Best read with a glass of Prosecco. Salute! Bella
Books about food, love, family and fun
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In Countdown to Christmas, this delicious breakfast pairing is a staple in the diner – everyone loves pancakes and maple syrup. You can serve these in a few ways, but my favourite is with bacon as I love the sweet and salty combination. But you can also serve with any fruit of your choice and some whipped double cream. Here’s my go-to recipe!
Ingredients:
Method:
1. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.
2. In a separate bowl, beat the egg and then add the milk and melted butter, stirring until well combined.
3. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Be careful not to overmix; there should still be some small lumps.
4. Heat a non-stick pan over medium heat. Once hot, spoon 4tbsp (1/4 cup) of batter onto the pan for each pancake. Cook until the surface is bubbly, then flip and cook until golden brown.
5. Repeat with the remaining batter until all the pancakes are cooked.
6. Serve the pancakes hot, topped with maple syrup.
(Photo by Calum Lewis on Unsplash)
CHAPTER ONE
1 December: 24 days until Christmas
Do not screw this up! I repeat to myself, over and over again. My nails dig into my palms as my knuckles clench and my eyes squeeze so tightly shut that my nose wrinkles like a bulldog’s. Do not be embarrassing! I hear my voice in my head, stern and firm.
I breathe in the familiar smell, savouring it and saving some for later. I’d know it anywhere. It’s home. Not the house, or the furnishings, just a place where I feel I belong. And I’m wondering how I’ll cope without it. Like a boat set adrift from its mooring, I expect. Without that smell, that feeling, a house is not a home.
‘Mum.’ There’s a tap on my forearm, gentle at first, like a paw from a pup wanting attention. Then it becomes more urgent, like a wrestler tapping his opponent to time out. My eyes ping open.
‘I can’t breathe!’ Ruben looks up at me, but only just. He’s grown again. Any time now he’ll be taller than me. Not that that’s hard, I’m only five foot three, but it seems weird that my child will be the same height as me and that I shall soon be looking up at him. But it happens. Time flies. I want to stop the clocks. Stay as we are. Keep things just like this. But I can’t.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ I loosen my grip on my son’s neck. I seem to have him and his big parka in a tight head lock – I splashed out on his coat as an early Christmas present, even though I was worrying about where the money would come from. It’s always the same at this time of year. Work is on hold for the next couple of months: the campsite caf. is closed. That’s how it is. You take the money when the tourists are in town and hope it’ll keep you going when they’ve departed. I just have to be careful. It’s not only me who relies on my small pot of savings.
I look at Ruben. I mustn’t embarrass him! Mums are known for it. The one thing I definitely mustn’t do is cry.
I feel his arms slide around my waist, hugging me back. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth and I breathe in deeply, trying to hold back the tears behind my screwed-up eyes. Breathe, Chloë! I’m reminded me all over again of the day he was born, the rush of love and the fear of never being good enough. ‘Breathe!’ the midwife told me, and I did. I do now, closing my eyes and trying to remember each note I can smell. The freshly washed hair. The detergent I’ve always used. Sweet chewing gum and something else, something that makes him Ruben. My little boy. I’m imprinting this moment into my brain and onto my heart so that I can remember it when I need it.
He lets go of the hug and I release him and his teddy bear, Joe. He’s had it since he was a baby, bought for him by my dad, a proud grandfather, named after my great-grandfather Joseph, Dad’s grandfather. Dad said if I wasn’t going to call the baby Joseph, the bear would be Joe. Ruben has never slept without him, and after Dad died, Joe seemed even more important. I grabbed him as we left the house to stuff into Ruben’s case. Along with a jar of Marmite. He has it on toast every morning, always has.
I take another huge breath and smile widely.
Ruben looks at me quizzically. ‘You going to be okay Mum?’
‘Of course! And you are going to have the best Christmas ever! With your dad . . .’ I hear the crack in my voice and push on through it ‘. . . and meeting your new sister – in New York, for Heaven’s sake! Who wouldn’t want to go to New York for Christmas?’
