiting out a new Irish visa, my mother was worried by my sudden near-obsession with this new group of friends from my Irish writing club and my Irish language club and my Irish film club (I like clubs. I was also going through Ireland withdrawal). Of course she was concerned! These strangers could be hooligans and try to coerce me into any kind of shenanigans! She agreed to come along to a screening of Omagh at the Montreal Irish Film Club. Her relief and confusion was expressed in a whispered sentence that is pure, classic mommy: “More like the Q-tip club..!” Granted, P.J., Donal, Anne-Marie, Claire and Niall were generationally advanced and our friendship was perhaps unusual but oh, the learning! They knew so much about so much!

****Before I go on I feel I have to break and stress that although I like baking and knitting and learning and getting a good night's sleep and driving within the speed limit, I am not a total dweeb. I have a reckless side too. Just ask me about the Beanie Baby debacle that had me and my high school boyfriend detained at U.S. Customs...Yeah.

Grandmother University! What a Utopian place that would be! When I got home I took to Google to find out if such a place actually existed. Not really, apart from some vague information from the aforementioned expert. But think about it, if there was such a place, would the grandmas be putting it on the interweb? Probably not.

Then in dawned on me. I have already been proudly attending Grandmother University since my Facebook status update was “bring on the jam making competition!” It was the day I joined the Irish Countrywomen's Association.

For those who are unfamiliar with the ICA, think Mall Walkers, but instead of active older people meeting in their tracksuits, women meet in their finery to socialize over various topics of interest like cookery or gardening or crafts. It isn't usual for someone my age to join the ICA. Translation: It isn't normal for someone my age to join the ICA. In fact, in the Milltown chapter to which I belong, the next youngest member is 33 years older than me. But I think I have the benefit of seeing the Association from an outsider's perspective. It's a social club where skills and interests are shared in good company and that you attend wearing your pearls. These women are fabulous. They know how to darn socks, make their own soap and birth heifers. Learning forgotten skills is on trend, yet the ICA may be too shrouded in its stereotype to be adopted by the type of crew that now attend Bitch n' Stich knitting circles because knitting is cool  (did you hear that, Nadya?). That suits me perfectly - more seniors all for me. This month  I got a text warning me to bring a ruler and scissors to the meeting. Crafts! This was going to be a good one... and I was right. We learned how to make gift boxes out of decorative paper. Awesome, right!? These little guys are perfect for handmade chocolates.

Start with 2 squares of paper, one slightly larger than the other. You will need a ruler scissors and a pencil. Find the center of the paper by drawing an X from corner to corner

Fold 2 opposite corners into the center and crease the paper at the fold

Fold one again and crease the seam.

It' look like this

Unfold and repeat with the 2 other sides

Here are some of the ladies hard at work

You will now have a piece of paper with lovely fold lines

Cut along the 2 center-most fold lines on opposite sides of the paper, leaving a center square

Now back to folding...

Like that

Then that

Then that

Nearly there

Last fold...

And done! There's our bottom

And the pair together

 

Muriel traces a square of paper to line the box

I did the same

And voila!

A lovely handmade gift box, for those times when you can't go to the shop and buy a gift box

Birthday Sisters

Caryna Camerino

Isabella Beeton

A few events coincided that got me thinking about me and my place in the culinary world. I was speaking with Mentor Steve, plotting my short and long term goals for Caryna's Cakes. Not long after I was studying for a college exam in Gastronomy 101 – a subject so boring that I transformed from my usual nerdy keener self, into one of those students that skips class. I became a skiver. So unoriginal! And I'm not even sorry. I couldn't help it... My natural instinct to sit towards the front of the class to “facilitate maximum learning” (I'm quoting myself here. Mainly to illustrate the nerdy keener bit I wrote earlier) were overridden by survival instinct; if I sat through one more lecture on how primitive man ate turtles I would surely inflict a fatal injury upon myself with my highlighter. I couldn't see how this class was at all relevant to learning how to run a successful bakery business. It wasn't until I was doing my own research on culinary history that I came across biographies of some characters so inspiring that it got me thinking: As an artisan baker, what kind of impact do I want to have on the world?

My 30^th birthday is looming. I don't mind. I actually like getting older. I probably have something to prove because younger sister Nadya was always taller and people used to mistake me for the little sister. I also got ID'd this week while buying a bottle of Bailey's at Aldi. The older I get, the prouder I am to show that Drivers' License. So, as every year, on March 12^th I will be joyfully celebrating my and Liza Minelli's birthday. But all this time I had no idea that I shared a birthday with another fabulous woman: the ever-relevant Mrs. Beeton.

