Tags
Cooking, Food, Ingredients, Jazz, Jokes, London, Nonfiction, Recipes, Stories
I have been making a lot of chicken broth. Boiling up the bones and doing a lot of skimming and straining so that all that’s left is the clear liquid to which I add a few choice vegetables. There is a lot of condensation during this process and all our windows steam up. I feel soothed. It reminds me of Ella. Ella was my landlady in Kilburn, north-west London, who took me in at a moment’s notice the night before starting my three-year stint at RADA. I had nowhere else to go. I found her notice advertising a room pinned on the board somewhere and went to a phone box and called her. She immediately invited me over and there she was, diminutive and smiling, and we sat at her table in the kitchen and she offered me food and we decided that I would move in the following day.
I stayed there nearly a year and regretted leaving and wish to this day I hadn’t. I reminded her of Doris Day, she said. It was a modern, modest house and it was always warm and I seem to remember quite red. There were photos everywhere – of Jazz bands, of singers, of the American pianist George Sheering who she had known in Chicago where she’d lived for a time as a singer.
But it was her kitchen I remember most. It was small but well-stocked. I had never seen a fridge as full. Stewed fruit in black juice; prunes and apricots, a few curling lemon rinds. I never remember there not being a bowl of her stewed fruit in the fridge covered in clingfilm. And chicken soup with matzo balls that reminded me of school dumplings. I remember the blue box of matzo meal always in the cupboard and the practiced way she said the word, which was new to me; it sort of flew out of her mouth. There were beads of fat that floated like sequins on the surface of the soup, and endless chicken. I was fed. Sometimes I would get out of bed, and open the door to find her holding a plate of toast or a bowl of porridge for me and then she’d collect all her teaspoons. Or I’d come home to find the hushed quiet of a bridge evening and glistening noodles for me in the kitchen.
Sometimes we sat at the kitchen table and talked: she told me about her love of Las Vegas, of her life in Chicago before coming back to London with her two young sons and starting from scratch alone. We talked about performing. She loved Bette Midler and sometimes she’d play the video of her on Parkinson or we’d listen to George Sheering who she couldn’t believe I’d never heard of. Or she’d tell me jokes or sometimes sing with her microphone along to a favourite piece of music.
I think she found me surprisingly dull. I was an actor but not, like her, an entertainer. I was just finding out what that was: there were entertainers, there were performers and there were actors. I was an actor. I wasn’t as good as her at anecdotes, at the knack of turning your life into a skit. She got one joke out of me, which she made me tell whenever she had her family to dinner. I would dread it because the humour lay precisely in the delivery and timing. Having grown up adept at silly voices and mimicry I was having my ‘funny’ rammed out of me at drama school. But Ella made me do it.
It’s the last supper and Jesus is with his disciples. He decides to speak to them. “I know that one of you will betray me”, he says. There is consternation amongst the group and a stunned silence. One of them, Matthew, finally asks “Is it me, Lord?” “No, Matthew, be assured. It is not you”, Jesus replies. After a brief silence Luke asks the same question: “Is it me, Lord?” Jesus smiles and rests his hand on his shoulder. “Luke, fear not. It is not you.” One after the other the same question is asked. Finally, it is Judas who speaks: “Is it me, Lord?”
And Jesus looks at him and screams (imagine a vicious mimic): “Is it ME, Lord?….Is it ME, Lord?“
Actually it was me. I did the Judas thing and left her for a yellow room under the flight path in Fulham to look after a small French boy and was never offered anything to eat except once when I was given a soft-boiled egg in aspic. It meant I could live rent-free and stay at drama school where I was investigating my breathing, amongst other things. She was the nicest person who’d ever looked after me. She died last year at the age of 87. This recipe is for her.
Chicken broth
Adapted from my mother-in-law, Susan Travers
This version requires the chicken broth to be cooked twice; once for 2-3 hours on day one, then the next day for around four hours with a sleep overnight to help all the flavours concentrate. Having made chicken broth many times, cooking it for four hours ‘only’, I can say this twice-cooked method (cooked for me and lovingly) surpasses all my efforts: it takes the broth beyond the flavourful brown water stage into deeply rich bovine jelly. It is worth the wait.
Serves 4
1 medium free-range chicken
2 large leeks, washed and chopped in half
4 carrots, peeled and left whole
1 whole head of celery, trimmed
1 large onion (red is sweeter)
1 small bunch of parsley
1-2 sprigs of thyme, rosemary or 2 bay leaves
1 tsp of sea salt (also season later to taste)
1 tsp of black peppercorns (optional)
Put everything into the largest saucepan you have and cover generously with water (it should be about 2 inches above the bird), and bring to the boil. Then turn down the heat, skimming off any scum as it appears (and keeping the ‘schmaltz’ – chicken fat – for your matzo balls if you want to make them) and simmer very gently for about 2-3 hours, partially covered. There should be the odd bubble but nothing more.