‘I just wish you were coming too. I hate the thought of you being here on your own at Christmas.’
I’m hugging Joe and the jar of Marmite to my chest.
‘Don’t worry about me! I’ve got so much planned. And I want to hear about everything you’ll be doing. Go and have the best time.’ I straighten the hood on his coat by way of a distraction. ‘Have you got all the numbers stored on your phone?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, Mum. And I’ve got my emergency money, separate from my wallet. And I won’t speak to strangers. Or get into cars if I’m offered sweets.’
‘I’m serious, Ruben.’ The panic I’ve been trying to harness since this was first arranged rushes up inside me, like a wave gathering speed and size. He smiles, and the wave of panic falls back. I pull him in for one last hug. ‘Don’t forget the work school has set you and the Zooms you need to join. They’ve been really good letting you have this time off to see your dad. Make sure you finish all the stuff they’ve given you to do. It’s an important time for your studies now you’re in secondary school.’
‘We’ll be fine, Chloë.’ I hear his voice and my head shoots up. The familiar figure is standing behind Ruben at a thoughtful distance. I’d almost forgotten he was there. And it seems weird to see Lucas in person. It’s been so long. ‘We’ll make sure he does it. And I promise to look after him and bring him back in one piece.’ He smiles.
‘I know you will.’ I try really hard to smile back, but my cheeks hurt as the muscles are so tense. ‘You’re his dad!’ The word catches in my throat and I cough to clear it. ‘And we put presents for you, Lizzie and the baby in his case. And there’s some Marmite – just in case you can’t get it over there. I know it’s your favourite too!’ I wave the jar from the security of my chest.
‘I forgot to put it in his case!’ I say, feeling very distracted.
He laughs. ‘Thank you! But he’ll have plenty of new things to try when we get there. Lizzie is a great cook.’
I swallow. I used to cook, come up with new ideas for the summer season in the café. But this year I’ve had neither the ideas nor the inclination. Summer at the café next year will be much like last year.
There’s a moment’s awkward silence. I can tell Lucas doesn’t want to rush me or make this difficult for Ruben, but I also know they have to go.
‘Come on, move along there,’ says a member of the airport staff, as we stand at the entrance to Departures, people having to navigate around us. ‘You’re blocking the way,’ he says impatiently.
Ruben turns to look at his dad, then back at me, anxious now, knowing they have to go. ‘We’d better go through before Mr Grumpy tells us off again,’ he says, trying to inject a little light-heartedness into the situation.
‘Yes, of course. Go!’ I wave my hands around, hoping the wafts of air will keep the tears at bay, which are still threatening to put in an unwelcome appearance. ‘Go and have fun with your dad and new baby sister,’ I say, as Ruben backs towards Lucas.
‘Wait till you see the Christmas tree in the apartment,’ Lucas adds. ‘Lizzie’s waiting for you to decorate it.’
Lucas gives me another look and a nod of reassurance. With a huge effort, I smile as Ruben stands beside Lucas, who puts an arm around his shoulders. It’s like the small spaceship has made it to its docking station. I have passed responsibility for my child to his other parent for a whole month.
‘Thank you for this, Chloë,’ Lucas says. ‘He’ll be fine. And he’ll FaceTime lots.’
Ruben is finally looking excited.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and mean it. It’s such a great opportunity for Ruben – a month in New York at Christmas with a new half-sister.
‘Go!’ I say, and they move towards security. As I wave and smile, Ruben drops his scarf. I go to run forward but Lucas stops to pick it up and wrap it around his son’s neck again. He gives me a thumbs-up and a familiar smile. He might have filled out, got a few lines round his eyes, lost a bit of hair, but the smile is still the same. He’s got this, I tell myself. They’ll be fine. It might have been a couple of years, what with Covid, since they’ve spent time together in person, but they’ve FaceTimed every Saturday.