Isabella Beeton was born of the 12^th March 1836, 145 years before me. And if I can accomplish a fraction of what she did in her lifetime, I would be a happy bunny. Perhaps our lives as birthday sisters aren't so different. Let's compare:

• Isabella Beeton was born in London. I was also born in a Commonwealth country, and we are both the oldest (her biography didn't specify if her siblings turned out taller...). Although, I am the oldest of 3 and Isabella is the oldest of 18. That's not a typo.
• Isabella was a pianist. I too was a pianist, however I was a pretty crappy pianist. I hid an ace bandage in my piano bag that I put on while walking to Mrs. Hector's piano lessons around the corner so I wouldn't have to play with my left hand.
• She married Samuel Beeton at the age of 20. I haven't been married. But that's okay, I'll give her that one. At least I didn't marry a man who gave me syphilis. Snap.
• Isabella teamed up with her publisher husband to write articles for such magazines as The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine: an Illustrated Journal combing Practical Information, Instruction & Amusement. An astrologer once told me that I would collaborate with my future husband. Results of this are still unknown, but possible. The astrologer was very convincing.
• At the age of 24, Isabella published her timeless tome The Book of Household Management Comprising information for the Mistress, Housekeeper, Cook, Kitchen-Maid, Butler, Footman, Coachman, Valet, Upper and Under House-Maids, Lady's-Maid, Maid-of-all-Work, Laundry-Maid, Nurse and Nurse-Maid, Monthly Wet and Sick Nurses, etc. etc.—also Sanitary, Medical, & Legal Memoranda: With a History of the Origin, Properties, and Uses of all Things Connected with Home Life and Comfort, edited by Mrs. Isabella Beeton. I also write very long sentences. Her book sold more than 2 million copies by 1968. It was 1,112 pages long, containing over 900 recipes. This was the first book that listed ingredients at the start of a recipe and the format has been in use ever since. When it was re-issued in March 2000, it sold out in London bookshops. I comparatively wrote a very good essay on nuts. I wrote another one on soy. I'm still waiting for a call back from Harper Collins on that one...
• Isabella believes that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach. In her own words, as written in the forward of her book:
  What moved me, in the first instance, to attempt a work like this, was the discomfort and suffering which I had seen brought upon men and women by household mismanagement. I have always thought that there is no more fruitful source of family discontent than a housewife's badly cooked dinners and untidy ways. Men are now so well served out of doors -- at their clubs, well-ordered taverns, and dining-houses -- that, in order to compete with the attraction of these places, a mistress must be thoroughly acquainted with the theory and practice of cookery, as well as be perfectly conversant with all the other arts of making and keeping a comfortable home. 
  I once baked a batch of brownies for a boy one handed with the other arm in a sling the day after a Vespa accident. It's not that I'm anti-feminist. The door is open for reciprocity. If you feed me I am more likely to love you.

It's not so much what she wrote. I am more impressed with how she wrote it. Isabella Beeton had an ability to see English life objectively so that she could identify and provide for what was missing. She filled the gap with a reassuring text that was like a domestic encyclopaedia, relevant to everyone, containing everything from how to spot a fever to recipes for cream cheese. And what she wrote is still relevant.

Julia Child gave us french cooking, Nigella Lawson gave us food pornography (and a cookbook entitled “How to be a Domestic Goddess”. Doesn't sound so original now, does it?) These women are talented, business savvy and intelligent. But they are not trailblazers. Isabella Beeton is. Especially for a woman of her time.

Here's what she has to say on eggs:

The eggs of different birds vary much in size and colour. Those of the ostrich are the largest: one laid in the menagerie in Paris weighed 2 lbs. 14 oz., held a pint, and was six inches deep: this is about the usual size of those brought from Africa. Travellers describe ostrich eggs as of an agreeable taste: they keep longer than hen's eggs. Drinking-cups are often made of the shell, which is very strong. The eggs of the turkey are almost as mild as those of the hen; the egg of the goose is large, but well-tasted. Duck's eggs have a rich flavour; the albumen is slightly transparent, or bluish, when set or coagulated by boiling, which requires less time than hen's eggs. Guinea-fowl eggs are smaller and more delicate than those of the hen. Eggs of wild fowl are generally coloured, often spotted; and the taste generally partakes somewhat of the flavour of the bird they belong to. Those of land birds that are eaten, as the plover, lapwing, ruff, &c., are in general much esteemed; but those of sea-fowl have, more or less, a strong fishy taste. The eggs of the turtle are very numerous: they consist of yolk only, without shell, and are delicious.

Suddenly turtles seem so much more interesting.

Sadly, Isabella Beeton died at the age of 28. I have a few weeks left at 29 and although I cannot possibly say that I will start where she left off, I can certainly say that I am inspired.