Turn it off and let it sit overnight. Keep it covered. This pause in the cooking helps concentrate the flavours. The following day, bring to the boil once more, then simmer gently for around four hours, partially covered again.
There are two methods for serving: You can strain the soup using the biggest sieve or colander you have, into another pan. Add whatever vegetables that have kept their shape. When the chicken has cooled slightly pull off what you like and add it to the broth. Add some more parsley. This method will give the broth the appearance of a consommé – clear and rather elegant. Or you can simply ladle straight from the pot into a soup bowl; mucky but good.
thesinglegourmetandtraveller said:
You always tell such wonderful stories and then a great recipe. Thank you!
Sophie James said:
Thank you, it was nice to relive those days. it is truly a good recipe, soothing for cold, blustery days. x
Mashal Tanveer said:
Absolutely fabulous recipe ….
Sophie James said:
Thank you. This particular broth was made for me, and much lovelier for that.
Angeline M said:
I laughed out loud at the joke…even written, your timing was right on! May Ella rest in peace, and I am sure she sends you her blessings for telling us the joke…and the recipe.
Mashal Tanveer said:
Thanks! I have gone through your blogg too is quite impressive as well…
Sophie James said:
Thank you, Angeline. I was worried about writing such a visual/aural joke. Glad it translated x
maxinebadger2013 said:
Interesting read! Jewish chicken soup? I will carry the recipe from coat to Greenwich this winter! Do please tell your Mum I am a Laban alumnus now!! Best wishes to you Sophie! Maxine
Sent from maxines iPhone
Sophie James said:
I will do. Thanks maxine 🙂
Helen in SC said:
I had a similar kind of landlady in Edinburgh in 1978. Her name was Mrs. Milne and she was a love. She was a little stingy with the hot water for a bath, but breakfast was always beautiful (“would you care for sausages or bacon?”) and tea was always set if she knew I was coming home early. Thanks for bringing back those memories for me! Thank you, too, for the recipe!
Sophie James said:
Thank you Helen. Mrs Milne sounds a character. Very good recipe I have to say, really the best of all the chicken broths I’ve tried and there have been many.
paleovirtus said:
Our last landlady in Blighty sported what was arguably the worst hairdo in the history of woman-kind. It looked as though a small animal that had been tortured in a paint store and then dunked in a bucket of bleach was clinging on to the top of her head as if its life depended on it. Her mother was probably the oldest head in the country. She would get loaded, then steal our stuff from the fridge. The dog was a self-harmer, and the cat attacked anyone it caught making toast. There was 14 months we won’t forget in a hurry.
Nothing quite beats home made chicken stock, does it? I like making it the Chinese way – chuck in some pork bones, and use quite a bit of ginger. Sumptuous! 🙂
Sophie James said:
I love the idea of pork bones and ginger. I didn’t know I was going to unleash such extraordinary landlady stories! Thank you x
Deepa said:
Such beautiful words and a tribute anyone would love. Some people make such an impact on our lives.
Sophie James said:
Thank you so much Deepa. I hope she would have smiled x
Sandy said:
Reading this was the best possible way to start the day – beautiful story, wonderfully told. As good as DS on a very good day – and you know I wouldn’t say that lightly x
Sandy said:
Actually – it also reminded me of my landlady in Brighton who used to wake me and my friend Al at 8 am on Sunday mornings by standing over the bed with a tray containing 2 REAL Martinis and a small bowl of stale soft crisps. We didn’t have a door for getting in and out f the house and had to use the sash window instead. She gave me a stock answer that I use to this day if anyone buying something from me questions the price…….. Me “considering we haven’t got a door -don’t you think the rent is a bit much?” Landlady “Oh yes, probably dahling but I have to charge that much – I’m saving up to go on a cruise”
Sophie James said:
Sophie James said:
Blimey. Praise indeed. I’ll have to write that somewhere and look at it regularly xxxx and brilliant landlady – real martinis for breakfast/no door. xxx
Michelle said:
I make chicken broth every week, it’s so nourishing. Today following your recipe, as I’ve never tried the double cook method…looking forward to trying the results later, especially as there is finally a winter chill in the air.
Sophie James said:
Will be pleased to know how you get on with your chicken broth. Hope the double cook method yields good results and keeps off the winter chill….x
mehrunnisa yusuf (@comeconella) said:
sophie, what a beautiful memory and a befitting recipe for your landlady! it was a pleasure to read this.
Sophie James said:
Thank you for the lovely comment 🙂
tableofcolors said:
What a fantastic lady…so glad you had the chance to meet her! Your chicken broth looks great and next time I will definitely be trying your method. Never thought of doing it that way. And if I am truthful…I fall into the gray category as well, but I do have a jolly time of laughing at others who are quicker with their humor. I suppose an audience is always needed.
Sophie James said:
Thank you dear Laila. X
chef mimi said:
Lovely story!
Sophie James said:
Thank you Mimi x