I just wish this wasn’t so hard, as if I’m letting my child go off with a stranger. Lucas and I were together for a bit. We tried to make it work. You might have called us friends with benefits, until we were caught out. We tried to make a go of it as a couple, but we weren’t in love, and didn’t make each other happy. Not as a couple. We made the decision before Ruben was born: we’d be there for him but we couldn’t be together.
He takes Ruben’s small rucksack, which is sliding down his shoulders, and puts it over his own as they hurry towards security, laughing. They’re making the most of their time together already. I’m lucky he has a dad who loves his son as much as I do.
Around me, the airport is full of sparkling Christmas trees, baubles hanging from the ceiling, tinsel garlands. Families and others are heading away for the Christmas holidays, even though it’s only 1 December.
There is even a choir singing, wearing Christmas hats and light-up jumpers, shaking charity collection boxes.
The air is full of love. I feel like I’m watching a happy Christmas film, from inside a snow globe, unable to be part of it.
Ruben stops and turns, and I can barely hold back the tears now. Don’t embarrass him, I repeat to myself, with a huge ball in my throat. He raises his hand and waves. I raise a hand too – and realize I’m clutching Joe the bear by the neck.
‘Ruben! You forgot him!’ I brandish him in the air.
But he’s turned away and Lucas is saying something, making him laugh and then they’re gone.
Despite the blur of tears filling my eyes, I stumble out of the airport to the car park, where I fiddle with the keys to unlock the car, get in, slam the door and collapse over the steering wheel holding Joe to my eyes. I sob my heart out, regardless of the huge fee I’ll have to pay for outstaying my drop-off time, or the people around me staring as they get out of their cars with big cases. It’s just me, for a whole month, on my own at Christmas. I have no idea how I’ll get through it with nothing but Netflix and a tub of Celebrations for company. And Joe the bear.
I catch a glimpse of myself in my rear-view mirror, slide off my bobble hat and put it on the seat next to me. I rub my hand over my shoulder-length dark hair and wonder where the years have gone. It seems only yesterday that I was a twenty-six-year-old with a newborn baby, terrified that I wasn’t going to be a good enough mum, and now I’m putting my twelve-year-old son on a plane with his dad, wondering what I’m going to do without him. I rub my red nose with the back of my glove, and hear a ping from my phone.
Through security! Ruben sends me a picture from a café, with a milkshake and a giant Toblerone from Duty Free.
You forgot Joe the Bear! And the Marmite!
You look after him for me. And they wouldn’t have let me take the Marmite through security! Save it for when I’m back. I’m planning to try out some new breakfasts in New York. Dad says they have everything there!
I nod and send him a kiss. I should have put the Marmite in his case, I think crossly to myself.
Don’t forget your present! he texts. I made it for you. It’s under the cheese plant in the lounge. Open it when you get home.
Thank you, Ruben, my lovely son, making me forget I was cross and making me smile. I hold the phone to my lips for a second or two. I need to take this one day at a time, I tell myself, and turn on the ignition. I just have to count down the days until Christmas is over and Ruben is home.
Read on in Countdown to Christmas!
Feeling inspired by Summer at the Ice Cream Café? Why not try making your own this summer? That’s what @book.aholicsclub and @em_bookarazzi did!
INGREDIENTS:
METHOD:
Summer at the Ice Cream Café is out now!
For your chance to win £200 in Sainsbury’s vouchers for the ultimate summer picnic, simply complete the form below.
The closing date is 23.59pm on Saturday 15th July 2023. One winner will be chosen at random and T&Cs apply.
Good luck!
To celebrate the publication of Summer at the Ice Cream Café, one reader will win £200 of Tesco vouchers to spend on the ultimate summer picnic!
For your chance to win, complete the form below before the closing date of 23.59pm on 15th July 2023.
One winner will be chosen at random and T&Cs apply. Good luck!
.
‘Phfffff! Books!’ says the removal man, with a puff, a grunt, and a girding of his loins. ‘Where do you want these, love?’ He’s lifting the heavy crate.
‘Oh, anywhere!’ I say. I haven’t planned this at all. I certainly hadn’t planned to move on the hottest day of the year so far at the end of June. But that is the great thing about leaping through a window of opportunity. Nothing is planned! And, right now, that feels wonderful! Except the books. I’ll read them all now, I promise myself.
The removal-truck doors are wide open on the track beside the house. The whole world can see my belongings. It’s like walking in and introducing yourself at a party completely naked! They’ve seen everything about you before you’ve even had a chance to say, ‘Hello, nice to meet you.’
There’s the smart gold-and-red-striped three-piece suite I bought when I could finally afford to walk into the showroom, turn down the monthly-repayment scheme and offer to settle up with cash. That was a day, I think. That’s when I knew life was on the up.
Then there’s the exercise bike I bought during lockdown, hoping to relieve some tension in the house and thinking it was time I got my body into shape: Josh had stopped looking at me, and once I started dating, I decided it would help. It didn’t. The huge bouncy ball I sat on to keep myself moving at my office desk – it took up the spare room – makes a bid for escape out of the van. It rolls down the ramp, along the track and bounces across the main road, coming to a standstill by a group of locals beside a muddy tractor. Lexie, the removal woman, marches across the road in her steel-toe-capped boots, leopard-print leggings and short-sleeved polo shirt, company name on the breast, to retrieve it. Much to my relief I didn’t have to. I’ll introduce myself to the onlookers when I’m ready.
Lexie’s dad is pulling out more boxes of hardback books, mostly on cookery, which I buy but never have time to read.
And there it is, centre stage, right in the middle of the removal van: the huge, battered pine kitchen table that had belonged to my grandparents. I refused to get rid of it after they died. This was where family life had taken place while I was growing up, round that table. Josh and I had bought our flat because it had a big enough kitchen to take the table. Just. The removal company were cursing me, I’m sure, getting the table into the flat and, by the sound of it, getting it out again. In this house, there is plenty of room for it in the kitchen.
I turn and stare at the house. I can’t believe it’s mine. I’ve always loved it, wondering what it would be like to live in it, to look right out to sea from the back garden. I’m sad for the people who had to sell it. It had been in their family for years and inheritance tax had made it impossible for the next generation to stay on. But at least they know it’s gone to someone who loves it. I can’t wait to get everything in and shut the door. But for now I’m still on full display, as if the travelling circus has arrived in town.
I hear another tractor pull up outside and stop. The chug-chug-chug of the engine cuts out.
‘Shwmae, Dewi!’
‘Shwmae, Lloyd!’
And the small gathering – two tractor drivers, Carys, an older woman I recognize straight away with two fidgeting Jack Russells, the window-cleaner, with his brush on a pole, and the postman, handing out mail to the group – loiters on the other side of the road, watching the removal van with interest. I’m standing just out of sight, under the shade of a larch tree hanging over the gateway.
‘It’s a bad business all this,’ Dewi Roberts says, climbing down from the cab of the tractor. He’s barely changed, and neither has Carys. I smile, watching them from the shade of the tree.
The others shake their heads.
‘Must have gone for a fortune!’
‘All that money and gone on tax!’
They shake their heads again.
‘You’d think the old man would have thought of it, passed it on before he died.’
‘So sad. That family’s been there for generations. Now all the money’s gone.’
‘It went on sale on the Friday, gone by the Monday morning. I heard buyers from London were calling and bidding on it, cash buyers. Buying it unseen!’
‘Madness!’
I cringe a little.
‘They’re in pretty quick. Done and dusted within weeks.’
‘Definitely a cash buyer.’
‘Who’d buy a house they hadn’t even seen?’
‘And for how much?’
‘I heard it went over the asking price. Ordinary folk didn’t get a look in.’
‘They should have sold to locals.’
‘It’s hard when rich families from London are offering you cash.’
‘Without even coming to view it.’
‘It’s hard to turn it down. Money’s money!’
‘Ydyn, it is.’
‘Second- home owners, are they?’ Lloyd Owen, the other tractor driver, asks, watching my kitchen chairs and, in particular, the big old pine carver with the familiar worn cushion tied to its seat and a bag of bedding being removed from the van. ‘Looks like posh stuff.’
‘Could be a holiday-rental property.’
‘Not with an old pine chair and table like that,’ says Carys. ‘Looks like it’s come from a second-handshop.’
I don’t know whether to feel affronted or giggle.
The speculation continues. I’m finding it half cringeworthy and half funny. But at the same time, I can’t help but chuckle about the ‘table like that’ finally coming home to Swn Y Mor.
‘Are you the new owner?’ Dewi calls to the removal man across the road, over the cars with roof boxes, camper-vans and caravans heading along the coast.
He shakes his head.
‘Only I wanted a word about renting some land,’ Dewi continues. ‘I have a proposition,’ he says, walking across the road, nearly stepping out in front of a group of bikers, who manage to swerve and miss him.
I bet he does. He probably reckons the new owner knows nothing about how things work around here. Then I take a deep breath, glance back at the house – my house – and step out of the shadows of the larch.
‘In that case, you’re looking for me. I’m the new owner,’ I say, coming to stand in front of the open doors at the end of the van. ‘And, no, it’s not a second home or a holiday rental.’
The group are silenced and puzzled.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to knock it down and put up gerts, or whatever those tent things are called!’ says Carys, with a scowl.
‘Yurts, Carys, they’re called yurts,’ says Lloyd.
‘Well, whatever. Bloody ugly things!’
‘They’ll take off from that headland in a brisk wind!’ says the postie, who I recognize as Thomas Pritchard from school. ‘We get a lot of wind here. Hot air, y’see. From the Gulf Stream.’
‘Hot air is right,’ mutters Carys.
‘It’s not like—’ Lloyd starts.
‘It’s okay. I know what it’s like,’ I say, holding up a hand. ‘But I’m not putting up yurts.’ It’s not a bad idea. But I’m not here to build a new business, far from it. I have other plans. I have everything I need, if I’m careful, enough to live on, and that’s all I want right now. I’m not planning any more businesses. I’ve had quite enough of that.
‘Well, what are you going to do with it?’ says Lloyd, looking confused.
I take a deep breath. ‘I’m going to live in it,’ I say, and watch their faces. Their expressions change from surprise, to curiosity, to raised eyebrows.
‘With your family?’ asks Carys.
‘Just me,’ I confirm, excitement growing.
‘What? You bought this on your own?’ says Carys, incredulously.
I sigh. Next they’ll be asking how much I earn each year and to see my bank statements. ‘Yes, I bought it. On my own,’ I say firmly, finishing the conversation.
‘In that case, could I have a word about renting your land? I’ll give you a good price,’ says Dewi.
‘I’m sure,’ I say, and laugh, which feels good. ‘Like you offer all the newcomers around here. Don’t think I don’t know your tricks.’
The two farmers look at each other, then back at me. And suddenly I feel my past and present collide.
‘Do I know you?’ asks Lloyd, narrowing his eyes. The past twenty years haven’t been kind to him. I remind myself that Lloyd Owen has always looked like an old man. I don’t remember him not wearing wellingtons and a battered old fluorescent coat with string tumbling from the pockets.
I decide to put them out of their misery. ‘I’m Beca, Beca Valentino, from Valentino’s Gelateria, and, yes, I’m back to live here,’ I say. ‘Yes, I’m on my own and, no, I’m not doing yurts. Now, if you have all the information you need, I’m going to get on. Oh, and if you’re thinking of making me an offer to rent my land, double it. I know the price of land rental around here.’ I pick up a side table. They have all I’m prepared to tell them, for now.
‘Well, dw, dw, if it isn’t little Beca Valentino,’ I hear, as I walk away.
‘Thought she was in America.’
‘I thought she died.’
‘Where’s she got that kind of money from, then?’
‘Not from her family.’
‘What she’s doing back here, buying this place?’
I can still hear them as I’m walking up the driveway and the path towards the house. I look at the porch with its stained-glass window lit brightly in the warm sunshine and hear the seagulls calling overhead. I take in the long leaded windows on either side of the front door and the two smaller ones at roof level, equally distanced between the chimneystacks. And beyond the house, the green grass of the Pembrokeshire headland, overlooking sparkling blue sea, separating this west Wales coastline from Ireland, dotted with sailing boats enjoying the sea breeze. This place. It isn’t love at first sight, because I’ve loved this house all my life. I didn’t need to come and view it. It’s exactly where I’m meant to be right now.
‘It’s a lot of rooms for just one person,’ I hear someone call after me.
And I can’t resist: I turn back to the group from beneath the neglected arbour with a rampant rambling rose over it. ‘I have plans, Dewi Roberts, big plans,’ I call back to the gossiping farmers, as I walk the last bit of the path, a thorn from the overgrown rose snagging at my top. Pruning it will be one of my first jobs. And despite the aches of packing and moving, the weeks of keeping the cleaning business going with absent staff, doing shifts myself so I could hand over the business to Maria, there’s a swing in my stride and a spring in my step. In no time at all everyone will know who’s bought Ty Mawr. Word of mouth. It’s the one thing I couldn’t stand when I left this place. But right now, if they want to gossip, let them. I breathe in the salty sea air. I’m back, I have plans, and this time they don’t involve business.
Summer at the Ice Cream Café is out 27 April in ebook and 8 June in paperback. Order it here.
I use a swiss roll at the bottom of my trifle, cut into slices. Or you can buy sponge fingers that I used to love eating as they were as a child, known as Lady Fingers or champagne biscuits. Or use amoretti biscuits if you prefer. Go with what you can get. But I like a raspberry swiss roll at the bottom of mine.
Then, a sprinkling of booze. I use sherry because I’ve always got it in for my mother, who on days she’s not having a drink, will just have a sherry!! What she means is she’s not having wine! In her mind, sherry is in a different category!
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Next fruit. It could be tinned, but I use frozen bags of summer berries.
Then the debate, to jelly or not to jelly. Entirely up to you. You could warm some jam and pour it over the berries, but if you like jelly, embrace it and go for it. Make up the jelly, pour it over the sponge and fruit and let it set.
Then it’s time for the custard. If you’re making it, I’m going with a BBC Good Food recipe here, put 200ml of cream and 700 ml of whole milk into a pan and heat it to just below boiling point. Then, in a separate bowl, whisk four egg yolks, three tablespoons of cornflour, 100 grams of caster sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla extract. Then gradually pour the cream and milk mixture into the bowl, whisking. Wipe out the saucepan, pour the mixture back into it and gently heat until it thickens.
Or, buy a tin, a carton or one of the posh tubs from the fresh counter in the supermarket and pour that over the set fruit and jelly. And yes, the chef is allowed to lick out the cold custard from the pan or carton!
When everything is cool, whisk up double cream and create little snowy peaks from it on the top.
Then decorate, hundreds and thousands, silver stars, chocolate buttons. Trifle is one of things you can do with what you want! Do what takes your fancy.
Make a chocolate one with Irish liquer, or swap sherry for cassis, or make a peach one with tinned peaches and that bottle of peach liqueur your aunt gave you for last Christmas and you have no idea what to do with!
Most of all, make it fun! And always leave a drop of cold custard in the bottom of the pot for the chef. It’s her Christmas treat!
Inspired by Keeping a Christmas Promise, this traditional Icelandic stew is heart-warming and comforting, made with the most simple but flavourful ingredients – this is my perfect meal for a cold winter’s day. I hope you enjoy it!
Ingredients
Method
To celebrate the publication of Keeping a Christmas Promise, we’re offering one lucky reader the chance to win a £200 Christmas food shop at Sainsbury’s so you can stock up on all the essentials (and add a few extra treats) this year!
For your chance to win £200 of Sainsbury’s vouchers, simply complete the form below before the closing date of 23.59pm on 1st December 2022.
One winner will be chosen at random and T&Cs apply.
Good luck!